#like things just drop so entirely out of my mind its not even a sieve more like a colander up there

[phagodyke]

the only annoying thing so far abt my meds is I get sosoosooo tired around 6-7pm when they presumably wear off. and a headache and it makes me think so slowly.... or maybe this is how I "normally" think but it feels so muddy compared to how smooth it is on meds 😔

soooo sleepy and its only 2pm..

[just-a-poor-boy-queen]

Alternate Universe requested by anon

The first thing Freddie noticed when he woke up was that he was wearing waders.

This was most peculiar. He never wore waders. The only person in Garden Lodge who wore waders was Jim for when he was cleaning out the koi pool. Freddie would sometimes throw them on as a joke, laughing at how they were too big for him; but today, to his surprise, they fitted perfectly. Even stranger was the pair of large wellington boots he was sporting on his feet, caked in mud and the most hideous shade of green. This was an outfit he wouldn’t be seen dead in, let alone asleep in.

What the hell is going on? He thought to himself as he stumbled out of bed, only realising once he was at the door that this wasn’t his bedroom at all. It was much smaller, with hideous peeling wallpaper and a tiny, single bed crammed in the corner. The place reeked of an odour that he couldn’t quite pinpoint. It almost smelled like… dog.

This was either an elaborate prank or some horrific dream, Freddie decided as he quickly descended the staircase, hoping that he might suddenly snap out of this nightmare if he ran into a familiar face. He heard Phoebe’s voice coming from the lounge downstairs and he quickly made a beeline for the room, desperately throwing open the door.

‘Phoebe, something weird is going on!’ He declared, only to stop in his tracks when he saw the other man.

Phoebe was… working out. Lifting weights, more specifically. In all the years that Freddie had known him, he had never seen Phoebe lift weights. Even more shocking was that the usually chubby man was now built like a tank. It was so surreal it was almost disturbing. Phoebe was a round, jolly guy who loved his food and never worried too much about his body image. This guy on the other hand...

‘What is it now?’ Phoebe sighed and set his weights down, flexing his huge bicep. ‘Shouldn’t you be out doing the garden? The boss is going to kill you if he catches you slacking.’

‘The garden?’ Freddie replied, appalled. ‘Why would I be doing the garden? That’s Jim’s job!’

Phoebe rolled his eyes. ‘Very funny, Freddie. Now, if you don’t mind, I was in the middle of something.’

Freddie opened his mouth to protest but Phoebe had already gone back to his weights and started lifting again. Annoyed, the singer turned and stormed out of the room, unable to believe how rude and dismissive his friend was being. And what was all this about “the boss”? Freddie was the boss!

Maybe Joe could shed some light on what was going on. Freddie quickly made his way to the kitchen, where he found the American in the midst of baking a cake, carefully sieving flour into a large bowl.

‘Joe-’ he began, only for the other man to shriek, flour flying everywhere until half the kitchen looked like a Christmas card.

‘Oh, it’s you, Fred.’ Joe clutched his chest dramatically, his glasses completely white. ‘What are you doing here? You should have finished the garden ages ago.’

‘Why does everyone keep banging on about the garden?’ Freddie grumbled, angrily wiping flour off his moustache. ‘And since when are you so easily startled? You nearly shat yourself!’

Joe looked slightly annoyed – at least, Freddie assumed he did, as he couldn’t really see his face under all the flour – ‘you know what a scaredy-cat I am, Freddie. The smallest drop of blood and I’m passed out on the floor. It’s a curse, really.’

Alright, whoever this was, it definitely wasn’t Joe. No way in hell was this the same Joe who, only last week, savagely beat a wasp to death with the kitchen mop, then left its severed head on the kitchen windowsill as a warning to the other wasps.

‘God, look at this mess.’ Joe rushed to the kitchen cupboard and took out a broom, sweeping up the mess on the floor. ‘When the boss sees this, he’ll break my neck!’

‘What are you on about?’ Freddie snarled, ready to tear his hair out. ‘I’m the boss! This is my house!’

‘I’m really not in the mood for jokes right now, Freddie.’ Joe replied, not even looking up at him. ‘Hurry up and get the garden finished, otherwise we’ll all be in the doghouse.’

Freddie couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Whatever parallel universe he was trapped in, he wanted out right now. But Joe had already turned his attention to cleaning up the mess, so Freddie had no choice but to leave him to it and trudge out into the garden.

He took a moment to survey the area; he didn’t know the first thing about gardening, despite sometimes watching Jim while he was working and occasionally helping him plant seedlings for his favourite flowers. He noticed a rake laying nearby and decided to start by raking the leaves off the lawn. How hard could it be?

--

‘Freddie? Freddie! Where have you got to?’

The sound of Jim’s voice echoing across the garden alerted Freddie, and he almost tumbled right off the ladder he had been balancing on to trim the hedges. He had never realised gardening was so much work; he was covered from head to foot in soil, his waders ruined and his hair dripping wet from when he had attempted to reposition the stone bowl in the koi pool, only to fall in face first. But none of that mattered now. Jim was here. His wonderful Irish husband was here, and he was going to sort this horrible mess out.

‘Jim!’ He cried as he entered the conservatory and found the Irishman standing there, looking unusually solemn. He immediately threw his arms around his neck. ‘Jim, I’m so glad to see you! You won’t believe the day I’ve had-’

He was cut off as Jim abruptly pushed him away; taken by surprise, Freddie didn’t have time to steady himself and ended up on the floor.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!’ Jim barked, wiping off the dirt that had smudged all over his expensive looking shirt. ‘You really think that’s an acceptable way to behave with your boss? You should know your place by now, Mercury!’

Freddie stared at him from where he sat on the floor, dumbfounded. What was going on? Why was Jim treating him like this? There had to be some mistake.

‘Jim,’ he said softly, his eyes large and confused, ‘it’s me.’

‘Yes, it is. Unfortunately.’ Jim huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘For God’s sake, you’re filthy! And what the hell have you done to my garden?’

Freddie glanced out of the conservatory window, noting the misshapen hedges, the large holes in the lawn from where he had clumsily attempted to plant flowers, and the overturned stone bowl in the koi pool which miraculously hadn’t crushed any of the fish. Gardening clearly wasn’t his forte.

‘I-I did my best.’ Freddie insisted nervously.

‘A blind monkey could have done a better job.’ Jim snapped, crossing over to the drinks cabinet and pouring himself a glass of whiskey. ‘I sometimes wonder why I keep you on, Mercury. You’re absolutely useless.’

Freddie felt the colour drain out of his face. This wasn’t the Jim he loved. This man was cruel and demeaning, treating him like he was nothing more than mud beneath his shoe. His sweet and lovely Jim would never do this.

‘Jim, please!’ Freddie scrambled to his feet, grabbing Jim’s sleeve desperately before he could take a swig of his drink. ‘It’s me, Freddie. Your husband.’

Jim scoffed, shrugging the Persian off as if he were an annoying fly. ‘Husband? Sorry Mercury, but I don’t bat for your team. I don’t know what sort of weird obsession you have with me, but you’d better stop it. I won’t have any of that queer shit in my house.’

His house? What did he mean, his house? This was their house. Well, legally it was Freddie’s, but he had always considered it Jim’s home as much as his own. Tears rushed to Freddie’s eyes. This couldn’t be real. Any moment now, he would wake up and find out this was all just an awful dream.

‘Jim, I’m telling the truth! I’m your husband!’ Freddie rambled, heart breaking as Jim rolled his eyes in disgust and took another sip of whiskey. ‘Look, you bought that ring on your finger to show your commitment to me! And you bought one for me too, right here-’

He went to show Jim the ring on his right hand, only to find his finger bare. He immediately panicked. Where was it? Had he lost it? Had it fallen into the koi pool during the incident with the stone bowl? Had someone stolen it?

‘I’m not sure what planet you’re living on, Mercury.’ Jim finished his drink in a single gulp, completely ignoring Freddie’s distress. ‘But I bought this ring to show my commitment to my fiancée, not you.’

‘Your fiancée?’ Freddie could feel the walls closing in around him; in that moment, his entire world shattered and suddenly his lungs were fighting for air. ‘But who-?’

‘Oh, Jiiiim!’ The sound of the front door closing came from the hallway; moments later, the conservatory door swung open, and a familiar blond woman strode inside, laden down with dozens of shopping bags.

Freddie’s jaw almost dropped to the floor. ‘Mary?’

Mary pulled down her sunglasses a moment to acknowledge him, ‘oh, hi Freddie,’ before she immediately turned her attention to Jim and pressed a big wet kiss to the Irishman’s mouth. ‘Thank you so much for giving me another credit card, darling. I know I maxed out the last three, but I just had to buy that new dress I saw in the boutique window.’

‘Anything for the love of my life.’ Jim crooned, rubbing their noses together in a way that made Freddie want to vomit. ‘I’m glad you’ve had a better day than I have – just look at what that idiot’s done to the garden!’

‘Now, now, Jimmy.’ Mary replied, looking at the man as if he was a deity. ‘You know we have to be patient with the help. It’s not like anyone else will hire him.’

Freddie had never hit a woman in his life, but right now Mary was really tempting him.

‘Here,’ Mary held out her bags to Freddie, looking down her nose at him as if he were contagious, ‘take these up to my room, would you? Jimmy and I need to discuss the plans for our wedding.’

Freddie’s cheeks burned with both anger and despair. He went to take the bags when he noticed the gold band on her left hand; it was much smaller, clearly fitted for a woman, but he would recognise it anywhere.

‘My ring!’ he cried, hands clenching into fists as his entire body began to shake. ‘That’s the ring Jim gave me!’

‘Don’t mind him, love.’ Jim put an arm around Mary, a horrible sneer on his face. ‘I think he’s been snorting something; all sorts of crap is coming out of his mouth today. Make yourself useful, Mercury, and go take the dogs for a walk. Maybe that will sober you up a bit.’

‘Dogs?’ Was all Freddie managed to get out before the door flew open again and he was set upon by at least six or seven four-legged fiends.

Don’t misunderstand, Freddie liked dogs. But unlike cats, dogs lacked any sort of grace and dignity; they piled on top of him like they wanted him dead, tongues licking mercilessly at his face until he managed to wriggle free and take cover on one of the sofas.

‘Since when do we have dogs?!’ he practically screamed over all the barking, holding up a pillow to shield himself as a dog the size of a bear leaped onto the sofa to join him.

‘Your memory needs testing, Mercury. We’ve always had dogs. You sleep in their room, for God’s sake.’ Jim refilled his glass and called over to the Newfoundland, which was currently smothering the Persian man. ‘Bad dog, David. You know you’re not allowed on the sofa.’

‘David?’

‘Yes, David. Phoebe said we should have called him Goliath because of his size, but I thought David would be funnier. Completely catches people off guard.’

Freddie felt his spirit rise out from his body and drift up towards the ceiling.

‘Right, you’ll need to keep him on a tight leash if you’re going to take him through the park – you know how much David loves children and I don’t want any parents filing a lawsuit because he’s knocked their kid over.’ Jim said, as Mary took out a small pocket mirror and began applying lipstick. ‘Juliet gets really nervous, so make sure none of the others bully her. And Samson hates you, so just keep out of his way.’

Freddie glanced over at the white poodle with brown markings, who was growling at him menacingly. No, no, no, not Delilah. She was his baby, his princess. How could she ever hate him?

‘By the way, Jim!’ Mary chirped, seemingly oblivious to the chaos around her as the dogs swarmed the conservatory. ‘I took another test this morning and it came back positive – I am pregnant!’

Freddie covered his ears and screamed.

--

‘Freddie? Freddie, wake up!’

Freddie bolted upright, panicking when he felt his arms pinned to his sides, only to realise he had cocooned himself in the bedsheets. Jim was right beside him, carefully untangling him and smoothing back his sweaty hair while the singer trembled, mind still stirring from the nightmare he had just awoken from.

‘Sweetheart?’ Jim said softly once his husband had time to calm down. ‘You were crying out in your sleep. Did you have a bad dream?’

As if snapping out of a trance, Freddie felt his right hand in the darkness, almost weeping when he realised it was bare. ‘My ring! Where’s my ring?’

‘Shh, shh, it’s okay, love.’ Jim soothed, reaching over to turn on one of the lamps and pointing to Freddie’s bedside table. ‘It’s right there, safe and sound.’

Freddie immediately grabbed it and slid it onto his finger, vowing never to remove it again, not even when he took a bath. He turned and snuggled into Jim’s arms, head tucked under the Irishman’s chin, relieved that he wasn’t pushed away.

‘That must have been one hell of a dream.’ Jim murmured, kissing Freddie’s temple. ‘Are you alright?’

Freddie wasn’t sure if he’d ever get those images out of his head. Having to wear waders. Phoebe with a six pack. Joe being skittish as a kitten. Destroying his own lawn with his terrible gardening. Jim treating him like garbage. Mary wearing his ring on her finger. His lovely cats transformed into a kennel of hyperactive, smelly dogs.

But it was just a dream. He was back in reality now, safe in Jim’s arms.

‘I am now.’ He mumbled sleepily into Jim’s neck, placing a kiss against his throat. So long as Jim was his, he would always be alright.

The prompt

OH MY GOD I AM DYING😂😂😂😂

Ahh fuck this is so good I am STILL DYING😂

Firstly, kudos to the anon who came up with such a brilliant prompt. I mean this is innovative af, and you did complete justice to it, writer anon! I had actually forgotten about the prompt, and was afraid that it wasn't a dream😂

Freddie reactions were the best part lmao. How he's utterly horrified at the aspect of Jim and Mary (behold the return of jimary!) being partners, his baby delilah (rather her counterpart) hating him, Phoebe being a gym-aholic and ahhhh Joe, sweet baby Joe actually being sweet like a baby kitten😂😂 I loved it all! Imma reread this so many times ahahahahahah oh god.

(More drabbles by writer anon)

[jbbuckybarnes]

Professor Sugar - 5/7

Pairing: Student!Reader x Professor!Bucky Description: Like tons of other students you struggle with finances, but you can’t get any aid since your parents are filthy rich. The system doesn’t care that they broke off contact after you came out as bisexual. There is, however, someone else that cares. The prof of your class on PTSD and trauma. Professor Barnes. Warnings: 18+, f/m smut, oral (female receiving), secret relationship, not beta read.

Professor Sugar Masterlist // Masterlist

Symbiosis

Not too long after a routine had started to develop he finally took you to his place after one of your study and work sessions in his office. You knew this was about to get real. Until now it was a cute little romance with a few kisses behind the curtains. While you were sitting in his car, watching his eyes concentrated on the street, you realized how much more this would be set in stone. „You look cute when you drive.“ You mumbled towards him, cuddled into your jacket on the passenger seat. „Well, you look cute always.“ He chuckled before he turned into a side street with a few apartment complexes.

The moment you walked into his door you were met with a mix of white, black, navy and dark wood. „You really fucking play into this professor thing.“ You mumbled while looking around. Most walls were white, some with pictures in dark wood frames, his open living room had a bookcase wall full of all kinds of books and magazines. Most of his decor was white and navy, his kitchen black and white. „But you like it.“ He murmured into your ear and made you chuckle. „I mean, it could look worse.“ You looked up at him beside you. „Want some lunch, darling?“ He asked putting a bit of hair behind your ear. „Sure, why not?“ You smiled up before following him towards the kitchen.

White marble counters, probably fake, but looking good nonetheless. You jumped up to sit down on the isle and dangled your legs back and forth. „What would you like? Pancakes? Pasta?“ „Pasta, always. Although the pancakes sound good for another time.“ You bit your lip as he started putting a pot of water on the stove and started cutting up tomatoes. He looked like someone who cooked every now and then as a hobby. There were some cool appliances on the counter opposite to the kitchen isle. „I don‘t know if this hot or just domestic.“ You commented and had him look over with a little smile. „I‘d be happy with spreading either of those vibes.“ He answered before putting the stuff he cut up into another pot, pouring sieved tomatoes over it and dumping a pack of pasta into the water. „Hmm, what else do you like to cook?“ You asked with him leaning back across from you now. „I make a mad Asparagus-Potato-Tart and I also like to think that I make great stuffed tomatoes.“ He smiled proudly. „I like to make layered desserts for my friends‘ birthdays...and cupcakes.“ You smiled brightly and had him move right in front of you. „What else?“ He smiled up at you, more boyish than usual. You liked that look on him. „Mushroom soup, all self-made.“ You smiled. „You‘ll have to make me something next time.“ His voice dropped. „Sure, if you don‘t die a sudden sugar death.“ You giggled and were interrupted by a kiss. „If I die from sweetness, then it‘s from your sweetness.“ He murmured before leaving you there hot in your face while he finished making the food. After you ate while sitting on the kitchen isle together and you had an entire talk about the shittiness of your rich parents, he jumped back down onto the floor. The dirty plates landed in the dishwasher and the pots in the sink. He turned around with a suave look on his face and started talking again, „What do you say...good grades mean you‘ll get something nice. Letting me take care of you means you‘ll get something special.“ He suggested. „Like what?“ You smirked while leaning back, your legs slowly going apart. „Don‘t know. Maybe clothes, jewelry, a new phone?“ He grabbed you closer by one leg and your lower back and his voice got low, „Fancy underwear, sex toys, a new bed.“ „Why a new bed?“ You grinned. „Might ruin the one you have now, if you keep teasing me like that, sweetheart.“ He answered almost growling, making you shiver. „You like that?“ He whispered into your ear. „Yes. Yes I do.“ You whispered a little out of it. „You want me to take care of you, darling?“ His hands went up your thighs now, sending tingles down up your body. „Please, I haven‘t had good sex in months.“ You whined and got a chuckle back. „Don‘t worry, I‘ll take care of you.“ He murmured, his lips tracing your neckline and shoulder. „Up.“ He tapped your thighs and you did as you were told. His hands delicately removed your leggings and panties. Only thing still covering you being your big hoodie. His hands gently pushed apart your legs again and his lips now traced from your right knee towards your center. His attentive eyes were trained on you as your head fell back with a moan. A tongue went through your folds and swirled around your clit as you shivered again. „Oh fuck.“ You moaned out again as he pushed your legs to stay where they are. One of your hands went to grab into his short hair to grab his mouth as close to your center as you can. He got the note and licked right over your sweet spot. „Please.“ You whined out before he sucked it in and made your moan out. He went for it now, shaking his head, sucking in your clit and humming. Your body started shaking, shivering and concentrating its energy onto that one spot. „Holy shit!“ You panted as he pushed to fingers into you and stroking that spot. „Bucky.“ You moaned out and felt him chuckle. „Oh shit, I‘m gonna-“ you moaned out again and were unable to talk again. With another suck of your clit you came all over his chin with a loud groan. „That‘s my girl.“ He chuckled, cleaning his face off, „And now I‘ll actually take care of you.“ He got rid of his pants and climbed on top of you, smiling down. „I guess tomatoes aren‘t the only things you like to stuff in the kitchen.“ you commented dryly and you both broke out into laughter, before he shut you up with a kiss and a push. He managed the perfect balance between making love and merciless fucking. Just the right amount of delicateness mixed with dominance. You never had felt like you were in such good hands.

„Am I missing something?“ You held out your iPad to him and he took it to read over your new study notes, comfortably leaning back on his couch. „Maybe a mind map of the process and the cycles, so you get what is connected and what is recurring.“ He mumbled and handed back the tablet in true professor demeanor. „Thanks.“ You smile sweetly before concentrating back on your studying. It was important to him that your studying and college experience stayed as normal and focused as possible and you totally respected that. His little comments were noted like an email between student and professor, not like a couple that just had a makeout session after one of them got back to the couch. „Causes...Symptoms...Recovery.“ You whispered as you wrote your mind map and had a fond smile directed at you that you weren‘t aware of. „Pancakes with self-made apple sauce.“ You presented to him proudly a week later. He was grading assignments the entire day and didn‘t leave his desk, so you decided to start making dinner for the two of you. His kitchen was decently filled with fresh food and you had the urge for something sweet. He looked up from his work with a soft smile and a shimmer in his eyes, „You are really something, aren‘t you?“ You grinned, „I might be.“ He tried your food and nodded, „Sweet, just like you.“ A wink was sent your way. With a giggle you trotted off to get yourself your share of the food. The evening was spent with you making a few notes for other courses and him creating a new presentation on his Macbook next to you. It was all feeling so natural and domestic. You came over a few days a week, you both talked a lot, had sex, one of you made food and you both either spent the evening working, watching Netflix or being all over each other.

„Open it.“ He held a little box towards you after you both came home from college. „Bucky.“ You looked up apprehensive. He said he was willing to buy you some really expensive things for „letting him take care of you“ and you had also talked about this whole thing not only being a sexual but also a romantic relationship...but it still felt weird getting gifts, knowing now, that is in part paid by sexual favors. This was a weird limbo of sugar daddy and older boyfriend. „Just do it, please.“ He smiled so boyishly and sweet you couldn‘t say No. You carefully removed the wrapping paper bit by bit with patient eyes on you. After the last bit of tape was off you removed the paper and revealed a sleep black and white packaging with a „Google“ logo and a phone on it and looked up with wide eyes. „Bucky! You can‘t just…“ You were unable to find words. „Sweetheart, your current phone is almost 5 years old. And this one has a good camera, so you can make that study Instagram stuff.“ He sounded so out of time saying it but so nerdy too. Of course he would check all the specs on your old phone and this new one. „I, um, wow.“ You took the packaging and turned it onto every possible direction. „Open it.“ He said a little giddy himself now and you chuckled. With your fingernail you got off the sealing sticker and carefully lifted the top part off to reveal a lot of tiny manuals, a gorgeous phone and a few cables. „Woah.“ Your eyes went wide. Your old phone still had a home button and a kinda bulky design compared to this...Google Pixel. „I think it‘s already charged. Put it on.“ He smiled next to you on the couch. „Okay, okay. Calm down, nerd.“ You giggled and got a little pinch into your side for it while pressing the On-Button. The rest of the day was spent with the new phone, taking all the pictures in the world, searching for a nice case and „Thanking“ him thoroughly. The next morning was spent stealing his decorations and taking flatlay pictures for your new Instagram on his coffee table. Including a post-shower interruption of him, ending in shirtless pictures of him on your phone. „Great, I have a new background.“ You grinned. „If one of the other students see that, you‘re toast.“ He said more joking than serious. „I‘ll just crop the head and hold it up whenever you walk in front of me.“ You winked and had him grab you with a laugh. „Sugar, you‘re the best.“ He murmured before landing a kiss and letting you get back to work.

„So, um, I need to get this out of the way.“ You mumbled sitting in front of him on the bed. „Yeah?“ He sat up and grabbed your hands. „I don‘t really...feel good with all the gifts. It makes all the fun we have so...materialistic. I feel like I‘m using you and might be used myself. And I know you don‘t and I don‘t do that either, but it just feels a little bit that way. So, uh, maybe don‘t gift me things for a while. I don‘t want sex to be a currency between us.“ You finally got it out in the way you had been wanting to for days and weeks now. He already knew you usually didn‘t like gifts that much, but you never fully explained why. The only talk you had was that this was not a relationship based on sexual favors and that you actually had feelings for each other. This just needed to get out of the way. „I can hold that promise until the end of the semester.“ He smiled cheekily. „Well, that‘s when your true intentions come out if you have any.“ you joked. You didn‘t expect him to turn on you or change much after you weren‘t his student anymore. But it would definitely not feel off anymore to be together and get gifts. It would be the time you‘d go from dating into an official relationship if everything went smoothly. „True intentions, huh?“ He smirked and eyed you intently, „You mean supporting my girl to become the business and psychology boss that I can already see her as?“ „Maybe I‘ll turn into your sugar mommy.“ You shrugged and you both spent the evening laughing and dreaming together a perfect life.

