#this account is self indulgent one hundred percent of the time

[violent138]

As a locked room connoisseur and premier escapologist, I have to know you guys' thoughts: which group of members from the Batfam always completes the three levels of the locked room in like forty seconds (and then goes ahead and breaks the records for four more). Which members overthink everything, break a clue, and use up all their time and hints while the very patient helper tries to get them to stop chasing after the red herrings and assures them it is "that easy". And lastly who comprises the group taking it super lightly and cheering every time a lock opens but who may have also accidentally punched the costumed worker trying to scare them?

[adorethedistance]

Part 1: Wholesome Guy - Alive!Luke Patterson x Reader

JATP masterlist

Warnings: Swearing?, mentions of anxiety/panic, light angst.

Words: 1840

Summary: A frozen yogurt outing quickly becomes a regretful commitment when you learn your crush Luke Patterson may have eyes for someone else.

A/N: This is completely self-indulgent between requests, I just wanted to get this out of my drafts and into the world so voila.

“Luke Patterson?!”

“Shh, oh my gosh!” I plead while scanning my surroundings to make sure no one overhears us, knowing kids from Los Feliz crowd this mall after school. My best friend, Elisa, and I are walking to the mall food court, discussing the plight of my love life, which I promised to do since I refused to tell her any details during sixth period. I knew a loud response like this was coming, which is why I waited until we were off campus to say anything.

“You’re crushing on Luke Patterson?” Elisa drops her voice to a stage whisper, after receiving my scolding.

“I know, I know. I’ve only just come to terms with it, and the longer I think about it, the more I seem to psych myself out. I mean, Luke freaking Patterson? The talented and attractive guy that’s never even spared me a second glance? It’ll never happen because he’s way out of my league.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Did I not mention the ‘talented and attractive’ bit?” A defeated frown settles on my face, and Elisa mirrors my expression in sympathy.

“Yeah, so, I was just gonna go home and drown my sorrows in double stuf oreos.”

“You always tell me ‘you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take’, why not take your own advice?”

“I said that about asking for extra credit, not asking someone out!”

“Not true! You said that to me when I was too scared to ask for River’s number! And even when he said no, I wasn’t deterred because of your advice,” she accuses me in disbelief.

“I just don’t want to think about it anymore. Sitting next to him in Chem was torture enough. Any time he’d ask for help, he’d rest the back of his hand against my arm and I felt like I was being electrocuted,” I demonstrate on Elisa as I explain. She rolls her eyes and playful slaps my hand away from her shoulder.

“Alright, alright. If we’re gonna wallow, let’s at least go all out. I’ll pay for your Pinkberry, and you go find us a table. You want your usual, you hopeless little simp?” I nod and set out to find a clean, two-person table for the both of us. The food court seems unusually busier than normal, and after one last scan of the bustling room, I opt for taking a four-person table. I sit down at the table, fishing my phone out of my pocket and unlocking it to check Instagram. I don’t follow Luke to remain inconspicuous, but because his account is public I can see his posts and activity. The most recent one is a photoset of him playing guitar on a small street fair stage. All the comments are about how good the set was, or how good he looks without sleeves, or platonic bullying from Alex and his signature quips.

“Y/n?” Trying to locate the source of the noise, I turn to the right, then the left to find myself face to face with one of Luke’s most trusted friends, Reggie. He’s looking at me with an expression I can’t decipher.

“Hi,” I want to quickly drop my gaze downward and pray the conversation will be over swiftly. Unfortunately for me, Reggie is just so sweet and social that I can’t bring myself to be cold and shut him out.

“How are you?”

“I’m good! We’re just getting smoothies, and hanging out. Is Elisa with you?”

“Yeah, she is. She’s buying fro-yo, so…” I trail off before processing what Reggie said, “Wait did you say ‘we’?”

“Hey, Y/n.” I look up and see Luke approaching the table with his and Reggie’s smoothies in hand. “I sent you out to get a table. Are we sitting here?” He asks, sitting down before I can form any kind of response. Reggie sits down across from me, and Luke sits to my left.

“So, Y/n, tell me: what brings you to the mall on this fine afternoon?”

“Uh-”

“Oh. Hello!” Elisa finally arrives with our frozen yogurts in hand. The look she gives me does not acknowledge my panicked ‘help me’ expression.

“What’s up, Elisa? Wait, there’s a Pinkberry here? Dammit, Reg, we could’ve gotten Pinkberry!”

“I didn’t know it was here!” Elisa lightly laughs at their bickering and then shoots me a look, glancing between me and my yogurt cup.

“I can grab some extra spoons. I don’t mind sharing and I’m sure Y/n doesn’t either.”

“I’ll grab them,” I offer, standing up before Elisa can leave me alone with them.

“I’ll come with,” Luke jumps up out of his seat and follows before I have a chance to protest. This might as well happen. I keep my eyes trained on the floor as a soft heat creeps up on my cheeks. Luke is following my quick pace, walking by my side. When I turn my head slightly to the left, I catch Luke’s face as he’s staring ahead. He notices me looking at him and smiles brightly. I quickly divert my attention to the concrete tiles of the food court floor. Beside me, I hear him laugh lightly, no doubt at my adverse reaction to being caught staring.

“Elisa’s pretty great, right?”

“Yeah, she’s the best.” I deadpan, still not looking up from the floor.

Inside the little yogurt shop, I grab two spoons and twirl around to exit but freeze in my tracks when I almost collide with Luke’s propped up stance. My path is blocked by him standing with one hand pressed against the countertop that hosts the napkins, spoons, straws, and more.

“Hey, hold on.”

“...what is it?” I ask, not sure if I even want an answer.

“You seem kinda skittish.”

“Okay…”

“Okay?” He laughs confusedly, “Soooooo, why?”

“Why what?” Luke laughs once more to ease the tension of the awkward situation. It doesn’t help.

“Why are you ‘kinda skittish’?”

“I’m just anxious is all, I guess.” I turn to leave the shop, but Luke steps in front of me once more.

“Why are you anxious though?”

“I-I…” What am I supposed to tell him? Oh, I’m just a little anxious because I have a crush on you and this is the longest you’ve ever spoken to me. “I have anxiety.”

I push past Luke once and for all, hustling to the table with the spoons in hand. Elisa save me.

“You know, my friend Alex has anxiety. Playing drums helps him out with that. I don’t know if you’re into music, but I could teach you a little guitar some time?”

“Yeah, sure, that sounds like a great time,” rushing out the words, I take a seat at the table before I can register what I’m saying. Did I really just agree to that? When he sits back in his seat, Luke is smiling sweetly, undeterred by my little panic.

“I’ll DM you to figure out times when you’re free. And you can come, too, Elisa. That is, if you’re interested in music.”

“I’ll think about it.” Elisa is giving me a conspicuously suggestive look and with one nod she understands I’ll tell her later once we’re alone again.

__________________________

With both my hands on the top of my steering wheel, and my forehead resting on my hands, I let out a deep sigh. I really agreed to this. At least I’ll be spending more time with Luke? One last glance at my phone screen reads 4:15PM, the time I set with Luke to meet so I can ‘learn guitar to help my anxiety’. I wish I would just stop talking sometimes. And to make matters worse, Elisa couldn’t make this session. Something about studying which I know is bullshit because we have ⅚ classes together and we have nothing big coming up in any of them.

Last chance to turn around and move to Pasadena and change my identity. A final sigh leads me to knock lightly on the parted garage doors before hesitantly stepping into the space. Once again it’s just Luke and Reggie in the space. Upon seeing me enter, a beaming smile appears on Luke’s perfect face.

“Hi.” I can’t manage to speak any louder than a volume just above a whisper, but my greeting isn’t lost on either boy.

“Hey Y/n!” Reggie greets as kind as ever. “Luke told me you’re gonna learn guitar.”

“Yeah. I have anxiety.” Reggie wasn’t there for that conversation so the two points are entirely unrelated, and I only recall that fact once the words already left my mouth.

“We just wrapped up band practice, so that’s why Reggie’s still lingering,” Luke explains as he walks over to the amplifiers to retrieve a notebook and pen off the top. “You can go now,” he says pointedly to Reggie, slapping his arm with the small journal. The amiable bassist sends his friend a less than inconspicuous wink before exiting the garage. He mouths a quick ‘text me’ to Luke, pantomiming the gesture; Luke responds with a brief nod at the same time as a two finger salute, before turning back to me with a facetious glare.

“Anyway.”

“Sorry about him. He’s too dopey for his own good.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

“You do?” He looks at me skeptically as he sets the book down on the coffee table. I keep my eyes trained on the cover of the book as Luke retrieves his acoustic guitar from it’s stand.

“Sure, I mean he seems like a wholesome guy from what I’ve seen in classes.”

“A wholesome guy?”

“Why do you say it like that?”

“I just don’t have anyone in my life who uses the word ‘wholesome’.” He shrugs and then sits on the couch against the back wall. With a quick tilt of his head, Luke gestures me over and I walk closer to sit down reluctantly. He definitely noticed the hesitation but chose not to comment on it much to my relief.

“Well, Elisa and I use it all the time.”

“Hey, speaking of Elisa. What’s her deal?”

“What do you mean?” My brows are furrowed in confusion, but my face relaxes.

“Like… is she seeing anyone right now or?”

My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach after Luke asks his next question. That’s why he sat with us at the mall. And that’s why he insisted on going to get the spoons with me: he wanted to ask about Elisa then. And that’s why he invited her to learn guitar.

“N-no she’s not dating anyone,” I manage to hold in my tears despite the urge to choke and cry.

“Oh, okay. Cool.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why bother asking?”

“Are you okay, Y/n?” I know I’m getting way too defensive but I can’t stop myself. It's involuntary.

“I’m fine, but I think I should go…”

“We haven’t even started-”

“I just remembered, my mom needed help… with her garden…”

“Y/n, we live in LA-”

“Bye, Luke.”

***

A/n: I’m almost 100% sure this will be an angsty set of two or three pics just bc I need to milk the weird emotions I have right now.

Taglist: @caitsymichelle13​ @kaitlyn2907​ @itz-jas​ @crybabyddl​ @kcd15​ @kinda-really-lost​ @calamitykaty​ @morganayennefertyrell​ @n0wornever​ @yikesgillespie @dream-a-little-bigger-x​ @mrstodorooki @vicesvsvirturesfanfic @curlybrownhairedboys​ @amazinggracy​ @kaitieskidmore1​ @asdfghjkl-fanfics​ @ghostlygreenbean​ @juliefromaustralia @thesweetestsinner​ @imsydneywalker​ @lovesanimals​ @thebloodthirstyvampress​ @bumbleberry-pie​ @losers-club6​

[zenlesszonezero]

You feelin' fired up now? Make way for the undefeated Champion! Welcome to New Eridu!— PS5™/iOS/Android/PC | Version 1.3 "Virtual Revenge" of Zenless Zone Zero, HoYoverse's urban fantasy ARPG, is out now

[coolnerdyandalone]

on FIMQ deleting her content and COVID-19 (and a gratuitous larry fic rec)

@freddiesmyqueen first of all queen i hope you’re doing ok although i know some shit must have gone down for you to delete/private list all your videos and i hope you know that the larry community supports you always. Also your talent is TRULY unmatched in the world of video editing - no one makes edits quite like you and that’s why your loss impacts the community so profoundly. 

secondly, i know at least i was hoping to turn to rewatching all of FIMQ’s videos while i’m being quarantined due to the coronavirus. and i’m willing to bet that i’m not the only one. this is a scary time and for people like me who feel profoundly alone right now, the only way for me to calm my nerves and fears is by reverting to the content and community that helped me feel not so alone when i was in middle and high school. For me, that looks like watching FIMQ videos and reading my favorite larry fanfics (which i will also link below).  because of this i thought it might be helpful to repost some links that were posted by @bluemoonlarryandkaylor for a signal boost (if my teeny-tiny account can be called a signal boost). 

link to a google drive with FIMQ videos: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1ONwfLOd_IYvAL5OUDqDb_LLgQsDpd9il

link to an acct with some FIMQ re-uploads: https://www.youtube.com/user/Joana3961/videos

link to FIMQ vids with spanish subtitles: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLIouodFhArMkQhOHxv2t2NgxTwl6KvXAT

and now if you want to look at some good old fashioned larry fics that are my ABSOLUTE faves and could 100% be actual novels/movies, keep reading:

And Then A Bit** by @infinitelymint aka the best fanfic ever written (basically larry fakes a relationship for publicity with each other and it could be cannon if you really wanted to hope upon hopes): https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415272/chapters/2972746 (159k)

“We’d like to give the fans what they want.” Magee states, placing his hand on the table in front of him and leaning forward. “We want to give them Larry Stylinson.”

Or, take a parallel universe where Louis and Harry were never together, mix in a two year hiatus and an impending comeback, pour in a dash of lost fans, two tablespoons of strong friendship and a Modest! employee with a good idea. Add a squeeze of pretending to be a couple, lots of kisses and a tattoo or two. Stir. Serve: the mother of all publicity stunts.

(aka Harry and Louis fake a relationship for publicity. Eventually it becomes a lot less fake and a lot more real.)

Escapade** by @haydolce aka the Jack McQueen fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034197/chapters/9071932 (146k)

In the grand scheme of things, finding a date for a wedding should be no problem for Louis Tomlinson. He's rich. He's handsome. He's reasonably well behaved. But when the wedding is for his lifelong best friend (and former boyfriend), and is happening in under a month, finding a date for the ceremony and accompanying festivities becomes more of an adventure than he ever could have planned for.

California Sold** by @isthatyoularry​ : https://archiveofourown.org/works/5157680/chapters/11877494 (123k)

Notoriously closeted boyband member Harry Styles is famous on a global scale, meanwhile Louis, as his best friend, is back home in Manchester, living the typical life of a 24 year old. When Harry needs Louis with him in LA, a publicity stunt gone wrong changes their friendship forever.

A fake-relationship AU between two lifelong best friends.

Bring Your Body Baby (I Could Bring You Fame) by @theboyfriendstagram : https://archiveofourown.org/works/4263903/chapters/9652944 (84k)

Eighteen year old Harry Styles just graduated high school and landed a summer job as a waterboy for his favorite football team. His job description is simple: be ready to hand water and towels to players if needed. That didn’t seem to include Louis Tomlinson though, a twenty-three year old, recently transferred Paris Saint-German player, who seems to like making Harry’s job much more difficult than it has to be.

OR  

A self-indulgent AU that takes place over the summer of 2015. 18 year old Harry hates pining after people he can't have, and 23 year old footballer Louis loves flirting with people even though it never means anything.

Pull Me Under** by @zarah5 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/870766/chapters/1672104 (140k)

AU. As the first British footballer to come out at the prime of his career, it helps that Louis Tomlinson is in a long-term, committed relationship. Even if that relationship is fake. (Featuring Niall as Louis' favourite teammate, Liam as Louis' agent, and Zayn as Liam's boyfriend, who just happens to be good friends with one Harry Styles.) 

You You You** by @isthatyoularry : https://archiveofourown.org/works/846690/chapters/1617212 (137k)

“Infamous boybander leaves club together with unknown,” read the headline. Underneath were pictures of a boy with dark curls, green eyes and very tight pants. They both studied the article for a moment, reading it through quickly. “Is that…?” Louis frowned. That guy almost looked exactly like... "HOLY FUCKING SHIT!" "Louis," Niall said, looking absolutely fucked over. "You just fucked the most wanted guy on earth. You just fucked Harry Styles of One Direction."

Or, the one where Harry and Louis meet at a club and Louis takes Harry home, only for him to realize that the boy who just made him breakfast half naked is Harry Styles from One Direction.

Like an Endless Summer by @horsegirlharry : https://archiveofourown.org/works/11365494/chapters/25442085 (87k)

“You just wanna go fawn over Styles as soon as possible,” Zayn grumbles.

“I do not. Plus, he probably got ugly this year. Eighteen is an awkward time...I bet he’s got acne and one of those terrible fuckboy haircuts all the hipsters are getting these days, with the shaved sides? Just watch, the first year we’re gonna get any time together is gonna be the first year I don’t have a stupid crush on him.”

---

Or, Louis is a riding instructor at a summer camp, and Harry is a fellow counselor who he’s been successfully managing his crush on for the last two summers. That is, until Harry shows up this year leveled up and lethal, and all Louis’s formerly perfected veneer of nonchalance melts like a popsicle in the sun.

Three French Hems by @100percentsassy and @gloriaandrews : https://archiveofourown.org/works/3064493 (20k)

In which Louis is a designer at Burberry and Harry spends December wearing Lanvin… and Lanvin… and Lanvin.

The Dead of July aka the Marvel Fic by @whimsicule  : https://archiveofourown.org/works/3594570/chapters/7928520 (117k)

Being an Avenger means continuing to be Captain America and smiling and being honorable for the public and Harry does his best. But it doesn’t give him time to figure out who he is supposed to be once he takes off his uniform and puts the shield to the side. Just being Harry had always involved Louis, and Harry fears he doesn’t know how to exist without him.

or: Harry is Captain America, and Louis’ been dead for 70 years.

Gods & Monsters by  @mizzwilde : https://archiveofourown.org/works/2090982/chapters/4550871 (201k)

The instructions were simple: seduce and destroy Harry Styles. Not once did they discuss the option of Louis actually falling in love. So, naturally, that's exactly what he did.

Love is a Rebellious Bird aka LIARB aka the orchestra fic aka dont hum bolero by @100percentsassy and @gloriaandrews : https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162438/chapters/2362331 (135k)

AU in which the boys still make music. Louis is the concertmaster of the London Symphony Orchestra, Harry is the New! and Exciting! interim conductor/ex-cello prodigy who "has made Mozart cool again" according to Esquire Magazine (Louis hates him immediately, which is definitely why he internet stalked him in his dark bedroom late at night that one time), and Niall is the best. Zayn and Liam are around too.

Don't hum Bolero.

My English Love Affair** by @isthatyoularry​ : https://archiveofourown.org/works/1873962 (19k)

The thing about sleeping with a member of a famous indie band is that the inevitability of having a song written about you is most likely a hundred percent. The second thing is that in the end, nobody's supposed to find out it's about you.

The one where Harry writes a song about his English love affair and Louis sleeps with someone in White Eskimo and all he gets is a stupid song written about him.

Soft Hands, Fast Feet, Can’t Lose by @haydolce : https://archiveofourown.org/works/5799241/chapters/13366498 (113k)

American Uni AU. Harry Styles is a frat boy football star from the wealthy Styles Family athletic dynasty. A celebrity among football fans, he knows how to play, he knows how to party, and he knows how to fuck (all of which is well known among his legion of admirers).

Louis Tomlinson is a student and an athlete, but his similarities to Harry end there. Intelligent, focused, independent, and completely uninterested in Harry’s charms, Louis is an anomaly in a world ruled by football.

A bet about the pair, who might be more similar than they originally thought, brings them together. Shakespeare, ballet, Disney, football, library chats, running, accidental spooning, Daredevil and Domino’s Pizza all blend into one big friendship Frappucino, but who will win in the end?

Wild and Unruly aka the Cowboy fic by @100percentsassy and @gloriaandrews : https://archiveofourown.org/works/2723093/chapters/6099611 (124k)

Harry is a cowboy sitting on the biggest oil reservoir in Wyoming, and Louis is the paralegal assigned to pressure him into selling his land.

For As Long As I Can Remember (It’s Been December)** by @greenfeelings​ : https://archiveofourown.org/works/15051122/chapters/34892210 (128k)

After recovering from a severe accident that causes Harry to lose his memory of three years, he moves to London to start his life over as a star chef. Little does he know that when he falls in love with Louis at first sight, it’s not the first time they meet.

Featuring an unintentional game of hot and cold, Harry chasing memories that won’t come back, Louis burying himself in work to try and forget what he can’t forget, Liam being torn between two of his best friends, Zayn as a moral compass and Niall saving the day with good music and brutal honesty.

the boys of fall** aka the american football fic by @godgavemelou​ : https://archiveofourown.org/works/5443037 (21k)

“And everyone, this is Harry Styles. He’s going to be our starting quarterback this year.”