[perditaalottachocolate-blog]

Oops, I Did It Again!

I can finally share this fic with you here! Or rather share the fact that this was actually my work. How many of you suspected that? 

I want to thank all the people who made this event possible and took their time for it to happen! Anyway, this was fun so I hope you liked it, or you will once you read it ;) Check out other fics from the Who’s Who pt. 2 challenge as well, if you haven’t. And now without further ado:

Summary:  Oops! Leaving an akuma unattended is not a good idea, especially when you’re Hawkmoth. Gabriel learns it the hard way, inadvertently saving the day in the process. He hadn’t planned to make a habit out of it, but of course when he starts playing with akumas, trying to save his assistant, his son or Adrien’s admirer (who Gabriel’s been trying to akumatize, no to avail), somehow he becomes an accidental hero of Paris. He even manages to knock some sense into his own kin and put an evil Italian girl to shame at the same time. All in a day’s work for Paris’ bravest civilian.

AO3 / fanfiction.net

***

“Adrien, duck!” Gabriel yelled at the top of his lungs. 

THUD!

Oops. A boulder the size of a bus smashed to the left of where his son had been just seconds earlier . Gabriel paled at the thought of what could have been had Adrien had slower reflexes. The agility from the fencing and karate workouts apparently paid off.

THUD!

Another rumble reminded him that it was time to run, not ponder upon the various extracurriculars Adrien attended. 

“Father!” he heard his son’s panicky voice. “Look o-”

Smash! He ran face first into a leathery wall. 

Squish! Gigantean fingers closed over him and lifted him off the ground.

Akuma: 1; Gabriel:0.

He cursed inwardly as the giant lumbered through the streets. Each step thundered between the old walls and raised clouds of dust, making Gabriel’s eyes water.

“Father?” he heard Adrien’s muffled voice nearby. He squinted to the side. 

His son was trapped similarly to him in an enormous fist of the monster. Only the mop of blond hair stuck out from behind the green fingers. 

“I’m here!” Gabriel called and the blond mop sighed in relief. 

“Any ideas how we escape?” Adrien asked.

Gabriel bit his lip as he considered their situation. He felt a bit responsible. It wasn’t entirely his fault, but seeing as he was the one who released the akuma in the first place he couldn’t claim he was not to blame. It would be much easier to say that it was Mademoiselle Rossi’s fault - and it was, to a degree...

After all she ’ d been the one to drop by the mansion uninvited and to force his bodyguard to let her in. Then she bullied Nathalie into letting her meet the boss immediately . His assistant knew perfectly well he’d been busy with his other project, but apparently Lila had been extremely persuasive.

The way Nathalie passed on her request made Hawkmoth sigh in exasperation, drop his transformation and rush to his study, the freshly released akuma left to its own devices. And why had Lila come under the pretence of “discussing her appearance” at the new collection’s premiere? To badmouth Marinette and her “uninspired creations”. Again .

Gabriel would rub the bridge of his nose in irritation, had his hands not been pressed to his sides inside the trap. He’d known for a while that Lila had been holding a significant grudge against Adrien’s pigtailed friend. Which, if you’d asked Gabriel could mean only one thing - she must have been terribly and utterly jealous. Gabriel had yet to meet a more talented, modest, polite, kind and considerate teenager, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he desperately needed a successful champion, he’d be happy to nudge Adrien in Marinette’s direction. Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng would make an excellent girlfriend, and dare Gabriel say an even finer daughter-in-law. 

Maybe he was going out on a limb here, since Adrien stubbornly claimed Marinette was his friend, and a good friend only, but just one look at the gooey eyes his son was making at the mere mention of the girl told a quite different story.

But he digressed once again, pondering on how exactly had he and Adrien ended up in two of the four hands of Hawkmoth’s newest creation.

The truth was he had no idea who accepted the akuma, what were their reasons, motivation or even powers. This was Startrain all over again. Gabriel hated being helpless, a victim at the heroes’ mercy. Yet here he was, trapped, waiting for the rescue. 

Although… maybe this wasn’t Startrain? After all, even if he couldn’t control the akuma, he was still here. He could act. Who needs the heroes anyway? (He did, but only because he wanted to play with their toys for a bit). 

Gabriel concentrated, analyzing the villain’s size, posture and looks. He listened closely to the constant muttering of the beast he hitherto had been ignoring. He took notice of the direction they were headed. He assessed his resources, considering if Adrien would be of assistance. Finally, he crafted a plan. 

Step one, bite.

“YOOOOOWL!” the villain bellowed.

He smirked. Akuma:1; Gabriel:1.

***

“How does it feel to save the day? We’re about to find out,” the reporter chirped to the microphone. “Don’t be bemused, it’s just the news.” She winked to the camera. “We’re at the Grand Palais, waiting for the newest collection from Gabriel to hit the runway, but all everyone talks about this week is the bravery and aptitude of none other than the fashion mogul, the owner and creator of the Gabriel brand, Monsieur Agreste himself.” 

The cameraman turned to him and Gabriel suppressed a groan. This was so typical. You pull just one miraculous rescue before Ladybug can save your butt, and suddenly you’re a national hero. Still, you don’t look a gift horse, that is publicity, in the mouth. You just roll with it or whatever kids say nowadays.

“All in a day’s work,” he drawled, minding to keep his voice modest yet confident. This wasn’t the first interview that followed his reckless stunt and despite the fact that he’d just been reiterating the same speech, journalists didn’t seem to get nearly enough of “Paris’ bravest civilian hero”. 

Nathalie, who’d been shadowing him for the time of final preparations for the show, gave him a short nod and disappeared in the crowd. It was time to launch their concurrent plan, the sole reason this new collection even got a show in the first place. 

Gabriel kept the reporters properly busy so that no one would notice the little blue feather floating harmlessly towards the intended goal: the pink purse of one very stressed Marinette Dupain-Cheng, who fidgeted nervously at the edge of her seat, waiting for another of her original creations to feature in a Gabriel show. Nathalie had made sure Adrien’s friend got her fill of the Bourgeois’ finest brand of malice, which would put her in that fragile, disturbed state perfect for accepting an amok. Just a little trick to lure Ladybug and Chat Noir and hopefully to put an end to the ludicrous series of failures they’d been experiencing ever since Hawkmoth made his presence and demands known.

And then things went haywire. An unexpected wisp of air from the high window intercepted the amok and it sailed in a completely different direction, sinking into, oh great , Lila Rossi’s bracelets. 

So much for carefully woven, detailed plans and handpicked victims. 

“Sentimonsters!” Gabriel cried. “Everybody out!”

If he’d learned one thing working with Mademoiselle Rossi, it was that things got unpredictable and much more calamitous when she was involved. That’s why he had wanted to leave her out of his plans this time. That’s why she had been offered to actually model a piece, just to keep her occupied, even though she didn’t have even one model bone in her entire body.

Now Lila’s grin turned positively evil, as she sent the senti-snakes after… of course… Marinette. That Italian girl had some serious issues if anyone asked Gabriel. Why haven’t Nathalie called off the amok anyway?

Gabriel set out to find his assistant. Lack of control over their evil little friends was usually the source of big inconvenience. He’d learned it the hard way last time. Searching would go much faster if it wasn’t for the brainless crowds panicky sloshing inside the Grand Palais hall. Oh, for the love of-

“You must evacuate!” Gabriel yelled. “Find the nearest exit!” He squinted at the walls. Was it really that hard to actually read the signs that were there? “Here, and here, and here,” he said as he waved at the doors and people finally listened. The crowd started to file out of the building. 

“Please stay calm,” Gabriel continued to shout over the heads of the evacuating viewers. “There’s no need to trample each other. The sentimonsters are busy.”

He risked a glance at the snakes. Indeed they were kept busy. Marinette was doing exceptionally well at keeping one at bay. Sadly the other two weren’t engaged with her, but went off to attack someone else. A cold sweat covered Gabriel when he saw whom.

Adrien batted at the two remaining senti-snakes with a clothes rack, while shielding an unconscious Nathalie, curled in a corner. She must have been knocked out cold. 

The older Agreste cursed under his breath. Where the hell was Ladybug and Chat Noir when one needed them? This was supposed to be a perfect trap. 

At that moment the rack Adrien had been fending the snakes off with snapped in two and the first monster launched itself at the boy. 

Red flooded Gabriel’s vision. He pushed, leaped, ran, slid. He acquired a wrench somehow. He hit, thwacked, walloped and smacked until the sentimonsters scuttled away and huddled in the opposite end of the hall.

Ladybug arrived just as he and Adrien helped Nathalie to her feet. His assistant sported a nasty bruise on her forehead. Adrien’s clothes, the showcase items, hung in tatters from his shoulders. His trousers looked as if they were made of sieves. 

“It’s the bracelets,” Gabriel muttered, motioning towards backstage, where Lila’s maniacal laughter could be heard. He gritted his teeth.

“Got it,” Ladybug nodded.

One throw of a yoyo later, the heroine had the crazy Italian girl tightly gift wrapped as she went for the amok. 

“Miraculous Ladybug!”

Gabriel actually sighed in relief as the swarms of butterflies cleared the hall. Thank goodness it was over.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a familiar voice cut into his ease, “you’ve all seen this here, live, in TVi! Paris’ bravest civilian hero in action! Wasn’t he amazing?” 

Oh, that was the one thing he’d forgotten about. Why had he thought the reporter would have enough brains to run away? Of course she’d been broadcasting the whole thing live - what would get her a bigger audience than a fashion show turned heroic rescue mission?

“Oh no,’ he groaned, “not again .”

“Monsieur Agreste,” Madame Chamack shoved her microphone right under his nose and asked hopefully, “a few words of comment?”

Gabriel looked around helplessly. Adrien was searching for Marinette, Ladybug was trying to free herself from Lila’s hug of fake gratitude, and Nathalie took a sudden interest in the ceiling. A shadow of a smirk danced on her lips and he knew she’d never let him live this down. He might have to give her a raise just to keep her quiet.

“Sure,” he took a deep breath and turned to the reporter. “Why not?”

***

Gabriel swore this would be the last time. Either the plan works and he gets the most cunning, powerful and brilliant akuma ever, or he declares Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng off limits. Some gut feeling told him she was really special. If anyone could get him those miraculouses, it would be her. 

This was attempt number too-many even by his standards, but he was grasping at straws here. So when Lila offered to prove Marinette was a false friend, a liar and a bad influence, if not a threat to Adrien, Gabriel got tempted. One last time. If the Italian Job, as he started to think of it, didn’t work, he’d stop trying to akumatize Marinette whatsoever. As for Mademoiselle Rossi herself, he was still on the fence. On one hand, she had displayed incredible talent at riling people up. Chloe Bourgeois had nothing on her. On the other hand, Lila’s presence near Adrien, her more or less veiled suggestions that she wanted to be his girlfriend, her nosiness and conceit, the way she seemed to believe she got Gabriel himself wrapped around her finger, that he was actually buying her bull, well, suffice to say it was starting to get on his nerves.

And he was quite fond of his nerves, thank you very much.

Gabriel wasn’t even sure how exactly Lila wanted to provide proof of her claims, but it surely wasn’t anything legal. Even better. If it worked and he’d get the akuma it wouldn’t matter. If it didn’t work, he’d have a substantial leverage in case she’d decide to go after him one day.

His tablet chimed and a notification from Lila’s instagram account popped up on the screen. She started a live stream. A public live stream. 

“A dangerous game you play, Mademoiselle Rossi,” Gabriel muttered under his breath. He clicked on the notification and transformed into Hawkmoth not taking his eyes off the feed.

Somehow Lila had managed to corner Marinette in an empty dressing room. Despite the buzz of a photoshoot in progress and tens of people milling around the two of them were alone.

“What do you want, Lila?” Marinette’s tone was confident, even a bit exasperated. “Out of the two of us I am actually interested in learning a few things by taking part in a photo shoot.” 

“I told you to leave Adrien alone!” Lila ignored her classmate’s jab, getting to her own agenda. 

“What’s it to you? You don’t own him.”

“I don’t,” Lila admitted, the unspoken “yet” implied in her smirk. “But I am his close friend and I know bad acting when I see it.”

“Bad acting? What are you getting at?”

“You know, Marinette,” Lila murmured, adjusting the phone so that the other girl’s face would be seen. “You know very well. We’ve talked about it before. Might as well admit it now.”

Marinette, bless her heart, stammered something incoherently. Poor girl , Gabriel thought. If even he was aware of her gigantic crush on his son, then probably everyone and their dog knew (bar one oblivious teen in denial). But it was one thing to know people knew, and quite another to be forced to voice such a personal, intimate detail. And yet it turned out Lila had more tricks up her sleeve.

“We all saw the posters in your room,’ the Italian girl tsked. “ And Alya told me about the Athanase gift….” She raised a brow. 

Marinette’s eyes got bigger. All her bravado seemed to evaporate under Lila’s insinuations. 

“Nino mentioned an all boys party…” Lila drawled, pausing for effect.

Marinette gulped. “There’s nothing wrong-”

“In being a fan? I agree.” Lila smiled sweetly. “But considering the, ahem , scale and detail, wouldn’t you say it’s more than that?”

“More?”

“You’re not just a fan of fashion, Marinette. You’re obsessed. My question is - is it just fashion? Or maybe you’re Adrien’s crazed fangirl?” Lila circled her classmate, minding to keep the camera fixed on her. “Or maybe…” she suspended her voice, before going in for the kill, “maybe you’re trying to make a break in the industry on the backs of Adrien and his father? Connections are everything after all.”

A wave of pure, white hot hatred rammed into Hawkmoth. On the screen he saw Marinette seething, her lips pressed tightly together, her fists clenched and eyes narrowed to slits. He dropped the tablet and summoned the akuma.

“Go, go, go!” He rushed the butterfly.

When he returned to the device, the stream had already ended. He had no idea what had happened, but at that moment Lila posted a new picture - of herself with Adrien with the make-up artist in the background. An innocent smile and a V gesture had been paired with a few cringeworthy emojis and hashtags: #truefriends #friends4ever #friendshipgoals and so on.

There was no sign of Marinette, but Hawkmoth already felt the strong emotions ebbing away. No hatred meant no target for his akuma. He remembered himself before he broke the tablet in half. He sighed, calming himself down. At this rate he’d become the next champion.

And then the sirens started to wail. Fire alarms blared from every corner of the facility. 

“What on Earth-,” Hawkmoth scowled at the flashing red lights. It couldn’t have been an akuma. It was still somewhere out there, searching for its target. So the alarm must have been caused by something else. 

Footsteps outside told him something must have happened. He sniffed. The unmistakable stink of smoke filled his nostrils. For a second he considered his options, but ultimately he dropped his transformation and left his hideout. 

Around him people headed for emergency exits, but Gabriel felt a sudden urge to look for Adrien. He broke into a run. The boy had an awful knack of getting himself engaged in dangerous situations, and if Lila was nearby, it was probably a good idea to keep an eye on his son. 

Sure enough he found Adrien tucked in a corner, checking his phone instead of running to safety. Gabriel set his course to intercept. Without slowing down he grabbed the boy by his shirt and dragged him outside. On his son’s phone the last seconds of Lila’s Instagram story unraveled. Adrien’s brow furrowed in indignation.

“Where’s Lila,” he growled, before remembering himself. He swallowed the bile that was probably up in his throat.  “Have you seen Lila, Father?” he asked.

Gabriel was actually impressed. As an empath he could appreciate both - the extremely strong emotions and keeping them in check. 

Adrien climbed to his toes and inspected the crowd that fled the building. “Where’s Marinette?” This time his voice wavered. 

He spotted his Italian classmate nearby, talking to a reporter, a studied concern marring her face. 

“...of course I had to do something,” she said with emphasis. “All my friends are very dear to me. One of the things Dalai Lama has taught me-”

“Lila!” Adrien cut in, ignoring her ramblings and the audience. “Where’s Marinette?”

BOOM! Something blew inside the building. Glass shattered on one of the roof windows and plumes of smoke poured outside.

Lila paled and stammered something. For the first time her face seemed to be honest. She was genuinely scared as her eyes set upon the building’s entrance. 

“What did you do?!” Adrien cried. 

Gabriel’s stomach clenched as it dawned on him.

“She can’t get out?” he hissed, grabbing Lila’s elbow.

The girl gulped, shaking her head slightly. Then the terror disappeared from her face, replaced with well-practiced innocence. “The door locked behind me. I was going to get help but the alarm-”

Adrien beelined for the building. Gabriel cursed under his breath and dove after him. He briefly considered a quick transformation once he got inside. But it would rouse too many difficult questions if not only Gabriel Agreste but also Hawkmoth suddenly started rescuing people, so he dismissed this idea. He had enough brains to grab an extinguisher on his way.

“Adrien! Wait!” he yelled. He was about to jump into smoke when a string wrapped around him and he was yanked back. 

“Monsieur Agreste, what’s going on?” Ladybug released her hold on him. “Is Adrien there?”

Gabriel tried to keep the scowl off his face. He wasn’t used to being treated like a toy.

“His friend is trapped in that building,” he explained. “We need to-”

Ladybug’s yoyo beeped. 

Chat’s face appeared on the screen. “Could you lend me a helping paw, my Lady?”  Thick clouds surrounded him. “I have an akuma and a fire source here,” he said.

Ladybug shot an anxious look at Gabriel. “Any civilians?”

“Still looking,” Chat grunted. The screen blurred and a creak sounded when he forced a door open. “Ouch,” he hissed as the sprinklers started to work. “This cat doesn’t like to get wet,” he complained.

“Coming, Chat!” Ladybug shut her phone. “Please, stay here, Monsieur. This is not a job for civilian heroes,” she added with a faint smile and ran into the building.

Gabriel waited a whole minute, which said a lot about his self-restraint. When the swarms of ladybugs buzzed out of the roof window, fixing the damage and taking the rest of the smoke with them, he broke into run. 

Adrien was wrestling with a door to the only closed dressing room. 

“It’s stuck,” he shot out as a way of explanation. The corridor was too narrow for him to get a good running start, but he was doing his best to force his way in.

“No Ladybug or Chat Noir to help?” Gabriel scowled. Maybe this was below their paygrade.

“They put out the fire, but they had to leave,” Adrien mumbled. “They were each down to their last marker.”

Gabriel pushed the boy aside and grabbed the knob. It wouldn’t budge. “Marinette’s in there?”

“Yes, sir,” came a faint reply from behind the wood.

“Please get away from the door,” he instructed. He swung the extinguisher and smashed it into the lock. It did the trick much better than Adrien’s shoulder. 

His son burst inside as soon as the door swung on the hinges. Gabriel tactfully turned away when the boy pulled Marinette into tight embrace. He was wondering if the accident finally knocked some sense into Adrien, or if his son was still on the adrenaline high. Either way Gabriel made a mental note to finally address the “good friend” issue. For now he settled for averting his eyes and leisurely swinging the extinguisher he’d still been holding only to get a flash in his face.

Click. Click. Click.

At least three reporters decided to capture this moment for posterity. 

“Ah, and once again our local star, Gabriel Agreste, saves the day, or rather a member of his crew-” a journalist for TVi entered the scene, the microphone at the ready. “Can we get a comment on the latest video one of your young models posted shortly before this dangerous incident? I believe it featured the girl you just rescued,” he pointed towards the teens behind Gabriel’s back. 

Thankfully Marinette managed to free herself from Adrien’s bear hug, but her face was a battlefield between blissful blush and whitewash mortification.

Gabriel cleared his throat. “No comment,” he stated.

“But the conflict might affect the performance of your staff-”

“I value Mademoiselle Dupain Cheng’s talent and skill in design. I appreciate Mademoiselle Rossi’s hard work on the set,” he admitted. “But I refuse to be dragged into any personal conflicts. Now please, leave the set. We’ve already wasted enough time and money. No further comments,” he gestured towards the exit. 

“-oh I’m sure she was just trying to make a victim out of herself. You know, to gain pity or instant fame-”

That was Lila whispering in hush tone somewhere nearby, already spreading rumors. Gabriel’s fists clenched. He’d had enough.

“-Jagged Stone, who wrote a song about me, you know, he once said that fame-”

Gabriel flinched. He watched Adrien’s back as the boy led Marinette to the bathroom, steering clear off any prying journalists, keeping close to her, as if he would never leave her side again. 

Fame, Gabriel thought. That’s a dangerous game. I’ll show you instant fame, Mademoiselle Rossi. 

***

“We’re at Le Grand Paris, with Paris’ bravest civilian hero, Gabriel Agreste, although I imagine he needs no introduction!” Nadja Chamack exclaimed, starting her interview. “Monsieur Agreste has proved that you don’t need a miraculous to beat akuma after akuma. Ladybug and Chat Noir must be big fans of yours,” she grinned.

“As I am theirs,” Gabriel bowed, suppressing a flinch, and he went into monologue mode, providing the meat every reporter was after these days. From the time he slid across the table to thwack the akuma that threatened his fashion show, to the time he unloaded a bucket of hot coffee on another villain’s head to save Adrien, to numerous occasions he had managed to outwit his akumas (which wasn’t really as difficult as people seemed to think) before Ladybug and Chat Noir managed to get to the scene, he slowly but surely established his image as the civilian hero.

“Can you tell us more about today’s event?” Nadja asked. “You’ve been very secretive about it so far.”

That was the plan. His newest collection, the spotlight of the event, was only an excuse, as he had a particular fox to fry.

“All I can say is a night of quality fashion awaits us,” he said with a smile. “Our dear guests are going to be models as well!”

Nadja took the bait, and Gabriel was proud to say she hadn’t been the only one. 

“Ah, guests as models!” The woman leaned in. “Does this mean we won’t see your regular models?”

“On the contrary, the show is going to feature many familiar faces,” Gabriel replied cryptically. 

“I already see one - is that Lila Rossi?” Nadja zeroed in on the girl who just arrived at the red carpet.

“Indeed.”

“And her companion for the event?” the reporter asked, eyeing the crowds curiously.

Lila waved at the photographers and came to a halt next to Nadja, undoubtedly expecting a few questions. She was looking around, very much interested in her partner herself. Gabriel nodded to Nathalie, who led the boy fresh out of the dressing room.

“Your son, Adrien-” Nadja regarded him.

Lila’s lips stretched into a sly smile. The boy shot her with a toothy grin so unlike Adrien, that she recoiled in surprise.

Gabriel suppressed a smirk as he shook his head. “May I present Felix Graham de Vanily, my nephew and Adrien’s cousin.”

Felix bent in a deep, respectable bow. If he wanted, his manners were impeccable.

“Remarkable,” Nadja marveled. “They easily could have been taken for-”

“Twins?” Gabriel interjected. “Yes, they even managed to fool us a few times,” he let out an amiable chuckle, he’d been practicing in front of his mirror. “Felix is going to be Lila’s partner for tonight. I think I can let you in on a little secret: Adrien is going to accompany his girlfriend.” 

“Girlfriend?!” Nadja and Lila shrieked in unison. 

Gabriel allowed himself just a little smile. He put a hand to his chest. “A development that warms my heart,” he declared. “A very talented designer, who’s behind a few accessories for this collection. But I’m sure you already know her-, “ he gestured to the red carpet, where a new pair of guests appeared.

“ Marinette ,” Lila growled under her breath.

“I must leave now,” Gabriel nodded to the reporter. “I need to see to a few last minute details. Let me show you around, Felix. And Lila,” he added looking at her above the rim of his glasses.

Felix offered the Italian girl an elbow. She shot one last look at Adrien and Marinette, but she had no choice but to make room for them as she was led to the building.

“Mademoiselle Lila Rossi!” Felix chirped in delight. He was giving the girl a smile worthy of a shark straight from a dentist appointment. “We meet at last! Adrien has told me so much about you!” His grin widened, a feat Gabriel never thought possible. “So many celebrities are going to be here tonight. I can’t wait for you to introduce me to them, since you know so many famous people.”

Up to this point Lila was giving him a sour smile, but now fear flashed in her eyes. “Ce-celebrities?” she stammered. “S-sure, I know a few,” she added, anxiously looking around. “What the-?!”

That last exclamation was at the burst of flash in her eyes. 

Felix just shot the two of them in a selfie. “Great! This goes straight to my Insta! I’m tagging you of course,” he added in theatrical whisper. “I hope many more pics with all those celebs are going to follow!”

Gabriel trailed after them at a distance. He was very pleased with himself, humming in content at placing the right boy at the right place. Nathalie appeared at his side.

“Excellent job with Felix,” he praised. “I see you even managed to brief him, despite the short notice.”

His assistant’s smile was positively sinister. “I haven’t,” she said. “Apparently he’s been keeping in touch with Adrien and he kind of took the initiative himself.”

“Even better,” Gabriel nodded in approval. There were few things he appreciated more than champions with drive. 

He kept close to Felix and Lila, as his nephew led the girl from one cluster of guests to another, snapping pictures, and crying in disappointment whenever someone wouldn’t recognize Lila. He spent a significant amount of time in each group introducing her, and explaining how she knew so many people, alas no one in particular. At one point Gabriel thought he saw the boy pocketing Lila’s phone, but he might have been wrong. 

He checked the social media. Felix’s Instagram feed was full of pictures with their guests and Lila, who’s frown deepened with every photo. Jagged Stone and Penny Rolling, Prince Ali, Clara Nightingale and Audrey Bourgeois. Name after name, face after face, and not even a sparkle of recognition, which of course hadn’t escaped Felix’s attention. Two hashtags #sheknowsthemALL #thoughNOTthisONE accompanied every post. Not so subtle, but infinitely less brutal than what he initially had in mind. It might not destroy her reputation, excuse his pun - instantly, but a gradual decline was fine by Gabriel. Everything done in white gloves. Why didn’t he think about it earlier?

Felix and Lila stood by André the ice cream maker, who’d been appointed as a sort of celebrity catering novelty. He was shaking his head at the girl and Gabriel knew that meant he had no idea who she was. Felix feigned a moan of disappointment. The boy’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

“That looks like some just desserts,” came a comment from behind Gabriel’s back. It was Adrien hand in hand with Marinette. 

Gabriel hadn’t been lying to Madame Chamack. Marinette’s petite hand was tightly and tenderly wrapped in his son’s palm. The gooey eyes look was really good on him. The older Agreste made a mental note to use that for their next shoot. 

“Astonishing. It’s a miracle she hasn’t been akumatized yet,” Adrien reflected, observing the scene with André. 

Marinette elbowed him, but she was smiling.

Not really a miracle, Gabriel pondered, just your everyday Agreste hero miraculously restraining himself. Oops, he thought, did I do it again and save the day?

[helshades]

I always pronounced it "Her-my-own", despite being a native speaker, as I never came across it and was still a child at the time. It was only when Book Four came out, and - thankfully - Krum was a non-native speaker, that I learned the real pronunciation. English is stupid. It's like what Shaw used to say about how you could spell "fish" legitimately as "ghoti", as the whole language needs to be changed in its written form.

Like all truly great literary references, that one’s inappropriately attributed, as I’ve just been reliably informed that the first known occurrence of the ghoti joke was made one year before (George) Bernard Shaw was born—in 1855, in a letter Charles Ollier wrote to Leigh Hunt; on the third page, Ollier mentions that his son William ‘has hit upon a new method of spelling “fish”’. The word doesn’t appear in the writings of Shaw himself! It is a wee bit disappointing, yes.

Although… to be frank, the only real dissent between Bernard Shaw and I would be that ghoti business and the overall question of spelling reforms—which I shall oppose, as long as there is a brain cell left in me, for every language I’ll ever know. Spelling reforms are for quitters, ducky. FOR QUITTERS. Also: nobody ever pronounced diagram gh as f at the beginning of a word, it only happens the end of morphemes after diphthongs au and ou; women is an exception; and the only way ti can be pronounced like sh is when it precedes the phonems -al, -an and -on. The only logical way to pronounce ghoti would be, in the end, like ‘goatee’. FAKE NEWS!!!

Ahem. To quote Charivarius (1870-1946), a.k.a. the greatest troll in the English language, a.k.a. someone who really knew where things are at:

Dearest creature in creation,Study English pronunciation.I will teach you in my verseSounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse.I will keep you, Suzy, busy,Make your head with heat grow dizzy.Tear in eye, your dress will tear.So shall I! Oh hear my prayer.

Just compare heart, beard, and heard,Dies and diet, lord and word,Sword and sward, retain and Britain.(Mind the latter, how it’s written.)Now I surely will not plague youWith such words as plaque and ague.But be careful how you speak:Say break and steak, but bleak and streak;Cloven, oven, how and low,Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe.

Hear me say, devoid of trickery,Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore,Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles,Exiles, similes, and reviles;Scholar, vicar, and cigar,Solar, mica, war and far;One, anemone, Balmoral,Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel;Gertrude, German, wind and mind,Scene, Melpomene, mankind.

Billet does not rhyme with ballet,Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.Blood and flood are not like food,Nor is mould like should and would.Viscous, viscount, load and broad,Toward, to forward, to reward.And your pronunciation’s OKWhen you correctly say croquet,Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Ivy, privy, famous; clamourAnd enamour rhyme with hammer.River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb,Doll and roll and some and home.Stranger does not rhyme with anger,Neither does devour with clangour.Souls but foul, haunt but aunt,Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant,Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger,And then singer, ginger, linger,Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge,Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age.

Query does not rhyme with very,Nor does fury sound like bury.Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth.Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath.Though the differences seem little,We say actual but victual.Refer does not rhyme with deafer.Foeffer does, and zephyr, heifer.Mint, pint, senate and sedate;Dull, bull, and George ate late.Scenic, Arabic, Pacific,Science, conscience, scientific.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven,Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven.We say hallowed, but allowed,People, leopard, towed, but vowed.Mark the differences, moreover,Between mover, cover, clover;Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,Chalice, but police and lice;Camel, constable, unstable,Principle, disciple, label.

Petal, panel, and canal,Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal.Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,Senator, spectator, mayor.Tour, but our and succour, four.Gas, alas, and Arkansas.Sea, idea, Korea, area,Psalm, Maria, but malaria.Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean.Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian,Dandelion and battalion.Sally with ally, yea, ye,Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key.Say aver, but ever, fever,Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver.Heron, granary, canary.Crevice and device and aerie.

Face, but preface, not efface.Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.Large, but target, gin, give, verging,Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging.Ear, but earn and wear and tearDo not rhyme with here but ere.Seven is right, but so is even,Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen,Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk,Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work.

Pronunciation – think of Psyche!Is a paling stout and spikey?Won’t it make you lose your wits,Writing groats and saying grits?It’s a dark abyss or tunnel:Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale,Islington and Isle of Wight,Housewife, verdict and indict.

Finally, which rhymes with enough –Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough?Hiccough has the sound of cup.My advice is to give up!!!

Unless we heed Mark Twain’s advice:

For example, in Year 1 that useless letter ‘c’ would be dropped to bereplased either by ‘k’ or ‘s’, and likewise ‘x’ would no longer be part ofthe alphabet.  The only kase in which ‘c’ would be retained would be the ‘ch’ formation, which will be dealt with later.

Year 2 might reform ‘w’ spelling, so that ‘which’ and ‘one’ would takethe same konsonant, wile Year 3 might well abolish ‘y’ replasing it with ‘i’ and Iear 4 might fiks the ‘g/j’ anomali wonse and for all. Jenerally,then, the improvement would kontinue iear bai iear with Iear 5 doingawai with useless double konsonants, and Iears 6–12 or so modifaiingvowlz and the rimeining voist and unvoist konsonants.

Bai Iear 15 or sou, it wud fainali bi posibl tu meik ius ov thi ridandantletez ‘c’, ‘y’ and ‘x’—bai now jast a memori in the maindz ov oulddoderez—tu riplais ‘ch’, ‘sh’, and ‘th’ rispektivli. Fainali, xen, aaftesam 20 iers ov orxogrefkl riform, wi wud hev a lojikl, kohirnt speling inius xrewawt xe Ingliy-spiking werld.

Another solution would be to start writing English phonetically, of course, but even then I’m not entirely sure any of us is mentally equipped for triphthongs. Better learn it the hard way and roll with it, you know.

[emilyelizabethfowl]

A Cup Of Coffee And Birthday Wishes

This is my response to @paigyloli beautiful challenger piece!

Both pieces were made for the @uravitybang organized by the incredible @clairelutra!

Available on AO3

Length: 5519 words; Pairing: none; Other characters: the entire 1AUA class, only there’s Shinsou instead of Mineta;

Disclaimer: I have never in my life drunk coffee. I have no idea how to make coffee. I have researched featured drinks extensively, but please do not try to make them at home unless you have experience in coffee-making. 

“Welcome! How can I help you today?” Ochaco perked up at the sound of the door bell as her voice ringed through the empty café.

“Sorry, Occhan,” Midoriya said, crossing the threshold. “It’s just me and Tsu-chan, here.”

Ochaco’s smile slipped a bit. She was happy, of course, to see her friends and co-workers, but it just wasn’t the same as having customers.

She plopped down on the counter, staring at the perfectly arranged pastries, that had taken her half of the shift to get sorted.

“Not many customers then, I take it? Ribbit.” Tsu-chan said as she walked up to her, patting Uraraka’s cap gently, as the girl dropped her head, her arm being the only thing preventing her forehead from thumping on the cold surface. Midoriya took the time to get their coats sorted out in the backroom.

“Not one,” Ochaco mumbled out into the crook of her arm. “Not one through the entire week!”

All Atsui could offer was a soft hum of patient understanding.

“It’s only wednesday, though!” Midoriya pointed out, entering the main room again, his apron firmly in place. “I’m sure someone will turn up soon!”

“But what if they don’t?” Uraraka looked wistfully at the cakes again. “These will all go to waste!”

The other two looked at the pieces as well; the moist layers of sponge, connected by the generous portions of creme, covered with glaze on the outside, and sugar flowers on the top.

They were simply mouth-watering, alluring everyone who entered the café with their ephemeral beauty and promise of heavenly taste.

Midoriya shook his head slightly.

“Yeah, Kacchan really did his best with those, didn’t he?” He managed, his strong will being the only thing that prevented him from gluing his face to the glass case like a child. “I still can’t believe these pieces landed here and not in a art gallery!”

Atsui could only manage a slight nod.

“And now they will all turn into garbage!” Ochaco wailed miserably. “I don’t understand! Last week there was someone here all the time!”

Her co-workers exchanged a worried glance.

That café was her oldest dream, her most pampered child; To have it not filled with life, chatter and the smell of coffee must’ve been hard for her.

With a heavy sigh Ochaco pushed herself off the counter.

“Guess I’ll go sort through the materials, again.” She declared, straightening her cap and re-knotting her apron. “For the third time today.”

She headed towards the backroom, her shoulders slumped as if the world’s entire stock of coffee beans rested on it, her feet dragging as if she was wading through the thickest cream and toffee muddled together.

The second she disappeared behind the door frame, Tsui and Midoriya huddled together.

“Do you think it was a good idea? Ribbit.” Tsu-chan asked, wringing her hands nervously.

“I didn’t expect everyone would just, stop coming.” Izuku wasn’t much better, fiddling with the edge of his apron as if it held the answers to all of the world’s problems. “I thought she would just have a bit of a break, you’ve seen the bags under her eyes.”

“I’m not sure if worrying over no customers helped with that particular problem, ribbit.” As usual, Tsu-chan’s bluntness hit where it was most relevant.

Midoriya bit his lower lip, twisting his fingers so hard Atsui was sure people could hear him from the other side of the street.

“I’m sure it’ll work out just fine, ribbit.” She decided to have some mercy for the boy, getting distressed over him being distressed. “This evening everything will go back to normal, and she’ll be happy again in no time, ribbit.”

“Let’s hope,” Midoriya agreed, on the verge of biting his nails. “Let us hope it will work.”

In the meantime, Ochaco was busy in the back room, looking at the bean bags with a calculating expression on her face.

“Am I desperate enough?”  she mused quietly, her hand sieving the beans softly.

She was on the verge of deciding that yes, she was desperate enough despite the bag not having the bean-count, when her phone ringed.

Her phone almost landed on the floor when she very enthusiastically tried to remove it from her apron pocket as soon as humanly possible.

“Hero Café, Uraraka Ochaco at the phone, how can I help you today?” She chirped happily, forgoing reading the contact name.

“...” The other person didn’t say anything for a moment, “Do you always answer your personal phone like this?”

Uraraka blushed, silently grateful it wasn’t a video call. Although, if it was, she wouldn’t have greeted him like that in the first place...

“Kacchan! You’d know if you called more often,” she retorted, going on offensive. “I don’t think I’ve heard from you outside of business matter in at least half a month! I bet this time isn’t any different?”

A loud sigh sounded from the other side. She could picture him rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand, constantly aware of the flour or dough that was probably staining his fingers. If Bakugou was doing one thing at a time, it would be lying down when he’s dead, nothing else, no sooner than that.

“You know Koji and I are really busy around Christmas,” Bakugou said, regret ringing faintly in his voice. “But, actually, we’re going to drop by this afternoon. See around, check what new kinds of coffee you’ve got brewing, this kinda thing.”

The overjoyed squeal Uraraka made most likely reached the frequencies usually used by dolphins and bats, and it had the side effect of momentarily deafening Bakugou.   

“Yeah, go on, destroy my eardrums, it’s not as if I need them!” He complained, louder than strictly necessary.

“Sorry, Kacchan,” Uraraka giggled apologetically, one hand moving to play with the beans again. Her shoulders slowly became less tense and the soothing motion took the forefront of her mind, pushing the lack of customers to some old, dusty coroner.

“Anyway,” Bakugou’s voice was back to its normal volume. “Do you need me to bring anything? I know the monday’s delivery was supposed to last til friday, but if you run out of something-”

“Sorry,” She interrupted him, “I’ve got full stuck.”

Fidgeting with the hem of her apron, she waited for Bakugou to answer.

“Damn,” he finally said. “Gotta kick it up a notch or two, if no one wants to buy our cakes.”

“Oh, I’m sure if people actually came in and saw them, they wouldn’t be able to resist their overwhelming cuteness and charm!” Uraraka replied, refusing to make Bakugou feel bad for longer than what it takes to rely the message. “It’s just… There’s not many people around, lately.”

They both stayed silent for a second.

Then, Uraraka could swear Bakugou grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Fucking Deku”, but before she could question him about it, he was talking again.

“You gotta tell us all about it when we come over,” he said in his I run out of time voice. “I gotta run now, y’know how it is. See ya.”

“See you, Kacchan!” Uraraka rushed out, managing to fit the entire bit before the tell-tale sound of disconnecting.

She put her phone back in the pocket, suppressing the heavy sigh that threatened to escape. It wouldn’t do to despair over the customers, or rather the lack thereof.  

Bracing herself, determined to do her best no matter what. She left the backroom only to have her eyes assaulted by the most sparkling stack of glittery something that ever existed.

But Deku and Tsu-chan seemed as if they were talking to that highly reflective surface…

“Aoyama-kun?” She hazarded a guess, knowing he was the only person who would willingly wear such amount of sequins and rhinestones.

She knew she got it in one as the stack turned around, revealing the unmistakable, absolutely dazzling smile of one Aoyama Yuga.

“Oui, it is indeed I!” He exclaimed, waving around with the armfulls of glitter-filled balloons he had with himself. “And I have brought decorations!”

Uraraka tilted her head.

“It’s really nice of you… But is there any occassion? I thought today’s just a random day like all the others…”

With her attention pinned to the effervescent figure in the middle of the room, Uraraka missed the quick glance exchanged between Midoriya and Asui.

“Ah, but every day is worth celebrating, mon amie!” Aoyama declared with flourish, the balloons leaving generous amounts of glitter in their wake.

Uraraka eyed the colorful trail. On one hand, it was creating a big mess in the middle of her café. On the other, that was precisely what she needed - something new to make her hands busy.

Aoyama must’ve wrongly interpreted her sudden silence.

“N’est-ce pas?” He turned towards the other pair, asking for support.

The two green-heads nodded eagerly, succeeding in distracting Ochaco from the idea of checking the calendar.

She faked a sigh, making it seem as if they had to convince her to let the balloons stay. Who wouldn’t want to have such colorful spheres in their café?

“If you would be so nice and put them up on that wall, it would be fantastic.” She directed, smiling softly.

Aoyama’s smile reached its full blinding potential.

“I will do so tout de suite!” He beamed, skipping to the wall she pointed out.

Another sparkling path followed him, making Uraraka wonder how much glitter exactly did he stuff on the inside and outside of balloons he was carrying around, and what prompted him to waste a good few hours on decorating the few dozens of them.

“What’s the deal with all this glitter?” She decided to ask, with a wide hand gesture necessary to encompass the entirety of the balloons.

“Ah!” Aoyama exclaimed, as if he was waiting for this question to be asked (he most likely did). He did a pirouette where he was standing and faced Uraraka once more. “I have decided to buy  a couple of des ballons today! But all of the ones en la boutique were comme ci, comme ça - terriblement moche, the lot of them! So as you can see, I had no choice but to sparkle them up myself! Much more éclatant now, n’est-ce pas?”

She nodded seriously, pretending the possible existence of ugly balloons was the worst thing in the entire universe.

“How much time did you spend on them?” Midoriya asked curiously.

“And how much money did you spent on glitter? Ribbit.” Asui added.

Aoyama flipped his hair out of his face.

“Je ne regrette rien!” He said proudly, and moved towards the wall again.

The trio shook their heads in unison, well aware of Aoyama’s antics. Nothing was sparkly enough for him - even store-bought glitter was not glittery enough. No one had any idea what his secret ingredient was, but the glitter he produced was at least three times as dazzling, making the common one look pale and plain in comparison.

Uraraka made a move to go and grab the broom, but changed her mind before she could even take a single step.

“Would you like something to drink, Aoyama-kun?” She asked, moving to the counter instead.

“Sûrement!” The man replied, almost completely focused on getting the balloons just right.

“The usual?” She clarified.

“Mais oui! Merci beaucoup!” Aoyama looked over his shoulder to express his gratitude and blowing her a long-distance thank-you kiss, before once again immensely focusing on his precious floating glitter bombs.   

“I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.” Uraraka grabbed at the ingredients necessary to prepare the “Can’t Stop Twinkling Coffee”.

Maybe it wasn’t the most original name, but the coffee itself was most certainly one-of-a-kind.

It was a cappuccino, and its every sip was absolutely dazzling. The foam on the top glistened like a layer of fresh snow on top of the velvety expansion of caffeinated pleasure. On top of that  was a star made with the most shining edible glitter Aoyama was able to produce.

The drink was bright enough to blind you and delicious enough to make your taste buds find everything else bland for the rest of your life.

It’s also very quick to make. Even when she was trying to slow down the process, it didn’t take her longer than a mere five minutes.

After bringing the cup over to Aoyama - she served it in a see-through glass cup and saucer, to make sure it’s beauty and sparkliness could be properly appreciated - Tsu-chan handed her a broom.

“Thank you,” Uraraka took it, grateful to have such understanding co-workers. If they were to clean it and she was to just sit around and do nothing, she would surely go crazy with restlessness.

She only swooped the broom only a couple of times, before the most beautiful sound in the entire universe sounded through the café - the bell above the entrance!

“Welcome!” She called out happily, stilling the motions of the broom. Midoriya and Asui looked up from where they were sitting at the table as well, only Aoyama being completely unperturbed. “How can I help you today?”

She looked over at the front, looking for the customer she was welcoming, but there was no one there. The door stood wide open, but no one entered the café. Uraraka stared at the tracks in the snow, confused.

“Hello?” Midoriya called out, half-way out of the chair, the green lightning bolts of One-For-All buzzing on the surface of his skin.

“Oh, sorry!” A breathless voice sounded from the threshold, enabling them all to identify the newcomer as Hagakure. “I’m- on the job- with Sato!”

All she was able to say after that were pants - it was clear she must’ve ran all the way to the café - but then again, nothing else had to be said.

Uraraka knew what they needed. She was back at the counter before someone could say “Sugar Rush Coffee”!  It was another one of her special coffee series.

This one was a simple caramel macchiato, but the sugar contained in such a small glass was a dose that would seriously mess up an usual human!

In Sato’s case however, it was the perfect energy shot for when he’s out of his own packets.

First into the cup went a shot of espresso, with seven sugars. Then a bit of highly-concentrated vanilla syrup. Next goes frothed milk, extra sweetened by the addition of vanilla. On top went a generous dose of caramel sauce, and after sprinkling it with brown sugar, the drink was ready!

Ochaco served it in a solid but light metal cups with lids, so that they were easy to discard and almost impossible to get destroyed upon impact - it might not exactly matter when she fixes a cup for a normal customer, but in the case of Sato it was very important.

“Thank you!” Hagakure chirped, paying with an application on her phone. She grabbed the cup and run out of the shop, rushing towards the place she left Sugar Rush at.

Hagakure had her own “Invisible Girl Coffee”, but she rarely ordered it - she rarely ordered any coffee, really.

Fortunately, she had many fans who loved it. And Uraraka loved making it, so really, it was a win-win situation for everyone.

That coffee was one of her greatest creations - a blend of highest quality, imported straight from the plantation Ethiopian Arabica coffee beans, carefully processed to result in a completely clear coffee.

A single serving contained as much caffeine as a cappuccino, but its sweet, aromatic and just a little sharp taste resembled more a latte. It was also less bitter than regular coffee - therefore there was no need for milk or sugar.

Of course, there was always someone who wanted to add some, but it was between them and their cup of coffee-

“That would be two customers, by now,” Deku pointed out cheerfully, again seated comfortably.

Uraraka eyed them carefully.

“Let’s make it four, shall we? Ribbit.” Tsu-chan proposed with one of her rare smiles.

Ochaco grinned widely.

If she could spend her life by only making coffee, she would die happy.

Asui’s coffee, the “Froppy Coffee”, was a more of a tea than a coffee, but she left the name so that it’d fit the collection.