Louis looks at him, the tall and lanky Harry Styles, and takes it all in. He’s got hair to his shoulders that curls at the ends, tattoos all down his arms, and a bright smile on his face as the team cheers him on. He’s lean and fit, and absolutely beautiful, and Louis hates him to the core.

OR an american football au where the boys play for the university of tennessee, and harry and louis quite hate each other.

** indicates that the fic is a log-in required fic, but if you want the pdf i can send it to you

[klbmsw]

Trumps election challenge looks like a scam to line his pockets...

"President" Trump isn’t really trying to overturn the election. He’s simply running one more scam before he leaves office that would enable him to enrich himself.That’s the way it appears, at least, from the scores of fundraising emails his campaign has sent out since the election. He seems to be asking for funds to challenge the election, but the fine print shows that the money could let him line his own coffers. The tin-pot-dictator routine looks more as if it’s about passing the tin cup.“They’re trying to STEAL this Election,” declared one such Trump campaign fundraising missive Wednesday afternoon. from “Donald J. Trump, President of the United States.” “I promise you my team is fighting the clock to DEFEND the integrity of this Election, but we cannot do it alone. We need EVERY Patriot, like YOU, to step up and make sure we have the resources to keep going. … Please contribute ANY AMOUNT RIGHT NOW to DEFEND the Election.”But at the provided link to the “OFFICIAL ELECTION DEFENSE FUND,” the legalese at the end says something rather different:Sixty percent of the contribution, up to $5,000, goes to “Save America,” Trump’s newly created leadership PAC. And 40 percent of the contribution up to $35,500, goes to the Republican National Committee’s operating account, its political (not legal) fund.Only after reaching the first maximum would a single penny go to Trump’s “Recount Account,” and only after reaching the second maximum would a penny go to the RNC’s legal account.“It’s a straight-up bait and switch,” Paul S. Ryan, the vice president of policy and litigation at Common Cause, tells me. Such email solicitations target small donors, so for the “overwhelming majority of people contributing … none of their money will end up in recount accounts” or be used for otherwise challenging the election.Rather, it will be used to extend Trump’s influence over the RNC during the Biden presidency and to build up his leadership PAC, which amounts to a “slush fund” for Trump’s personal use. “There is no limit to how much Donald Trump can pay himself or any member of his family under ‘Save America,’” Ryan notes.Earlier versions of the “election defense fund” email solicitations indicated the funds were to be used to retire Trump’s campaign debt. “Presumably he raised enough to retire that debt," says Ryan, "and he’s building this new slush fund.”Should we be surprised?Trump has used the presidency itself for self-enrichment, so there’s no reason to think an election defeat would stop him. He has funneled vast amounts of taxpayer dollars and political supporters’ funds to his hotels, golf clubs and various properties around the world. Over the years, he has used his charity for self-benefit, he has had favorable treatment by foreign governments, and he has had hundreds of millions in debt forgiven by creditors.As The Post’s David Fahrenthold wrote last month, Trump’s properties have billed taxpayers at least $2.5 million for such things as: $7,000 for a dinner, $6,000 for flowers, $17,000 monthly for a cottage, up to $650 a night for hotel rooms, $1,000 for drinks for the White House staff and even $3 for drinking water.The "president" isn’t the only one in Trump world apparently misleading well-intentioned contributors.Steve Bannon, Trump’s former chief strategist, faces federal charges that he defrauded contributors who thought they were giving money to build a wall on the Mexican border. Arrested on a Chinese billionaire’s yacht, he’s accused of stealing more than $1 million from funds donated to “We Build the Wall.”But the contest-the-election scam is a dangerous game. Trump’s refusal to cooperate with the Biden transition jeopardizes national security by leaving the United States vulnerable in a way the 9/11 Commission specifically warned about. It’s further discrediting the institutions of American democracy (the Trump-backing Republican secretary of state of Georgia now faces calls for his resignation from fellow Republican officeholders and death threats for simply doing his job). And it’s further paralyzing the country by falsely convincing millions of Trump supporters that something untoward happened in the election.The New York Times reported that it contacted election officials in all 50 states and not one, Democrat or Republican, found evidence that fraud or irregularities played a role in the election outcome.The Post reports that the administration is 0 for 6 with its fraud claims so far, as courts reject the frivolous and unsubstantiated allegations.Republican lawmakers, led by the shameless Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell (Ky.), Senate Judiciary Committee Chairman Lindsey Graham (S.C.) and Senate provocateur-in-residence Ted Cruz (Tex.), are indulging Trump’s nonsense claims, regardless of the harm to national security and confidence in U.S. elections.And in doing so, they’re helping to scam their own supporters into further enriching Trump.Dana Milbank is an opinion columnist for The Washington Post. He sketches the foolish, the fallacious and the felonious in politics.

By Dana Milbank,

[birbleafs]

[fic] Strange Creatures

Series: Artemis Fowl Rating: G Genre: Friendship & Humour, Post-series Character(s): Beckett Fowl, Myles Fowl, Mulch Diggums, Juliet Butler, Holly Short and Artemis Fowl II Summary: Mulch Diggums finds himself abruptly enlisted by the Fowl twins, Myles and Beckett, to create the best Eldest Brother’s Day gift for Artemis, much to Holly and Juliet’s amusement. A/N: Here’s my full piece for the Artemis Fowl Fanzine: A Fowl Mood! It was really fun to be part of this project - many thanks to the mods & fellow contributors for all their hard work. Thanks also to my bro Digi for being a wonderful beta ♥  There are still some leftover merch for sale if anyone’s interested. This fic is set a few years after The Last Guardian, without taking into account the events in The Fowl Twins (as I’d finished writing it last July). Fic can also be read on AO3. _______

“What strange creatures brothers are!” -Jane Austen- ~.*.~ Mulch Diggums was once again on the run and back to his old habits of skulking among dastardly rich Mud Men, pilfering trinkets and valuables from their homes. And once again, word of his not-quite-earnest—or legal, for that matter—endeavours soon reached the LEP’s ears. In fact, his current whereabouts had turned up as a flashing blip on Foaly’s screens when the centaur had been running one of his routine surveillance sweeps of the surface. That, however, is another story altogether, one that Foaly would happily indulge in if you let him. But Captain Holly Short is a busy elf—short on time and even shorter with patience. So alas, Foaly’s tale would have to be shelved. For now, at least.

So it was that Mulch found himself abruptly cornered by an LEP Retrieval squad in his own home—well, he was house-sitting at the moment, but hey, same difference—just as he was settling into a nice, warm mud bath. That’s the thing about the LEP. Always with the atrociously bad timing, never an ounce of tact. So much for being role models, upstanding fairies of the People. The last thing Mulch saw and heard was a deafening blast as the bathroom door burst wide open, and the zipping sound of a fabric-like netting whirling tight around him. There was a flurry of movement as he struggled in the velvet darkness enclosing him, before he found himself promptly hauled back to Haven City and into the dimly-lit interior of a drab holding room, sitting once again before Captain Short. “Holly! Mon chéri… Compadre!” Mulch cooed, tuning his natural dwarfish charm up a notch. “How’s my favourite elfin lady today?” “Cut the chatter, Mulch. I’m sure you know exactly why you’ve been detained.” Truthfully, Holly didn’t have any hard evidence for Mulch’s arrest this time—not yet, at least. But Mulch had hardly ever been innocent, even when he wasn’t actively committing a crime, so it wasn’t too difficult for her to pretend the LEP knew of his most recent of illegal endeavours (which they didn’t). Besides, she’d lost a stupid bet during a party several weekends ago, and—well. You reap what you sow. Holly made a mental note to never take another sip of a certain centaur’s home concoction of sim-alcohol, recreational study or not. Anyway, back to the plot: She had lost a bet and now she had to pull this dumb prank on Mulch in return for a favour for a certain Mud Boy’s family. Holly could almost hear said Mud Boy’s tired sigh of disapproval upon hearing of his friends’ latest shenanigans. Still, she’d also promised Artemis she would visit the twins soon and she figured this was a nifty way to kill two birds with one stone. Technically, it would be two Fowls and a dwarf. Holly chuckled at her own joke, certain that Artemis wouldn’t have appreciated that quip at all, figurative murder or not. Before Mulch had a chance to explain his innocence this time, Holly began listing down the years he’d have to serve, the cell block they had carefully picked out for him this time, the terribly cold draft they had made sure would pass into said cell every night. And just as Mulch was about to get suspicious, Holly shifted gears and offered a compromise instead. Even though he was still confused and rightfully wary of the sudden turn of events, Mulch tentatively accepted Holly’s deal. And soon, he found himself whisked away on a shuttle topside, piloted by the Captain herself. “So where are we headed?” Mulch asked once he’d settled comfortably into his seat. “Now that it’s just you and me, Captain… I’m allowed to be privy to the details of said ‘deal’, right?” Holly was tempted to reveal the truth then, but she figured it’d be funnier if she let the dwarf discover it for himself. Mulch was a crafty one, after all—it wouldn’t take him too long to realise what was really going on. She only gave him a knowing smirk and murmured ominously, “All things in good time, Mulch.” * From the E1 shuttle port at Tara, it was a quick jaunt to the Fowl Manor. Holly could already hear the voices of the twins drifting over the wind as they made their way past the last cluster of Artemis’ fairy roses and to where the twins and their nanny Juliet Butler were seated by the fountain in the courtyard. Seven-year-old Beckett Fowl was the first to glance their way; Holly could’ve sworn the child had canine-like senses, what with the way he had whirled around at their near-silent approach. He was the very picture of innocence as he bounced up to them, his radiant curls and bright-eyed stare reminiscent of an eager golden retriever puppy. “Holly’s here! And S’Mulch Dinggus!” Beckett squealed happily as he launched himself at her. Holly embraced him warmly, before waving a greeting to Juliet who stood patiently behind the boy. The dwarf tutted, unimpressed at the butchering of his name. “We’ve been through this the last time, little Mudskipper. It’s Mulch Diggums.” “That’s what I said,” Beckett giggled, turning back to look at Juliet. “S’Mulch Dinggus. Funny he can’t remember his own name.” Before Mulch could get a protest in edgewise, he was interrupted by a small, polite cough. He turned and saw a bespectacled, raven-haired Mud Child appearing by Beckett’s side. Myles Fowl had the same piercing blue eyes as his free-spirited twin, but unlike his twin, he was the seemingly more precocious and finicky of the two. He looked every bit the likeness of his eldest brother, Mulch noted humorously—from the meticulously pressed suit and tie to the neatly-combed dark hair. Heck, the kid had even perfected the infamous Fowl glare to an art form, crystalline and frigid as an Arctic winter. “You’re finally here as summoned, Mister Mulch,” Myles greeted solemnly. He ignored the wet, icky sounds of Beckett blowing raspberries beside him. “Took you long enough.” “Summoned?” Mulch frowned, before a thought struck him. He grinned toothily at Holly. “So that’s what this is about, eh, Captain Short? ‘Detained’, my hairy as—” “Language, Mulch,” Holly said, stepping on the dwarf’s toes all while matching his grin with a serene, innocent smile of her own. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry I had a Retrieval squad jump you back there in the house. But it’s not like you were likely to be agreeable and come quietly if you knew the Fowl twins had extended an invitation and personally requested for your…er, assistance.” “Is not invitatitions,” Beckett chirped as he chewed on a piece of purple beeswax crayon. “Arty said summons would do in the tongue of magicks, so we summons S’Mulch!” He gave a sagely nod, his mouth stained and flecked with purple now. Mulch gave Holly a look of disappointment. “Frankly, I’m hurt you think I’d even pass up the chance to humiliate my favourite Mud Boy, and what’s more, by teaming up with his own cute brethren. Okay then, little Fowl nuggets. What dwarfish advice would you need this time?” “First of all, we’re not nuggets,” Myles said coldly, just as Beckett clucked like a gleeful hen and made flapping motions with his arms. “I assure you that we are still one-hundred percent Homo sapiens, even if Beck has gotten very good at animal mimicry of late.” “I see this one’s got a great sense of humour,” Mulch observed drily. “Definitely Artemis’ brother.” “A-hem. As I was saying...” Myles scowled at the interruption, and Mulch held up a placating hand in apology. “Secondly, Beck and I, we thought it through for many weeks—Well, I did anyway. However, we weren’t able to make any significant progress in the lab even with Professor Primate’s expertise—” “Not quite sure where you’re going with this riveting story, kiddo,” Mulch muttered. “But I’m still listening, if that helps.” “—and after several failed attempts, we have conceded that we need help from someone with the right skills. Skills we do not yet possess.” Myles paused, his young face pinched with doubt. But his hesitation was fleeting, and he met both Mulch and Holly’s curious expressions with a determined gaze once more. “We want to throw Arty the best surprise Eldest Brother’s Day when he gets back,” the boy said. “So, would you please honour us, Mister Mulch, and teach us how best to make—” “Flatulence!” Beckett crowed as if on cue, punching a fist victoriously into the air. “Please, brother. Not this again.” Myles groaned. “You boys want me to teach you how to let a mighty rip?” Mulch asked, incredulous. “No, that’s not it!” Myles cried, exasperated. “Beck has gotten it all muddled! He means the fettling process used in pottery, not the crude effusion of intestinal gas!” He tugged frantically at Beckett’s sleeve, trying to stop his twin from belting out his favourite self-composed tune called A Song of Gas and Fire, to no avail. For two whole minutes, the group was forced to listen to Beckett’s high-pitched singing of “Pbbthh, pbbthh, rattle-boom! Gas and fire, gas and fire! Heave-ho, the window’s blown!” “Thanks, little Mudskipper, for that, uh, delightful performance,” said Mulch, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes once Beckett had finished his song. “I gotta say, you sure are a natural. But there’s still something I don’t really get. Why would you need my help for the surprise? Like don’t get me wrong, kiddos, I like you two enough. But what’s wrong with Holly or Juliet here, or even Butler himself? If anything, they’re better suited at picking out the mushy gifts...” He trailed off, thinking hard. “Well, I trust the Big Man’s taste for the sentimental, at least.” “Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence, Mulch,” Juliet deadpanned, with only the slightest roll of her eyes. “It’s true Butler had some good suggestions for gifts, but this is a Fowl twins initiative, so we figured we’d let the kids decide on their own. Besides, Beck had other ideas.” “My ideas the best ideas!” Beckett chanted, beaming brightly. “We decided that we want to make Arty a sculpture for Eldest Brother’s Day.” Myles supplied, glancing at Mulch once again. “We know that Mister Mulch is highly attuned to the necessities of good clay work by virtue of his biological make-up— “S’Mulch is good with muds and gas! I wanna learn how to blast clay backwards too!” “—therefore, you are best suited to teach us how to sculpt and—” “And flatulence!” Mulch tried his best, he really did, but he couldn’t hold back his laughter any longer. He didn’t know which was funnier: the thought of the twins gifting Artemis Fowl, ex-criminal virtuoso and menace of the People, a squishy caricature blob of his miniature being or Beckett performing a pompous and fartastical symphony of A Song of Gas and Fire for his dear eldest brother. Either way, he was rightfully tickled and the twins were in luck. Unbeknownst to many, Mulch had spent some time dabbling in pottery and sculpting with clay when he’d lived amongst the celebrity Mud Men; he had chalked it up as weird hobby of sorts.  “You Mud twins are hilarious,” he said, once his laughter had subsided and he’d managed to straighten himself up again. “All right, I’m sold on this crazy venture. I’ll help with the sculpting of a masterpiece for ol’ Arty-boy.” From the corner of his eye, he caught a glance of Juliet’s smug expression. Her lips were curved into a wide Cheshire grin as she tapped Holly’s shoulder expectantly. The elf only groaned, before she reached into her back pocket to fish out a single gold coin and slipped it into Juliet’s fingers. Mulch frowned at the exchange, throwing them his best hurt-puppy look. “Running a betting pool on me and for only a single gold coin? I’m affronted, ladies.” “You only wish your crooked mug is worth half a penny,” Holly shrugged. “I’m being generous because Juliet’s a friend.” “Aww, I knew you were a big old softie inside!” Juliet sighed happily, reaching forward to teasingly pinch the side of Mulch’s face. “Now that that’s settled, someone can finally knead clay with the kids and get some work done before Artemis gets home from his conference this weekend.” She quickly stepped away, disappearing into the nearby garage for several minutes before she returned carrying a craft box packed with an assortment of smaller items inside. “These rascals had me running to art stores all over Dublin the past two weeks looking for all kinds of overpriced play-dohs, and yet hardly asked if I could help them to sculpt!” She grumbled, not quite unkindly, as she shook the items out from the box, laying them out on a patch of grass before them. Holly looked over at Juliet in surprise. “I didn’t know you were into sculpting.” She thought of all the hours the young woman had spent whooping over her favourite wrestling matches on TV as a teen. “Never pegged you as the artistic type.” Juliet snorted. “Pfft, me? Nah, I don’t sculpt. That’s more a pretentious Artemis thing.” “Why would you expect the twins to ask you to teach them, then?” “Well, I’d like to be asked first, at least! I took the time to buy all these fancy play-dohs for them, didn’t I?” Mulch leaned forward in interest, looking over the packets of “play-dohs”. He spotted several labelled as Creative Paperclay—at least Juliet managed to get some of the good stuff. He grinned toothily as he rolled up his sleeves, feeling a spark of excitement at getting to work with clay again. “Okay then, kiddos. Let’s get cracking and moulding.” * “What’s this Eldest Brother’s Day thing you Mud Men celebrate like anyway?” Mulch asked. They’d made their way from the courtyard into the Manor basement where Artemis had set up a work space for Myles’ messier experiments and tinkering projects. The group stood now before the large experiment bench. Juliet covered the top with a large plastic mat, and turning the craft box over, shook packets of Creative Paperclay and several plastic and wooden crafting tools out on the bench. At Mulch’s question, she turned and gave him a strange look, brows furrowed. Then she let out a short laugh when she realised he was actually being serious. “Silly fairy,” she snickered, glancing over the top of Myles and Beckett’s heads before she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper: “There’s no such thing as Eldest Brother’s Day. It’s just something the twins came up with but I’m not going to ruin it for them and tell them it isn’t actually a thing. I’m not a monster, you know.” “We know it, Juliet,” Beckett said suddenly, blinking up at her with those large blue eyes filled with mischief and daring. “But Artemis’ a simple-toon—” Myles giggled at his twin’s use of their brother’s old nickname, even as he fought to keep his expression stoic. “—and simple-toons need Eldest Brother’s Day. So we celebrate.” Beckett finished with a nod, as though he’d just gifted both his human and fairy nannies with his brand of enlightenment. “Riiiight,” Mulch said, shaking his head. He figured some things were best left unasked and unexplained, especially when dealing with incorrigibly irreverent Fowl children. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for that impromptu alliteration (it was the playwright blooming within him, he was sure of it) and turned back to the project at hand. The twins had already decided early-on the sort of sculpture they had wanted to create. After ruminating over it weeks before, Myles had settled on recreating a 5-inch figure of Jayjay the silky sifaka, the fluffy white lemur whose whimsical escapades were often included in the bedtime stories Artemis read them. Beckett, on the other hand, had chosen to fashion an honorary tribute to Artemis’ late Syrian hamster, Lady Maeve, poised upright on her hind feet in an impassioned stance, gnawing away at a two-headed wyrm. Once the twins had sketched out their preferred designs on paper, Juliet pinned the sketches up on the cork board on the wall for easy reference. Then they got to work. Mulch placed two cups of water on the bench, and proceeded to show the twins how to gauge the amount they needed for their sculptures and how to knead the clay to warm it up and make it more malleable. “It’s a bit like baking extravagant pastries,” he said as he cut a block of clay into various-sized pieces. “You roll the individual shapes out like this and then stick them together to form a whole creature. Like an animal jigsaw puzzle, so to speak.” “They aren’t edible or taste any good though, not like pastries,” Holly added quickly when she noticed Beckett staring a little too longingly at the piece he’d been kneading. She tapped his fingers away just as the boy lifted the clay to his mouth for a quick nibble. “No tasting?” Beckett asked mournfully. “No tasting.” The elf shook her head. “But I do have some special treacle and espresso power bars from Haven City. It’s much better than consuming bland clay. I’ll let you have a bite later when we finish sculpting Lady Maeve, okay?” It seemed like a good bargain, so Beckett closed his mouth and chewed at his lower lip instead, rolling his clay pieces under his palms with renewed fervour. They continued shaping their pieces. Mulch showed the twins how to score the ends of the individual pieces they’d made for the limbs with a plastic knife. Then they connected the scored ends of the limbs to the body, blending the seams and smoothing it down carefully with their fingers and dabs of water. They continued in a similar fashion for the heads, noses, ears, and tails. Once the twins were satisfied with their sculptures, Mulch carefully placed the pieces on a cool, clean shelf to gradually dry and set over the next 24-hours. When they returned later to check on their work, the twins found the dried sculptures were now off-white and grainy to touch, quite unlike the squishy beige blobs they had been pinching and moulding with their hands the day before. “And now for a good splash of colour to make your pieces really pop,” Mulch said, dumping several tubes of acrylic paints and brushes on the bench with much more flair than necessary. He had a paint brush stuck behind one of his hairy ears—it helped him feel attuned with the art connoisseur in him. “Jayjay has a mostly pure-white coat,” Myles mused as he picked out a few choice colours, “but I think a gold accent to his fur tips, ears and tails would bring out his features more.” “Gold, huh?” Mulch looked over the boy’s chosen colour scheme with approval. “Good aesthetic you got there, Mudling.” “A very Fowl aesthetic for sure.” Holly couldn’t help the quip, her eyes twinkling with mirth. Artemis would certainly appreciate the touch. “Lady Maeve wants to be purple like rain,” Beckett declared solemnly, having been uncharacteristically silent for five whole minutes. “Purple? But Beck, Lady Maeve was a golden long-haired Syrian.” Myles tilted his head towards his twin. “If you paint her fur purple, Arty might not recognize her.” Beckett’s attention, however, seemed to be two steps ahead of the conversation. He’d already dipped his brush with paint and was dabbing streaks of purple all over the hamster’s body. “The Lady requests a cloak of purple rain, so purple she shall be.” The adults could barely stifle their chuckles while Myles groaned once again in defeat. He decided it was probably for the best and turned his attention back to painting his lemur. It was nearly noon when the twins added the last dabs of paint, after which Mulch proceeded to spray a coat of clear acrylic varnish over the sculptures to preserve and seal the colours. Then, he stepped several paces back from the bench to marvel at the fruits of their labour. “We have finished at last.” Myles’ voice was soft, awe pooling in his eyes. Hesitantly, he turned to Juliet and Holly, and then glanced back at the dwarf, searching for reassurance. “What do you think, Mister Mulch? Will Artemis like it?” Mulch rubbed at his beard thoughtfully. Both sculptures looked very much like what you would expect of two seven-year-olds’ valiant attempts at artisanal clay work. “Hmm.” He clicked his tongue lightly as he paced around the work bench, reaching into his inner art critic for the right words. “Now, Myles: Despite the crooked tail, you did a fairly good job at carving the fur textures on your lemur. Plus, adding gold accents to the white fur is very innovative and makes Jayjay glow nicely under the light. A very regal and classic touch overall.” Mulch came to a dignified pause before the second sculpture, rubbing his palms together as if in deep thought. “As for Beckett’s recreation of Lady Maeve: It seems far more… robust than the original, almost challenging anatomy and even physics itself. But the bright mixes of purple and gold contrasts nicely with the green and gore of the flailing wyrm, adding a surprising dynamism to the entire piece. All in all, two very good attempts, my young apprentices.” Holly and Juliet were already sighing halfway through Mulch’s needlessly opulent commentary, but even they agreed with the dwarf’s final assessment, much to the relief and delight of Myles and Beckett Fowl. * When Artemis Fowl the Second arrived home from his two-week long conference on Wildlife and Biodiversity Conservation, he was surprised to be greeted only by an unusually silent living room, devoid of the typical sounds of playful bellowing and childish laughter. Leaving Butler to unload his luggage from the Bentley, Artemis wondered briefly at the absence of his two brothers and Juliet, their sitter, before he noticed a strange sort of rumbling noise and vibration coming from somewhere below him. Curious, he headed for the basement, moving cautiously towards the noise. It was there that he found the twins asleep and cuddled around a familiar rotund shape sprawled upon an old velvet sofa. The fairy had his head thrown back against the cushion and was snoring rather noisily. “Ah,” Artemis said, eloquent as ever. He steepled his fingers together, taking a moment to process the scene before him. “Arty…? Oh, you’re finally back.” Holly’s soft voice broke him out of his reverie. He turned to see his old friend curled up on a second sofa, blinking the sleep from her eyes. “Welcome home,” she yawned a greeting. “Juliet’s in the kitchen fixing up some snacks, I think.” “Hello, Holly. It’s good to be back among familiar faces again. It seems that I’ve missed quite a party while I was away…” Artemis trailed off when he caught sight of the strange creatures placed on Myles’ experiment bench. “They’re supposed to be a surprise for you when you returned. For Eldest Brother’s Day.” Holly explained when Artemis raised a delicate eyebrow. He lifted up one of the sculptures for a closer inspection, his forehead creased in confusion at what looked to be a purple rodent gnawing on a plump string of green linguine—Beckett’s. “Eldest Brother’s Day?” Artemis echoed. He reached for the second sculpture—Myles’ lemur—before walking over to take a seat beside Holly on the sofa. Holly stretched her arms as she sat upright. “It’s kind of a long story.” “I expect so. Do enlighten me, if you will.” “Well, let’s see...” Holly began, brushing the side of her cheek with a finger. “Once upon a time, there were a pair of twins who, Frond only knows why, admired and looked up to their chaotically unhinged older brother greatly.” Artemis gave her a slightly wounded look, pressing a hand to his chest in a show of mock offense. “I’m appalled, Holly. You of all people know I prefer calculating to chaotic. There is a method to my madness, after all.” “Ever the theatrical misunderstood genius, aren’t you?” Holly rolled her eyes, even if she couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped her lips. She nudged his shoulder playfully with her own, a show of affection. “Myles and Beckett adore you immensely—you know that, right?” Artemis beamed, warmed by Holly’s laughter and the comfort of being close to friends and family once more. He watched his sleeping brothers, curled closely towards each other much like two peas in a pod, before he turned his gaze back to the sculptures in his hands. “I know,” he said softly, still marvelling at the twins’ recreations of Jayjay and Lady Maeve. And for the barest of moments, in the quiet that stretch comfortably between them, Artemis Fowl knew that this may only be the start of the first (of many) Eldest Brother’s Day he would experience, but it was already a very good day nonetheless. And he was content. —End—