A spoon of matcha green tea and twice as much sugar went to the cup and got mixed with water until it was dark and smooth. Then in went milk, usually with a hint of vanilla, to reach a light green coloration. On top went a tiny bit of frothed milk and a simple symbol of a frog, made from the matcha powder and green glitter.

Served, of course, in a forest green cup with cute froggy accents.

Deku’s “Deku Coffee” was more of a concentrated shot of pure caffeine with a microscopical tang of sweetness with a complimentary tartness. It was made by compiling three shots of blackest espresso with the thinnest possible layer of frothed milk, painted dark green by tasteless food coloring. And the grand finale - grated lime zest and, of course, some golden glitter.

Soon enough the drinks were done and Uraraka went back to sweeping the floor.

She hasn’t done so for long - the sparkling trail had barely a third of itself cleaned up when the bell rung again.

“Welcome!” she greeted the newcomer. “How can I help you today?”

On the doorstep stood Tokoyami, Dark Shadow hidden under his jacket. It was holding a thick, black notebook - all three were a regular view at her café. Tokoyami always insisted it was the place where he wrote the best pieces of poetry.

With a quiet word of greeting directed at each of the four people currently in the café, he moved directly to his usual table in the coroner.

Uraraka set the broom down and happily skipped to the counter.

“Tsukuyomi Coffee” was one of the darkest coffees she ever made or drunk, both in color and taste. Tokoyami insisted the sharp bite was doing wonders for his creativity.

It was basically a large slow-drip coffee from a roast that was light enough to guarantee a strong taste and dark enough to make sure the cup stays as close to an imitation of a black hole as possible.

It had a rough finish and was almost too strong to drink - that’s why Uraraka tended to add a small layer of frothed milk and use the created surface to add a likeness of Dark Shadow made with dark cocoa.

That particular coffee was very popular with coffee addicts who were no longer able to reach the desired effects of coffee consumption via regular brews.

“Thank you,” Tokoyami said as she placed the insanely black cup in front of him. The tiny white dots here and there only emphasized on the infinite expanse of darkness presented on the ceramic.

With the customer taken care of and as happy as he wanted to show, Uraraka grabbed the broom and all too soon all the misplaced glitter was gathered on a single stack near the wall.

Speaking of which, the wall decorations Aoyama was putting up already covered almost half of the available surface. And of course another sparkling trail gathered at the junction where the wall and the floor met.

Another quick job for when Ochaco got too restless with the lack of customers.

Fortunately for everyone, two people just decided to drop by.

“Hiiii!” Sounded through the café simultaneously with the bell.

Uraraka’s head whipped around. Only half-caring whether or not the broom will find support on the nearest table she let it go, crossing the room in a few quick strides and hugging the hell out of the pink newcomer.

“Welcome!” She added, moving to hug Yaoyorozu. Facing both of them, she asked, “How can I help you today?”

“We heard Aoyama-kun was set on decorating your café,” Yaomomo explained. “We came to help him.”

“And to get those sweet, sweet drinks you created with our names!” Ashido added, bouncing on her feet. “I still can’t believe you’ve got our entire class done! And every one of them is absolutely delicious!”

Ochaco blushed slightly, moving to fidget with a loose strand of her hand.

“I just thought it would be a great way to bust the recognition, especially since we barely graduated,” she explained, a soft smile constantly present on her face.

“And it was a genius idea!” Midoriya called over.

“Agreed. Ribbit.” Tsu-chan added.

Neither of them got up to greet the newest additions, but they did exchange waves.

Uraraka blushed harder, moving towards the counter to get started on the coffees, while the girls made their way to the sparkling highlight of the café.

Her goal when creating “Alien Queen Coffee” was to make the pinkest coffee imaginable. It did take her multiple tries to get the recipe just right, but the resulting sweet paradise was absolutely worth it.

She started by mixing a shot of espresso with an equal portion of honey. Then in went three times as much milk mixed with raspberry, thoroughly frothed. On that she placed a layer of whipped cream, also colored pink, and after grating a portion of pink chocolate, the drink was ready.

It was of course served in a cup covered with a layer of pinkest pink paint that ever existed.

After this one was ready, she started on Yaomomo’s drink.

“Creati Coffee” was kind of a mix of frappuccino and mocha cappuccino.

Into a mixer went a cup of ice, half a cup of milk and three shots of espresso, complemented by 3 pumps each of vanilla and dark chocolate syrup and a few tablespoons of chocolate chips.

On top went a generous dollop of chocolate whipped cream, drizzled with caramel syrup and sprinkled with oreo cookie crumbs.

Its sweetness rivailed that of Sato’s drink, but it was a side-feature of the drink. The main goal of Uraraka’s while making it, was to make the fat content as high as she possibly could.

And since most of the fattest coffee additions are sweet… Well, no one was complaining.

With both coffees done, she brought them over to the girls, who were quietly conversing with Aoyama.

“Do you want another cup, Aoyama?” She asked, handing out the drinks. “That glitter on your lips must be driving you crazy!”

“Oh, non, non!” Aoyama explained, his focus shifting to cover solely her. “C’est mon newest lipstick line!”

He rummaged through his purse, pulling out a handful of tubes.

“Ça, alors!” He said, showing off the four tubes - yellow, two pinks and a red one, all of them looking as if they were made of compressed glitter and glitter only.

Plucking the yellow one out of his own hand, he decaped it and fixed his look.

He motioned the rest towards the girls.

“Je made those with you in mind!” Aoyama prompted, causing the girls to help themselves to the sticks.

Ashido immediately opened hers and after quick eradication of her previous lipstick, she applied the new one.

“Oooh!” She squealed happily, “It doesn’t feel like glitter at all! I feel no grating!”

With such an encouragement, the other two applied their own as well.

“It’s truly most delightful!” Confirmed Yaoyorozu. Uraraka nodded in agreement.

“What is it?” Deku came closer, Asui looking over his shoulder.

“Ah!” Aoyama plucked his hand into his purse again. “I have some rouge à lèvres for you two aussi!”

He extended his hand with a flourish, presenting the two of them with two sparkling green lipsticks. With a quick look around, they applied it as well.

The five of them gushed over the delightful make-up when the bell sounded again.

“Welcome!” Uraraka turned around promptly. “How can I help you?”

This time at the entrance stood three people.

“We have come for your delicious coffee!” Iida explained with his usual grand gestures.

“Yeah, what he said,” Shinsou and Todoroki chorused, flanking both of his sides.

Uraraka lighted up almost brighter than it was possible. Another three coffees from her beloved collection? That day was shaping up better and better with every passing moment!

“Ingenium Coffee” was a unique kind of coffee that only the biggest connoisseurs ever dared to try - a full serving of sparkling coffee.

It was a very popular drink, as people found it unusual; It was also the second drink most often dared to drink, right after “Tsukuyomi Coffee”, even though it was right on the other end of spectrum.

It was quite easy to make, too. A cocktail shaker was to be filled with ice, vanilla syrup and espresso shot. After a vigorous shaking, the resulting mixture got strained over glass filled with ice. Then the entire thing was topped with sparkling water and decorated with some mint leaves.

Of course, the cup resembled one of Iida’s engines.

Shinsou’s coffee had an extremely unfortunate name. The reason was simple - Hitoshi was a not-so-little shit and took his sweet time with his hero license, choosing his hero name after Uraraka already began her coffee line.

With the naming convention known, Shinsou choose the name “Order”.

If Ochaco got a coffee bean each time someone went up to the counter with a “Order Coffee, please” or many of its variations on their lips, she would never have to order any ever again.

“Order Coffee” was a simple cappuccino: a shot of espresso, steamed milk, and a layer of foam. On that went some simple swirls made with purple violet syrup. With a bit of grated chocolate on the top, the cappuccino was ready.   

“Shouto Coffee” was a variation of affogato. While normally the ice-cream went as the base and the cup got filled with espresso, she preferred to make it half-and-half with a vertical division.

She had Hatsune Mei make a scoop that shaped the ice cream to fit perfectly the arctic blue cup she liked to use for that specific drink. The actual coffee bit was made with lighter beans to reach the reddish-brown coloration, making it a quite strong concoction.

After the boys’ coffees were done, she brought them over to the table they were sitting at, close to Aoyama. She gathered the empty cups on her way and set to wash them, happy to have something to do.

The universe had other plans - barely did she put the cups in the sink when the bell rung and another group of people entered.

“Hi, Uraraka! Hey, everyone!” Sero called out, stepping over threshold first. Directly behind him was Jirou, greeting everyone with a solemn nod. Last entered Shouji and Ojiro, following through with their own words of greetings.

“Welcome!” Uraraka responded cheerfully. “The usuals?”

A handful of confirmations later, Ochaco once again started in a flurry of movements, getting ready for another four cups of coffee.

Jirou’s, Shouji’s and Ojirou’s coffees weren’t exactly original; Rather, they were personalized.

“Earphone Jack Coffee” was a simple latte - a shot of espresso, a portion of milk. On top of that went a stave, a key and a few notes drawn usually with hazelnut syrup.

“Tentacole Coffee” was an Americano - that is, a shot of espresso diluted with water - with a bit of blue-colored foam covering half of the cup, resembling his trademark mask.

“Tailman Coffee” was a mocha - espresso with chocolate powder, mixed with frothed milk and with an added tiny, yellow-colored puff of whipped cream on top, resembling the tuft on the end of his tail.

And then there was the Sero’s one.

“Cellophane Coffee” did not, as many young people apparently believed, contain any cellophane. Although it was just as thick and hard to swallow.

A ristretto, which is basically an espresso shot with half the water, gets mixed with condensed milk. That ensures the coffee is thick and velvety. Then on the top Uraraka draws swirls with extra thick vanilla syrup. No water, no standard milk, only the thickest ingredients for the highest quality tape-like coffee.

This time she didn’t even get to properly stand behind the counter before the doors opened again.

“Welcome!” She turned with a wide smile. “How can I help you today?”

The café entered Kaminari and Kirishima, equally wide smiles visible on their faces. Behind them stood Bakugou, with a slightly smaller frown than his usual one, which equalled a smile in his book. He grunted in greeting.

“Hi Uraraka!” Kirishima called out, with followed by Kaminari,“Hi everyone!”  

The two of them made a beeline towards her, while Bakugou preferred to focus on his cakes first.

“Do you know where’s Koda?” Ochaco asked. “Kacchan said they would both come this afternoon.”

The boys exchanged a glance.

“I don’t know,” Kaminari said. “We only met him right in front of your café.

“You’d need to ask Kacchan himself,” Kirishima added, pointing at Bakugou engrossed with the cakes.

“I’ll sure do!” Uraraka assured.

With a bit more of small-talk, the both of them ordered their usual drinks, after which they went to greet the rest of the group already present in the room.

“Red Riot Coffee” was an advanced macchiato - double shot of espresso as a base, with red-colored frothed milk arranged into spikes just like his hair.

A strong but sweet coffee - just like him.

“Chargebolt Coffee” was a large espresso with a thin layer of foam, on which she drew a lightning bolt in yellow edible glitter.

Absolutely electrifying drink, ideal for recharging when your energy’s low.

She finished both of them quickly, only then realizing that at some point, Kacchan shifted his attention from the fruity freshness of cakes to her swift movements.

Blushing slightly, she took the cups to her customers, feeling his eyes following her.

“So, where’s Koda?” Ochaco asked when she got back behind the counter, setting down the empty cups she gathered.

“He’s coming in a bit, he wanted to get some touch-ups done on his latest creation.”

Uraraka hummed quietly, focusing on making his coffee. It was one of her more creative creations.

“Ground Zero Coffee” was almost as explosive as Kacchan himself. Made in tall glass, it contained a shot of espresso, then got filled with a thick layer of whipped cream. On that she sprinkled some pop rocks, another layer of cream, pop rocks, cream, and pop rocks again as the grand finish.

The drink popped in one’s mouth with tiny sparks just like those Bakugou produced when his temper spiked suddenly.

“Should I make his order now, or wait a bit?” She asked, putting the glass in front of Bakugou.

“Now, I suppose,” he said, taking a sip and grinning madly. “God, I love this coffee.”

Uraraka blushed bright red, preparing Koda’s drink.

“Anima Coffee” was just a shot of espresso with hazelnut syrup and a tall layer of milk foam and a cute paw mark made from cocoa powder at the top. Precisely as cute and sweet as Koda himself!

She set the cup aside, pondering the question of what to do next. She could ask if anyone wanted a refill-

“Why don’t you make yours, too?” Kacchan interrupted her musings. “I know you don’t make it often.”

Uraraka thought about it for a moment.

“Well… I mean, Aoyama said that every day is worth celebrating, so I don’t see why not!” She decided in the end.

“Uravity Coffee” was the second least coffeey drink on her “1AUA Hero Coffee Collection”list, right after Asui’s one.

To reach the perfect creamy texture and the ethereal weightlessness, she had to forgo the standard methods. Instead, she mixed a shot of espresso with light milk and frothed the mixture to reach the perfect foamy concoction, that seemed to defy the laws of physics and attempt to escape the cup.

She moved to take the first sip, when the doorbell rang. A bit reluctantly, she set the cup down, but before she could say anything, the others spoke instead.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Sounded through the café, with a few party cannons going off.

Startled, Uraraka looked around.

At the entrance stood Koda, holding the biggest, yet lightest looking cake she had ever seen.

Behind him were Sero and Hagakure, out of their hero suits and holding a tray of  floaty-looking cupcakes.

Everyone who already was inside the café stood in a group in front of the decorations, grinning at her, a pile of colorful boxes at their feet.

When she actually focused on the ornaments, she noticed the balloons spelled “HAPPY BIRTHDAY OCHACO!” which made her feel a little silly for not seeing it sooner, but other than that, it warmed her heart to see her friends care about her so much.

She could feel her eyes welling up with tears, but she ignored it in favor of hugging every single one of her friends.

“This is the best birthday ever!”

And with that declaration, the party started.

[sorunuah]

Pivot

Warnings:  vomit, death, unreality/delusions

Word Count:  2,764

I was always...different.

Some of my earliest memories are of my maman comforting me from yet another nightmare. I remember always asking her why I had so many of the dreams in which I'd die in various, grotesque ways. The mes in my dreams didn't always look like me; sometimes they were girls, sometimes boys, sometimes neither, or both; sometimes older, sometimes younger, sometimes taller, or shorter; some had different hair, or eyes, or lacked the freckles that my maman said make me unique...but they were always still distinctly me. Some died in car wrecks, some drowned, some starved to death, some were killed by thieves, and some died in wars. Some bled out slowly in an alleyway as the heavens mourned their loss, while yet others went quickly in their sleep.

My maman has always insisted I had the nightmares because I am special. Yeah, right, I always thought. I'm just me. I'm not especially tall, or handsome, or smart, or strong. I've never had any real friends, either. In fact, I was never exactly well received by my peers.

I remember, when I began school, some of the other children with older siblings telling stories that only made me have more nightmares. It was then that I began to have a hint of just how 'special' I am. Or, was?

I learned that those nightmares of mine? Everyone has them. Our reality, or dimension, or world, or whatever you want to call it, is a bridge between all other realities. It's not uncommon knowledge; there's a day once a year when we can see other versions of ourselves for six hours starting at sunset. I like the versions of myself where I'm taller, and have longer hair, although I'd never wear my own hair long. They walk around through our world like ghosts, interacting with ghost objects only present in their own worlds. It's useless to try to talk to them. Well, most of them anyway. They can't see or hear us, other than the rare few.

...I'm...rambling. The nightmares, those are visions of our other selves dying. They say whenever you narrowly avoid death in this world, one of your doppelgängers die. Then, you dream about it. They say it's a gift from God to our world to make us appreciate our lives more...but it's only really ever made me hate mine. If there is a God, I bet it was an experiment, not a gift.

I was 'cool,' in elementary school. The girls liked my copper red hair and freckles, and the boys thought I was 'edgy' because of how many nightmares I had. They thought it was cool, and I wore the bags under my eyes as medals of honor. Each sleepless night a testament to how difficult it was for me to die.

In middle school, no one cared. Everyone was into something different, and I faded into obscurity.

After my first year of high school, my maman and I moved far away. Far enough that everyone doted on my accent, and I had to speak English instead of French. I didn't question why we had to move. My life had grown boring - monotonous. I began to have nightmares more frequently after I turned sixteen, and, as it was 'cool' again to have them, I ran my mouth. At first, I was 'cool,' and I had a lot of 'friends.' Then people stopped believing me. "There's no way!" "Not every night!" "How important do you think you are?" "There's no reason for you to come so close to death all the time!" "No one's going to try that hard to kill a loser ginger like you!" So I stopped talking about it, and I lost my friends. My maman worried, but I kept my grades up, so she never worried too much.

When I was seventeen, on the Night of Viewing, I wandered outside to walk through the streets and pretend I was a ghost like the other versions of me. I noticed how few of me were left. I wasn't as surprised as I should have been, I think. That night, I saw some kind of creature. Thinking back, maybe I should have told someone. Maybe someone could have done something, maybe I could have done something differently, spent more time with my maman.

...No. No, no one could have done anything about it but me. I'm certain of that now. A lesson learned is a lesson learned, even if it is learned too late.

The creature came to me, spoke to me. It said it was going to kill me. It said it was going to kill every me out there, until it killed the right one. It apologized. It said it would rather not have to go through all the trouble, or cause all that trouble for me, but that it had to. It said that it had to, that it was for everyone's sake, that it needed to kill the right me in time, whatever the cost. That it would all be over by the time I turned 18, one way or another.

I took no heed of the creature's warning, although I think it was less of a warning and more of a...declaration of intent. Still, I didn't care. I just went on about my life, not thinking anything of it.

Throughout the next several months or so, I had more and more nightmares, up of five a night. I stopped having dreams entirely in which I'd have a lover on my arm and we'd be sitting close together on a porch swing with the sun setting behind us.

I started to go mad. I started skipping school. I started writing poetry, then. I started shouting a lot and getting into various forms of 'trouble,' mostly fights. I started listening to punk music way too loud. I stopped sleeping. I found that, if I went for a few days without sleep first, I would be too tired to remember the nightmares when they came. I started going back to school.

My grades weren't the best they'd been, since I never slept and had difficulty paying attention in class. I doodled on all my assignments and wrote short little poems in the margins.

One of my teachers noticed. She asked me to write a poem for an upcoming young writers contest. I submitted to her a poem entitled Running.

About a week later I got a notice saying I'd placed. Tortured souls really do write the best poetry, I suppose. It was only second place...but still. I don't think my maman had ever been so proud of me. I don't think it was that good, but hey. Who am I?

People are fickle things, and as soon as things starting seemingly going my way again, everyone 'forgot' entirely to hate me, and started swarming me again. I had 'friends' again. People helped me along in the classes I slept through, although no one ever questioned me as to why I slept through all my classes and seemed so tired all the time. No one ever actually cared is all, but that was never really important to me. I didn't want friends, I wanted the nightmares to stop.

Weeks passed. Nothing changed. Nothing ever changes! It came time to read the poem in front of the school and accept my prize. My maman dressed me in a nice black suit with a black tie with green and white stripes. I walked in for the ceremony and feel asleep immediately after arriving and sitting down. I placed second in my class. They called my name twice before the person sitting next to me managed to nudge me awake. I dreamt of black.

I walked up onto the stage, stumbling and stepping all over myself the whole way. I was handing the nice, two page long print out of the poem I had originally scribbled on a scrap of paper that was supposed to be for calculus notes.

The man from the contest read aloud one final time my name and submission title.

"Kylian K. Quick, with his entry, Running."

I coughed once, then stood and looked out over the crowd, my tired eyes not really taking anything in. I started reading from the sheet without any further ado.

"Running away from your troubles is like matches and wood, 'cause it burns like the sun when it sets in your eyes.

"And it falls through the cracks like water through a sieve, like tears through the lines in your skin.

"And it hurts like needles in all the wrong places, like cuts under salt burn in the light.

"And you just want to run more, like when you're out of breath, but it hurts just right. Like when you're addicted, you can't stop now.

"And it sounds like bones in a fire crackling away, like birds singing songs in the dead of the night.

"'Cause it's wrong like a right that just wants to be heard.

"'Cause running never saved anyone, but it makes the pain duller, like nasty medicine; yet...pain begeh...huh?"

I dropped the mic and let the paper flutter to the ground. I had lost the ground from under my feet and the next thing I knew I had managed to get onto my ass and was leaned over forward hurling all over the stage. The next thing I remember – it happened right before that, but it was as though I didn't finish processing what I had seen until my stomach was half empty – was another nightmare. Not of me dying, but of the creature. It had been in broad daylight, and I hadn't been asleep. It had seemed so unimportant, and foggy, like out of a dream, when it apologized and said it was going to kill me. But this time it had seemed so...vivid, so...unsettling. I had seen it while I was reciting the poem. It had been watching me momentarily before slipping out the back door of the auditorium.

It was huge, and moved in slow, long steps with its shoulders hunched forward in a way that made it look like it was trying to appear gentle despite its size. It looked like it was made of tar, black ooze sliding off its body and splatting onto ground with a sick sound that was the only thing I could hear.

Lumbering was the only word I could think of to describe it as the vivid image of it burned into my mind while my stomach emptied itself of water and bile.

After that incident, things changed.

Yet again, no one would associate with me, and I only ever heard cruel remarks and quiet laughter. I didn't care. I had gotten what I wanted. The nightmares stopped. I was finally free to sleep again. In fact, I felt freer than I ever had. I no longer dreamt of anything, just empty blackness.

It was heaven. At least, that was what I thought at the time. It was at that point that I stopped having the nightmares, yes, but I had not yet escaped them. It was at that point that I began to live the nightmares.

It was not long at all before I began wandering through my life in a daze. I started seeing the ghosts – the other versions of people – at all times. There were none of me. Sometimes I thought I was talking to the right person, and sometimes they talked back, acting like they were the ones seeing a ghost. Which, I guess, they were.

People probably started to think I was going crazy. I never heard my maman mention it.

They stopped laughing. The closer it got to graduation, the less they laughed. At first, I thought it was because they were maturing, or perhaps the humor was wearing off. It never had before. I had no right to think it was then, either.

Teachers started forgetting to call my name during roll. I would gently remind them I was there, and upon a second, confused glance at the sheet, they would say, "Ah, yes. Mr. Quick. You're so quiet I nearly forgot about you!" and they would laugh, nervously, before scribbling furiously on the attendance sheet.

Even people who had previously been civil with me began acting like I wasn't there. The only one who showed no sign of this was my maman. I'm not sure if that made it better, or worse.

Eventually, I started forgetting myself. I would catch myself thinking things like, "wait, is purple my favorite color? Or was it yellow?" and realizing I had no answer. Even now, I can't remember what the truth is. I think it's maybe green.

It came to a head during graduation. I don't think anyone had spoken to me (save my maman) in days, and I hadn't been able to get them to hear me, either. The teachers insisted someone was pulling a prank and had added my name to the roster.

My memories become sparse around here.... But I remember walking on stage, clad in a dark purple, or maybe blue, silk dress shirt, and a black robe. I came across the stage to receive my diploma. They didn't say my name, but I walked on stage anyway. I can't remember why....

I was handed a blank sheet of paper. The words, "You aren't a student here, and you never were, I checked the records," were whispered into my ear as I walked past.

I went home. I remember going home.

I walked.

My maman was acting out of character when I got home.... She got pale when she saw me, as if she, too, were seeing a ghost. She made some small conversation, I think, and the next thing I remember after that is waking up the next morning. Was it the next morning? ...It had to have been. It was my birthday. I think that must have been a million years ago, but it was just this morning.

I woke up. I woke up, and I got out of bed. I woke up, and I got out of bed, and my maman couldn't see me, and the fringes of my sight were gone. It seemed as though the only thing that existed for me was what I was looking directly at.

I ran.

I ran, and ran, and kept running. The entire time, more and more of my world going black.

Now, there's nothing left. It's just black, and there's only me. I can see myself – I haven't gone blind – but I can't move! There's no ground for me to walk on. Only this black emptiness.

"What could have caused this...?" I voice to the darkness. It feels like I've never spoken before. I suddenly have a half-formed memory of dying as a baby – but at the same time, a half-formed memory of waking up in a tub.

There's a voice all around me, as though I'm inside it. I vaguely remember the voice of the creature as being the same.

"T H A T   I S   C O R R E C T.   T H A T   W A S   T H E   P I V O T.   I N   T H E H U B   W O R L D,   T H A T   I S,   T H E   W O R L D   T H A T   Y O U   H A V E   M E M O R I E S   I N,   Y O U   W E R E   M E A N T   T O   B E   G R E A T.    T H E   F A T E S   H A D   A   G R E A T   D E S T I N Y   P L A N N E D   F O R   Y O U.   Y O U   W E R E   T O   B E   K I N G   O F   M E N.   C E R T A I N   T H I N G S   A R E   F I X E D   B Y   T H E   F A T E S,   W H I L E   Y E T   O T H E R S   A R E   P I V O T S;   P O I N T S   W H E R E   T H I N G S   C A N   G O   O N E   W A Y,   O R   A N O T H E R.   I N   T H E   H U B   W O R L D,   Y O U R   M O T H E R,   H A V I N G   P R O P H E S I E D   Y O U R   K I N G D O M,   D R O W N   Y O U   A S   A   B A B E,   T O   P R E V E N T   T H E   T E R R I B L E   O U T C O M E   -   Y O U R   I N E V I T A B L E   A S S A S S I N A T I O N.   F O R   S O M E   R E A S O N   I   C A N N O T   F A T H O M,   Y O U,   T H I S   Y O U,   W A S   P U L L E D   F R O M   I T S   W O R L D   I N T O   T H E   H U B   W O R L D.   T H I S   C R E A T E D   A   R I F T   B E T W E E N   T H E   W O R L D S.   F R O M   T H I S,   I   C A M E   I N T O   B E I N G   -   T O   R E P A I R   T H E   R I F T."

I remember this creature saying that it had to kill me before. This must have been what it meant. ...It said by the time I turned 18. ...It was too late. Is this the end of the world, then?

The voice echoes around me again.

"D O   N O T   W O R R Y   C H I L D.   D O W N   T O   T H E   S E C O N D,   Y O U   A R E   N O T   Y E T   E I G H T E E N.   D O   N O T   W O R R Y   C H I L D.   W E   W I L L   B O T H   D I S A P P E A R   S O O N.   T H I S   H E L L   I S   N O T   F O R E V E R.   Y O U R   S U F F E R I N G   W I L L   S O O N   B E   O V E R,   A N D   T H E   R I F T   W I L L   B E   G O N E.   Y O U   W I L L   N O T   L E A V E   S A D N E S S   B E H I N D.   N O   O N E   W I L L   R E M E M B E R."

Its right, I think. I can't remember anymore, either.... Is this what becomes of us in death? Is this

[360digitmgba]

Choosing The Proper E-mail Marketing Platform For Your Small Business

MailChimp provides a free service and while it is barely more restricted than their paid version it is an effective way to get started. MailChimp Unboxed is another useful resource which offers an entire information to MailChimp for novices. This is the right service for absolutely the newbie to start out with. It is a bit pricier but if you're looking for a more highly effective software or have a bigger group Aweber could be a good match. This is certainly an excellent alternative if you are trying to take your corporation to the subsequent level and wish everyone to be on the same web page. They additionally supply a free 30-day trial and extra assist assets such as Aweber Tutorial for Beginnersare obtainable as properly. Just so you realize, Talk District could gather a share of gross sales or other compensation from the links on this page.

If they’re leaving early on in your funnel, then you should fix your original call to action in order that it’s in concord with what you’re sending. Essentially you’ve constructed a sieve and folks that join ultimately depart.

The preliminary observe-up email should be dispatched instantly as an approach to introduce yourself and detail what you plan on doing with your new subscriber’s email tackle. For instance, here’s a fundamental welcome email from Airbnb to a brand new host.

Sync your retailer data and join other instruments to unlock extra automation features. Keep observing what you understand about your people with customizable tags.

IP Monitoring Our delivery system uses one or more dedicated IP to build sender popularity and improve supply.

The "Canada Anti-Spam Law" went into effect on July 1, 2014. CASL requires an specific or implicit opt-in from customers, and the utmost fines for noncompliance are CA$1 million for individuals and $10 million for businesses. It also lets you cater your offerings to particular segments.

Target your messages based mostly on folks's purchase behavior, app activity, and extra. That means, if your email does not show accurately on cell platforms, half of your viewers goes to suppose you don't know how to correctly craft an email.

But when you start getting more than a handful of subscribers every day, it becomes subsequent to unimaginable to keep this up. While we’re on the topic of content material, let’s talk in regards to the distinction between a great publication and a bad e-newsletter. Those that ship blind offers are much more likely to lose permission to maintain doing so.

If this is you, try to examine when persons are leaving and take action primarily based on those leaks. If your open rate is low, it often means you've a lot of unengaged subscribers. You must work harder on providing value and managing expectations. Every service provider I’ve ever worked with supplies complimentary analytics. We’ve talked earlier than in regards to the importance of analytics in web copy, and e-mail is not any totally different. Specifically, that entails using segmentation and analytics to start refining your broadcasts and generating even better outcomes than you'd with a fundamental marketing campaign.

Email advertising is all about expectations, and it’s as much as you to set them. Simply posting “enter your email for updates'' isn't going to get anybody excited. For example, business e-newsletter Morning Brew provides readers a simple benefit—their fun, attention-grabbing updates every morning. Though you might assume your email is special, there’s a high chance that to the reader, it appears the same as the rest.

One survey found that 59% of respondents have been influenced by e-mail when it got here to buying choices. Susan Ward wrote about small companies for The Balance Small Business for 18 years. She has run an IT consulting agency and designed and offered programs on the way to promote small businesses.

Mail Marketer process bounce backs mechanically and the update contact record. In a month-to-month plan you will be billed every month and any unused credits expire on the end of the billing cycle.

As people join, you can ship newsletters to a rising audience. You can even direct prospects to the e-newsletter out of your social media profiles. The CAN-SPAM Act of 2003 was passed by Congress as a direct response to the growing variety of complaints over spam emails. The act authorizes a US$sixteen,000 penalty per violation for spamming every individual recipient. However, it doesn't ban spam emailing outright, but imposes legal guidelines on utilizing misleading marketing methods via headings which are "materially false or deceptive". In addition there are circumstances which email entrepreneurs must meet in terms of their format, their content material and labeling. As a result, many industrial email marketers throughout the United States utilize a service or particular software program to ensure compliance with the act.

For extra data, try this publication on OptinMonster vs. ConvertKit and which is best to develop your record. Pricing starts at $29/month for as much as 1,000 subscribers and goes up incrementally from there.

Constant Contact is one of the largest email marketing companies in the world. They permit you to handle your subscribers and create skilled email designs with templates and drag-and-drop enhancing tools. You can even send automated emails to new subscribers using Constant Contact Lists + OptinMonster and track their performance. Plus, we empower you with plenty of good suggestions (and fun email advertising tips!) about tips on how to act on knowledge out of your contacts so you possibly can send emails that people really learn. We will help you to create successful e mail advertising campaigns. This email advertising service is a superb selection if you're an E-commerce company.

It’s not always simple to be clever or humorous, and making an attempt to fit your attempt into the slender constraints of an email subject line? Humor has a means of creating a strong, instant connection with people. It’s personal, entertaining, and sticks out in peoples’ minds. That makes the email appear a whole lot more personal and makes it much less likely that your recipients will merely delete your message and transfer on. For instance, a company phrase like, “We’re offering savings to our prospects!

Tomlinson additionally launched the "@" image in email addresses to the world. The first email, sent by Ray Tomlinson in 1971 or 1978 depending on your source, marked the start of the trendy communication period. The message was nothing special, a sequence of numbers and letters that seemed extra like a password than a message, however its significance was profound. At first glance, the name of your small business might not look like a crucial thing about your success – but getting it mistaken might cause issues. For Orange Bus founders Julian Leighton and Mike Parker, leaving the enterprise was all the time the plan. Industry deep dives, macro tendencies, and profiles of fascinating businesses and founders. Co-produced with VICE, our original collection is back with new episodes featuring people who left their day jobs for their dream careers.

However, it’s far more effective to write down as if speaking to a person individually, with a private subject line and a personalised message. For some nice subject line examples, we’ve written a whole publish on one of the best changing email subject traces. When it comes to e-mail open and click on rates, your topic lines are every little thing. Some customers have asked what the difference is between OptinMonster and ConvertKit and why they want each.

A assortment of unique content that celebrates the entrepreneurial spirit. Catch up on suggestions and marketing wisdom from freelancers and agencies around the world. Get access to tools in your Mailchimp account designed just for freelancers and businesses like you. Ways to achieve more people, generate leads, and grow your following. Get perks and instruments for managing shoppers if you are a part of our free community, Mailchimp & Co.Learn tips on how to create an email advertising plan, design effective emails all alongside your sales funnel, take a look at them and enhance your deliverability rates. Then discover the facility of promoting automation and how to measure the success of your emails. It's easy to set up and observe an email advertising campaign, which makes it accessible for small companies. You can add a e-newsletter sign-up option to your website, for instance.With all of the speech of video, synthetic intelligence, virtual reality, and chatbots, it typically looks like e-mail is long past its prime. If you need my group to just do your advertising for you, click right here. The advertising analytics data collected in your Mailchimp reviews will allow you to refine your advertising strategy going ahead. As your viewers continue to grow, our pricing plans also scale alongside your wants, for advance business wants we are also offering a Premium Plan. That’s why we work vigilantly to maintain our sending popularity intact, and it’s important that every one users abide by our Terms of Use, which enforce anti-spam legal guidelines. There are three major rules you must observe to adjust to our Terms of Use. The e-mail was sent from one pc to a different, touring via a community of machines not unlike the internet we know today.Drip plans start with Basic at $49/month for up to $2,500 subscribers and Pro at $ninety nine/month as much as 5,000 subscribers, both with a 14-day trial period. Enterprise users (5,000+ subscribers) must get a quote.It explains the fundamentals of the method and what you can anticipate to obtain from Airbnb. If your name to motion is robust, and your compliance with-up is consistent, then you'll be able to rely on a positive marketing campaign.One of those is totally obligatory if you wish to get as many subscribers asttainable. For even more recommendations on creating an excessive-changing optin kind, take a look at our guidelines for creating the final word optin form. Here’s another example of a lead magnet we used as a content material upgrade to a selected blog submit. Did you understand that a minimum of ninety nine% of shoppers verify their email every day? How to automate the process of nurturing your leads and turning prospects into prospects.

Still, folks receive more and more email on a regular basis, and it can be difficult to face out in full inboxes. That’s why Mailchimp provides you the instruments you should shine (plus, we’ve got plenty of tried and true recommendations on sending outstanding emails) and develop effective email marketing campaigns. Check out our e mail marketing statistics by industry for more on why e mail marketing works. This is likely one of the hottest email marketing platforms used internationally today.

You will be able to see the place, when and how users opened your emails. Email advertising is a digital advertising strategy based mostly on sending emails and growing relationships with prospects and customers. An efficient e-mail advertising technique converts prospects into customers, and switches first time patrons into recurring clients.

Join almost 200,000 subscribers who receive actionable tech insights from Techopedia. Connected tools for seamless integration with Website Builder and Online Store. There’s no formulation for this—it’s all about what works best for you and your organization’s voice and magnificence. When you do the mathematics like that, you can understand instantly how dropping a number of hundred subscribers might be dangerous to your backside line. As you can see, segmentation isn’t rocket science, however it is work, which is why most don’t take the time to do it right. With segmentation, you'll be able to send a broadcast only to those that didn’t open your last message , or to people who showed curiosity .

One of the most effective features is its capacity to synchronize your contact lists from most main platforms. This is especially useful for those who have already got a big contact list that they're working with. If you want to create impactful email content and obtain feedback as to the way it was obtained by your customers SendinBlue is a great selection.It is a perfect email platform for small to medium sizes businesses. It facilitates weekly or monthly newsletters, email campaigns and has strong social media focus and integration. The platform allows you to customise emails and provides a decent number of templates. It additionally has designs which might be quite user pleasant to work with. It permits you embed a customized form in your website, create effective popups and share your forms across all your digital channels. There is an assortment of reporting tools that will allow you to hold tabs on how your viewers are growing.Whereas in yearly plans one time fee and credits are legitimate for 12 months. Mail Marketer provides each "Pay as you go" and Monthly subscription. Credit Validity After validity interval unused e-mail credit will expire. Dedicated IP (1/ more) Our supply system use one or more devoted IP to build sender reputation and enhance delivery.

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[renegadesrpg]

Dark Angels: Creation Part 7 Revelations and Plans

Bryn: Shock doesn’t begin to express what I feel, and I’m not the only one. None of us ever really talked about the lives we’d been recruited from, beyond the bare basics. To hear Sean’s laid bare so matter-of-factly was like having an emotional lightning bolt flash through the image I’d conjured. I’m no empath but it doesn’t take one to read this group. Sean normally leaks empathy like a sieve and helps all of us but he’s put up a wall I’ve never seen before. Adrian’s gone stoic. It figures. Spartan boys were taken from their families young, but that sense of loss never goes away. Sorrow had flashed across Sin’s face before he’d schooled it to settle back into his normal, analytical expression, but it was Zav that worried me. Deep lines had formed on his scruffy face and his eyes….totally haunted. We had secrets among us. The kind that left scars that no one wanted to break open and here we’d gone and done just that. As I walk around the table to Sean, I drop my hand on Zav’s shoulder and give it a brief squeeze so he knows that he’s among family, then drop to squat in front of Sean. 

“There are other places of power Sean. I’ll find another. Let your parent’s power rest until it’s time for it to find the new humans that call to it.”

Sean: Shaking my head, I interrupt her, “No. This is the place.”

I’d been 12 when they died, but I’d already known the responsibilities of power. My parents had raised me to it, and before she’d stood as sacrifice, my mother had told me she was doing it as much for me as for my father. That one day I’d need them, need what they could give, and this way they’d be there. And now they were going to be.

“My parents would want this. My parents both had the sight. They were prophets and before my mother died she told me this day would come. It’s been foreseen. I don’t know the outcome of this fight, but I know that when you screw with prophecy, it always goes sideways. So, yeah, this is the place.”

Easing down the wall I’d put up isn’t easy, but one of my contributions to this group is to help keep emotions from either freezing us up or clouding the issues and right now, I’m pretty sure they’re doing both, so time for me to work. With a deep breath and an effort of will, I put away the memories. If I feel like my mother’s smiling at me right now, I can’t help that, but I can use it to stabilize all of us. It’s a familiar feeling, warm and kind, and I can almost hear her voice telling me to trust myself, just like she used to when I was a kid. I use that now to focus myself on the task at hand, letting it leach out of me towards the others to replace the sadness I am drawing away. The weight of their emotions will stay with me for a brief time, but I’ve got broad shoulders and I can handle it. As the heaviness of the memories leaves each of them it’s like the entire room is taking a breath. Adrian and Zav visibly relax and Bryn, although she’d been very contained, also took a mental inhale. Sin is …well, Sin. Always in control but as I open myself I can feel a subtle easing of his tension. Focusing on the hovering image on the table, I take a breath.

“The power isn’t going to be an easy thing to tap into. I’m not sure it can be used the way you describe, Bryn. Once the megalith is freed it will look for its host immediately, so unless it chooses Sin, he can’t tap it and it won’t stick around. But adding that to Sin’s own strength, the Horseman’s power and stolen souls and Zav’s grace it might be like adding a stick of dynamite to the mix anyway. I’m not sure it won’t all explode even without adding the megalith’s stored energy. Now, the standing stones outside the circle might be useable since they were designed to guard the megalith, but you’ll still have to be careful. If the traps use magic sympathetic to what’s there, it will boost the spell to the point it could take us all down. And if it uses magic antithetical to my mother’s power…it will definitely take us all down.” 

Sin: *I feel the tension ease within me as Sean brings himself back to us, within all of us. We are all ancient creatures and the memories tend to blur, but some, the most painful ones and the most joyous ones, will stay with us until our final deaths. As he allows his gift to lift the sorrow from each of us, though I know he does it at cost to himself, a sense of calm confidence replaces it and it becomes easier to regain our focus. Rubbing my chin thoughtfully…*

There is that. And I think it would be wise to find a way to protect ourselves from the effects of the traps as well. Magick is your area of expertise Bryn, though we all dabble with it. What do you think? Can this be done?

Bryn: Narrowing my eyes as I think. There are options, but what will be powerful enough to combat the traps at the strength I believe I can generate with the help of the power already there? 

“Maybe” I begin thoughtfully… “Protection amulets. Something that lets the power of the trap flow over us, rather than try to repel it, or fight it… No, a bag or a bracelet? Yes, that would do it. I’ll need more than one type of stone and they’ll need to be inscribed with protection sigils or runes…” 

My mind works rapidly as I mentally list what would be needed… 

“Yes. I can do it. But if I need 200+, I’m going to need help. The crystals are just the first step. I’ll need help engraving protection symbols on them. And I’d be damned happier if we could tattoo a few on our people as well. 

Zav: --finally, something I can do besides be a “blood” donor”—

I can take care of both things. I can help with the engraving and I’m good with a needle gun.

-- looking at the raised eyebrows around the table—

What? A guy can’t have hobbies? Sean meditates; Adrian makes weapons; Bryn communes with the moon or something...

– dodges the potted aloe she mentally throws at me but I didn’t need to. It stops in mid-air and gently lowers to the ground—

Sin: *Mockingly chiding, as I mentally catch the plant and set it on the ground,*

Now, now children, Celia would not be happy if the bits of nature she puts around my home were damaged…

*I tilt my head at Bryn as she tries, unsuccessfully, to look repentant and catch her mental hiss as she communicates silently with Zav, declaring she would have nailed him if I hadn’t intervened and quickly put a stop to the repartee I /know/ he will throw back…*

Zav, are you skilled enough to tattoo the symbols clearly? There can be no mistakes if they are to work. Indeed, they could backfire completely if they are not exact.

Zav: --I smirked at Bryn. She’d always been a firebrand. It’d been why I’d proposed her as a recruit to Sin before I’d moved her soul on. She’d tried to spell her way out of being reaped and failing that, she’d tried to skewer me with a Roman spear. That kind of fight you can’t teach. Giving my attention back to Sin at the mention of my name….--

I’m good. You encouraged us to have other things to help us decompress, so in my off time I opened a tat shop in Miami. It’s got a waiting list. Whatever I put on us will be an exact match for what Bryn gives me. But the ink’s going to have to have salt in it for the symbols to last on reaper bodies and that’s going to hurt like a bitch, unless Bryn’s got some magick juju that can make the ink stick without it.

Bryn: Laughing a little at ‘magick juju’, because the Gregori has more magick in him naturally than most people who study an entire lifetime manage to attain…

“Not to keep the skin from rejecting the ink, no. But I can spell the ink to reinforce the symbols so I don’t have to be there to invoke them on each person after the tat’s done.

Sin: You will be there anyway. Not to oversee, or assist, if that is not needed, but you will be near enough to provide aid should an attack come. *Looking around the table, my voice growing low and intent.* From this moment forward, none of you will be without a partner at all times. We are entering very dangerous territory when we leave here and I will risk none of you. 

Sean: Cocking my head at this edict, I gotta ask…

“What about you? You’re the heart of this, Sin. He wants you bad enough to forge an alliance with Lucifer, and declaring open season on reapers includes you. You aren’t invulnerable to this.”

Sin: *A cruel smile grows on my face as my dark eyes grow cold*

The Horseman wants me because he fears me. As he should. And because he fears me he will not make an attempt upon me until he is certain he can win because in his heart he is a coward. When he believes he has the power he will try to trap me. That he has forged this “deal” with Lucifer to allow him to take reapers in return for more souls tells me he is not certain yet. So we will prepare and we will strike first. And no Sean, *sensing his protest and shaking my head* Lucifer will not set his demons upon me. This would not be his first attempt on me and it did not go well for him last time. It was made clear by my allies in the pantheons that they would take it amiss if he were to try again. He is not under their purview, but he has no wish to fight wars on multiple fronts. Yet. I will be quite safe on my own.

Sean: I nod, not quite convinced, but Sin is Sin and I’m not going to argue with him. I’ll just have a private word with those two watchdogs he calls servants.

“So Adrian, if Zav and Bryn are paired, that makes us partners in crime.” Grinning at him. “Mo Chapeton, what’s our assignment?

Sin: I want you two to spend time among the ranks and use Sean’s empathy to feel them out, so we can be sure who will be loyal to us. Tell those that are unable to fight with us there will come a day that you will message them to accept no calls from the Horseman or any being other than one of us. They are to find places to ward and prepare to seclude themselves. I do not want them in the line of fire. For those that will fight, you will arrange times and places to hone their skills as much as can be done in the time we have. Adrian, you are still in charge of preparing the duty rosters? *He nods, watching me intently* Then you can arrange for them to train without it being thought unusual. 

Adrian: I can go one better. I’ll put it out that we’re doing rolling boot camps again because of Bryn’s recent encounter with demons, and I’ll use the same excuse to pair some of those that won’t be in the battle with our weak links so none of them get tempted to try to score points with our internal opposition if they get suspicious of the changes. And if everyone is partnered, our partnering won’t create any gossip.

Sin: *nodding approvingly* A good plan. Once you have that established, the two of you will prepare a place of containment where our “weak links” will all be confined to ride out the battle.

Sean: I raise my eyebrow at this. A ‘place of containment’? He wants us to build a ….

“A reaper prison? You want us to build a reaper prison?”

Sin: *raising my eyebrow back at him, mockingly*

You have sufficient magic to ward a place, do you not? *I almost laugh at the outrage on his face, before taking pity.*

I’m not asking you to create structures. A well-warded cavern would probably be the best, as afterwards they will be dismissed from the reaper corps. *tilting my head at their unspoken questions* If we win, I will own their souls and may dispose of them as I wish. If we lose, they will at least be out of the carnage that I’m sure the Horseman will create among the corps. Which is why I want the rest to have well-warded bolt holes. *grimly* They can’t turn over to Lucifer those they can’t find.

Sean: Huffing a little at the playful jab Sin had taken, but I understand why he did it. He wanted me to remember that I’d brought more than empathy with me. I’d been a druid. The empathy was just a very potent manifestation of my power. But that power could be used in other ways and I’d had the training to be able to do it. I just hadn’t wanted to in a very long time.