[koaminisrty]

Greetings to my brothers and sisters in Christ and all others that walk in their own beliefs. In this season of uncertainty and contemplation, I would like to stress the need for unification with family and friends.

By being led in this unique situation, it seems we have been given an uninterrupted chance to pause for a moment and take into account our life's choices that have led us to this moment. 

Perhaps this note will turn out to be a part of my testimony, but speaking for myself, throughout much of my life, I walked on a path of self-indulgence, in essence, a road to self-destruction, seeking the materialistic and worldly pleasures throughout this world. Then, quite unexpectedly, God entered my life.

 In June of 2017, I was led to write a short story. That story, like a small seed, continued to blossom over the course of three years into a combination of two stories, ending up being two-hundred plus pages in length. 

I fully believe the words that flowed out of my pen throughout those past three years were one-hundred percent spiritually inspired by the Holy Spirit now living within me. 

 After listening to a Sunday sermon by Pastor Nathan Oates from my home church, I now understand any one of us can share God’s word, Jesus’ word with others on our own, by any means necessary.

Because we were all kind of stuck for a while, I am sure, we were on our laptops and computers much more than normal. I would like to think I have a captive audience with those of you that are reading this. 

Call it a bit of marketing or perhaps promotion, I feel this is an opportune time to ask you if you would be so kind and please consider purchasing my novel, Soldier’s Salvation/The golden Box.

I have written this book with the understanding that I believe you will not only be entertained but will be touched by the Holy Spirit as I was. Thank you for taking the time to read this... God bless you. 

A portion of any funds received by the purchase of this novel will be donated to the Emmaus Church Community………………...Koa 

iUniverse.com/bookstore and Amazon

[mason-mem]

Serres Malfeasance continued

citizens belt it out only at trivial encounters, sporting events in the past and today at media or financial gatherings. Like victory, the terrain changes hands with each match and every half-time. It is paid in rent.

THE RED THREAD: COMMERCIAL USES AND ABUSES And now the second softening. Which event made the twentieth century into a key moment in the history of our species, and even in the process of hominization? It was not the wars or the violence that bloodied the world and monotonously repeated and even worsened those ordinary abominations of the nightmare we call history, but the progressive disappearance of agriculture in those morbidly suicidal countries. The main hominine activity since the Neolithic era was daily cultivation of a plot of land where the pagus carved the hard and fixed place designating property. Around 1900, more than half of our fellow citizens were involved in this activity, or at least half of the working population, while today it concerns only 2 percent of them.

THE OTHER END TO PROPERTY Those who celebrate and repeatedly sing of those blood-soaked furrows have forgotten, probably forever, about the long line of yokes and ploughshares of earlier labour. As a result, the aforementioned pagus no longer refers to property. And so the Western countries erased the peasant landscape from the surface of their lands. Henceforth, flattened by the bulldozer over hundreds of connected acres, the soil of France shows only rare fragments of this archaic landscape. No more peasants, no more country.

Henceforth the property reference goes from hard— arable land, the tomb, corpses, and pagan gods—to soft, a simple signature on paper, from pagus to page; the ancient word is repeated as it goes from hard to soft.

FRANCHISES However, we cannot consider franchises, so common today, as a recent discovery or a brilliant invention due to new markets. When the big corporations get rid of their hard properties, complex machinery, invincible walls, heavy voluminous means of production; when they even desert their premises and retain only their logo, the name, flag, colors, sign, and advertisement, they just perpetuate the movement of deterritorialization begun a few years ago in the peasantry and even earlier, at least two millennia ago, by religion. Evidence of this movement remains in our Roman languages, with the semantic shift I have just mentioned between pagus, the patch tilled by slow oxen and the metal ploughshare, and the page, with writing mimicking furrows. Shall I sign these pages with my soft name?

Unfolding historically, the movement will go from this "natural" hard of bodies to the "cultural" soft of signs. Appropriation especially will tend to occur less through discharges than with signatures on pages, or with images and words, proclaimed, posted, or written; less by blood or urine than by acronym.

However, as we shall see and hear, signs will quickly become just as dirty and polluting as the discharges and will perpetuate the ancient gestures of appropriation with their hard softness.

RE-APPROPRIATION OF SOLD OBJECTS Let me show how this works by returning for a moment to the mark. When I was young, at the start of the new school year my mother would mark my clothing by sewing my initials, MS, with a red thread on my pyjama collar, on the front of my shirts, on the back of my socks, and the waistband of my underpants. As a boarder at the lycee, this allowed me to recognise my clean clothes delivered by the school laundry. The cleansing appropriated the dirty linen, which, cleansed, became properly our own. I recognised my underwear by the fact that my mother had somehow dirtied them, less by hard blood, both pure and impure, mine or my mother's—we were secretly losing religion, even ancient religion!:—than by a thread, soft this time. Red (the colour mimicked the blood), and thin (it had merely become a sign of the latter). The horror of boarding school was well worth shedding this blood. Even though soft, this new dirt resisted cleaning, just like Macbeth's hands and Bluebeard's key.

And now, companies or manufacturers mark with their stain, imprint, or signature what they sell: food, clothing, automobiles. By a clever strategy, which is inconspicuous because visible to all, they share their possessions with the buyers; what is more, they keep what they sell. From far away, my car does not announce my name (I mean that of the Jean-Jacques-like simpleton who thought the purchase was his) but the brand of the manufacturer. To be sure, we pay the manufacturers, but somehow they keep what they relinquish. We just have a lease. In so doing, they rob us, which enables us to finally understand Proudhon's famous words: Property is theft Even better, they are so good at convincing buyers of the real or alleged excellence of their products that they instil in the public the desire to acquire them. And so the victims stand in line to multiply the advertising that targets them. Still better, not only does such-and-such brand keep my automobile by clearly showing its name and logo in the front and in the back, but the state too demands a registration on which it also affixes its stamp. The objects we buy remain dirty, hence appropriated by those who sell them and by the government. Twice victimised, we become tenants of two ogres, in two soft ways. We no longer buy, we lease! Even better, we advertise for those who rob us; we laud them!

I respect the practice of piercing. I consider it a reappropriation of one's self, one's body or skin, by a personal mark or emblem, after the dreary weariness of wearing other people's advertisement on one's trousers.

DATA Let us stay with soft signs. Everything that marks me: my name, my birth date, my purchases, my various addresses and those of the places where I like to shop, the list of my calls and food preferences, my telephone and fax numbers, my social security and passport numbers, the numbers of my bank account and my expenses, the figures of my taxable income, the series of illnesses and the medicine I swallowed; I use the first person to let the reader know that all this is properly my own, even intimately mine, as for instance my body and health. Back to blood! In technical language this is usually called my data. To whom have I given them?

A strange term. Traditional philosophy uses the same word for what I feel and see in the world: perceptual data, they call it. Do things offer me for free their profile, their horizon, their forms, colours, sounds, and caresses? As far as I know, as the predators at the top of the food chain, we kill and devour animals and plants without asking their consent. They give us their blood, their flesh, bones, and skin. By what unwritten right do we believe that animals, plants, and the world belong to us, in short that those feeling and living beings were and remain ours? Do we rob the world just as the manufacturer and the state confiscate my car? Bringing violence and death, we become their masters and possessors. We live and eat like the world's parasites.

But on reflection, it occurs to me that my data, name, addresses, and the numbers listed above are soft compared with the hard data of the world, and so very personal. They are distributed and inscribed in different cards, with or without chip, often called loyalty cards, the content of which often belongs much less to me than to several private or public institutions. At least they share with me. To whom do the so-called data banks belong?

Will we as individuals, clients, or citizens allow the state, banks, hospitals, and department stores to appropriate indefinitely our own data, especially since they constitute today an authentic source of wealth? This is a rather new social, cultural, political, philosophical, moral, and legal problem, solutions to which risk transforming our individual and collective horizon. The result might be the pooling of sociopolitical divisions and the arrival of a fifth power, that of data, independent of the four others, the legislative, the executive, the law, and the media. No one can guess whether it will alienate or guarantee other freedoms. Right now, our data do not properly belong to us, I mean completely. Again, we enjoy them only as tenants.

SPERM:SEXUAL ABUSE After urine, blood, and sign, now sperm. This is another appropriation, another tenancy. Let us revisit two places described indulgently before. First, the uterus. Plato mentions it in the Timaeus when he describes the space he calls (khora), which is sometimes eulogised in our cultures as paradise lost. The matter of this uterine space, according to Plato, acts as a support for imprints or wax tablets to carry marks of traces; today we would call it a base. But which or whose marks, which or whose imprints are we talking about? Those of the owner, a tenant, a passing visitor? And what about this marking, this impression, which is usually called pregnancy or impregnation in the natural sciences? Who holds the ploughshare of the cart or the stylus of those traces?

RETURN TO THE REAL PLACE: THE THIRD END OF PROPERTY Now the vulva and vagina. Since immemorial times, the male seeks the ownership of a space where, like the above-mentioned animals, he deposits a product that is not very different from urine, at least in terms of its origin. By ejaculating sperm, he thinks he is appropriating the place where his desire is acted out. There is one evidence of this animal remnant, of this ideology, practice, or myth. It is the ancient theory of impregnation cited above, the telegony, a strange story where a woman, after having had a first child from a certain lover, will for the rest of her life have daughters and sons showing the characteristics of that first child, even when later real fathers do not have those characteristics.

One of Emile Zola's first novels, Madeleine Ferat, well before the Rougon-Macquart series, tells the story of the morbid and fatal jealousy of a husband who sees in his children only the traits of his wife's first lover. This telegony could be formulated as follows: "The first who, by ejaculating on a vulva or in a vagina, says 'This organ is mine' and finds a woman simple and naive enough to believe him becomes its permanent owner." This is the sexual version of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, revised and reissued in L'Amour (a great book in other respects) by Jules Michelet, who cites le Traite philosophique et physiologique de I'heredite naturelle, written by a certain doctor Lucas, the unquestioned authority in these matters at the time. Michelet evokes "the general law among superior animals that auctions off the female to her first love."11  Michelet adds: "The possession by the husband—the first occupier—becomes indelible, while the lover would be the one who is actually betrayed," In a daring article in La Tribune, relying on letters by Marion, laureate of the Institut, Zola defends his book by giving it a moral thrust, saying that scientific physiology is the foundation for lifelong marriage bonds. It should be noted that the belief in telegony also justified the real or imaginary practices of the droit de cuissage; many women remained convinced that if as virgins they slept on the eve of their wedding with a prince, all the children with their husband would be born with the mark of "blue blood" and high lineage. I still remember from my peasant childhood how one of my neighbors could not sell his pups even though they were the offspring of a so-called pure-bred dog, because the village remembered she had first been laid by a mongrel. Everyone said she was marked. Again the mark! At the very end of the nineteenth century, Ibsen and Strindberg still repeat this thesis, which could look like a western and "softened" variant of excision: sperm rather than blood, a flow rather than a wound, a crime and a scandal.

Today genetics deals a fatal blow to these phantasms, the morbid consequences of which are described by Zola. The ideology allowed men to consider themselves the owners of their wives, provided they were the first occupiers of the "place." Did they forget that as children of two sexes, we had already dwelled there?

In a text that I am ashamed to see classified as philosophy, Emmanuel Kant gives this infamy a sort of conceptual dignity by saying that in marriage the woman is the object and the male the subject. She is passive, he is active; she is the hotel and hostess, he is the guest; she is the earth, he is the owner. Crouching down, the squatter of Konigsberg appropriates the space and the objective by spraying it. Dirty beast, bad beast!

A FEW NEW TENANTS Sometimes I try to assess the volume of hatred that women, treated in this manner for millennia in every culture and everywhere on earth, must eliminate in a few generations! Women's liberation simply sounds like dis-appropriation, decolonisation of those spaces. Let us finally forget the etymology inferred by those humiliating practices. What is more difficult than imagined, women must re-appropriate the organs of their own bodies, while the male should finally be content with the eminently modern role of tenant. 

And now, the man will say to his lover, "You are my home, but I am only a co-habitant" (col-locare, I cohabit with you in the same container, we lay down in a common tenancy, in justly shared spaces). So much for sexuality; now let us talk about genitality. Biologists tell us today that the male sex indeed acts like the parasite of the female by having her carry the burden of the reproduction of his genes. Long live experiments in medically assisted procreation or artificial insemination! In passing, here is a friendly suggestion; wash before making love and belonging to another; but she will not really love you until she loves your own smell. Lavabo inter manus innocentes meas: I wash myself before offering myself to another.

THE RED IRON AND THE GOLDEN RING Spouses separate and divorce more often if they believe they have been united forever. They thought they owned each other, even though marriage today has become a temporary leasing contract. Ownership in marriage is the equivalent of slavery. Here we have the mark again: the ox and the slave are marked with red iron, the automobile by the Ford logo, and the spouse by the golden ring.