“Then I guess we all have our marching orders.”

Sin: Do not go back to your usual places of rest or adhere to any formerly established routines. My safe house in Brazil is protected and has room enough for all of you. We will meet again in four days. I know that is not much time, but we do not /have/ much time. Until then, check in with me mentally every 12 hours. If you miss a check-in, I will assume something has gone amiss. I /will/ find you. That is a promise.

Bryn: Raising my hands over the still hovering image of the Stones of Callanish, I murmur softly

“Leig às Callanish,”

and watch the image of the standing stones shimmer into nothingness. Walking over to Zav, I slap my hand on his shoulder.

“C’mon partner. You need anything from your place? We can go their first, then go to my place to get the tools and materials I’ll need.”

Glancing at Sin questioningly, “I’ll have to rebuild my entire workshop in Brazil. I’ll need it all.”

Sin: *Folding my arms and nodding as I stand* That is not a problem. It is quite large. And if you should need anything do not hesitate to go into the town to search for it. The local populace is already convinced that it belongs to either a drug lord or a bruxa. Between you and Zav, they’ll be sure it’s both. 

Zav: --standing beside Bryn, -- Just a quick detour to my shop in Miami to pick up a few things for the tats. Anything else I need and Sin doesn’t have, I can materialize. Let’s hit it. 

Sean: As I watch Zav and Bryn mist out, I turn to Adrian,

“Well buddy, let’s go find our potential narcs so you can get down to that duty roster.

Adrian:--nodding –

I’m in, but, –looking at Sin— I meant it. Sean as my partner for now is good, but once this all starts, Sean is your wing man. It’s important.

Sin: I understand. *I do not have to like it, but I do understand it. Adrian’s seeing had been quite clear on that point. And because Sean had been correct. When you try to circumvent prophecy, nothing good ever comes from it.*

Fare thee well my friends. Keep to the check-ins and we will meet again in four days’ time.

*After Sean and Adrian have dematerialized I walk to out to the lanai and watch the moonlight glimmer on the waves. I fear that no matter the outcome of this battle my time in my own personal paradise is drawing to an end. After so many years I had found peace here. My thoughts drift back over the years. Certain people and times stand out in my long memory. Bella as a frightened child, and then as a confident young woman, fighting for her powers and finding her true mate, and my friend, Dean. Bast, my longtime companion and goddess whom I had restored to her pantheon. Comforting Danu after the death of her mortal son…. and Freya, severing my link with the Horseman and providing a safe house for me in Valhalla as I regained my purpose. The sons of my human life…Cain who slew his brother, Abel. Seth who rejected us for the twelve tribes’ version of our lives…and Ishtar, my beloved wife Ishtar. The first soul I had reaped, had taken to Elysia. I had looked for her reborn soul for thousands of years before I finally accepted the Fates had taken her from me forever. Would I see her when I, too, answer the Creator’s final call? Or was my eternity with her forfeit because I had sought vengeance for her that final day? And then I realize it is not just my time in paradise that is over. In this moment of clarity I know that my time as a reaper is also coming to an end. What comes next, I do not know. There is only one certainty. Everything dies.

#TBC

[lesbrarians]

Junkrat/Roadhog: Voyages Ch 3

Title: Voyages

Characters: Junkrat, Roadhog

Rating: R

Summary:  After a rocky start and some ups and downs, Junkrat and Roadhog are officially partners, even if things haven’t progressed quite as far as Junkrat would like. With his treasure at the heart of their grandiose plans, they take their adventures overseas and leave their mark on the world, for better or worse. (Mostly for worse. They’re criminals.) Sequel to “Origins.”

---

Plush toys and soft drinks aside, Japan wasn’t all fun and games. The neon lights of Tokyo were less pretty and more harsh and unforgiving when you were bleeding beneath them. Their bravado always caught up to them eventually, and their attempt to swindle a man fell short when he pulled a knife on them. Roadhog promptly punched him in the face, but not before the perpetrator got a swipe in and sliced Junkrat's arm.

There was a sickening crunch as brass rings met bone, and their attacker spat out a mouthful of blood and teeth. Horrified, he turned tail and fled. Roadhog wiped his knuckles on his overalls. “Everyone has a plan ‘til they get punched in the mouth,” he muttered to himself.

“If yer finished, I could use a little help here, big guy!” Junkrat said through grit teeth, clutching his arm. It was only then that Roadhog noticed the blood seeping between his fingers.

“Let me see,” he said gruffly as he pulled Junkrat’s hand aside. It looked worse than it was -- it was relatively shallow, but the knife had nicked a vein, and the copious amount of blood that was oozing out of the cut refused to be staunched.

“You'll live,” Roadhog told him. He undid the bindings around his wrist and wrapped the strip of cloth around Junkrat's arm, just to stem the flow until they could retrieve some proper bandages. “Can you walk?” he asked.

“Yeah, ‘course, m’fine,” Junkrat automatically answered. It was sheer reflex -- he was used to bluffing his way through minor injuries. You wouldn’t last long in Junkertown if you couldn’t stand some pain. Junkers were jackals. They'd leap on you at the first sign of weakness and eat you alive.

The implications of Roadhog’s question caught up to him seconds after the words left his mouth, and he hastily amended, “But, ah, if yer offerin’ to carry me...” He raised his eyebrows and grinned.

“You said you can walk,” Roadhog replied and set off down the street in the direction of their makeshift home.

Junkrat frowned and jogged after him. “Wait, no -- carry me, ‘Hog!” he demanded. He tried to hop onto Roadhog’s back, only to yelp in pain the moment he stretched his wounded arm up.

At the small noise of distress, Roadhog glanced back at him in alarm. Finding that Junkrat wasn’t dying, he heaved a world-weary sigh and crouched down.

“Thank you!” Junkrat said cheerily. He scrabbled onto Roadhog's back, hooking his good arm around his neck and letting the bloody one dangle uselessly. “Onward, my noble steed!”

“I will drop you.”

Junkrat was fairly sure he would have already done so if it weren't for his injury. He snickered and rested his chin on Roadhog's head, the tuft of his ponytail tickling his neck.

Roadhog unceremoniously dumped Junkrat on his ass after they snuck back into the construction zone. The rudeness of the gesture was offset by the tenderness with which he unwound the cloth he had tied around Junkrat's arm. It was the story of their relationship -- they were comfortable showing one another how much they cared, but underneath it all, they were both assholes. It was why they worked well together: they were jerks with little regard for the lives of anyone but themselves -- and, as of late, each other.

Roadhog rummaged around in their loot bag, a battered, pig-faced pink duffel bag. They had recently dipped into their first aid kit, a bag filled with medical supplies that Ava had gifted them, but it was anyone's guess where they had left it.

“I need a bandage--” A small metallic hand with spindly wire fingers handed him the box of bandages. “Thanks,” Roadhog automatically said. He was halfway through bandaging Junkrat’s arm when he froze. Junkrat's brain hadn't immediately processed that Roadhog's 'thank you' had been directed at a third party, and it took a split second longer for the oddity of the situation to strike him. They both turned their heads to look at the infiltrator.

“What,” Junkrat said, “is that.” He had seen -- hell, he had built -- his fair share of perplexing devices during his life at Junkertown. He had never seen anything quite like this. Before them was a pale yellow robot, the smallest one that either of them had ever seen. It stood at about a foot high and was all smooth curves, with rounded paws and cat ears. Junkrat would have taken it to be a child’s toy if it hadn’t been for the upper paws, which were cracked open to reveal two extended metallic limbs, and the digital screen on the front of its head. A cutesy, happy cat face was displayed on the screen, one of the kaomoji they’d gotten used to seeing on merchandise around Tokyo. It trilled happily.

“I think it’s a robot,” Roadhog said. He finished bandaging Junkrat’s arm and sat back to look at it.

Junkrat snorted. “That’s bloody obvious. Is it an omnic, though?” He reached for his frag launcher. It didn’t look like it could do much damage, but just in case. Omnics put him on edge.

Roadhog gave a noncommittal hum and picked up the robot to study it. With a whirr, it retracted its spindly arms into its body, the paws snapping shut around them like two egg-shaped capsules.

“It don’t look like no omnic I’ve ever seen,” Junkrat said. The omnics he was familiar with were all humanoid, asides from the war machines that were used during the Omnic Crisis. It didn’t look like it was capable of free will, so perhaps his misgivings were just that: sheer paranoia. “Does it know what we’re talkin’ about?” he asked after a moment’s pause.

The display screen flickered, replacing the cat face with the letters N-O. Junkrat recoiled. “No?” He squinted at it suspiciously. “What are you?”

It was a rhetorical question, but after a beat or two, the robot’s screen changed to display the letters IDK.

“Id-kuh,” Junkrat read. “The hell does that mean?”

“‘I don’t know,’” Roadhog said.

“I don’t know either! Is it makin’ fun of us? We should blow it up.”

“No, it’s saying, ‘I don’t know,’” Roadhog explained. “It’s an acronym.”

“Oh.” Junkrat scratched his head. “That’s a puzzler. It don’t know what it is, then?” Roadhog shrugged. “Ya don’t know what you are. Yes or no?” He directed the question to the robot.

The screen changed again: Yes.

“Well, that answers that,” Junkrat said, satisfied. “The thing can’t be an omnic, then, it got no proper self-awareness.”

“It doesn’t pass the Rensselaer Test,” Roadhog mused.

“What? No, it doesn’t pass the Junkrat test.” The robot’s face flickered back to its normal, happy cat face. Junkrat tapped his chin as he looked down at it. “I guess it is kinda cute. These people really like their robots, don’t they? Least they’re going with the good kinda bots and not harbouring too many bloody omnics.” He picked up a crushed soft drink can and tossed it across the room. “Go get that for me, bot.”

The robot obliged with a beep of agreement. Junkrat clapped his hands in delight. “It takes orders! Roadhog, mate, we got us a robot sidekick!”

Later that night, in the witching hour, Junkrat sat bolt upright. “Kiki!” he all but shouted, startling Roadhog out of his sleep and causing him to lunge for his scrap gun.

When he realised that there was no danger, asides from the threat that Junkrat posed to his beauty sleep, Roadhog put down the weapon. “What,” he said, voice still heavy with sleep and more than a little vexed.

“The soft drink machine!” Junkrat told him, entirely oblivious to his partner’s displeasure. “That’s what it looks like. The bot, I mean. Looks like the mascot on that vending machine. Kiki Cola.”

“Great,” Roadhog said, the word dripping with sarcasm.

“It is great!” Junkrat enthused. “That was botherin’ me. Knew it looked familiar, just couldn’t place it.” Junkrat knocked on his own skull. He could admit that his mind was a sieve.

“Have you been awake this whole time, thinking about this?”

“Kinda,” Junkrat confessed. “Well, y’know. And other things.”

Roadhog grunted and rolled over onto his side, facing away from Junkrat. “Go the fuck to sleep.”

Junkrat did his best to lay perfectly still and quiet his mind, but it was still racing a mile a minute. He sat up and peeked over Roadhog’s massive form to peer at his face. “What’s that Nano guy?” Roadhog had enough sense not to engage this time, but that didn’t stop Junkrat from continuing his train of thought. “Y’know, that other mascot on the machines? The Nano soft drink, or whatever? Little yellow bastard--”

Roadhog rolled back over and clamped a hand over Junkrat’s mouth. “Shut. Up. And sleep.”

Voice too muffled to verbally reply, Junkrat nodded, wide-eyed. Roadhog let go of him and turned back around. He opened his mouth to say something further, an apology, probably, but for once, he thought better of it. It was hard for him to fully restrain himself once the words were on his tongue, however, so he mouthed a near silent “sorry.” Roadhog twitched ever so slightly.

It took him several more hours until he finally passed out. All his thoughts about cartoon soft drink mascots were replaced by thoughts of Roadhog: his palm silencing him, thick fingers working inside his mouth, hands wandering down the rest of his body.

He shivered in delight.

---

Adopting Kiki into their fold turned out to be one of their better ideas. A subservient robot was an excellent asset in committing petty theft. They decided to test its skills with a simple heist, nothing flashy, just stealing items from a small corner store and attempting to be unobtrusive.

“Hang on,” Junkrat said, lowering the binoculars he had been using to scope out the shop. “Does it know about the fine pastime of shoplifting? Do we gotta teach it? It’s a robot, it’s stupid. Only knows what it’s told, roight?”

Roadhog shrugged, hands spread in the universal gesture for beats me.

Junkrat crouched down so he could address the robot. “Okay, then. Let’s see if yer worth keepin’ around,” he said. “Wanna steal somethin’ for us?” He considered his own words and laughed. “Don't know why I'm askin’. Not like ya have much of a choice, dontcha?” Junkrat was operating under a very narrow view of what he believed Kiki to be: an artificially intelligent but non-sentient robot -- but his first impression had yet to be proven wrong, so he figured he was onto something. “Steal somethin’ for us, and I won't scrap ya. Got it?”

Kiki gave a mechanical trill, its screen flashing the letters Y-E-S.

They sauntered into the store like they owned the place. Junkrat was immediately disturbed by the prompt greeting, the cashier beaming at them the minute they stepped inside. He was not used to people -- namely, potential victims -- being so jolly towards the two of them. They looked like they were from the wrong side of the tracks: Roadhog with his mask hiding his face from view, Junkrat with his usual manic grin, the both of them shirtless, with a spiked tire and a machete strapped to their backs. Really, it was a wonder they didn't get the police called on them more often than they did. "I'm... not gonna talk to you," was the first and only thing he could think of to say. "Leave me alone, I got this."

He headed straight for the wall of coolers. He had emptied his usual harness before they left for the mission, giving him room to insert soft drink cans in the spaces where he slotted his pipe bomb canisters. He whistled a jaunty tune as he gathered up an armful of cans: fizzy drinks, energy drinks, miscellaneous beverages, as much as he could carry. He hefted the lot of them and shielded himself from view of the cashier, inching his way behind a rack of stationary and greeting cards. The cashier was occupied, cooing over Kiki (I knew we made the right decision, keepin' it around, he thought to himself, as if he hadn't spent the past half hour speculating on the robot's usefulness). He took his time deciding which of the drinks to store in his harness -- but not too long, they were operating on a time limit, after all. Any duplicates that he had, he rolled down the aisle away from him. "Roadhog, mate, I just got a brill idea!" he stage whispered.

Roadhog, who had been busy stuffing snacks everywhere (in their duffel bag, his pockets, down his pants), wandered over to him, a cellophane-wrapped pastry in hand. "Try me," he said. He made no attempt to hide his belief that not all of Junkrat's ideas were brilliant.

Junkrat spread his hands in front of him. "Picture, for a moment, if you will..." He waited for Roadhog to respond.

"What am I picturi--?"

"Bowling!" Junkrat interrupted him before he could finish the question, filling his enthusiastic exclamation with all the drama he could muster.

"Bowling," Roadhog repeated.

"With soft drink cans!" Junkrat rolled another can down the aisle. "Empty ones for pins, full ones for bowling balls. See? Genius!"

"Not the word I would use, but okay."

Junkrat scoffed. He popped open the tab of one of the cans that he had been contemplating. It was bright green with flowers on it, its label indecipherable to him. "Maybe ya just don't get it.”

“I get it. It’s stupid.”

“You'll learn to appreciate my genius someday."

Roadhog gave a skeptic hum. “Rockmelons, maybe,” he said after a moment's silence.

Junkrat whipped his head around to fix him with a grin of utter adoration. He loved it when Roadhog humoured his sillier ideas. “Even better!”

He tossed his head back and downed a gulp of the mystery liquid, his pinky extended regally. He promptly spat it back out and looked at the can as if it had wronged him. "What the hell is this swill?" he said, aghast.

Roadhog took the can from him and connected his mask’s drinking apparatus so that he could taste it himself. “Green tea,” he said, handing it back to Junkrat. “Bitter, though. It's unsweetened.”

Junkrat scoffed. “Bitter! Yeah, that’s a word for it, alright.” He held the can at arm’s length, dangling it between his index finger and his thumb. “I didn’t pay good money for this shit!”

“You didn’t pay.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said!” Junkrat cackled at his own little joke. He handed the drink to Kiki. “Go take care of this, wouldja? Throw it at the son-of-a-bitch who put this in his vending machine.”

Kiki obliged. For a robot with such spindly arms, she could launch a half-full can a surprising distance. The cashier yelped, whipping his head around to find the source of the projectile. His eyes landed on Junkrat, who was pointing and laughing uproariously at him.

“Time to go,” Roadhog said, scooping Kiki up in one hand and grabbing the chain of Junkrat’s tire with the other.

“Oh, c’mon, the fun’s just startin’!” Junkrat protested. Kiki beeped in agreement.

Once they made it safely back to their hideout, they wasted no time in unpacking their haul. "Tonight, we feast like kings!" Junkrat said, rubbing his hands together. He turned to the robot. "Okay, pay up," he said. "Whatcha get? If it's rubbish, I'm tossin' you out."

Kiki's paws and the panel of its belly slid open, one of the mechanical limbs extending to retrieve the prize from its inner workings. It handed a wafer thin, plastic wrapped package to Junkrat.

"What, paper?" Junkrat said, fully prepared to rip it in half. He flipped it over, and his snide insults died on his lips. "What're these, then?" he asked. The page was covered with cutesy images, ranging from glittery stars and hearts to stylised animals and anthropomorphised food: winking hamburgers and french fries, blushing bottles of milk, and smiling ice cream cones. Junkrat used his nail to slice open the package. He could only see the top sheet, but as it was several layers thick, he assumed there were more treasures beneath.

He was not disappointed. “I love it!” he announced, holding the stickers up to show Roadhog. “Okay, y’ve earned yer keep,” he told Kiki. "You can stay."

"Let me see," Roadhog said, reaching for the stickers.

Junkrat snatched them away from him, nearly toppling onto his side in his haste. "No! They're mine, she got them for me!" He spread them out and looked down at them fondly. "And I'm gonna save 'em for somethin' special, mind you. Can't exactly peel 'em up after ya put them down, can ya? I mean, ya can, but then they're useless. Nah, I gotta find the roight surface for these!"

Later that night, after they had eaten, Junkrat examined the stickers again and decided to put one on Roadhog. He meant for it to be a joke, but Roadhog mistook his leaning over as him going in for a hug and pulled him onto his lap.

A small noise of surprise slipped out, and Junkrat laughed. He stuck the sticker to Roadhog’s pants.

Roadhog huffed in amusement. “Cute,” he said. Junkrat wasn’t sure whether he was talking about the sticker itself -- a glittery, pink cat’s head -- or his actions. Either way, he guessed it didn’t matter, because Roadhog pushed his mask up and bent down to kiss him. Junkrat melted in his arms, gripping the straps of his harness.

“That all it takes t’get one of those?” he mumbled against Roadhog’s lips. Roadhog laughed and moved the sticker from his leg to the vest of his harness, a badge of honour.

Junkrat began sneaking stickers onto Roadhog after that, fuelled by positive reinforcement and the hope of getting more attention lavished on him. He plastered his scrap gun with hearts and stars, stuck a sparkly pig on the holster for his machete, added stickers alongside the patches of his harness. Whatever felt right to him in the moment. It brightened his day, waiting for Roadhog to notice the latest addition.

He tried to be economical with his use of stickers, but he didn't have the greatest concept of frugality, and it wasn't long before he was down to the last sheet of stickers.

"Oi, don't got much left," he mused to himself. Roadhog had already passed out for the night, and he was amusing himself by talking to the robot. "I guess you deserve one too, dontcha?" he said. He waited for Kiki to beep in response, then slapped a winking cat face on her belly.

The light from Kiki's screen was a welcome addition to their humble home, because it gave him the ability to more keenly observe Roadhog as he slept. Junkrat crawled on top of him and rested his chin on his belly, studying the last of his stickers. He stuck one on the snout of Roadhog's gas mask on a whim and immediately decided that he liked it. A grin curled his lips. "Beautiful," he murmured to himself and reached for another one to attach to the mask. Roadhog grunted in his sleep, and Junkrat froze, hand poised mid-air. When the snoring resumed, he relaxed and peppered the gas mask with the last of his stickers. "My greatest masterpiece," he whispered once he was satisfied with his handiwork.

When the sun rose, he could fully admire the effect of Roadhog's face, usually so intimidating with that black leather mask, covered in adorable pink and white stickers. He could not stop staring.

Junkrat propped his chin on his hand and gazed dreamily at Roadhog. On the one hand, he wanted to spill the beans himself so that he could share his joy with Roadhog. On the other hand, he wanted to keep it to himself as long as possible, because he was sure Roadhog would remove them once he found out. As much as Roadhog enjoyed cute things, you couldn't exactly be a scary criminal when you were covered in sparkly, effeminate stickers. He was bound to discover them sooner or later when he went to shave his stubble after breakfast, but for now, Junkrat was content to enjoy the sight.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Roadhog finally asked.

"Like what?" Junkrat said innocently.

"Don't you come the raw prawn with me. You know what I mean. Like an idiot."

"Oi!" Junkrat exclaimed. "I'm not lookin' any different than normal. This is how I always look atcha." There was some degree of truth to it; he always felt like a lovesick idiot when he watched Roadhog.

"No it isn't. What, is there something on my face?" He said it sarcastically, but realization apparently dawned on him when Junkrat started cackling uncontrollably. Roadhog touched the leather of his mask. "Have you been putting stickers on me when I'm not looking?"

Junkrat clapped his hands in glee. "Yeah! I thought it suited you!"

Roadhog peeled a sticker off and examined the cheerful piece of onigiri. "You put this one on upside-down." He held it up, the sticker affixed to his finger.

"Eh, details, details." Junkrat wasn't concerned with such things, he just appreciated the overall aesthetic of it.

Roadhog picked at another sticker in an attempt to peel it off with his thumbnail. “I thought you were saving these for something special?”

“Yer something special!” Junkrat said, wide-eyed and earnest.

Roadhog stopped trying to remove the sticker and pressed the snout of his mask to the top of Junkrat's head in a kiss. “Smooth,” he said.

“I have my moments,” Junkrat replied. He felt the half-peeled sticker snag on a lock of his hair. When Roadhog pulled away, the sticker remained behind, fluttering from the tips of his hair. He snickered and tugged it off, pulling out several strands of hair along with it. He stuck it on the strap of his own harness, where it promptly fell off.

Roadhog’s hands searched his mask. “How many of these did you even put on me?”

“Twelve.” Junkrat's answer was swift. He'd been keeping track. “So I believe I'll be collectin’ payment from ya when yer done there…” He pointed at his mouth with a grin.

“I’m taking these off,” was all Roadhog said in response. He got up to leave, presumably so he could remove his mask in private.

“Oh, come on!” Junkrat said. “Why dontcha… stick around?” Roadhog pivoted his head to look at him, and he burst into manic giggles, thoroughly pleased with his own pun.

“Someday I’m just gonna leave you,” Roadhog deadpanned.

“No ya won’t,” Junkrat breezily replied, with the utmost confidence.

“Don’t tempt me,” was how Roadhog actually responded, but “you’re right” was how Junkrat chose to interpret it.

“‘Course ya won’t! I’m good company.”