Divorce legislation transforms the ancient property right of the husband over the wife, and the converse, into simple joint tenancy. Similarly, adoption defined at the beginning of the Christian era as by—and in— an integrally adoptive Holy Family has become a tenancy. Father and mother can no longer claim to be the owners of their children, even when they are marked by their resemblance or more so by their genes.

ADULTERY Why was love born so recently, according to Denis de Rougemont, from adultery in particular? Because it was liberation from appropriation. Marriage sanctioned property; adulterous love brings freedom from it. If as a result of this form of property fidelity is considered a virtue, then women should boldly practice adultery, which should accordingly be considered virtuous liberation from those chains. The ancient conception of property was the equivalent of servitude.

If obedience considered as a virtue results in another property, you children should boldly disobey and stop thinking you are slaves of your parents' neuroses. Did we really free ourselves from our fathers' ancient right of life and death over us? Did they not wage war to enjoy the spectacle of the children of their rivals killing their own children? To enjoy burying them in their properties, under the triumphal arch of their cities? Am I wrong? No, those old men do not pray on the tomb of their ancestors, but on that of their sacrificed sons.

This fourth end to property—sexual, familial, reproductive, human, and pedagogic—will occur, I dare say, in a fifth, giant contemporary global catastrophe.

RETURNING TO THE ORDER OF THINGS As a preliminary, let me briefly summarise my comments in passing: bodily discharges, that is, urine, manure, or corpses as well as sperm, were used to appropriate places. Animal ethology, anthropology, the history of religions, sexology, the old private right, all confirm this analysis and enable us to understand several forgotten foundations of property rights. Let me remind you that the word pollution, with its religious and medical origin, first meant desecration of places of worship by some excrement, and later the soiling of sheets by ejaculation, usually from masturbation. Although totally forgotten, the evolution of this word will inform the rest of my book.

Let me briefly designate the pattern. Coming from the male body, urine or sperm outlines and founds individual and private belonging on an area thus enclosed, or on one or more consenting and submissive females. The corpses of the ancestors found the area of the pagus or the fields of the farm. Property then passes from a person—or animal—to the family, the tribe. The spilled blood of the victims traces the already public limits of a temple that, so delineated, becomes sacred or taboo. We are dealing here with what characterizes both the god and the city. Henceforth, monuments to the dead will celebrate the shame of the massacre of innocent children by unspeakably cruel fathers, which I call the murder of the sons. They will found the property, now definitely public and collective, of a city, and on a larger scale the nation. The increasing volume of trash or excretions—urine, sperm, blood, corpses . . . —that still are bodily or physiological excretions, marks the extension of appropriated space—nest, farm, city, country—and also the increase in the number of subjects of appropriation—individual, family, nation.

For the rhythm of this increase to stop and then suddenly to change into a vertical spurt engulfing the planet and humanity, it had to go from cemeteries or bodily excretions, subjective or human, to more objective trash: sewage farms, public dumps ... in big cities, industrial waste that is less biodegradable, or world-objects in the world. We have now arrived.

11. Michelet, Amour (Paris: Hachette, 1858), pp. 399-404; emphasis by Michel Serres.

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[swishandflickwit]

Marichat — shelter 2/3

Summary: Marinette and Chat Noir get caught up—in the rain and in each other.

Chapter summary: a.k.a. in which mama sabine knows all lmao

Words: 9.3k

Rating: General Audiences

Also on: ff.net | AO3

Other writing

Part 1 | [Part 2] | Part 3 |

Absconded as he was in the privacy of Marinette’s bathroom, he indulged himself and laughed.

“Clever girl, indeed,” he muttered to himself as he held out the elusive top she had given him, a hoodie in actuality. You wouldn't think much of it at a glance—black and plain and evidently in a man's size (a fact he had focused on with razor sharp intensity as the question of who she made this for, became more clear). But then he reached the hood, and the whole jacket was transformed.

For on either side of it, was a pair cat ears.

And not just a tiny pair, but one that uncannily matched the size of his own suit ears.

But that wasn't even the best part! Sewed onto the inner back where the tag was normally stitched and in vibrant green thread, it read chaton, and instantly it was confirmed—Marinette had made this.

And she made it specifically for him.

He briefly wondered why she would ever make him anything, then decided he didn't care. She made him an original Marinette Dupain-Cheng, and unlike her hat, he got to keep it this time. He bounced on the balls of his feet. He honestly couldn't wait to try it on and subsequently, his transformation couldn't have come at a sooner time. His ring bleeped a final warning and he was engulfed by green light.

When he looked at the mirror, Adrien met him and the entirety of him was soaked. He hadn't realized just how warm the suit kept him till he was stood shivering uncontrollably in his wet clothes. Yet he surmised he had never looked brighter, eyes sparkling and smile waggish.

That was, until, “Kid! What the fu—”

“Plagg,” he hissed, cupping the Kwami in his hands and holding him close to his chest. “You're freezing!”

“No thanks to you,” Plagg scowled before nipping harshly at his thumb. Adrien shrieked.

“Ow!”

There was a rustle just beyond the bathroom door as Marinette approached. “Is everything all right in there?” she called.

“Fine! Everything's just fine!”

He could see her shadow shifting from the gap under the wood. “You sure?” she asked, worry tingeing every word. “It sounded like you got hurt.”

“I got hurt all right,” he said beneath his breath. Then, louder, “I'm fine.” He rubbed his forehead with his uninjured hand before shooting Plagg a baleful glare. “I’ll explain when I come out.”

“Okay…”

He chuckled. “Seriously, Marinette. I’m fine.”

“If you say so,” she huffed. “Just, let me know if you need anything?”

“Trust me,” he answered, admiring his hoodie once more before divesting himself of his undershirt and polo. “I’m right as rain.”

“Ha, ha.”

“I'll be out in a minute, Princess,” he said, smiling reassuringly even when he knew perfectly well she couldn't see. “In the meantime, you have my eternal gratitude for deigning to share your personal ensuite with a lowly knight such as myself.”

Outside, he heard Marinette huff. In front of him, Plagg gagged.

No one appreciated his humor.

“You're ridiculous.”

“You love it!”

He counted it as a win when instead of denying it, she merely walked away.

He turned to the floating Kwami only to be met with a deadpan stare.

“Really? We're at Marinette's, again? What is it, the fourth time this week?”

“No,” he replied sullenly. Then, from the corner of his mouth he mumbled, “it's the third.”

“Well, color me impressed at your magnanimous self-control.”

Affronted, Adrien added, “It's not like I intended to stay this time! She invited me in.”

“Truly, your restraint knows no bounds,” Plagg drawled in sarcastic-laden intonations. He sniffed snottily. “Next thing you know, you'll be sleeping in here.” Adrien rolled his eyes.

(...even if the idea did appeal to him—not that he'd do Marinette the dishonor of coming into her bed and sleeping beside her, however nice that sounded.

At least, not unless she gave him the green light)

“I hope you're happy because thanks to your little date in the rain—”

Adrien groaned though he did nothing more to dispute the notion.

“—I'm not transforming any time soon, not in this atrocious weather and certainly not without my camembert!”

“Plagg,” he said softly, drawing out the a in a whine. “Marinette's parents know I’m here and invited me to dinner.”

Plagg raised a skeptical eyebrow. He didn't blame him, he could scarcely believe it himself.

“And how exactly do you plan to keep your identity a secret if you've got a seat on their table? Or are we throwing the whole anonymity thing out the window? You know, the one where a secret identity allows you to keep yourself and the people you care about, protected?”

“I'm not stupid—”

“You could have fooled me.”

His eyes narrowed in frustration. “— Marinette has a mask for me. She has us covered.” Literally.

“How convenient,” Plagg muttered. “An evening interacting with people while it rains outside,” he sighed and with a straight face, continued. “Fun.”

“Look,” Adrien sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before pointing at Plagg. “I don't know if they have any camembert but please be on your best behavior anyway.”

Plagg's jaw dropped, possibly in outrage and shock. “What kind of self-respecting household doesn't have camembert?”

“None, Plagg, because the average household wouldn't have camembert in their pantry. You have expensive taste!”

“So I have high standards. Don't cheese shame me, I'm just trying to live my best life here!”

“Says the one who doesn't have a dwindling bank account,” Adrien scowled. “I’m pretty sure Nathalie thinks I have a camembert addiction.”

Plagg shrugged, unconcerned. “Why not? I, for one, think it's a tragedy not enough people are eating my beloved camembert. But hey,” he shot him a devious smile. “More for me!”

“I think the real travesty is that my clothes will forever smell like camembert.” He sniffed his pants, exaggeratedly gagging at the hint of the cheese the rain hadn't managed to erase to irritate Plagg (a success, he might add, the Kwami sticking his tongue out at him) before folding it in a neat pile to join his shirts, which had all ready found their place in the paper bag Marinette had provided him earlier. Another paper bag was given to him for his sneakers. He deposited both heaps by the door so that it would be a quick gather when he inevitably had to leave. All that done, he put on Tom's black sweatpants and frowned when they sagged to his pelvis and drowned his bare feet.

He pulled on the fabric till his feet came out of the holes then he rolled the waistband till it was snug against him. He bounced, then sighed. It was still a tad loose but it was to be expected, he supposed. Tom was a significantly larger man than him. He would have been better off in Marinette's clothes. He cleared his throat.

The idea made him hot.

In lieu of exploring that line of thought, he tied the mask around his head and put on his hoodie. The fabric was incredibly soft, a hundred percent cotton if he had to gander, instead of the polyester blend he expected it to be. Marinette had sowed it in French seams, unusual for a hoodie but damn if it wasn't comfortable. As a result, the lining felt velvety instead of itchy, rippling smoothly along his skin as he moved. But the most noticeable modification had to be the pockets—for in the place of the standard two-sided provision in the middle, Marinette had tailored two, separate pockets on either side of the front, much like those found on regular jeans. And they weren't shallow like most hoodies’ pockets, but deep enough that they not only covered his hands but would keep Plagg nestled and hidden comfortably. She couldn't have known about him, of course, but the alteration was astoundingly intuitive. Not that he was complaining.

It was apparent that a lot of time (and money!) had gone into its creation. When he lifted the hoodie, the cat ears didn't sag. They stood to attention yet were surprisingly light on his head.

He looked at the mirror and examined himself anew. He didn't see Chat Noir, not when Plagg was hovering by his head with a critical eye. But it wasn’t Adrien he glimpsed either, since he had a mask on. So who was this that greeted his reflection, this amalgamation of the two most prominent parts of himself, who was sharper-eyed yet had softened around the edges, unhindered and unburdened and genuinely free.

He didn't know. And maybe that was okay. All he was certain of was Marinette... and how he may have just developed a tiny crush on her. For how could he not? That she had spent any amount of time, however short or long, working on this hoodie with painstaking care and pertinacity suggested just how much she cared for him. And how beautiful it was, to know that you were thought of.

How beautiful she was.

The edges of his mouth expanded to ridiculous heights.

“So?” He spread his hands out. “What do you think?”

Plagg gave him a once over. “I think the real tragedy is you.”

He rolled his eyes but his smile remained. If anything, it broadened—because on the other side stood Marinette, and the chance to be near her overwhelmed him with excitement. He held out a pocket to Plagg. “Shut up and get in here.”

“Ugh, with pleasure you lovestruck fool.”

Plagg was still muttering about “hormonal teenagers” and “I can't believe I have to deal with this shit, every time” when Adrien opened the door.

Only to turn around right away.

“S-sorry,” he stammered. “I forgot to ask if you were done changing…”

In truth, he hadn't seen anything. Marinette had been pulling on the hem of her tank but that flash of a sliver of skin had been enough to drive him a little wild.

She laughed, low and enticing, and god was he thankful for the rain just this once when he felt his temperature rise at the sound.

(So maybe it wasn't just a tiny crush)

“I am,” she assured and bid him to turn around. “Oh!”

She scuttled to her desk and ruffled through a couple drawers before kneeling in front of him.

He gulped. This was not helping his flustered state.

“Um.”

(He could feel the rumble of Plagg's, thankfully silent, snickers. He pressed his hand against his pocket)

“I should have known Papa's sweatpants would be big on you, no matter how old.”

She opened her hand to reveal a bundle of pins.

Oh.

“I was just thinking that I was better off wearing something from your closet,” he said, hoping his voice didn't betray him by being too high or shaky. He subtly cleared his throat. “But your mom went through all that trouble.”

Marinette gave him a small smile. “That's kind of you, but I don't want you stressing over it. I know I would.”

“I really don't mind.”

She shrugged. “It's not like I can't do it. You don't need to be a fashion designer to use a safety pin.”

“But it sure helps,” he said with a wink, before unrolling the waistband.

Marinette made quick work of cinching the waist and pinning it to place. Before he knew it, she was dusting herself off the ground. She stood back to survey her work—he tried not to preen at her appreciative gleam but a bit of the model in him came out anyway as he pushed his shoulders back and smirked—then abruptly clapped her hands.

“The hoodie, it fit!”

He ran his hands over the cotton fabric. “Like a glove!” he enthused. “Did you doubt it would?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “It's not like I could Google your measurements, Chat Noir.”

“You can't?” he cocked his head. Huh, that was a surprise to him. Google knew everything.

She laughed, a hearty guffaw that had her throwing her head back from the force of it, and it was a song he wanted on indefinite repeat inside his brain. His heart grew two sizes just hearing it.

“Come on,” she looped her arm around his, leading him towards her trapdoor. “Dinner's ready by now, I'm sure.”

“Wait,” he said, ambling behind her before gradually pulling to a stop so that he trailed a path from her elbow to her palm, reveling in all the exposed skin being out of his suit and her in her tank afforded him. He weaved his fingers through her own and was surprised at how rough it was, calluses found in the pads of her thumb and forefinger. She had such small hands. Yet the scars peppering her palm betrayed their delicateness, for these were the hands of a gifted craftswoman—all strength, beauty and creativity hidden within. If he thought the opportunity to hold her at all was wonderful, then the feel of her without the barrier of his suit or her blazer impeding movements or dulling sensations was glorious. He found he was fast becoming addicted to the way their hands intertwined, for it seemed as if his fingers were specifically tailored to fill the spaces between her own.

She giggled and it prompted him to break his stare from the bridge between them that was their interlocked hands.

“What is it, minou?”

“I really do love it,” he said earnestly. “Not a lot of people can say they have a Marinette Dupain-Cheng original, you know. And one day your name will fill fashion magazines and be whispered with envy by your peers and awe by aspiring designers from all over the world. I hope I'll be around when that happens—”

“Chat,” she interrupted, face rosy so it bloomed like a flower, albeit a shy one. He smiled, tucking a midnight lock behind her ear before trailing the length of it down her collarbone. He'd never seen her with her hair down, funnily enough, but she was just as beguiling, ebony tresses spilling like the night sky around her face.

“But even if I'm not, I’ll forever get to say that one time the Marinette Dupain-Cheng made me, Chat Noir, an original, customized hoodie in the style of me, Chat Noir.”

She snorted. “Smoothly done.”

She bent to her hatch once again but he tugged her back.

“Hey.”

“What is it now?” she pretended to fume, though he noted with interest that she didn't seem keen to break from his grasp when she had all ready proven how easy it would be for her. He smothered an urge to do a victory dance. He settled for inclining their clasped hands and turning them over so that he cupped her open palm.

He lowered his lips to the succulent curve between her thumb and wrist. Then, he placed a lingering kiss there, never once taking his eyes off hers as he murmured against her warm flesh, “Thank you.”

Marinette audibly gulped.

“S-sure,” she stammered. “It was nothing.”

He shook his head. “Not to me. So, seriously—”

Adrien took the hand that had been playing with the ends of her hair to run it along the nape of her neck where he rubbed calming circles. He liked the way her eyes fluttered when he stepped closer, till they were but a hairsbreadth apart, their hands resting against his chest. She leaned into his touch as she craned her head to peer up at him. He tilted his head, eyes hooded as he repeated with breathy solemnity.

“Thank you.”

His heart was running a marathon in his chest, sprinting from beneath his ribcage and straight into her hands. He wondered if she could feel it and whether he should be embarrassed if she did, but found that he no longer cared. He had always been a little too willing, too open with his emotions. Ladybug would have attested to that. But the difference, he realized, was that this time… this time—

It wasn't one-sided. He wasn't alone.

Because there was Marinette, standing on the tips of her toes, her free hand finding purchase in his hair while he abandoned hers in favor of anchoring his arm around her waist. She hummed. She liked to do that, he was starting to discover, similar to how he purred when he was particularly pleased.

And oh, how he liked to please her.

So he'd wait for her to kiss him. He inched closer till their noses brushed, but he would follow her lead and let her decide when to seal the space between them. He nudged the crease of her cheek with the tip of his nose.

(But surely a little push wouldn’t hurt?)

“Marinette?” Sabine called. “Dinner's getting cold!”

Her summon pierced the bubble they had encased themselves in, voice wafting through the wood loudly as if she had been right next to them. Marinette groaned, burying her face deeply into his neck so his hood fell. He could admit he was somewhat disappointed, yet couldn't bring himself to be too upset—not when Marinette was so blatantly miffed as well. She hadn't even shied away from him so he chanced tightening his arm around her waist and was gratified when she further nuzzled the crook of his neck before resting her chin on his shoulder. She sighed and he relished the audible proof of her annoyance. She was so damn cute, sometimes she didn't seem real.

He chuckled.

“We should go,” he said. “Your parents are waiting.”

“My parents,” she grumbled, “have the worst timing.”

He nudged his shoulder so that he could see her, and had to bite back a laugh. Her face was twisted in a grimace, luscious lips pushed out in an adorable pout that he wanted to suckle between his own. To temper his frustration, he kissed the back of her hand and gave it a small squeeze.

“Do it for the food, chérie.”

He froze. Oops. His eyes widened at her, apologetically. The endearment had sort of just, slipped out of him. He’d always been inclined to using them, it was often Ladybug's plight with him that he wouldn't cease to call her ‘bugaboo’. He remembered their earlier conversation and how she pointed out that he always called her ‘princess’. It hadn't bothered her, but had he gone too far now? She tilted her head at him in an almost curious manner, and he thought he was done for when she pulled her body away.

But then she stayed her hand and returned his squeeze with a smile. He breathed a sigh of relief at the radiant sight.

“I’m no princess,” she said archly as she opened her door. “But I do know a thing or two about being sweet.”

“Believe me,” he ran his knuckles along her cheek, forever bewitched by the miles of skin now available to him. “I'm aware.”

She bit her lip as if to contain her smile, then stepped down, returning to their earlier discussion. “Mama does make a mean wanton,” she sighed with feigned tsuris.“For the food.”

He nodded. “Oui, for the food.”

She paused, as if warring with herself on whether she should say her next words or not.

“And then, later…?”

He was glad she did. He felt his mouth stretch to a Cheshire's grin.

“Later,” he promised, and it couldn't come fast enough.

It hadn't gone unnoticed to Tom and Sabine that he and Marinette had gone down the stairs holding hands and didn't let go of each other till they sat down the dining table, not if the looks they exchanged were anything to to by. He had always assumed that was fiction, two people communicating with a mere glance. But a conversation happened before his very eyes, one that occurred without a single word, all because Tom and Sabine met eyes. He couldn't precisely decode the meaning of their stare, but with the way they regarded him, Marinette, him and Marinette, and then back at each other, he could very well guess. He gazed at Marinette from the corner of his eye just in time to see her roll her pretty, blue orbs. She must have been used to it. But he wasn't.

That cursed blush woke anew.

“You kids took a while,” Tom began airily as he took his place at the head of the table. Well, Adrien had an explanation for the delay. Speaking of—

“I know, right?”

Plagg, the little rascal, darted to the middle of the table before he could stop him. Sabine, who had been about to sit at Tom's right, jumped to a stand.

“Honestly,” he griped. “You should put a leash on these kids.”

Beside him, Marinette gasped.

“Plagg!” he cried.

The Kwami paid him no heed. He sniffed.

“Where’s my cheese?”

Adrien grabbed him midair and held him to his chest. “Nowhere, unless you behave,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I'm so sorry about him,” he addressed the Dupain-Chengs, all the while wrestling with Plagg, who seemed intent on escaping his grasp.

“What… what is... he?” Sabine asked, stuttering between calling Plagg ‘it’ or ‘he’. He was grateful she corrected herself, else this would have gone on for eternity.

“Hungry—”

He pressed against Plagg harder to muffle him.

“He's what gives me my powers, believe it or not,” Adrien said dryly. “He's a Kwami, and by saying a specific set of words, he’s what allows me to transform into Chat Noir. But it tires him out and eating is his way of recharging, apart from sleeping. But,” he yelped as Plagg dug his claws in. When he raised his arm, he dangled from his hand. Adrien sighed. “Mostly eating though.”

“What does he like to eat?” Marinette asked, and he wondered about the twinkle in her eyes.

“Cheese.”

“Not just any cheese, I'm not a barbarian.” Plagg interrupted. “I only eat camembert, the smelliest, most delectable, best of the best, cheese that was ever created. Oh, my beloved camembert,” he wailed. Adrien rolled his eyes. “My stomach feels empty without you. When will we ever reunite again?”

“Well, I don't know about camembert,” Tom started with an amused lilt, “but we do have fondue.” With a sweep of his arm, he gestured towards the kitchen counter where indeed—a small, ceramic, steaming pot of cheese fondue sat.

Plagg opened his mouth and Adrien was about to warn him to play nice when the Kwami literally launched himself into the pot as if it were his own personal swimming pool. Adrien's jaw dropped.

“Plagg!” he cried, mortified. Tom, however, chortled and Sabine’s tinkling laughter followed.

“What?” the little fiend had the audacity to float on his back. Adrien wanted to facepalm if Plagg wasn't all ready being rude enough for the both of them. “He said to help himself!”

He sneered. “He didn't, actually!”

“I suppose that’s one way to start a meal,” Sabine remarked as she began to pass out bowls. “Everyone dig in!”

“I thought only barbarians ate other kinds of cheese?” Marinette teased as she dove for the wanton broth.

“And as previously stated, I’m not one.” Plagg plunged into the pot and emerged with a face full of fondue. “It’s rude to refuse the host.”

“Oh, is it now?” Adrien commented acerbically. Then he turned to the occupants of the table with the most sorry expression his model-good looks could ever muster. “I can't apologize enough for his behavior. I am so, so, so sorry.”

“It's quite all right, dear.” Sabine patted his hand before taking it upon herself to give him a large serving of soup. “Marinette doesn't much stand on ceremony when it comes to food either.”

“Mama!” Marinette blushed and he only felt a little guilty that he wasn't alone in his discomfort.

“It’s true! I don’t know where a skinny thing like you keeps it all at the rate you eat.”

“Oh my god.”

“She obviously takes after her father,” Tom interjected, puffing his chest out with pride before ruffling Marinette's hair. She ducked but wasn't quick enough and suffered through Tom's petting as he stretched across the table to reach her. “Papa!” she grumbled. Adrien laughed at their antics as Marinette swatted her father's arm away before fixing her hair. Abruptly, she said, “Is Plagg always like this?”

He snickered. “Smooth,” he whispered under his breath. She glared, but he obliged the change in subject. He blew an exasperated breath.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Plagg threw a cheesy raspberry back at him. “Would you have me any other way?”

Adrien smiled at his direction, a small upturn of the lips that brimmed with content. “Funnily enough, no.” He returned his gaze to them. “I can hardly remember what life was like before I had him.”

Well, that wasn't strictly correct—it wasn't so much that he couldn't remember than it was a period he rather wished he could forget. He knew his lips had crudely slanted into a frown when he saw Marinette's own face fall. He pushed his shoulders back. The dinner table was not the place to unravel, especially in someone else's dinner table and—

Marinette had put her hand on his knee and all his thoughts grounded to a halt.

“How did you two meet?” she asked quietly.

He gave her a grateful smile as he met her fingers and intertwined their hands. Adrien took a deep breath, finding light in her touch so that it drove away the darkest of demons threatening to swarm his head.

“I came home one day and he was just… there.” Adrien shook his head fondly in recollection. “From the get go, he was all ready a glutton—he tried to eat my remote control!”

Marinette's parents laughed but she was pensive when she asked, “How did you take it?” she leaned into his space, her eyes burning with curiosity. “You must have freaked out.”

“A little,” he admitted.

“Are you kidding?” Plagg interrupted his cheese bath to say. “Kid took to it like fish to water. Transformed before I could finish explaining—before I was even fed!”

Marinette huffed a stray lock from her face as she muttered, “Of course you did.”

He would have commented further, but then he took a bite of the wanton noodles. He couldn't hold back his moan.

“This is delicious!”

Sabine chuckled even as she blushed. “I'm glad you think so.”

“The best noodles in Paris,” Tom beamed proudly.

“Can’t argue with that,” Marinette joined.

Adrien sighed. “I could marry this soup. Right now.”

So he slurped at the dish with a gusto one wouldn't expect from someone eating with just one hand. Then again, chopsticks didn't require the pair of them, though it would have been easier. Still, neither teen seemed willing to let go, happy to eat one-handed if it meant they could maintain the rare, skin-on-skin contact, even as innocent as hand-holding.

The rest of the meal passed in lapses of companionable silence and animated conversation. Adrien ate like he never had—had practically inhaled his food, be it Chinese, Italian or French cuisine, the Dupain-Chengs offered it all and so all he ate—had laughed like he never had, for Tom and Sabine had no shortage of tales to spill of Marinette's escapades as a child.

(“One time at a big family reunion, she climbed out of her high chair, crawled across the table—”

“Nooooo,” Marinette whined. “Not this story!”

“—and grabbed a huge chunk out of a whole roast chicken then sat right back without any of us noticing. We just turned around and there she was, trying to stuff her mouth with a chicken leg half her size!”

Adrien was giggling so hard he snorted. “Impressive, Marinette.”

She glowered, but when he poked her cheek she couldn't resist joining their amusement)

By the time the meal was drawing to a close, Adrien had eaten nearly half the contents of the table and felt borderline catatonic as a result. He felt full, but it wasn't merely due to the food. The dinner had been exquisite, made all the more comely for the people he shared it with. The dining table in the mansion was a time of solitary reflection for Adrien; where his thoughts were the loudest din, save for the clink of ceramics and utensils. But here, it was a symphony of colorful sound. If this were to be his first and last meal here, it would be a tune he carried with him for all time.

Even the quiet was something he relished. It wasn't empty, like that in his house. It was the kind of quiet that echoed the good times that preceded it, a quiet that came after a round of shared enjoyment so consuming, it robbed one's breath. It left you silent, sleepy… but overall utterly satisfied.

Sabine had bidden him to stay seated while Marinette and her father put food away, either in containers or in the trash. A nightly chore, he gathered, as they made quick work of it. It fascinated him to no end. Adrien may have been in his father's payroll but he'd never done housework in his life. To see everyone move in perfect fluidity, toiling to restore the kitchen to cleanliness while he remained motionless left him feeling uneasy, like he should have been helping them. He'd been in the kitchens and around the house long enough to observe the way his staff moved—in theory he should be able to provide his assistance. Wasn't that number one on his job description anyway? Granted, this mightn't have been what Master Fu had in mind, but he was Chat Noir. He was capable. It couldn't be that hard, right?

Right.

So when Sabine made to clear the last of the plates, he held his hands out and scooped them up before she could. He brought them to the sink then leaned against it as he addressed her.

“I can wash the dishes,” he offered.

“Such a sweet boy,” she smiled. “But that's usually Marinette's job.” She raised a flinty eyebrow at her daughter. “Marinette? Don't you have something to say?”

She held both her hands up.

“Mama, if he's up to the task, I'm not gonna stop him.”

He shrugged nonchalantly and with a crooked grin, joked, “I volunteer as tribute.”

“See?” Marinette clapped her hands, giddy. With a wink, she skipped to the living room and stood beside her father, who was setting up their game console. It bemused him. Was washing dishes really that terrible?

Sabine shook her head at Marinette's retreating back before turning to him. “Nonsense—”

Plagg snorted. “You said it. He's never had to do chores, like, ever.”

“Plagg!”

“What? I’m telling the truth!”

“Please. Ignore him.” Adrien glared at him before continuing. “I'll handle the dishes, it's the least I can do. You've been so kind to me all ready. Let me do this for you.”

Sabine appraised him and he bore it with baited breath.

“On one condition,” her smile returned, a soft upward tilt of her lips that made him feel small and young, younger than he had ever felt since his own mother left all those years ago. He'd have agreed to anything then, if it meant he could preserve those very sensations. He nodded with kitten-like eagerness.

“You wash, I dry,” she proposed. “Deal?”

He chuckled. “Deal.”

“Okay, if you're done here—”

Plagg dashed up the staircase. Adrien caught him by the tail, a look of incredulity plastered on his face.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“Marinette's room,” he stated with a frankness that informed him he should have known this, ergo, Plagg had every right to be there. He frowned.

“Come on, you know you can't just barge into other people's rooms—”

“Oh, cause you're so good at that—”

Adrien refused to give Plagg the satisfaction of showing his frustration by pulling his hair, though he did snarl. “Why do you even wanna go up there?”

“What’s it to you?” Plagg pulled at his tail. “Let go of me!”

“Hey,” Marinette called.

“What?” he looked at her and noticed she had turned uncharacteristically pallid. His frown deepened and he released Plagg. He took a step towards her, arms outstretched in a hug that he would will with all his might to squash whatever it was the distressed her, her parents be damned.

But she wasn't talking to him.

“You can go to my room.”

“Yes,” Plagg sighed peevishly. “I know that.”

He proceeded to float up to her chambers. Adrien bit back the inkling to shout in protest, which was just as well. Marinette beckoned once more.

“Plagg.”

To his surprise, the Kwami ceased his ascent. He faced her.

“Interesting,” Plagg's voice had appropriated a solemnity he rarely displayed. “That it's you.”

They exchanged a weighted look that he couldn't even begin to comprehend. There was a knowing glint in both their eyes, as if a message had been relayed and subsequently received. It made him… apprehensive? No, not exactly. It wasn't like they were talking about him (at least, he assumed they were talking about Marinette). But he definitely felt like there was something he wasn't getting—something he should have been perfectly aware of.

Marinette smirked playfully. “Don't touch anything that isn't yours.”

Plagg rolled his eyes, yet his grin was sincere, and dare he say—tender. Adrien gawked.

“Your… room is in good hands or,” he held out his arms. “As it were, in good paws.”

It was Marinette's turn to conceal her amusement abaft an eye roll. Adrien whirled his gaze back and forth between them, eyebrow raised quizzically.

“I'm missing something here, aren't I?”

“Don't worry your pretty, blond head about it, sunshine.”

“Do you really think I'm pretty?” he retorted saccharinely.

Plagg didn't dignify that with a response. Without so much as a backwards glance, he phased through the trapdoor.

Eerie silence remained in his wake.

“So, that happened,” Tom mused.

“Do I even want to know?” Adrien directed his question to Marinette. She shrugged.

“Not if you want to live longer.”

“I do have nine lives.”

“Trust me,” she resumed her attention to the console and the controller in her hands. “You're not ready to hear this. Not if you want to keep all nine lives.”

“That's so cryptic, Marinette!” He protested, roughly shoving his hands in his pockets. “You can't just say something like that and not explain!”

She ignored him and he tried not to sulk. When did Plagg and Marinette even have the chance to talk before now? Their incredibly brief interaction shouldn't have warranted such familiarity, yet he was convinced some sort of acknowledgement occurred between them. But what? How? Why? He couldn't help the absence that welled within—like the answers were staring right at him, yet he was too blinded by the glare of it to see properly.

“You are a strange child,” Tom declared.

“I'm your child,” she returned, looking at him askance. “If you've got a problem with the product, take it up with the manufacturer.”

“But that's me,” he whined.

“Exactly.”

The tension of earlier seemed to dissipate in the wake of their persiflage, as it seemed was the standard in the Dupain-Cheng household. Had he spoken to his father with such imprudence, he'd have been institutionalized. Had he and Chat Noir been separate people and Chat strutted into the mansion then indulged the same intimacy with him that he had with Marinette, he would have been thrown out. Forget being thrown out all together—he wouldn't have made it past the front door. So really, Adrien could only goggle at this family.

They were marvelous—easily, openly, irresistibly, wholeheartedly, undeniably, marvelous.

Beside him, Sabine shook her head. “Those two have their own world,” she sighed, with a forlornless—a longing that appeared out of place within these four walls, the weight of her emotions so heavy he felt it echo through his soul in tidal waves of wistfulness. His ebullience faded in the wake of this realization.

He knew this sadness, as well as his own heartbeat, and while he was certain this family was the epitome of healthy kinships—he found he couldn't begrudge Sabine her envy. He had only been in Marinette and Tom’s presence for less than a night, but he sensed their closeness straight away. He stared at them, and saw what she saw—how animated and engaged they spoke with each other, how when Tom would pull Marinette would push, how they may have been speaking in French but it might as well have been esoteric to them. Marinette stared up at her father with stars in her eyes while Tom praised Marinette as if everything good in the world had been made by her hands. Those two shared a bond he could only ever dream of having with his own father.

Suddenly, looking at Sabine was like looking at a mirror.

“I just don't understand them sometimes,” she continued.

He tilted his head at her, silken strands falling into his face as he spoke, lowly, compassionately, “But you love them anyway.”

And then she smiled—not just with her mouth, but with her whole body. Her eyes had slanted upwards into tiny smiles of their own while the tension she harbored all over melted till her body hummed in repose. With those words, it was like a lock had been broken and wasn't it just incredible? Wasn’t it absolutely grand? The way love conquered even the darkest of imaginings—the way love healed.

“But you love them anyway,” she repeated.

She lightly bumped her shoulder with his. “You still up for tackling those dishes with me?”

“I'm paw-sitive I can.”

That elicited an exuberant laugh from her. At least one person in this building appreciated his puns.

When they reached the sink, he rolled up his sleeves. Sabine touched his shoulder.

“This is nice,” she noted of his hoodie.

“Marinette made it for me!” He enthused, lifting the hood over his head and twirling without prompt. He struck a pose. “What do you think?”

She chuckled, regarding him with a gleam in her eyes that he couldn't place.

(It definitely wasn't a night of knowledge for Adrien Agreste)

“It suits you.”

He nodded his agreement.

“She's gonna do great things one day,” he sighed happily as Sabine handed him the sponge then drained the sink.

“You two are close, huh?”

That brought him to a screeching halt. Shit, he thought. So she had noticed their easiness with each other. Ugh, who was he kidding? Of course she noticed, they weren't exactly the definition of subtle.

“Yes,” he croaked because at this point, what was the use of lying? Though it still came out more question than statement, as if he himself didn't know the real answer.

She didn't say anything after that, merely began to hum a Chinese lullaby beneath her breath, and so he didn't expound. Maybe she knew they were close but not the hows or the whys. He couldn't fathom being so close to a parent as to share such details with them. Well, not that there was anything scandalous to their friendship (at least, depending on who was asking). But he didn't think any parent would find near-nightly visits from the opposite sex—superhero or not—to their daughter's bedroom in the after hours of Paris appropriate, no matter how innocent the intentions. Perhaps luck, little as it was, was on his side tonight.

After careful instruction from Marinette's mom and some close calls with slippery dishes, he got the hang of it, he and Sabine functioning like a well-oiled machine—he washed a pile, she rinsed and dried.

There was something soothing about the routine. It might have been the asininity of it—the motions repetitive and expected that he didn't have to think at all, and so it was effortless to lose himself. It might have been the clamor of Marinette’s gaming zeal and Tom's overly dramatic wails of defeat as Marinette expertly annihilated him in round after round of Ultra Megastrike IV that brought him serenity when the noise would have rattled anyone else. Even the dissonance of running water and clanging dishware brought him domestic bliss, the likes of which he had never known.

Because the mansion may have been his formal residence, but with the reticent staff and his hermit of a father, it was just another building—foreign and stolid and one he happened to be required to sleep in.

Compared to here though, there had never been more polar opposites. The truth of the matter was, he could have fit the Dupain-Chengs’ apartment inside the Agreste mansion and yet, he found there was no other place he'd rather be in. The organized clutter told of a life well lived and a house well loved. The raucous of continuous chatter and Sabine's soft singing and television static was a symphony to his lonely ears. This was a refuge with people who were free to be who they were and just… love.

This is a real home, he mused, and if he could, he hoped to never leave. And perhaps he never would, if Tom and Sabine liked him enough to invite him another night, if he and Marinette became just as good friends when he was Adrien, better yet if he and Marinette fell in lo—

Stop.

A crack sounded and when Adrien looked down, where there was once an unblemished surface, a tear had wrought through halfway down the middle of the plate he was washing. He gasped.

“I'm sorry! I’m s-so—I’m sorry!”

With haste he let go, only to wish he hadn't. The impact caused the crevice to widen though the plate hadn't completely split into two.

“You're shaking,” Sabine whispered.

“Oh,” he hadn't noticed. “I broke a plate,” he said dumbly. “That must have been a set, right? And you can't have a set with just three—” (never mind that the occupants of this household were that very number) “—I'll replace it. I’ll buy another one.”

I'll buy you a whole kitchen's worth of new sets.

“It's just a plate,” Sabine murmured, squeezing his shoulder. “It's all right, Adrien.”

…

…

…

…

Adrien.

Adrien?

Holy fuck, she said Adrien!

One minute he couldn't breathe and the next, he choked on air.

“Chat?” Marinette hollered at him though she hadn't averted her eyes from the screen. She crowed at a successful 12-hit combo before calling to him once more, “You ok? Choke on a hairball or something?”

She laughed at her own joke and that he wanted to laugh hysterically along with her made him cough all the more.

“I'm fine,” he managed to bite out once his fit had calmed. Sabine patted gently at his back, albeit with a modicum of reluctance. He turned to her.

“What—” Voice considerably lowered though no less panicked, he repeated, “What did you call me?”

He held his hands to his face to see if his mask had slipped. It was intact. He felt it was, so how did she…?

“I'm sorry,” she deflated when when she approached him and he unconsciously took a step back. “I didn't mean to frighten you.”

“I'm not frightened.”

She glanced down, emphasizing how it hadn't escaped her that his shaking hadn't relented.

“It’s all right, Adrien,” she said again.

Her words were meant to comfort but it was as if she was underwater and everything was warbled. His name, his civilian name, falling from her lips was like a buffer against rationalization, and it had him blanching. She flinched.

He clenched his fists and took a deep breath, then two, then three—till the gallop of his heart faded to a steady tread and his trembles abated.

“Are you going to kick me out, now?”

She shook her head. “Why would I do that?”

“You know who I am,” he lamented. “That's dangerous.”

She smiled. “Is it now?”

“It's not funny,” he whispered, looking down. “If Hawkmoth finds out about you and what your family means to me, and god forbid something happened to Marinette and mon dieu—” he returned his attention to her. “Who else knows? Does Marinette know?”

Sabine shook her head. “Just me, as far as I'm aware.” He breathed a sigh of relief before regarding her with oblique intent. “So… how did you?”

“Well, it's less clear when you're transformed. But after?” she cocked her head. “I think modeling the jacket was a bit of a giveaway,” he blushed. “The hair is pretty notable. Your eyes, too.”

He gaped. “Lots of guys have blond hair and green eyes!” he defended.

“I suppose that's true.” She laughed, before fixing him with an austere stare. “But they don't care for Marinette the way you do.”

He didn't know how to answer that—partly because he was embarrassed that he was so transparent.

Mostly because it was true.

“Adrien…” Sabine started, glancing at Marinette and Tom from her periphery to make sure they were otherwise occupied. “What happened just now?”

“I'm always breaking things,” he confessed, as if that were explanation enough. And maybe it was because the sorrow in her eyes almost had him coming undone.