“You’re good at a lot of things. Being annoying is one of them.”

“I beg yer pardon! I’m eccentric, not annoying!” He paused, mid-mock-offence, and a grin slid across his face. “What else am I good at?”

Roadhog gave an amused exhale, a huff of air venting from the filters of his gas mask. He sat back down next to Junkrat. “Lots of things.”

“Yeah?” Junkrat straddled his lap, hooking his fingers beneath the straps of Roadhog’s mask. A restraining hand automatically circled his wrist, Roadhog’s little reminder not to take the mask off entirely. He heeded the warning and carefully slid the mask up, breaking its protective seal. “I could show ya what I’m good at.”

“Kissing is not one of those things.”

“Oi!” His previous fake offence turned into genuine offence. He knew Roadhog felt he used too much tongue, and sure, finesse wasn’t exactly his middle name, but he didn’t think he was bad. “I’ve gotten better!”

Roadhog laughed at him, which only made him more affronted, but any crossness evaporated when Roadhog was the one to instigate the kiss.

Junkrat hungrily kissed him back, greedy for more. Roadhog was acquiescent to all of his advances, letting him work his mouth open and allowing his hands to roam unchecked over his chest. It emboldened Junkrat and gave him the confidence to wander, leaving a wet trail in his wake as he dragged his tongue down Roadhog's neck.

Junkrat mouthed at his collarbone and quickly became preoccupied with sucking a hickey into the crook of his neck. Or trying to, at least. Unlike him, Roadhog had thick skin and didn't bruise easily. Roadhog's hand slid up his bare back to cup the back of his head, which Junkrat took as encouragement to be as rough as he pleased. He bit down, teeth sinking into his neck. When Roadhog groaned in response, Junkrat sniggered and nuzzled his face into Roadhog's shoulder. “Y’like that? Little bit of pain there?”

Roadhog gave a deep sigh and threaded his fingers through Junkrat's patchy hair. The rings on his left hand snagged, but Junkrat didn't mind. “Yeah,” Roadhog exhaled, breath hot against Junkrat's cheek. “Hurts so good.”

Something about the cadence of his voice sent a jolt of lightning straight to Junkrat's crotch. “Holy shit,” he whispered. He hadn't realised how much the sound of Roadhog's voice could turn him on. It was a surprising revelation, and he loved it. He cackled with laughter, wriggling against Roadhog in delight, and bit him even harder. He was determined to leave teeth marks behind, signalling to the world that Roadhog was his, and no one else could have him.

He felt Roadhog’s cock stir with interest against his thigh, and a thrill of excitement surged through him. He took it as a sign that things were different from the last time they'd fooled around, that this time, Roadhog wanted it.

Junkrat abandoned Roadhog's neck and began kissing his way down his chest, periodically pausing to mark him with another love bite. He paused when he reached the swell of Roadhog's belly, needing to take a moment to compose himself against the waves of lust that washed over him. Once he'd recovered, he resumed his wet trail, occasionally nipping at the tattoo.

Upon reaching the area where flesh met the thick canvas of Roadhog's overalls, Junkrat couldn't hold it in anymore. “God, I've been waiting for this me whole life,” he moaned before burying his face into Roadhog's clothed crotch. His long nose bumped against the bulge in Roadhog's pants.

His euphoria was short-lived. Roadhog’s hand snatched the harness strap that wrapped around Junkrat’s back, and he lifted him up, like a cat picking up a kitten by the scruff of its neck.

Junkrat looked up at him, confusion written all over his face. Roadhog shook his head. “No?” he said, voice uncharacteristically small.

“No,” Roadhog confirmed.

He looked down. Roadhog was no longer half hard, and it stung. “Okay. Okay, I get it, put me down.”

Roadhog let go, plopping him down on the concrete floor.

Junkrat straightened out his harness, wincing where the straps had cut into his chest. “What?” he asked. “What is it, do ya just not like getting blown?” He laughed nervously. “Cause I mean, I really want to, heh, but if ya don’t like it, I can always…”

“No, I do.” Roadhog fixed his gas mask, obscuring the exposed half of his face once more. The stickers that were still present didn’t bring any levity to the situation.

“Oh.” This was not the answer Junkrat had been expecting. “So it’s me, then?”

“Kind of.”

Junkrat’s shrill laughter was more than a little unhinged. “Oh, good! Great! Glad to hear it!”

“Not just you. Kind of me, too,” Roadhog hastened to add.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it! Ya don't gotta explain.” He turned away from Roadhog, too miffed to look at him any longer and unable to hide his hurt feelings. He rummaged around in their pile of junk to uncover his frag launcher. He hefted it against his shoulder and glanced back at Roadhog, who was simply sitting there, watching him. “Now if ya don’t mind, I got some things to take care of.”

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he felt Roadhog’s eyes flick down to the front of his pants. This was one of the things he needed to take care of. He turned on his heel and stalked off.

On the other side of their unfinished domicile, Junkrat had built several towers out of the many empty soft drink cans he had accumulated. He had constructed the miniature tin city on a whim; it had just been a fun project to keep his hands busy, but they would make for good target practice.

Junkrat plopped down on a stack of metal beams that had been covered by a tarp. He shoved a hand down the front of his shorts, jerking off as he vented his frustrations by picking each tower off with a well-aimed pull of the trigger. He wasn't even terribly concerned with making it feel good; he just needed to release the tension that had built up inside. Watching the explosions of his grenades and the cans flying everywhere helped, strangely enough. Mass destruction was a bit of a turn-on.

He didn’t want to think about Roadhog after being dismissed so rudely, but his face (well, his gas mask, really -- but it was such an extension of who Roadhog was, that it might as well have been his face) kept cropping up in his mind’s eye. Each time, he tried to shake the image off, but it was a futile effort.

Junkrat came into his hand with a frustrated growl. It was likely the weakest and most unsatisfying orgasm he'd ever experienced. He wiped his hand off on the tarp and turned his full attention back to his grenades. He popped off the rack of his frag launcher and reloaded it.

“Fuckin’… piece of piss,” he grumbled. He wasn’t sure who he was insulting, exactly: Roadhog or himself. He wasn’t dumb, he knew perfectly well that he was odd, that his brain didn’t quite work right, that he was a touch more messed up then the rest of the Junkers. Still, he wasn’t exactly broken up about it -- he considered his childhood unconventional, not tragic, and even when his memory failed him, or he didn’t understand certain social mores, or he made bad judgment calls, he didn’t dwell on it. He was happy with the life he had built for himself with Roadhog.

But the sting of rejection brought all his shortcomings to the front of his mind, and he had to wonder if Roadhog didn’t want him because he wasn’t good enough. Junkrat was fully conscious about the fact that his brain didn’t always make the proper connections, but the connection between Roadhog’s refusal to further their relationship and Junkrat’s abnormal nature seemed too obvious. Why would anyone want to fuck a grown man who couldn’t hold a pencil with the appropriate grip? Who took such childlike glee in plastering stickers everywhere? Who was clingy and possessive and fucked up in the head?

A nudge by his left knee brought him out of his cycle of self-loathing, and he looked up to find Kiki hovering nearby, an empty Kiki Cola can in her tiny robotic arm. He took it from her with the faintest glimmer of a smile. With an electronic chirp, Kiki returned to the last tower he had destroyed and began reassembling it.

“Yer not so bad after all, are ya?” Junkrat said, setting the can down next to him. For every structure that he blew up, Kiki brought him a can with her face on it before rebuilding what he had demolished.

He was so absorbed in blowing up soft drink cans and talking to himself that he didn’t notice Roadhog’s presence at first. He only jolted out of his reverie when he felt the telltale sensation of someone sitting down behind him.

Roadhog wrapped his arms around him and held him tight even as he tried to violently squirm out of his grip. Finally, Junkrat gave up and relaxed, sagging against Roadhog’s chest. He was too tired to struggle, and he didn’t like being mad at his partner. Besides, there was something about Roadhog’s embrace that always managed to calm him down, no matter what kind of tantrum he’d worked himself into.

"Sorry," Roadhog apologised, the snout of his mask snuffling against Junkrat's hair as he spoke. "Could've worded that better." Poor wording or not, it didn't change the sentiment of his message, but Junkrat could at least take solace in the knowledge that Roadhog didn't hate him. Didn’t explain why he wouldn’t let him blow him, but it was a step in the right direction. He still loved him enough to give him one of those mask kisses that Junkrat adored, so that was a small comfort.

"S'all good," Junkrat muttered, closing his eyes and leaning back against Roadhog. Their breaths fell in sync with each other, Junkrat unconsciously breathing in time with the rise and fall of Roadhog's stomach. They were still for a few moments, the room silent asides from the quiet clinking of aluminium as Kiki rebuilt the pyramids of soft drink cans that Junkrat had ruined. "She brought me some of the cans I blew up, y'know," Junkrat said.

His hair fluttered as Roadhog exhaled in amusement, the huff of air venting through the filters of his mask. "She's smart."

Junkrat wasn't sure when they had started referring to the robot as a "she" rather than an "it." It was vaguely unsettling to think about, but Kiki had grown on him. Non-omnic robots weren't all that bad, as it turned out. Virtual intelligence was supremely preferable to legitimately intelligent bots operating under the delusion that they possessed souls. "What a load of crock," he said out loud.

Roadhog paused. "You don't think she's smart?" he clarified.

"No, no, no, she is! For a robot, anyway. I was just--" He was quickly realizing that he hadn't actually voiced the thoughts that had been tumbling through his head. "--never mind, alright?"

Roadhog didn't press further. He was used to these gaps in their conversation, when Junkrat spouted out non-sequiturs that had nothing to do with the topic at hand, all because his brain had jumped from one neural connection to the other without his properly communicating them.

"Look, let's just... let's go out, okay?" Junkrat finally said. "Forget about all this." The rejection still lingered in his mind, but he hoped that a full day of mischief and mayhem would push it out of his memory. He didn't want to keep reliving that moment of being physically pulled away from Roadhog and told that he was to blame for the abrupt change in mood, that it was his fault for being undesirable.

Sometimes he wondered if Roadhog only stayed with him for the money. Their various heists were lucrative, and they did divide the spoils fifty-fifty. Maybe their relationship was all just a charade, an amusement meant to pass the time in between their crime sprees.

It was a sobering thought.

[coughscent1-blog]

Colony @ Eco City tour!

Hello everyone!

So the launch of Colony @ Eco City has come and gone (two weeks ago) and I’m finally getting around to blogging about it! T____T  I haven’t really been writing much about it so this post is gonna be it ok hold on to your seats wtf.

We’ve been working on this since last December so it’s been like 7 months in the coming!

This project was quite different from our first one, when honestly I had no idea what I was doing.  I thought this would be easier, having gone through it once before.  As usual I was wrong. Lol.

The first Colony used to be a serviced office before we took it over.  All we had to do really, was renovate and furnish it.  Sure, we added facilities and equipment, upgraded the Internet and things like that, but everything was mostly set up already.

For Eco City, we had a completely blank space.  Only concrete walls and floor and exposed piping.  So we got to work.  We first submitted our plans for approval from DBKL and Bomba (City Council and Fire Department)… but first I had to go talk to engineers too for drawing up the plans.  My first time dealing with anything like this, but the engineer was so nice he walked me through the entire process, step by step.  I understood then, but my sieve-like memory has forgotten some of it now. -_-

After that came the electrical drawings, the plumbing drawings, fire safety drawings, data points, airconditioning, flooring, furnishing….

All these came from our awesome design team ok.  I merely nodded and trusted Buddha WTF.

Then came the fun part – design.

When we first secured the space, we were ecstatic – huge floor to ceiling windows, tons of natural light, nice spacious square shape.  It even faced a hill which had a river running towards us. #goodfengshui  It’s also bigger than our KLCC location and Fatty and I imagined it would be our flagship location.

So since it’s Colony… what theme would be better than a (British) Colonial theme?  I have no idea how other designers work but for me, it really helps if I have a strong theme in mind to allude to.  Because I like a lot of things wtf and I don’t want to stray off track hahaha.  A theme helps remind me and keep me focused I guess.

I usually try to strike a balance between ‘homey’ and ‘comfortable’ and ‘luxurious’ for Colony so I felt this theme matched the purpose as well.  Colonial style decoration would be grand enough, yet toned down enough for people to relax in it.

This was our first artist’s impression.

*poker face*

It’s nice! But it looks like The Majestic.  Or Fullerton in Singapore.  When I thought colonial, I totally forgot that it’s a popular theme for hotels in this region hahaha.

I thought it needed a bit more character, or something to change it up a bit.  Working on Colony, I learned that I like contrasts in design, and this design was too straight in getting to its destination.  Does that make sense?

I asked, how about adding some unexpected colors?  Like pink?

*more poker face*

*puts saline drops in eyes*

I removed the fuchsia and replaced it with pastel pink.  And eliminated the Buncho yellow.

Results were much better!  We also added a whole bunch of elements traditionally associated with colonial style: a lot of greenery in the form of big leafed plants like banana and palm, blue and white Chinese porcelain, brass fixtures, beautiful old books, and rattan.

And here’s the final result! 🙂

Here’s the cafe area.  The cafe in Eco City is run by The Embassy, who have an outlet in Starling Mall too.

We chose a gorgeous dull mint color for the cafe which contrasts so well with the pink!  ID was skeptical about too many colors but I love itttttt.

We did marble topped tables for the old school charm and rattan backed chairs.

The lounge area where people can chill, have discussions or hot desk.

The day beds on the right are my pride and joy. T___T I kept thinking in the initial design drafts that the ‘colonialism’ wasn’t coming out strong enough.  I’m so glad I saw these canopy beds on Pinterest hahahaha. Cos they really make the space! This pic was taken before the canopies arrived so I might update this later.

Designer customized the beds for seating; I imagined full on beds but these are much better cos I don’t want people to have to put their feet up when they sit down la hahaha can’t be too comfortable wtf.

Details: we put in standing louvers, painted black.  When I was Fighter’s age, I lived in my grandparents’ Colonial terrace house in Penang which had louvered windows so this is so nostalgic for me. 🙂

Our throws are cased in mostly botanical prints or animal skin prints.  For rugs we used handwoven rattan-like rugs.

Spin behind the cafe a bit.  Lockers for our Reserved Desk guests (who don’t have locked drawers for their belongings) are on the left.  Straight in front is the kids’ playroom.

The kids’ room includes a nursing room!  The cushion is so apt ok. When your nips are bleeding and you’re putting cabbage leaves on your boobs to stop the clog, remember what the cushion says wtf.

Anyway yellow armchair for momma to sit, next to it are appropriate baby supplies – diapers, wet wipes and even nursing pads thoughtfully provided by Applecrumby and Fish.  And changing table on the left!

Here’s the playroom!  Walls are done in customized wallpaper.  Picket fence is there to corrall off screaming and running lolol.

Inside we have a slide, a dolls’ house, and a city scape set up…

And a toy kitchen on the other side.  All from Taobao LOL GOOD BUYS LEH.  Sorry I don’t know where to get it cos ID got everything.

The highlight is this wtf.  There was a little bit of space under the stairs outside so we broke it in and created this little nook.  Then Katrine created a house facade around it and filled it with beds, cushions and lots of stuffed animals.  I think it’s the critters’ favorite part of Colony actually.

Back out again.  Another view of the lounge and Reserved Desks area.

Phone booths are done up in pink!  One of my favorite details here.

What a phone booth at Colony @ Eco City looks like.

Inside we have an old fashioned writing desk and chair, with a Persian style rug on hardwood floor.  We filled it with cushions, throw blankets and furry to reduce any echoing that could come from phone calls or video conferences. ^^

This nook is our Instagram corner. Hahahah.  The pink is a print we got from Shutterstock and blew up LOL.  Cos customizing a wallpaper was too expensive wtf.  #renohacks

Our conference room.  Fits 14 people!  Our meeting rooms are always named after famous explorers or trailblazers, so for this Colony, our conference room is called Battuta, for Ibn Battuta.

People who studied sejarah should know la ok hahahaha.  One other meeting room is called Murasaki for Lady Murasaki Shikibu, who was a lady in waiting in Japan, and wrote The Tale of Genji, considered the first ever novel in the world! *nerd*  And the third is called Armstrong for Neil Armstrong, who was the first man on the moon.

This is our event space.  When there are no events, this area will be used for just hanging out or hot desking.

When there are events though, the furniture can be moved around to accommodate the style of event.  I tried to choose lighter, individual pieces for easier shifting.

Ooh one of my favorite spots too!  We ordered these steamer trunk tables from China and they got lost at sea FML.  I was going crazy cos I thought we were gonna launch with no tables but luckily they came in time!  I love them so much I got two smaller ones for our bedside tables at home.

Ordered this chair cos I thought it was really unique but now I suddenly see it everywhere. -_-

Here’s the entrance to our private office suites!

Flooring is in black and white tile for a retro feel.

The pictures I chose all also got colonial theme one!  We have a lot of old maps, tropical animal portraits and vintage photos of British colonial scenes.

This is a special room, called the Jamestown Suite.  Named after one of the first British colonies, it’s a glammed up luxe version of a normal Colony office.

We outfitted it with wallpaper, hardwood floors, a Chesterfield couch, TV screen…

A Marshall speaker, and smart home capabilities.  You can basically control the curtains, music, TV and lights with Google Home. ^^ For special clients only hehehe.

Here’s Murasaki.

I added this pug which is damn random but damn cute ok hahahaha.  Apt cos Murasaki in Japanese means purple and his shades got purple there wtf.

The pantry (and a mop).

Nap room which you can book to take a quick break.

I also made a video tour!  I shot it while some of our furniture wasn’t even in yet though but just to give you a guys a sense of the place.  Also includes Fighter and Penny’s reaction to the kids’ playroom hahaha.

Source: https://fourfeetnine.com/2018/07/31/colony-eco-city-tour/

[eddiejpoplar]

The Last True Supercar: Lamborghini Huracán LP580-2 Spyder

A blip of the throttle unleashes a maelstrom from the V-10’s exhaust. The fury vibrates through my body and bounces off the concrete chasm that surrounds the Automobile office. Ever since I hung that orange Diablo poster on my bedroom wall as a child, I’ve been dreaming of this day. Hardly original of me, I know; if I were a few years older, the poster would have been of a Countach. And if my time in the 2017 Lamborghini Huracán LP580-2 Spyder stopped here, simply revving the engine in a parking lot, I’d probably die with a smile plastered on my face.

Not so long ago, Lamborghinis were wild, feral beasts prone to making grown men and women cry due to any number of maladies and axe-murderer tendencies—or die of heat exhaustion. Lamborghini’s HVAC output felt like the Italians had stuffed an asthmatic 90-year-old man blowing hot coughs through a sieve-like straw. Entry and exit were an absolute pain in the ass and had the habit of causing a great number of wardrobe malfunctions with the brand’s heiress clientele. Maintenance was even more loathsome and expensive, since depending on the part in need of service, it sometimes required removing the entire engine, transmission, and even the silly-but-awesome scissor doors. More rigorous maintenance necessitated the expertise of a time traveler from the year 2341, even though most of Lamborghini’s components were old enough to qualify for AARP.

Then along came the Volkswagen Group. The Germans poured heaping mounds of cash into the brand and brought Lamborghini into the 21st century. It transformed the company’s supercars from breathtaking works of art that only worked as two-dimensional bedroom posters to world-class supercars able to go head-to-head with Maranello and no longer needing a golf handicap or extra insurance for self-immolation.

Model after model, each new Lamborghini exiting the marque’s Sant’Agata factory became a more useable supercar. All-wheel drive tamed the cantankerous rear-wheel beasts of yesteryear. Their air-conditioning worked but still not as well as the average Volvo. And the styling evolved, drawing closer to that of corporate sister Audi, with softer curves and more livable doors. But the increased focus on livability made it seem like Lamborghini lost sight of its heritage and the wildness that attracted so many to it in the first place. And while the company has brought out some truly outrageous creations (i.e., Veneno, Centenario, Egoista), its main lineup consists of AWD supercars that can almost be daily drivers. Most wouldn’t call the Huracán and Aventador boring, but they also weren’t as farcically ludicrous as the Countach, Diablo, LM002, or Miura in terms of styling and that extrasensory feel of “specialness.”

This Huracán Spyder, however, is something else. It doesn’t feel like the “Volkswagen generation,” as it’s been described to me. It’s what I’d imagine from Lamborghinis of old. Cheese-grater surfaces cover most of the supercar’s exterior with air inlets and tunnels forcing air through the carbon-fiber bodywork. Its exhaust, unlike most modern turbocharged supercars, sounds like it has the ability to summon the darkest of hell’s demons. And that Kraken-like V-10 sends its 580 horsepower and 398 lb-ft of torque to the rear wheels alone, which is plenty to keep your hands and brain busy as the rear wheels struggle to maintain traction while launching from a set of traffic lights like the Roadrunner speeding away from Wile E. Coyote. Lamborghini brought its historical ethos back but left the fiery, unreliable qualities in the past.

Unfortunately, after pulling out of the office parking lot slowly, my first experience with the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder didn’t include raucously spinning the tires and bellows from the V-10. I was stuck in the hell of California’s Interstate 405 at rush hour. Fifteen miles took two and a half hours. This is not where the Lamborghini shines, which is good and bad. (The really good news is, this modern Huracán did not melt itself to the ground while idling in rush hour, something you might not have been able to count on once upon a time.)

While I never doubted the carbon bucket racing seats would keep both driver and passenger secure while whipping the Giallo Tenerife (yellow) Huracán through Nürburgring-like corners, they caused flareups of prior spinal issues. When I finally extricated myself from the cockpit, I felt like I had aged 40 years. The confining seats compressed my spine to the point it felt like two or three of my lumbar vertebrae had been surgically fused. I practically fell out of the car, now in a perpetual hunched position, moaning, and looking for Advil or a double pour of bourbon to ease my aching back. I dropped to the ground and stretched out to loosen my muscles and aching bones. With only T-shirt and jeans separating me from the sizzling tarmac, my back and butt sizzled. The warmth on my bruised and battered spine, however, felt blissful, and I could’ve stayed there for hours. Some things never change.

While staring up at the sapphire blue Californian sky, I considered the Lambo’s suspension. To its credit, the passive, old-school, non-magnetorheological suspension (MR is available as an option) soaked up almost every bit of the fragmented 405 tarmac and was far less harsh than Ford’s punitive Focus RS suspension, which in my opinion, should be reported to The Hague for crimes against humanity.

The Huracán’s standard suspension, however, is smooth enough for daily use, rolling over bumps and potholes, staying perfectly composed and never causing the car to sashay or pull the wheel out of your hands. And although it’s softly sprung, the Huracán is stable enough for when you get on the longer right pedal and the scenery goes plaid. To the outside observer, though, my supine appearance may have not conveyed that fact or made me look as if I was eager to return to the slightly agonizing buckets. However, ahead lay 11 miles of the most pristine, jagged, and desolate mountain roadways in California. With the spritely spirit of my inner 12 year old, the one with the Diablo on his wall, I hopped back into the Huracán and shed the aged feeling.