I don't want to break her, he wanted to shout. And I don't wanna break my own heart too.

Because falling in love was the easy part—falling in love with the unattainable was even easier. He knew the outcome was bleak and so it was simple to be able to put on his armor of innuendo and impavidness and say it was all right that they didn't love you back.

After… after was what scared him. Reciprocation scared him. Because he was broken, was always going to be just that little bit damaged and a step behind and he didn't want anyone else to get caught in the crossfire that was his internal turmoil. Because he was lost, always lost, and he didn’t know how to be enough for someone else.

“Hey,” she said, derailing him from the dangerous path his thoughts had veered to. “Who needs a set of four plates when we're only three.” She shrugged and added, conspiratorially, “I've been dying to replace these sets anyway but Tom didn't see the point. Now, you've given me the perfect excuse. I mean, they're older than Marinette—no wonder this one broke!”

His heart lifted as they joined in merriment. What was it about the women in this family? Would he forever have a weakness for dark hair, blue-eyed females?

(If that was the case, then he hoped never to be strong)

“Besides,” she shared, everything about her so far removed from her previous melancholy that his own worries of insecurity and being discovered evanesced into a plane of halcyon where no one and nothing that would ever hurt him, could—if only ephemerally. “In my experience, the best people in life are the ones who are unafraid to show their imperfections.”

(And who was he kidding? The halcyon wasn’t some undiscoverable plane—it was here)

“So own them, darling,” she cupped his cheek, and he found himself leaning into her touch, starved as he was for motherly affection. He clutched her forearm as if for dear life, and lapped at her every word when she declared, “You'll find that the cracks are where the light shines the brightest.”

He let a little more than a fleeting moment pass as he considered her words. Could it really be that simple? Own it, she advised.

“Thank you,” he sniffed.

“Thank you for helping me with the dishes,” she grinned lopsidedly. She may have been thanking him for his assistance but he was adamant he had been the one to gain the most from their encounter.

He disposed of the broken plate and cleared the sink while Sabine put the rest of the dishes away. After, she jutted her chin towards the living room.

“Shall we see what the other two are up to? Before they get swallowed by the TV?”

Thankfully, no such misgivings had arisen since, caught up as they had been in their conversation, it slipped their notice when Marinette and Tom had moved on from the game console to their music player. Charles Aznavour's rich, buttery tones wafted from the crisp speaker as he sang Il faut savoir.

Even with the cramped space of the apartment, the father and daughter duo found a way to make a dance floor of the living room, moving in some semblance of a...waltz? ‘Gifted’ as they were with two left feet.

He chuckled and hoped the mask hid the way his eyes shone. Then again maybe not, if it meant Marinette’s countenance vivified at the sight of it.

“You’re here!” Tom bellowed, spinning her outwards with a little too much exuberance and so she fell back against the cushions.

“Tom!” Sabine shouted just as Tom squawked his apology and Marinette expelled a cute, “oof!” when she landed. Adrien pressed his lips together and tried not lay the adoration thick but—she didn't exactly make it easy.

She jarringly chided her father before expelling a greeting so cheerful and sweet, you would think they hadn't seen each other in years instead of the scant few minutes they were actually apart. She moved a smidge so there was room on the sofa for him even with her limbs aslant.

What he wouldn't give to have a camera right now, to capture the flush that burgeoned the apple of her cheeks because it was from exertion and not bashfulness, for once… to immortalize the way her eyes sparkled when she looked at him like this—unharmed and glowing and arrantly, confoundingly, heart-stoppingly beautiful.

He crouched on his haunches so he was eye-level with her and lightly swiped the tip of his finger across the length of her bangs. Her sigh was a cool breeze against his lips.

“Hello, Marinette.”

She sat up, affecting a severe air as she enounced, “I'm surprised you remember my name.”

He gestured at her to scoot over. He hunkered beside her with his legs crossed, one arm spread atop the back of the couch while the other was propped against his thigh. He rested his head on his hand and raised an eyebrow at her.

“What? Why?”

“You and my mom looked so cozy,” she teased. “I thought you'd forgotten me.”

“Oh, are you jealous then?” he shot back in acute delight. “You don't need to worry,” he leaned into her space so he could whisper in her ear, lips ghosting her skin as he murmured, “You're impossible to forget.”

She rolled her eyes then looked away, but not before he caught her gratified expression. He beamed as he pulled away.

Chiming laughter and gruff chortles had the pair of them turning to the pair before them. The sight they were greeted with was nothing short of miraculous, as Tom expertly twirled Sabine athwart the room, ebbing and flowing in a dance they appeared to have been doing since they were born.

“How come you can dance with mom that way and not me?” Marinette demanded haughtily. Truth be told, he was glad she asked. He was bewildered at the grace with which Tom maneuvered Sabine when not minutes ago, he and Marinette had been fumbling about like gravity was personally out to get them and they were desperate to outrun it.

“Don't you know?” Tom said before he twirled Sabine, first out then into his arms. “Life is but one, long dance. Sometimes you take a wrong turn somewhere and swing out of beat.” He dipped Sabine, “But other times, if you sway at just the right moment—” and, slowly, they ascended together, “—you might bump into someone who's willing to move just that little bit off beat with you, and you find you've made a rhythm that's all your own.”

Till they were in perfect alignment, her back to his chest and his chin nestled atop her head.

“Each step you take is a step towards that person so... dance. Make your move and make it right. Hell, make the wrong one too! Just…”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“Just—just what?” He goaded, endeavoring to limit his impatience as he leaned towards the man.

Marinette rolled her eyes. “Papa,” she rebuked but he could tell she was just as engrossed as he was.

Tom smirked.

“Just dance.” His lips whittled into a softer, more profound, grin. “You do your utmost to ensure you lead a successful life, but all that won't mean a thing without the right partner by your side.” He locked eyes with Sabine. “So, don't forget to dance.”

Now it was Edith Piaf's poignant voice crooning her Hymn to Love that filtered through the spaces between their bubble of conversations. Sabine elegantly twisted in Tom's arms so she could rest her head onto his chest. In absolute synchronization, they sighed, and it was the purest sound of rapture he had ever heard.

Then Tom threw them, what he must have thought was, a sly wink. “Do you?”

What?

Adrien glanced at Marinette and saw she was just as baffled as he was. With an eyebrow raised, he conveyed with her, as if to say, he's your dad—you ask him what he means! to which she rebutted with her arms crossed and a pointed, if you're such a curious cat, you ask him yourself!

(Though, admittedly, the curious cat was something he added for his own amusement)

He relented though they both turned to Tom.

“Do… we what?”

“Have the right partner?”

Without thought, his eyes found Marinette's. Marinette—who tripped even as she stood, whose belongings were forever escaping her grasp as they sprawled whenever she careened about the pavement. Marinette—whose maladroit affliction had faded when he held her in his arms and danced with her that one time.

They had fallen into each other’s gaze long enough that more than a beat had passed. Tom reverted his gaze to Sabine and the two were lost in a world of their own, a lambent pendulum as they flowed in and out of each other's gravity.

Do you have the right partner?

He had always thought Ladybug was his, through thick and thin. In some ways, she was the right partner—but he was looking for someone who was right, not just in some but in all the ways it mattered.

Tom's words reverberated like a gong in his head.

Do you have the right partner?

When Kagami had been Akumatized, Ladybug stowed him away to safety whereas he and Marinette teamed up to defeat the Evillustrator. When he needed advice, he asked Marinette. Marinette had given him his very own lucky charm. It was him and Marinette who worked so well together in Ultra Mega Strike even when they were in opposition, only him and Marinette who had been in complete awareness of Lila's falsehoods, Marinette that he went after in the skating rink.

Marinette, Marinette—in everything it was Marinette.

Do you have the right partner?

Looking at her, an ethereal beacon amongst the fluorescent and lamp lights as she watched her parents fall in love all over again, he wished he had the courage to speak up. For though he had broken down his thoughts and discovered the answer was within his grasp, he would have liked to dance with her just then… just once more—if only to be certain.

(When really, what he verily wanted was to build himself around her and hold her close)

AN: There is a part 3. I have no self-control lol.

ALSO, THAT MARICHAT SNEAK PEEK THO??? I SWEAR TO GOD I AM STILL CRY-SCREAMING ABOUT IT, IT IS SO SIMILAR TO MY VISION FOR THIS FIC IT'S LIKE I DREAMT IT AND IT LITERALLY CAME TO LIFE RIP ME

Update: Read Part 3 here

[kuraiamore]

Gintama fic, Pay your workers fair wage or they’ll start a revolution!!

pairing: Gen

fandom: Gintama

rating: T

summary: Come experience a typical day in the Yorozuya office! Meet the team that makes the magic happen! Find out what it's like to be a member of a fantastic Odd Jobs team!

(In case of emergencies, please head to the Back Arrow button located on the top left-hand corner of your internet browser page.)

(This fanfiction takes no responsibility for any failed expectations on behalf of the reader. Terms and Conditions apply. See your local pro-fanfiction Tumblr post for details.)

notes: Very Very Very belated bday fic for @first-quarter-of-the-moon . This wonderful human being, whose friendship I’m so grateful to have stumbled across in this tiny fandom of shithead samurai, asked for a fic with a pun on the word “glasses”. I’ve no idea if I managed to pull it off, but nevertheless, here it is and I hope you enjoy it even if it is months late<3 <3 <3

ao3 or read below.

It's a quiet day in the Yorozuya office-cum-household-apartment; no jobs, no clients, no day-saving adventure to embark on for one to take pride in one’s life-and-career path as a Can-Do-All, NEET Samurai and Friends Pty Ltd., Odd Jobs™ business. The sort of day where face-planting on the desk for catnaps is considered high productivity and the walk from the couch to the fridge for a well earned snack after doing nothing for an hour is worthy of office-cum-household-apartment bragging rights.

So really, it's like every other day when they're not out disastrously, fantastically doing some combination of saving the world from mad aliens, accidentally joining forces with an assortment of oddball characters who really ought to get some life counselling, travelling through interdimensional planes of existence on ridiculously wacky adventures, or whatever have you, instead of actually, you know, making the required revenue to run a profitable business.

In other words: a standard Yorozuya working day.

At this current point in time, momentarily unaware of the literal office tour taking place for the convenience of this tired narrator, the self-made boss of the Yorozuya is seated at his desk, last week’s copy of Shounen Jump fanned out in a roof over the top of his head. His two young employees-in-training-slash-unofficially-adopted-children are lounging about the main room, one on each of the twin couches framing the apartment-cum-office’s only coffee table. The small, rickety thing has its worn, scratched-marked surface covered with evidence of the day’s work: magazines and dirty tea and coffee mugs. Advertisement catalogues, cooking magazines, idol pop magazines, sports magazines, cars, fashion, home real estate, and everything beyond and in between build up a veritable paper fortress blocking either couch camp from each other.

Odd Jobs™ business, you see; gotta be ready to deal with anything and everything.

As usual on these lazy working days, the trio that make up the Yorozuya spend more time making indulgent commentary on their reading material than actually reading the material itself. Then again, it could only be expected; none of trio have spent any considerable amount of time in school on account of their traumatic backstories which this tired narrator will ask both the beloved characters and readers to conveniently ignore for the sake for easy comedy, and so the expectation that any of them would seriously engage in any real, productive work is entirely preposterous, like seriously, what did you expect, we all know these characters are as dumb as bricks and—

“Hey, some people are trying to read here!” Kagura yells.

“Quiet, Kagura,” Gintoki say, an apathetic tone and expression in his voice and face reminiscent of old men working middle management roles that have no end-of-year bonuses or promotions to look forward to, “the boss is in the middle of important business and needs all his concentration.”

“A proper boss who has important work to do would be doing the work instead of wasting everyone’s time nagging at his employees,” Kagura bites back.

“Well you wouldn't know because you're not a boss, are you?”

“Miss Teen Idol says I am!” Tossing aside the magazine she's currently reading, Kagura tears through the paper fortress like a hurricane uprooting and scattering cities into the skies.

“Oieee!” Shinpachi yells, as his perfectly stacked tower of magazines with Otsuu’s name and face on the front cover, however big or small or scandalously associated, goes toppling over. “Don't worry, Otsuu-chan, I'll save you!”

The broken fortress becomes a battleground, hands and magazines flying as (thankfully empty) cups fall over. It's a battle of speed and precision, Kagura attacking with her rummage-glance-throw-away technique against Shinpachi’s valiant defence in protecting creases and wrinkles from Otsuu-chan’s face.

“Ah-ha!” Kagura crows later, after two minutes of constant barrage. Her arm swings wildly above her head in triumph, the magazine clutched in her hand waving like a banner of victory.

Gintoki yawns without bothering to cover his mouth. There's an empty cup of pudding on the side of his desk that he eyes mournfully. It had been the last one in the fridge, now serving as an ineffective paperweight to last month's overdue gas bill. He’ll have to go buy more soon, lest he suffer from sugar withdrawal. Maybe some of those new jelly-filled chocolate bites he saw at the convenience store too while he's at it.

But then again, a new ice cream parlour had opened two weeks ago, just twenty minutes away by foot from the Yorozuya office.

And he also dimly remembers a commercial from last night's re-run of My Pretty Kitty Takes Over The World, featuring some wildberry confectionery shaped into wearable cat ears.

Gintoki’s still daydreaming sugar-coated dreams when Kagura smacks her magazine onto his desk. The wave of air that comes fanning out from the two-page spread is so violent, it tickles his nose and sends his fringe billowing out around his face.

“Here!” Kagura points to the page she's opened up, revealing a blazing red title asking, ‘Are you Beauty, Brains, or Brawn? Find out your best attribute to win over the Man and Job of Your Dreams!’

Shinpachi joins them at the desk, scanning the heading with a frown. “Why is it ‘Man’ and ‘Job’?” he wonders aloud. “Since when did relationships and careers have anything to do with each other? They’re are totally different things.”

“What are you talking about, Shinpachi? Don’t you know that dealing with men is a full time job?”

“That's right,” Gintoki agrees, nodding along, “men are scum.”

“Yup, yup. They're a parasite on the industry of life. Oi, boss, you should give me a raise for all the effort and overtime I put in dealing with the scum in our workplace.”

“Sorry,” Gintoki says, “the agreement of the contract you signed stipulates that wage raises can only be considered after gaining a minimum of ten years’ experience in your working role.”

“Oh,” Kagura says, complete lack of understanding on her blank face. She shrugs. “Okay then.”

“Wait but we never signed a contract!” Shinpachi says, perplexed.

“What do you call that then?” Gintoki says, throwing his thumb out behind his shoulder.

Shinpachi follows the invisible line to a copy of one of their old advertisement flyers stuck on wall behind the desk. It's instantly recognisable, featuring three handprints and one paw print haphazardly framed around a picture of the Yorozuya team.

A prickly, tingly feeling rushes through his chest—it might be bad business manipulation at its best, but Shinpachi can’t find it in himself to argue against that. He clears his throat.

“In any case,” he says, “the quiz is clearly making the mistake of lumping the two together!”

“Now, now, Shinpachi,” Gintoki interrupts, back in that deliberately overemphasised, sagely, rather quite condescending tone, “it is merely your youth and inexperience with adult matters that make you think that way. You see, the office or workplace romance is the most intense and thrilling romantic experience the ordinary human will have in their measly lifetime. Therefore when a person takes on a job, they’re investing not just in their career and financial stability, but also in the promise of a lifetime partner. That’s what people mean when they talk about being married to work!”

“Gin-san, I don’t think that’s what that means at all, and anyway, you’ve never worked in an office or workplace with other people in your life!”

“You wound me, Patsuan. How do you think I got this far, CEO of my own business with one hundred percent employee loyalty at the prime young age of twenty-eight, if I didn’t have a lifetime of experience dealing with the intricacies of workplace liaisons, huh?”

“Gin-san, you have two underaged employees which I’m sure counts as child labour exploitation, and you never paid the registration fee for the business registration application. I’m pretty sure that the Yorozuya is technically an illegal operation.”

Immediately, Gintoki turns around and closes the window blinds. The room goes quiet as the possibly illegal boss and his two employees glance furtively around them to make sure they hadn't been overheard by any men in black suits who just happened to be creeping around for no reason other than the wacky slice-of-life genre specification.

“Oi, oi,” Gintoki says after a moment, with a shaky laugh, “don't joke about that, Shinpachi-kun. What kind of role model would we be to all our lovely viewers watching and reading us if they thought we were an illegal business? Sunrise would have our heads!”

“It's okay, Gin-chan,” Kagura goes to reassure him, “the only people watching this sketchy anime and reading its sketchy fanfiction are probably sketchy people themselves already.”

“That's right!” Shinpachi adds helpfully, though his neck still cranes around as if looking for hidden microphones and cameras. “Besides, even if we were illegal—which we're not!—then they would still know better than to waste their time coming after us. We're so poor, we wouldn't be able to pay the bail out money anyway! If anything, they should be targeting those multi mega corporations that do way more sketchy stuff! Like tax evasion!”

“And Amanto discrimination!” Kagura adds.

“And killing the environment!”

“And disrupting the view with their giant billboards!”

“And taking advantage of the working class to fuel their corrupt profits!” Shinpachi cries in heated passion, slapping his hand on the table.

“And increasing the price of pudding by ¥240 so Gin-san can only afford to have his sugar intake three times a week instead of four!” Gintoki joins.

“Um, Gin-san, that's not—"

“Down with capitalism!” Kagura cries, jumping back onto her couch and rising one fist into the air while her other hand still clutching the magazine waves it again like a great banner. “Come comrades! Let us take down the abominable bosses and factory managers who exploit the good-hearted working citizens!”

The magazine gets rolled up and becomes a baton which now points accusingly towards the Yorozuya boss. Gintoki looks to his left, and his right, and seeing no one on either side of him, points a finger to his own mug and mouths, “Who, me?”

“Rise up!” Kagura continues with her impassioned call, turning back to her audience of one. Shinpachi hears the call solemnly, eyes burning with the bright rage of workers’ rights. “Rise up and take down the evil corporations and greedy CEOs and business owners who use their money to hoard all the good things to themselves and never leave the sesame-flavoured subonku for the common folk!”

“Well if someone didn't spend all their money on monthly pork barbeque bun sales, they might have enough left over to buy sesame-flavoured subonku whenever the stores have them in stock!”

“But Gin-chan, two pork barbeque buns for the price of one!”

Shinpachi coughs delicately. “You have to admit, Gin-san, it is a very good deal.” Aside to himself, he mumbles, “they’ve saved me more times than I can count,” and hopes Tae never finds his stash of frozen pork barbeque buns he sneaks out at midnight when dark matter dinners prove too much for his stomach to handle.

“What are you two, video game characters who can only revive their health with pork barbeque buns?” Gintoki grouches, then leans back on his fake leather and plastic desk chair. “Ahhh, but really, society is scum. All those flashy, money-grabbing advertisements and media turning the free-thinking man into a mindless drone. Bah!”

“Well,” Shinpachi hedges, fidgeting with the Otsuu-chan NekoNeko double spread special open in front of him, “maybe it's not all so bad…”

“Eh? Don't tell me they've caught you already, Pachi-boy! Those sirens, always luring in the innocent cherry boys with their wily charms and pretty faces! Cover your ears, Shinpachi, before you drown!”

Shinpachi’s face turns bright red as it always does when reminded of his cherry-boy status, like soup that someone put beetroot in and left on the stove for too long so all the vegetables became a mushy red mess like a bloody murder scene like someone dropping a basket of actual ripe, red cherries.

“Like the bright flag of revolution!” Kagura adds to the overly extended and entirely nonsensical metaphor, waving her magazine again even though the front cover is yellow.

For all the embarrassing state of their being, the fantasies of cherry boys cannot be underestimated: in a split second, Shinpachi finds himself in the grip of a fervoured daydream where he's leading the pop idol revolution, Otsuu’s grateful, adoring eyes centred upon him from her Queen Idol throne made from glittery microphones and album awards, while he stands bearing her image and flag upon the conquered mountain of her rivals’ platinum albums and singles. Shaking himself free of this intoxicating dream takes truly the will of only the most stout-hearted and tenacious of samurai, but Shinpachi has always been deceptively strong, underestimated as he is by his otaku appearance.

“No, that's not what I meant!” he says vehemently, crossing his arms over his chest. “It has nothing to do with cherry boys, or rather, not only to do with cherry boys! Yes, the capitalist market may be a money-grabbing, exploitative, manipulative, marginalising machine"—he takes a deep breath here, having run out of air after his string of long, multisyllabic words—“but you can't deny that it's also given some people the chance to achieve their dreams, and in that way, helped inspire others too!” He gazes lovingly at his Otsuu spread, conveniently ignoring the headline to the side exclaiming, ‘Otsuu production company bankrupt?! Employee scandal!!’

“Ahhh,” Gintoki says in a bored, dry voice, “that was sure quick of you to swap sides there, Shinpachi. You went from glass half-empty to glass half-full in, what, less time than it takes for a teenage boy to hide his dirty magazines when his mum unexpectedly bursts through his bedroom door. What, you playing double glasses or something? Doubles G’s? Is that what you're into, Shinpachi?” Gintoki tuts, shaking his head. “Teenage boys are so greedy, always thinking more is better. No wonder they make such good prey for those dirty media companies. It's okay, Shinpachi, you'll learn, you'll learn.”

Shinpachi splutters, the thought of double G’s such a force against the foundations of his feeble cherry boy mind that he cannot pull out his defences. Taking advantage of the moment, Kagura jumps in with a question.

“What are you talking about, Gin-chan?” she says. “Shinpachi has always had two glasses. Like a pair of glasses! G. G.!”

She crooks her thumbs to her forefingers, touching the tips together so they make a pair of circles just the right size to peer out of, and presses them to her eyes. Somewhere in the distance, a group of broke university students break out into a flashmob, a chorus of ‘G’s and ‘baby’s rising up while a crowd of people just trying to reach the end of the street look on in confusion.

“Bless you,” Gintoki says, while Kagura continues to blink owlishly out of her literally hand-made glasses.

“My glasses look nothing like that,” Shinpachi complains to Kagura, because that is far safer than remaining in the grips of a Double-G dream. (Already he has had to discreetly wipe away the trickle of blood from his nose while Kagura and Gintoki were busy fooling around.)

“Of course not,” Gintoki reassures, “your glasses look like those cheap, mass-produced products that break and fail you right when you need them.”

“Well maybe if you actually paid us a living wage, I could afford brand glasses if mine offend your sensibilities so much!”

“For someone who’s only just over legal working age, you sure have high expectations!”

“You're not even paying me minimum wage, I could report you, you know!”

“Oh yeah? Report me to who? The boss?” Gintoki snorts, waving a dismissive hand.

Shinpachi’s nostrils flare, eyebrows drawing together in an angry line.

“I'll report you to… to… to the industry union!”

Gintoki laughs an evil, corporate laugh. “What industry union? The Odd Jobs union? Ha! Good luck with that! Even if one existed, it would never get anything done because its members would be too busy looking for odd jobs to make their daily living!”

Kagura’s eyes flash. “Pachi-boy, let's start a union!” she says, though what a fourteen year old alien would know about industry unions, the never-ending battle for workers’ rights, petitions, rallies, strikes and other various union organisation stuffs remains an unanswered question. Still, one couldn't fault her enthusiasm.

Unexpectedly, in utter abandonment of his straight man role, Shinpachi jumps onto the idea.

“Yes!” he says. “We can invite all the other Odd Jobs teams from the anime crossovers we have! ‘Odd Jobs’ is such a well known and overused trope, I'm sure there will be plenty who will want to join us!”

“The Odd Jobs industry revolution!” Kagura bellows, arms spread out wide like she’s presenting a magic trick. “Led by the Yorozuya!”

“O-Oi!” Suddenly faced with a revolution and overzealous employees, Gintoki has no idea what to do.

Luckily for him, right at that moment, the phone rings. Its noisy call goes on for two ring cycles, cutting through and silencing all conversation in the room, before Gintoki wipes out a hand to pick up the receiver. Suddenly Kagura and Shinpachi are pressed right up against his side, intense looks on their faces as they eavesdrop on the call, union revolution promptly forgotten at the prospect of a new job.

“Hello, you've reached Yorozuya Gin-chan, how may I help you? Yes, a job? Right now? You're desperate? Of course, of course, that's what the Yorozuya are here for! What exactly…? Yes. Uh-huh. Uh-huh, of course, yes.” As he listens to the job details, Gintoki catches the gaze of his employees and does a fist pump in the air. Kagura and Shinpachi grin at him and return the gesture. “...Yes, just leave it to us! We'll be down there before you can blink!”

With that, he hangs up the phone, pushes back his chair and stands, grabbing his bokutou and slipping it into his belt with a smooth motion.

“Alright, people!” he says, turning around to look down at Kagura and Shinpachi. “We've been called and now we got a job to do. Tell me: Are the Yorozuya ready to put their all, to go beyond, plus ultra—"

Shinpachi sighs; of course they couldn't get away without referencing another anime. He hopes at least with fanfiction’s grey legality, they won't be sued or have to cop another lecture about copyright laws from Sunrise.

“—to deliver the best Odd Jobs service to our dear and valuable clientele?”

“Yes!” comes the enthusiastic response, Kagura and Shinpachi standing with straight backs bearing their pride and excitement as a true Yorozuya member.

Gintoki cups his hand over his ear, leaning forward. “I said, are you ready?!”

“Yes!”

A short, approving nod. “Alright. Yorozuya Gin-chan, move out!”

[loveiscosmicsin]

Consumed

Summary: He loved Ebony and she loved energy drinks, Ignis and Aranea couldn't be any more different and yet, when the world is threatened by darkness and ten years are upon them for the return of the King of Light, their friendship grew in the most unexpected ways.

Notes: I just... really wanted to write a self-indulgent fic about platonic Ignis and Aranea, Aranea having a chip on her shoulder and troubled and traumatic past, but those two connecting somehow. Both have a form of addiction, as it took Aranea years to get past it, Ignis will have a long road ahead of him to recover from his.

This is posted on my Ao3 because I know how hard it is to read fics on my blog lol

-

Ignis' head pounded repeatedly. The source of the pain was unknown, but it tenaciously lingered, easily triggered by even the most insignificant of sounds or the slight unintentional movement. There was no other pain like it and he had known greater suffering. A splash of colors exploded ominously in his head. He had to lie down and not even his mind registered the soft mattress under him the moment he collapsed on the bed. "Specs?" "Noct?" Ignis shot upward, only to immediately lie back down, clutching his head. He groaned. Now, his muscles ached unbearably. Closing his eyes couldn’t expel the pain as it had in the past. "Hey, hey, don't get up on my account." The king’s laughter was forced, almost on the verge of mirrored agony. Quietly, so quiet that it forced Ignis to strain to listen, he asked, "You okay? You took off your glasses." Ignis turned his wrists over his eyes, a futile effort to hide the scars, fragments of an tumultuous ordeal. He wished to lay his eyes on Noctis, but not when he’s like this. "I'll be fine. Just a slight headache." 

"You've been getting those lately. The stress of whole recruiting and strategizing thing finally getting to you?" "I just need some rest. I won't let this stop me." The mattress squeaked as the king took a seat beside the advisor's form. "Put your head on my lap." The advisor obeyed as a moth drawn to a flame, content with staying like this for a while when his cheek touched Noctis’ thigh. "Do warn me if you have to get up." "I'm not going anywhere." Soft lips pressed lightly on Ignis' forehead. "Move your hand." Calloused fingers rubbed small circles in the advisor's temple. Ignis moaned. "Am I doing it right?" The king's voice was husky, breathy to avoid inflicting the older man with more pain. "Yes..." Ignis swallowed, tilting his head to meet with Noctis' hands. "This is perfect." “It won’t be like this for long.” “It won’t... be?” Ignis echoed, brow furrowing. “What’s that?” “This,” Noctis answered, vaguely as he delicately traced the faint scarring of Ignis’ face. “What you’re doing now. There’s no question that everyone’s behind you a hundred percent and I’m gonna be the one to meet you half way for what you’ve done. Wait for me a little longer.” “Noct...” The name tasted bittersweet the moment it left Ignis’ lips upon waking up. Noctis was gone and he was never present to begin with no matter how much Ignis wished it wasn’t the case. The king’s fingers had ghosted over the advisor’s face and kindled the flame in his heart as if they were physically together just a moment ago. The visage of his beloved followed him in dreams as they had in his wake, vivid and unrelenting. But Ignis knew the truth. Noctis had departed for where he couldn’t bring those he loved with him, no matter how deeply they cared for him in return. Even for one such as Ignis, who had been branded with the Old King’s’ favor. It was a path that Ignis couldn’t follow. And it was why he had to let him go. The King of Light left no instructions nor parting words, but that didn’t mean that Ignis was left without purpose. Far from it, he prepared for the imminent threat lurking in the shadows because of the knowledge imparted to him. Ignis held a love, pure and unyielding, for Noctis, somehow it never dulled in absence and through every action and countermeasure resonated of the young king’s high influence. If Noctis was unwilling to follow the prophecy, then Ignis would’ve fled with him, hide him from— But that wouldn’t have been Noctis if it was. He never one for inaction or to remain silent for long even crushed by duty, one of the earliest lessons taught by the late king. Since the fall of Insomnia, the events thrown in their paths including Ardyn’s trap in the Zegnautus Keep, led him to demand the Crystal’s power of his own volition. By donning on the Ring of the Lucii, Ignis realized that he was the final crucible in this destiny. Gladiolus and Prompto followed Ignis’ lead without question. He couldn’t explain why they must prepare for the war, not fully. To call them dreams would diminish their significance, to call them visions would delving in the supernatural when no blood of the Oracle coursed through his veins, to call alternate realities implied that there was a degree of control in steering toward feasible probabilities than the worst outcomes but they were memories. His memories, good and bad, and they existed for a reason. Fragments of multiple branches that while Ignis of this timeline hadn’t endured, but tried and failed. While his own death and Ravus’ were averted, Noctis’ departure was inevitable. Noctis was still the chosen vessel to restore balance to Eos. The knowledge of these visions allowed Ignis to defy the stars themselves without hesitation so that this time Noctis‘ light won’t go extinguished. How this would end would be up to them to decide. Ignis still had his eyes, healed due to the king’s quick thinking. Noctis was to return. “But when he does, what then?” Ignis found himself asking this, interrupting his own thoughts. The prophecy still would have to end with Noctis. The memories showed only so much and led to more questions, carrying answers that he must link himself. This route didn’t reveal the king’s death. The truth could only be revealed after waiting. Ignis had done five months of it so far. - “It wouldn’t kill you to take a break, you know,” Aranea scolded with a hint of disappointment and impatience in her voice. Ignis smiled, nostalgic by the familiarity. In another history, Aranea had told Ignis to “stop navel-gazing” when she found him fishing in Galdin Quay. She wasn’t a fan of the pastime. “Isn’t that what I’m doing now, Aranea?” Ignis simpered, looking pleased with himself when his companion scowled. “And how well does Cidney take your advice?” He already knew the answer to that. “I don’t waste my breath on battles I can’t win,” Aranea said, holding the can Ignis placed in front of her with reserved scrutiny. Seeing that it wasn’t a can of Ebony invading her space, she popped the tab open. “So long she doesn’t skip meals and trouble doesn’t go out finding her, that’s one worry off my plate.” Aranea Highwind was one of the allies Ignis, Gladiolus, and Prompto recruited. Despite the initial meetings on the battlefield and a temporary partnership coerced by Ardyn Izunia, Aranea held no grudge for the encounters as they were tied to their allegiances. Aranea and her men became deserters of the Niflheim Empire long before the attack in Altissia, opting for a more honest line of work in search and rescue. Before the Empire, they were daemon hunters, freelancers of sorts since they didn’t belong to any of the headquarters. When Aranea joined the fight, Biggs and Wedge happily followed her lead wherever it took them. Though the two had embarked different roads in life, Aranea and Ignis’ paths met again for a reason. Aranea refused payment after hearing what had transpired and what events were to come after the death of the Oracle and the King of Light’s absence, claiming that the Gil received from the hunts were more than plenty to keep them afloat. They recognized danger and were formidable soldiers, Ignis acknowledged how invaluable they were. The ex-mercenary commodore found herself at home with their merry band of the king’s royal retainers, veterans, Hunters, displaced survivors, mechanics, technicians, chocobo caretakers, magazine editors, famed researchers, journalists-turned-jewel artisans, and aspiring chefs. Even now, when the two had nothing in common, Aranea wasn’t a fan of coffee and often scoffed whenever Ignis drank it in her presence, Ignis appreciated all that she’s done. At first, the mercenary had a habit of keeping her distance except to her subordinates, professional to a fault though that front banished when she began opening up to others, breaking her own “don’t get familiar” rule. And she wasn’t the first former imperial Ignis had allied and befriended. The tactician found one such relationship with Ravus. Though with the former prince and high commander, it was more of a quiet and dependable camaraderie whereas Aranea was direct about showing concern for those she deemed worthy of her time. Aranea never talked about her personal life. No homeland, family, friends, her occupation before the daemons and the Empire, or how she met her lieutenants to share willingly or when requested. Not even Biggs and Wedge disclosed information on their boss. Like her, they focused on the present. It took Ignis weeks to act on a suspicion and have Aranea admit that she was seeing Cidney romantically. (It was very disconcerting to hear that their relationship began when the head mechanic slapped the ex-commodore due to a misunderstanding. But the latter had laughed it off as she touched her cheek, implying that she received something better that day.) But Aranea was transparent about her values and who she is as a person, even about her favorite brand of energy drink. Still, if people were judged for who they were in the past, then perhaps Ignis and Aranea wouldn’t be standing here right now. “You sure you wanna go with this?” Aranea asked, wrapping protective cloth over her hands. “Walking and breathing with your eyes shut is one thing, but fighting is another thing entirely.” “You’ve taught me to do more than that,” Ignis took a strip of cloth and placed it over his eyes, welcoming the darkness. “If I fall, best be it in practice and not when our lives are on the line.” Ignis was blind once and Noctis restored his vision. That time. The other times he wasn’t as fortunate. Should his vision be disrupted once more, then what would he do then? He hadn’t attained the years of training as he had in past histories. Aranea possessed an impressive resume of natural skills and abilities separate from the use of Magitek and unsurprisingly, underwent specific training should she lose capability of her senses to complete a mission. That included sight. Ignis readied his stance and held up his hands. “I don’t want...” He just didn’t want to give Noctis or anyone else a a reason to think less of him. The history where Gladiolus and Noctis considered leaving him behind hurt. Aranea was silent as she conceded with a sigh. “Say no more, I get it. But don’t think that I do means I’m gonna hold back.” Training with Aranea was brutal even though she was holding back. Ignis found himself on his knees, betrayed by his hearing and intuition led him to second-guess where his opponent was, was humiliating. It taught him to discard what he already learned, have Aranea take the figurative walking cane he clutched to and sweep the rug from under him, and build up a fighting style without the use of his eyes. Strip all that he knew and realize how powerless he was. His soul and body refused to live with that vulnerability, it craved for power and domination, to defeat Aranea. Though it had been months since the Zegnautus Keep, the Ring of the Lucii marked him, its screams and whispers crawled from the back of his mind and into his heart. What power he thought he wielded, held him at the throat and it lingered still, threatening to unlock that primitive subconscious at any time, hungered to kill and derive pleasure from it. The Ring wasn’t in his possession, it was with its true owner and chosen vessel. The absence made Ignis jealous and made him forget. Ignis was on the ground, clutching at his wrist, the one that bore the ring and all he saw was red and purple clouding his vision as his screams clawed his throat raw. Aranea was at his side immediately. “Wh-what’s wrong? Are you okay? I barely—” She forcibly pinned Ignis’ wrists down as he thrashed against her. “Hey, snap out of it!” “F-fire...” Ignis rasped, his chest rose and fell as he struggled to breathe. “My flesh is—” The mercenary took the front of his shirt, only for the tactician’s hands to weakly fight her off. “This isn’t the time to be shy!” Aranea ripped his shirt, sending buttons flying and stupefied, she gawked at the scars etched on his skin. The inflamed, angry lashings had engulfed Ignis’ chest which extended to his arms and seemed to pulsate under the commodore’s cool fingers. Seeing the pity and helplessness written in her features, Ignis tried his hardest to explain that it’s not as bad as it looked. There was nothing she could do for him. Ignis didn’t see Aranea until three days later in the middle of the night. “Hey,” the mercenary knocked on the door frame before entering. Uncharacteristic of her as she normally just entered without announcing. “How’re you feeling?” “I’m doing better,” Ignis answered honestly. “Would you like a drink?” He turned his back to retrieve a chilled can of energy elixir. Perhaps he owed her an explanation for the other day. “Actually, I...” Aranea held out a shirt. “Here. Wedge knows his way around a needle. You won’t find a thread out of place.” “I... Thank you.” Aranea’s conflicted expression revealed there was another reason she was here. “I won’t ask what happened or why, it’s really none of my business.” She took out a small white bottle. “Went around asking the docs so I wouldn’t be doing this unless I’m absolutely sure about it.” Ignis took the bottle, unfamiliar with the name on the label. “What’s this?” “Helps with nerves and muscle spasms,” she explained, crossing her arms. “But it’s one helluva drug. Easy to abuse, harder to break it off if you get addicted. Just like any other drug.” “You speak from experience.” “Yeah. From a long time ago.” In other words, not an open invitation to unload that period of her life any time soon. “Aranea,” he began, intending to return the bottle. “I’m afraid this doesn’t—”

The Dragoon shook her head. “C’mon, it’s not like I’m forcing you to take it. But my conscience won’t let this go until I know you have it with you.” She waved a hand as if that’s all that needed to be said. “Take it if it gets too much to handle, okay?” Ignis swallowed. “Very well.” Aranea turned on her heel, exiting. “And lay off the coffee. You should be sleeping more.”

Ignis was stunned and shook his head, chuckling. “Says the woman who doesn’t know there’s a time and place for these matters.”

[tysonxalg213]

An Introduction to Was sind die Eigenschaften und Vorteile von unserem CBD öl?

Craft Your own private Customized Printed Containers To Display screen Cbd Solutions

In 2012 6-year-aged Jayden David, who suffers from Dravet's Syndrome, was specified liquefied cannabis drops and for the first time since he was 4 months old, went a whole working day with out a seizure. Legitimacy: Your CBD organization really should be reputable, to supply you with large-top quality CBD oil that is productive. There are several CBD firms in existence, and it could be rather tough to tell apart concerning true and fake. Nevertheless, you have to know that there are a few CBD businesses creating and providing bogus or inferior CBD oil and solutions to wholesalers, shops, as well as consumers. This can be why you might want to be educated, know everything about CBD oil so you won't be swindled by the bogus CBD oil sellers. A clinical analyze revealed in the journal Scientific and Investigational Dermatology in 2015 applied a topical 5 percent vitamin C Answer with rose hip oil (rich in nutritional vitamins A, C, E and crucial fatty acids) to evaluate the role of vitamin C to be a viable anti-growing old ingredient. Researchers located the vitamin C compound proved to get a hugely powerful pores and skin therapy by stimulating important collagen generation soon after 60 times of topical use. The review concluded that the vitamin C in rose hip oil is surely an effective rejuvenation therapy without having side effects.