Nothing quite measures up to the percussive personality of the naturally aspirated V-10 reverberating off a canyon’s granite walls. The heavy metal band Megadeath would likely describe it as a symphony of destruction. And although superbly sonorous in the supercar’s standard mode, with the push of a button its howl magnifies. Shove the Huracán’s mode selector into Corsa, and the V-10’s yowl culminates with a staccato, .45-caliber overrun that’s sure to send a new barrage of shivers down your spine. Everything about this engine is meant to entertain, and does it ever.

Along the canyon’s tight blacktop, and Huracán’s fast approaching 8,000 rpm redline, first and second gear are the only gears necessary, and even then upshifting into second is rarely clicked for faster, straighter sections. When shifting is obligatory, the Audi-sourced dual-clutch transmission changes crisply and without violence. The shifts themselves are almost imperceptible, occurring in fractions of a second. Speed just continues to build, with the only distinguishable variance in gear selection being the exhaust’s tone. And as fast as the transmission upshifts, the downshifts are just as good, although slightly more fierce. Under hard braking, the supercar tends to twerk its hindquarters like Miley Cyrus, something that is likely reminiscent of Lamborghini’s previously untamable persona.

Keeping the car’s rear from spinning around and likely off the mountain’s side, however, were the company’s standard steel brakes and big six-piston calipers.  Although many supercar owners would likely balk at selecting the less expensive steel rotors over carbon-ceramic brakes, the ones on the Huracán never once lost pressure, they cost infinitely less money, and they handled the abuse of a three-quarter speed, 11-mile run up one of the tightest and twistiest roads outside Germany’s 12.9-mile Nürburgring Nordschleife. Through the entire canyon flog, there was never a need for better braking or heat management. Maybe if I had gone to track the car for dozens of laps, the carbon ceramics would’ve been helpful. But for everyday use, which is exactly what this car will see, the standard rotors are wonderful pieces of equipment and enough to stop its 3,300-pound curb weight.

The same goes for the Huracán’s standard steering unit. For a few thousand more, Lamborghini will deliver a Huracán with variable geometry steering, which has the ability to change the steering rack’s resistance ratio from soft for around-town cruising to more forceful when the driver gets on the throttle and starts hucking the chassis into corners. After driving the standard unit, I’m not sure you need it. The standard steering provides an exactness that most modern supercars would kill for, adeptly communicating the road’s flaws to your fingertips. You’re never probing for where the front tires are, trying to discern the surface’s nuances. Just twist the wheel and lay into the throttle. The will understeer, or course, but you can counter it with a dash more throttle and opposite lock to kick into the car’s RWD oversteer abilities.

As the canyon’s tight walls continued, my mind tried to keep up with the manic, quick revving of the V-10 and lightning-fast shifts. This is very much a driver’s car. When you clip apexes and treat it with respect, it rewards you, but lose focus for more than a moment, and like supercars of old, it will bite you. Be prepared to pucker or need a new pair of underwear. And that’s what makes this Huracán so different from other modern Lamborghinis and other modern supercars. In an era when every supercar manufacturer has evolved its products into more civilized offerings, the frenzied, knife-wielding howler that is the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder has returned to the old ways. It’s a car you’re always smiling or laughing in, including those Kegel moments, which for some reason are ecstatically good fun too. It’s a loud, brash maniac, just like the Diablo that hung on my wall.

Yes, this Huracán is everything I could’ve asked for in a first experience. And it made me hope supercar manufacturers see the inherent fun of their wares being a little more untamed. Unfortunately, the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder is likely the last of its kind; supercar progress means smaller, turbocharged engines, more safety and autonomy, and better everyday usability. This sadly feels like one last hurrah as Lamborghini and the rest of the supercar industry take the next step into modernity. I feel like I just barely slid into the experience under the wire. I hope I’m wrong.

2017 Lamborghini Huracan LP 580-2

ON SALE Now PRICE $219,780/ $280,845 (base/as tested) ENGINE 5.2L DOHC 40-valve V-10/ 572 hp @ 8,000 rpm, 398 lb-ft @ 6,500 rpm TRANSMISSION 7-speed dual-clutch automatic LAYOUT 2-door, 2-passenger, mid-engine RWD coupe EPA MILEAGE 15/22 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H 175.6 x 75.7 x 45.9 in WHEELBASE 103.1 in WEIGHT 3,326 lb 0-60 MPH 3.2 sec TOP SPEED 199 mph

  IFTTT

[jesusvasser]

The Last True Supercar: Lamborghini Huracán LP580-2 Spyder

A blip of the throttle unleashes a maelstrom from the V-10’s exhaust. The fury vibrates through my body and bounces off the concrete chasm that surrounds the Automobile office. Ever since I hung that orange Diablo poster on my bedroom wall as a child, I’ve been dreaming of this day. Hardly original of me, I know; if I were a few years older, the poster would have been of a Countach. And if my time in the 2017 Lamborghini Huracán LP580-2 Spyder stopped here, simply revving the engine in a parking lot, I’d probably die with a smile plastered on my face.

Not so long ago, Lamborghinis were wild, feral beasts prone to making grown men and women cry due to any number of maladies and axe-murderer tendencies—or die of heat exhaustion. Lamborghini’s HVAC output felt like the Italians had stuffed an asthmatic 90-year-old man blowing hot coughs through a sieve-like straw. Entry and exit were an absolute pain in the ass and had the habit of causing a great number of wardrobe malfunctions with the brand’s heiress clientele. Maintenance was even more loathsome and expensive, since depending on the part in need of service, it sometimes required removing the entire engine, transmission, and even the silly-but-awesome scissor doors. More rigorous maintenance necessitated the expertise of a time traveler from the year 2341, even though most of Lamborghini’s components were old enough to qualify for AARP.

Then along came the Volkswagen Group. The Germans poured heaping mounds of cash into the brand and brought Lamborghini into the 21st century. It transformed the company’s supercars from breathtaking works of art that only worked as two-dimensional bedroom posters to world-class supercars able to go head-to-head with Maranello and no longer needing a golf handicap or extra insurance for self-immolation.

Model after model, each new Lamborghini exiting the marque’s Sant’Agata factory became a more useable supercar. All-wheel drive tamed the cantankerous rear-wheel beasts of yesteryear. Their air-conditioning worked but still not as well as the average Volvo. And the styling evolved, drawing closer to that of corporate sister Audi, with softer curves and more livable doors. But the increased focus on livability made it seem like Lamborghini lost sight of its heritage and the wildness that attracted so many to it in the first place. And while the company has brought out some truly outrageous creations (i.e., Veneno, Centenario, Egoista), its main lineup consists of AWD supercars that can almost be daily drivers. Most wouldn’t call the Huracán and Aventador boring, but they also weren’t as farcically ludicrous as the Countach, Diablo, LM002, or Miura in terms of styling and that extrasensory feel of “specialness.”

This Huracán Spyder, however, is something else. It doesn’t feel like the “Volkswagen generation,” as it’s been described to me. It’s what I’d imagine from Lamborghinis of old. Cheese-grater surfaces cover most of the supercar’s exterior with air inlets and tunnels forcing air through the carbon-fiber bodywork. Its exhaust, unlike most modern turbocharged supercars, sounds like it has the ability to summon the darkest of hell’s demons. And that Kraken-like V-10 sends its 580 horsepower and 398 lb-ft of torque to the rear wheels alone, which is plenty to keep your hands and brain busy as the rear wheels struggle to maintain traction while launching from a set of traffic lights like the Roadrunner speeding away from Wile E. Coyote. Lamborghini brought its historical ethos back but left the fiery, unreliable qualities in the past.

Unfortunately, after pulling out of the office parking lot slowly, my first experience with the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder didn’t include raucously spinning the tires and bellows from the V-10. I was stuck in the hell of California’s Interstate 405 at rush hour. Fifteen miles took two and a half hours. This is not where the Lamborghini shines, which is good and bad. (The really good news is, this modern Huracán did not melt itself to the ground while idling in rush hour, something you might not have been able to count on once upon a time.)

While I never doubted the carbon bucket racing seats would keep both driver and passenger secure while whipping the Giallo Tenerife (yellow) Huracán through Nürburgring-like corners, they caused flareups of prior spinal issues. When I finally extricated myself from the cockpit, I felt like I had aged 40 years. The confining seats compressed my spine to the point it felt like two or three of my lumbar vertebrae had been surgically fused. I practically fell out of the car, now in a perpetual hunched position, moaning, and looking for Advil or a double pour of bourbon to ease my aching back. I dropped to the ground and stretched out to loosen my muscles and aching bones. With only T-shirt and jeans separating me from the sizzling tarmac, my back and butt sizzled. The warmth on my bruised and battered spine, however, felt blissful, and I could’ve stayed there for hours. Some things never change.

While staring up at the sapphire blue Californian sky, I considered the Lambo’s suspension. To its credit, the passive, old-school, non-magnetorheological suspension (MR is available as an option) soaked up almost every bit of the fragmented 405 tarmac and was far less harsh than Ford’s punitive Focus RS suspension, which in my opinion, should be reported to The Hague for crimes against humanity.

The Huracán’s standard suspension, however, is smooth enough for daily use, rolling over bumps and potholes, staying perfectly composed and never causing the car to sashay or pull the wheel out of your hands. And although it’s softly sprung, the Huracán is stable enough for when you get on the longer right pedal and the scenery goes plaid. To the outside observer, though, my supine appearance may have not conveyed that fact or made me look as if I was eager to return to the slightly agonizing buckets. However, ahead lay 11 miles of the most pristine, jagged, and desolate mountain roadways in California. With the spritely spirit of my inner 12 year old, the one with the Diablo on his wall, I hopped back into the Huracán and shed the aged feeling.

Nothing quite measures up to the percussive personality of the naturally aspirated V-10 reverberating off a canyon’s granite walls. The heavy metal band Megadeath would likely describe it as a symphony of destruction. And although superbly sonorous in the supercar’s standard mode, with the push of a button its howl magnifies. Shove the Huracán’s mode selector into Corsa, and the V-10’s yowl culminates with a staccato, .45-caliber overrun that’s sure to send a new barrage of shivers down your spine. Everything about this engine is meant to entertain, and does it ever.

Along the canyon’s tight blacktop, and Huracán’s fast approaching 8,000 rpm redline, first and second gear are the only gears necessary, and even then upshifting into second is rarely clicked for faster, straighter sections. When shifting is obligatory, the Audi-sourced dual-clutch transmission changes crisply and without violence. The shifts themselves are almost imperceptible, occurring in fractions of a second. Speed just continues to build, with the only distinguishable variance in gear selection being the exhaust’s tone. And as fast as the transmission upshifts, the downshifts are just as good, although slightly more fierce. Under hard braking, the supercar tends to twerk its hindquarters like Miley Cyrus, something that is likely reminiscent of Lamborghini’s previously untamable persona.

Keeping the car’s rear from spinning around and likely off the mountain’s side, however, were the company’s standard steel brakes and big six-piston calipers.  Although many supercar owners would likely balk at selecting the less expensive steel rotors over carbon-ceramic brakes, the ones on the Huracán never once lost pressure, they cost infinitely less money, and they handled the abuse of a three-quarter speed, 11-mile run up one of the tightest and twistiest roads outside Germany’s 12.9-mile Nürburgring Nordschleife. Through the entire canyon flog, there was never a need for better braking or heat management. Maybe if I had gone to track the car for dozens of laps, the carbon ceramics would’ve been helpful. But for everyday use, which is exactly what this car will see, the standard rotors are wonderful pieces of equipment and enough to stop its 3,300-pound curb weight.

The same goes for the Huracán’s standard steering unit. For a few thousand more, Lamborghini will deliver a Huracán with variable geometry steering, which has the ability to change the steering rack’s resistance ratio from soft for around-town cruising to more forceful when the driver gets on the throttle and starts hucking the chassis into corners. After driving the standard unit, I’m not sure you need it. The standard steering provides an exactness that most modern supercars would kill for, adeptly communicating the road’s flaws to your fingertips. You’re never probing for where the front tires are, trying to discern the surface’s nuances. Just twist the wheel and lay into the throttle. The will understeer, or course, but you can counter it with a dash more throttle and opposite lock to kick into the car’s RWD oversteer abilities.

As the canyon’s tight walls continued, my mind tried to keep up with the manic, quick revving of the V-10 and lightning-fast shifts. This is very much a driver’s car. When you clip apexes and treat it with respect, it rewards you, but lose focus for more than a moment, and like supercars of old, it will bite you. Be prepared to pucker or need a new pair of underwear. And that’s what makes this Huracán so different from other modern Lamborghinis and other modern supercars. In an era when every supercar manufacturer has evolved its products into more civilized offerings, the frenzied, knife-wielding howler that is the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder has returned to the old ways. It’s a car you’re always smiling or laughing in, including those Kegel moments, which for some reason are ecstatically good fun too. It’s a loud, brash maniac, just like the Diablo that hung on my wall.

Yes, this Huracán is everything I could’ve asked for in a first experience. And it made me hope supercar manufacturers see the inherent fun of their wares being a little more untamed. Unfortunately, the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder is likely the last of its kind; supercar progress means smaller, turbocharged engines, more safety and autonomy, and better everyday usability. This sadly feels like one last hurrah as Lamborghini and the rest of the supercar industry take the next step into modernity. I feel like I just barely slid into the experience under the wire. I hope I’m wrong.

2017 Lamborghini Huracan LP 580-2

ON SALE Now PRICE $219,780/ $280,845 (base/as tested) ENGINE 5.2L DOHC 40-valve V-10/ 572 hp @ 8,000 rpm, 398 lb-ft @ 6,500 rpm TRANSMISSION 7-speed dual-clutch automatic LAYOUT 2-door, 2-passenger, mid-engine RWD coupe EPA MILEAGE 15/22 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H 175.6 x 75.7 x 45.9 in WHEELBASE 103.1 in WEIGHT 3,326 lb 0-60 MPH 3.2 sec TOP SPEED 199 mph

  IFTTT

[jonathanbelloblog]

The Last True Supercar: Lamborghini Huracán LP580-2 Spyder

A blip of the throttle unleashes a maelstrom from the V-10’s exhaust. The fury vibrates through my body and bounces off the concrete chasm that surrounds the Automobile office. Ever since I hung that orange Diablo poster on my bedroom wall as a child, I’ve been dreaming of this day. Hardly original of me, I know; if I were a few years older, the poster would have been of a Countach. And if my time in the 2017 Lamborghini Huracán LP580-2 Spyder stopped here, simply revving the engine in a parking lot, I’d probably die with a smile plastered on my face.

Not so long ago, Lamborghinis were wild, feral beasts prone to making grown men and women cry due to any number of maladies and axe-murderer tendencies—or die of heat exhaustion. Lamborghini’s HVAC output felt like the Italians had stuffed an asthmatic 90-year-old man blowing hot coughs through a sieve-like straw. Entry and exit were an absolute pain in the ass and had the habit of causing a great number of wardrobe malfunctions with the brand’s heiress clientele. Maintenance was even more loathsome and expensive, since depending on the part in need of service, it sometimes required removing the entire engine, transmission, and even the silly-but-awesome scissor doors. More rigorous maintenance necessitated the expertise of a time traveler from the year 2341, even though most of Lamborghini’s components were old enough to qualify for AARP.

Then along came the Volkswagen Group. The Germans poured heaping mounds of cash into the brand and brought Lamborghini into the 21st century. It transformed the company’s supercars from breathtaking works of art that only worked as two-dimensional bedroom posters to world-class supercars able to go head-to-head with Maranello and no longer needing a golf handicap or extra insurance for self-immolation.

Model after model, each new Lamborghini exiting the marque’s Sant’Agata factory became a more useable supercar. All-wheel drive tamed the cantankerous rear-wheel beasts of yesteryear. Their air-conditioning worked but still not as well as the average Volvo. And the styling evolved, drawing closer to that of corporate sister Audi, with softer curves and more livable doors. But the increased focus on livability made it seem like Lamborghini lost sight of its heritage and the wildness that attracted so many to it in the first place. And while the company has brought out some truly outrageous creations (i.e., Veneno, Centenario, Egoista), its main lineup consists of AWD supercars that can almost be daily drivers. Most wouldn’t call the Huracán and Aventador boring, but they also weren’t as farcically ludicrous as the Countach, Diablo, LM002, or Miura in terms of styling and that extrasensory feel of “specialness.”

This Huracán Spyder, however, is something else. It doesn’t feel like the “Volkswagen generation,” as it’s been described to me. It’s what I’d imagine from Lamborghinis of old. Cheese-grater surfaces cover most of the supercar’s exterior with air inlets and tunnels forcing air through the carbon-fiber bodywork. Its exhaust, unlike most modern turbocharged supercars, sounds like it has the ability to summon the darkest of hell’s demons. And that Kraken-like V-10 sends its 580 horsepower and 398 lb-ft of torque to the rear wheels alone, which is plenty to keep your hands and brain busy as the rear wheels struggle to maintain traction while launching from a set of traffic lights like the Roadrunner speeding away from Wile E. Coyote. Lamborghini brought its historical ethos back but left the fiery, unreliable qualities in the past.

Unfortunately, after pulling out of the office parking lot slowly, my first experience with the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder didn’t include raucously spinning the tires and bellows from the V-10. I was stuck in the hell of California’s Interstate 405 at rush hour. Fifteen miles took two and a half hours. This is not where the Lamborghini shines, which is good and bad. (The really good news is, this modern Huracán did not melt itself to the ground while idling in rush hour, something you might not have been able to count on once upon a time.)

While I never doubted the carbon bucket racing seats would keep both driver and passenger secure while whipping the Giallo Tenerife (yellow) Huracán through Nürburgring-like corners, they caused flareups of prior spinal issues. When I finally extricated myself from the cockpit, I felt like I had aged 40 years. The confining seats compressed my spine to the point it felt like two or three of my lumbar vertebrae had been surgically fused. I practically fell out of the car, now in a perpetual hunched position, moaning, and looking for Advil or a double pour of bourbon to ease my aching back. I dropped to the ground and stretched out to loosen my muscles and aching bones. With only T-shirt and jeans separating me from the sizzling tarmac, my back and butt sizzled. The warmth on my bruised and battered spine, however, felt blissful, and I could’ve stayed there for hours. Some things never change.

While staring up at the sapphire blue Californian sky, I considered the Lambo’s suspension. To its credit, the passive, old-school, non-magnetorheological suspension (MR is available as an option) soaked up almost every bit of the fragmented 405 tarmac and was far less harsh than Ford’s punitive Focus RS suspension, which in my opinion, should be reported to The Hague for crimes against humanity.

The Huracán’s standard suspension, however, is smooth enough for daily use, rolling over bumps and potholes, staying perfectly composed and never causing the car to sashay or pull the wheel out of your hands. And although it’s softly sprung, the Huracán is stable enough for when you get on the longer right pedal and the scenery goes plaid. To the outside observer, though, my supine appearance may have not conveyed that fact or made me look as if I was eager to return to the slightly agonizing buckets. However, ahead lay 11 miles of the most pristine, jagged, and desolate mountain roadways in California. With the spritely spirit of my inner 12 year old, the one with the Diablo on his wall, I hopped back into the Huracán and shed the aged feeling.

Nothing quite measures up to the percussive personality of the naturally aspirated V-10 reverberating off a canyon’s granite walls. The heavy metal band Megadeath would likely describe it as a symphony of destruction. And although superbly sonorous in the supercar’s standard mode, with the push of a button its howl magnifies. Shove the Huracán’s mode selector into Corsa, and the V-10’s yowl culminates with a staccato, .45-caliber overrun that’s sure to send a new barrage of shivers down your spine. Everything about this engine is meant to entertain, and does it ever.

Along the canyon’s tight blacktop, and Huracán’s fast approaching 8,000 rpm redline, first and second gear are the only gears necessary, and even then upshifting into second is rarely clicked for faster, straighter sections. When shifting is obligatory, the Audi-sourced dual-clutch transmission changes crisply and without violence. The shifts themselves are almost imperceptible, occurring in fractions of a second. Speed just continues to build, with the only distinguishable variance in gear selection being the exhaust’s tone. And as fast as the transmission upshifts, the downshifts are just as good, although slightly more fierce. Under hard braking, the supercar tends to twerk its hindquarters like Miley Cyrus, something that is likely reminiscent of Lamborghini’s previously untamable persona.

Keeping the car’s rear from spinning around and likely off the mountain’s side, however, were the company’s standard steel brakes and big six-piston calipers.  Although many supercar owners would likely balk at selecting the less expensive steel rotors over carbon-ceramic brakes, the ones on the Huracán never once lost pressure, they cost infinitely less money, and they handled the abuse of a three-quarter speed, 11-mile run up one of the tightest and twistiest roads outside Germany’s 12.9-mile Nürburgring Nordschleife. Through the entire canyon flog, there was never a need for better braking or heat management. Maybe if I had gone to track the car for dozens of laps, the carbon ceramics would’ve been helpful. But for everyday use, which is exactly what this car will see, the standard rotors are wonderful pieces of equipment and enough to stop its 3,300-pound curb weight.

The same goes for the Huracán’s standard steering unit. For a few thousand more, Lamborghini will deliver a Huracán with variable geometry steering, which has the ability to change the steering rack’s resistance ratio from soft for around-town cruising to more forceful when the driver gets on the throttle and starts hucking the chassis into corners. After driving the standard unit, I’m not sure you need it. The standard steering provides an exactness that most modern supercars would kill for, adeptly communicating the road’s flaws to your fingertips. You’re never probing for where the front tires are, trying to discern the surface’s nuances. Just twist the wheel and lay into the throttle. The will understeer, or course, but you can counter it with a dash more throttle and opposite lock to kick into the car’s RWD oversteer abilities.

As the canyon’s tight walls continued, my mind tried to keep up with the manic, quick revving of the V-10 and lightning-fast shifts. This is very much a driver’s car. When you clip apexes and treat it with respect, it rewards you, but lose focus for more than a moment, and like supercars of old, it will bite you. Be prepared to pucker or need a new pair of underwear. And that’s what makes this Huracán so different from other modern Lamborghinis and other modern supercars. In an era when every supercar manufacturer has evolved its products into more civilized offerings, the frenzied, knife-wielding howler that is the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder has returned to the old ways. It’s a car you’re always smiling or laughing in, including those Kegel moments, which for some reason are ecstatically good fun too. It’s a loud, brash maniac, just like the Diablo that hung on my wall.

Yes, this Huracán is everything I could’ve asked for in a first experience. And it made me hope supercar manufacturers see the inherent fun of their wares being a little more untamed. Unfortunately, the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder is likely the last of its kind; supercar progress means smaller, turbocharged engines, more safety and autonomy, and better everyday usability. This sadly feels like one last hurrah as Lamborghini and the rest of the supercar industry take the next step into modernity. I feel like I just barely slid into the experience under the wire. I hope I’m wrong.

2017 Lamborghini Huracan LP 580-2

ON SALE Now PRICE $219,780/ $280,845 (base/as tested) ENGINE 5.2L DOHC 40-valve V-10/ 572 hp @ 8,000 rpm, 398 lb-ft @ 6,500 rpm TRANSMISSION 7-speed dual-clutch automatic LAYOUT 2-door, 2-passenger, mid-engine RWD coupe EPA MILEAGE 15/22 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H 175.6 x 75.7 x 45.9 in WHEELBASE 103.1 in WEIGHT 3,326 lb 0-60 MPH 3.2 sec TOP SPEED 199 mph

  IFTTT