It's important to bear in mind you might have the selection to manage your individual well being. CBD oil is just not addictive, but you need to talk with your health practitioner before starting. We are Mastering about drug interactions that happen with CBD. In these reports, CBD slowed the metabolism of quite a few medicines that are generally presented to folks with epilepsy. The interactions between CBD as well as other drugs patients have been having brought on Negative effects. It really is unclear if these Unintended effects were being resulting from CBD, one other medicines, or a combination. Doses of one other medicine have been lessened, because of the interactions. Its clear: Blikkiesdorp isn't a place for Delft's homeless. Its a location in which town can throw men and women they evict from their homes in Woodstock, Gugulethu and Belhar. Its exactly where they can dump ‘undesired' overseas nationals. Its wherever they will conceal men and women that Dwell and Focus on the streets in Cape City's CBD just in time with the Word Cup.

Cannabis has an impact on the human body due to the fact many animals have receptors termed "cannabinoid receptors." There are two known cannabinoid receptors that happen to be accountable for the consequences of cannabis. Only one of them, the cannabinoid kind one receptor (CB1R), is responsible for the high from cannabis. These cannabinoid receptors are predominantly uncovered on nerve cells Positioned all over the physique, including the Mind. And there's a economical incentive to cut corners. Just one Internet site advertises synthetic marijuana for as little as $25 per pound—the exact same volume of normal CBD prices hundreds or maybe 1000s of dollars. South Africa is among the most unequal nation in the world. The gap amongst the prosperous as well as the weak is large—and it really is rising. The unemployment amount is high, over 40%. Poverty costs are skyrocketing. In an area for example Alice from the Eastern Cape, inhabitants consume unsafe drinking water. At times there is not any h2o at all. In Grahamstown we keep on to use the bucket technique to shit.

CBD Armour farm is fully authorised to cultivate and system hemp plants. Researchers are beginning to know how CBD prevents seizures with no sedating Uncomfortable side effects of drugs utilised Earlier. Synthetic prescription drugs usually are not but available that focus on the endocannnabinoid process as CBD does. Vaping being an Formal route to quitting using tobacco is an extremely new subject. It is really unquestionably being touted as such, but when you ponder that the likes of R.J Reynolds, Philip Morris and Lorillard - the "significant" in major tobacco - at the moment are seriously invested, you could possibly argue the financial gain machine would A lot relatively see subscribers, not quitters. Could it's structured for use to assist people kick the pattern? Sure, needless to say. Very similar to nicotine patches slowly lessen the drug's levels with A great deal achievement, an e-cig package with metered nicotine degrees could likely assistance lots of quit. But right before a health care provider's about to suggest this as an assist - and Actually? They might under no circumstances - we'd like an appropriate research to present us some sort of well being-hazard baseline.

Legalizing medicine will encourage use, like that for younger youngsters who locate People drugs freely available in homes. Even though effects of People medicine will not be incredibly documented on youthful bodies and minds, what documentation There is certainly strongly suggests it is extremely hazardous. Exactly the same goes for use by pregnant Women of all ages. There may be also the question of 2nd hand smoke from cannabis; if 2nd hand tobacco smoke is dangerous, that from a mind altering drug would appear considerably worse for children trapped in the identical place. Within a latest study titled "The Affiliation concerning Cannabis Solution Traits and Symptom Relief," printed from the journal Scientific Studies, UNM scientists Sarah See Stith, assistant professor within the Department of Economics, and Jacob Miguel Vigil, affiliate professor from the Department of Psychology, identified that THC and CBD contents ended up An important component for optimizing symptom aid for lots of health ailments.

There are plenty of THC dependent medicines offered on prescription, hemp is the best supply of gas identified to guy as it can be regrown without the need of soil degradation and returns a greater per acre crop than other resources. It's also one of several several suffering killers that works on CNS discomfort. To make use of grape seed oil To ease earaches, blend garlic oil with 3 drops of grape seed extract. Warm it a little bit by immersing the bottles in a very bowl of warm drinking water. Chilly oil may perhaps only intensify the suffering momentarily when placed during the ear. After the oils are warmed, utilize a dropper to position them In the ear canal. Be particularly careful when inserting the dropper. Don't adhere it as well far into the ear canal. Putting everything into your ear can result in much more pain and in many cases force germs additional into your ear. Receive a towel or wash cloth hot with drinking water and put it in excess of the painful ear right after inserting the drops. The moist heat can lessen discomfort. Paired with antibiotic therapy for your infection, this technique will make the earache extra workable.

CBD oil will also be suggested to sufferers with psoriasis. The universities of Nottingham and Looking at in the United Kingdom conducted a research in 2007, which demonstrated how cannabinoid compounds operate as inhibitors of keratinocyte proliferation (predominant cells within the epidermis). In this study, they came to The end result that cannabis and especially CBD oil is a potential therapy for psoriasis. Investigate has proven that CBD delivers a much better cure, specifically for those with Long-term discomfort. On the other hand, there are lots of substitute in the market in recent times when it comes to male enhancements and penis enlargement. Initially things which Guys consider are capsule. Though, This can be worse detail to do, as it presents possibility for your health and fitness. Products Typically have side Was ist der Unterschied von THC und CBD? effects which isn't great in your body. However, you can find indicates to create your penis big and possess robust erections in normal way, without the need of detrimental effects far too. It is rational, if you have time to consider about this.

In South Africa's 1st democratic elections, held in May 1994, the ANC acquired 63 for every cent from the vote. But despite the jubilation that greeted this historic victory, the determination of the ANC to working South African capitalism brought it into conflict While using the black masses shortly. This conflict will handled below in-depth. This Hub may possibly look like prolonged, however it is time that story is 'outed' and let-loose on to the viral stream. As with all kind of prohibition, once the floodgates open, you will find an inevitable wave of about-indulgence. For the previous few decades, we have seen the emergence of significantly robust oils and concentrates But given that the occasion smoke clears, that's modifying. Individuals are exploring different cocktails and new compounds with the objective of dialing in the effects to accomplish exact moods and encounters. This is likely to be as vague as " celebration ," tempting as " soothe " or as precise as inducing lucid goals The condition is, we're most likely nevertheless several years (or many years) faraway from being able to make this sort of statements with any degree of self-assurance. At the very least in a way that may be deserving from the FDA's rubber stamp.

Professional: Topicals are not absorbed into the entire body, as other forms might be. That could make them safer—which might be significant if you utilize CBD consistently—looking at how very little is known regarding the long-term protection of CBD along with other cannabis goods. In the beginning from the examine, fifty two.5 p.c of contributors, or 193 persons, explained their suffering degree as higher. On the six-month observe-up, only seven.nine p.c of individuals that responded, or 19 people, reported superior amounts of suffering. Some researchers imagine that Jesus might have traveled east during these so-referred to as unidentified many years.” If this principle is genuine, Jesus used time finding out with monks and mystics from various spiritual traditions all through Pakistan, India, and Tibet. Plus some of These traditions incorporate the religious utilization of cannabis.

therapeutic and psychological pleasure The advantages have, Generally, been completely ignored in literature and mention folks and vegetation. Collectively, the Lively brokers in noni are antiviral, antibacterial, antioxidant, analgesic, anti-tumor and hypotensive, which means the herb might reduce hypertension. Noni is less than investigation as a potential treatment for breast and prostate most cancers, in accordance with the Nationwide Middle for Complementary and Alternative Drugs. Noni seed oil is anti-inflammatory and properly counters acne together with other inflammatory pores and skin ailments, including eczema. Why would critics criticise the South African govt? Probably due to the violent assistance shipping protests that are getting to be synonymous with South African cities. Xenophobic attacks that noticed 60 foreigners killed in 2008 and also the obvious incapacity of The federal government to run their governmental departments, instruction ministries and municipal really should possibly not be noticed as failures within the ANC's component and critics really should instead not voice their criticism.

Ashley Garris, 28, of Wilmington, N.C., suggests she started off using CBD 3 months in the past to take care of her fibromyalgia, stress and anxiety, and head aches. It had been an entire everyday living-changer for me.” She claims she prefers vaping or rolling cigarettes making use of hemp flowers, and he or she has experienced excellent good results with CBD topicals for rapid ache and muscle mass cramp reduction. The FDA has not too long ago accredited the usage of CBD Oil for managing two forms disorders characterized by epileptic seizures: Lennox-Gastaut Syndrome and Dravet Syndrome, nevertheless they've limited the use to anyone above the age of 2 and only with evidence that other therapies have already been ineffective. Conclusions inside a 2014 critique of CBD Oil concluded that its use may also address problems linked to epilepsy, such as neurodegeneration, neuronal personal injury and psychiatric disorder.

CBD is amongst the much more than sixty cannabinoids which might be extracted from cannabis. CBD oil might be acquired in a variety of kinds, liquid, cream and in some cases as chewable. Its most effective-acknowledged compound of cannabis and its main psychoactive component is tetrahydrocannabinol (THC). CBD isn't a psychoactive substance, not like THC, it can be. Soon after two months of CBD procedure, the affected person with several painful problems (52) experienced diminished soreness concentrations and greater top quality of slumber. She was able to scale back a few of her drugs. Malicious tumors are widespread in Animals and this means the Doggy should undertake chemotherapy, which ends up in different side-consequences. Now it can be demonstrated that CBD also has anti-cancerous Houses that it could sluggish The expansion of your tumor and perhaps lower its dimensions in some instances.

Pre-clinical reports have revealed assure for remedy of chronic ache, neuro-inflammation, stress, addiction and anti-psychotic results in animals, typically rodents, claimed Ziva Cooper, an associate professor of clinical neurobiology at Columbia College who focuses her research on the therapeutic probable of cannabis and cannabinoids. It relieves chronic soreness: The human body is produced up of various devices that do the job for its usefulness and common wellness. Amongst these types of methods would be the Endocannabinoid Process (ECS). The ECS regulates and controls selected capabilities in your body, like temper, slumber, discomfort, hunger, and energy Regulate. CBD oil interacts with the receptors within the ECS To ease agony and inflammation. One of many concerns individuals have about applying CBD solutions is that they're linked to cannabis. They presume that hemp includes superior amounts of THC just like cannabis; having said that, this is not the situation in any respect.

CBD is often a cannabinoid, a compound located in cannabis plant. The oil incorporates CBD concentrations and also the takes advantage of differ considerably. In cannabis, the compound that is definitely popular is delta 9 tetrahydrocannabinol or THC. It really is an active ingredient found in marijuana. Cannabis has CBD and THCA and both of those have distinctive consequences. Hemp tends to suck up each of the harmful chemical substances in the soil. Consequently, it truly is pertinent the CBD oil originates from vegetation developed applying organic and sustainable farming practices. Heating cannabis at low temperature than combusting releases vapor, which consists of Energetic elements found in marijuana or cannabidiol but this time without the destructive by solutions similar to the smoke. When cannabis is vaporized, it gets rid of about 95 p.c of smoke that would if not are actually inhaled in the event you were using the bong, pipe, or other typical uses of clinical cannabis.

Why now: The cannabis industry, including the producing of CBD, is presently unregulated by the FDA, and lots of critics state that lack of standards to adequately vet new cannabidiol products has made a wild West” culture. Put simply, there is not any regularity in the standard of any CBD generate consumed. That does not appear to trouble people a lot of: The sector is predicted to increase, and, In keeping with a report from Grand View Investigation , by 2025, the global authorized cannabis sector is anticipated to achieve $146.6 billion. Cannabidiol (CBD) is a variety of cannabinoid, a chemical located By natural means in cannabis ( cannabis and hemp ) plants. CBD would not induce the high” experience normally associated with cannabis. That sensation is a result of tetrahydrocannabinol (THC) , a unique sort of cannabinoid.

[xtruss]

Voice

Trump Scapegoats China and WHO—and Americans Will Suffer

The White House’s official narrative about the pandemic is contradicted by the facts—and creates new obstacles to stopping the virus.

Trump’s decision to punish others for his own failings is no surprise at this point in his presidency—and still completely reprehensible, writes Laurie Garrett.

— By Laurie Garrett | May30, 2020 | Foreign Policy

President Donald Trump speaks during the daily briefing of the White House Coronavirus Task Force in the Rose Garden at the White House April 14, 2020 in Washington.

On Friday, President Donald Trump declared that the United States would be terminating its relationship with the World Health Organization (WHO). It was a decision both immoral and likely illegal. It also encapsulates the most questionable aspects of the president’s leadership style: his penchant to blame others for his mistakes, his refusal to share the global stage politely with other actors, his indulgence of blind self-interest, and his utter contempt of science.

Trump cited issues he formally raised on April 15 in a White House statement, in which he charged the Geneva-based United Nations agency with “mismanagement of the coronavirus pandemic” and claimed that “WHO repeatedly parroted the Chinese government’s claims that the coronavirus was not spreading between humans … [and] praised the Chinese government’s response throughout January.” Two weeks later, Trump ordered the U.S. intelligence community to formally investigate WHO and its relationship with China, amid allegations from Secretary of State Mike Pompeo that what he called “Wuhan virus” was either manufactured in or leaked from the Chinese city’s biosafety level 4 laboratory, equipped to handle the most dangerous pathogens. This claim, which Pompeo has repeated many times, had been largely rejected by the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, which said it “concurs with the wide scientific consensus that the COVID-19 virus was not manmade or genetically modified.”

Like a petulant child, Trump has repeatedly claimed that the deaths of more than 100,000 Americans to COVID-19 were somebody else’s fault: China or WHO. “We’re doing very serious investigations. … We are not happy with China,” Trump said during an April 27 White House news conference. “There are a lot of ways you can hold them accountable. … We believe it could have been stopped at the source. It could have been stopped quickly, and it wouldn’t have spread all over the world.” Three days later, Trump went deeper: “It’s a terrible thing that happened. Whether they made a mistake or whether it started off as a mistake and then they made another one, or did somebody do something on purpose,” China started the pandemic.

Top Republican leaders have told me that party polling consistently reveals that China-bashing is immensely popular among Trump supporters and that the “blame China” theme can help reelect the president in November, offsetting some of the disdain many Americans have for his handling of the country’s COVID-19 crisis. Recently published polls show party divides on these issues. For example, in a CBS News poll, 67 percent of Republicans said the new coronavirus was manmade, while only 30 percent of Democrats agreed. A Pew Research Center poll found that most Americans held negative views of the Chinese government and President Xi Jinping but Republican views were consistently more unfavorable. Another survey found 73 percent of Americans, from both parties, saying the Chinese government bears some responsibility for COVID-19 deaths in the United States.

Public opinion about WHO is more complicated. A Politico/Morning Consult poll in late May found 43 percent of Americans surveyed rating the agency’s performance poor or “just fair” versus 48 percent rating it good or excellent. Asked to assess the U.N. agency’s handling of the COVID-19 pandemic, 35 percent judged it insufficient, 40 percent thought it adequate, and 9 percent said WHO was doing “too much” to fight the virus.

That ambiguity hasn’t deterred the administration from targeting WHO. On May 18, at a virtual gathering of WHO’s World Health Assembly, U.S. Health and Human Services Secretary Alex Azar told representatives of 194 nations: “We must be frank about one of the primary reasons this outbreak spun out of control. There was a failure by this organization to obtain the information that the world needed, and that failure cost many lives.” Azar called for an independent review of WHO’s performance in the pandemic. Azar was followed by Chinese Health Minister Ma Xiaowei, who announced that China would give an additional $2 billion, above its annual dues, to WHO.

Xi told the same May gathering of the World Health Assembly that he would support an investigation of the early days of the Wuhan outbreak but not until the global crisis had calmed down worldwide. WHO Director-General Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus and his staff, for their part, have already delivered detailed accountings of the agency’s activities and statements in December and January. But some crucial context is needed to understand both the organization’s successes and failures. Under its 1948 constitution, WHO serves and deals with nation-states—not civil society, NGOs, private industry, or groups of physicians. Just as the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention rarely contradicts statements or data issued by any state, WHO cannot typically contradict a nation.

Chinese authorities most certainly did downplay the Wuhan epidemic in December and January, grossly understating case numbers in daily reports to WHO; insisting the virus was only spread from animals in a market, which they closed; and denying that human-to-human transmission of COVID-19 was possible. Physicians in Wuhan who tried to warn the medical world about the emergence of a SARS-like pneumonia virus were severely penalized, as were independent Chinese journalists. One key doctor sounding the alarm, Li Wenliang, died of COVID-19 in early February, and his colleague Ai Fen disappeared in April. Beijing authorities turned down January requests from WHO to send an independent scientific team to Wuhan, and nothing resembling accurate case numbers was officially reported until Jan. 19. Four days later, Wuhan was locked down.

That lockdown ultimately prevented a catastrophic epidemic that, according to a multinational team of independent researchers, would have likely infected more than 7.7 million Chinese, rather than the 114,325 estimated as of the end of February. On the other hand, if China had locked Wuhan down a week earlier, on Jan. 16, some 75,000 fewer people could have been infected. According to two epidemiologists, the United States, which started social distancing under White House guidelines on March 16, might have spared 90 percent of the nation’s deaths had it gone on lockdown two weeks earlier, on March 2. That’s a decidedly uncomfortable finding for the White House.

The central White House allegation, therefore, is that China’s coverup led to an underestimate in Washington of the scale of the COVID-19 outbreak and an inability to recognize the need to prepare the United States. Moreover, because WHO didn’t publicly contradict Beijing’s claims, and twice declined to declare an official public health emergency of international concern (PHEIC) before finally doing so on Jan. 30, the Trump administration accuses the agency of colluding with Beijing—in essence, of being a co-conspirator.

But the president’s accusations come despite ample evidence that the U.S. intelligence community provided the White House with detailed, urgent assessments of the Chinese outbreak in December and January and that U.S. personnel assigned to WHO continually fed detailed reports from Geneva.

Implicit in Trump’s charges against WHO is that he acted decisively as soon as the organization provided information about the urgency of the situation. The president has repeatedly insisted that his administration took swift action in late January, when he ordered the cessation of travel from Wuhan and other parts of China. In March, Trump claimed that travel restrictions “saved a lot of lives” and that by late March the numbers saved grew to “probably tens of thousands.” And at a White House briefing on April 7, Trump said: “I was called all sorts of names when I closed it down to China. … If I didn’t do that, we would’ve had hundreds of thousands more people dying.”

But a recent stunning study executed by the evolutionary biologist Michael Worobey of the University of Arizona has thrown serious doubt on the travel restrictions hypothesis. By analyzing the genetic details of thousands of SARS-CoV-2 viruses, Worobey and his team discovered that the earliest case in the Seattle area, considered patient zero for the United States, did not actually spawn the American epidemic. That individual who arrived from Wuhan to Seattle on Jan. 15 did pass his virus on to a handful of other people, but then, the spread stopped. Though travel restrictions were in place in February, some 40,000 people—including U.S. citizens—entered the country afterward, and one of them arrived in the Seattle area between Feb. 13 and 19, spreading the virus and starting the West Coast epidemic.

Similarly, Worobey’s group showed that the earliest Wuhan-to-Europe cases identified in early February never sparked outbreaks, but a traveler from Hubei to Italy arriving sometime between Feb. 7 and 14 started the huge Lombardy epidemic. And viruses found in New York City are genetic descendants of that Italian outbreak, which arrived sometime around Feb. 20, weeks after travel restrictions went into place.

In other words, if the Worobey analysis holds up—and he is a scientist who has built his career on similar genetic mapping of HIV and influenza outbreaks—most hard-hit nations got slammed with the coronavirus after travel restrictions were instituted and after WHO issued its PHEIC. And that includes the United States.

Nevertheless, tensions and blame have only escalated between the Trump and Xi governments, exacerbated by the National People’s Congress vote this week to revoke crucial aspects of Hong Kong’s freedoms and democracy. Both Democratic and Republican leaders in Washington have strongly condemned Beijing’s effective revocation of the 1997 U.K.-China pact guaranteeing the territory of Hong Kong relative independence until the middle of this century. And Chinese leaders have counterattacked in a war of COVID-19 words.

On May 28, the Chinese state media outlet People’s Daily labeled Trump’s domestic response to COVID-19 “incompetent” and the American death toll “one of the darkest moments in U.S. history.” Mincing no words, the editorial denounced Trump personally: “While there are many factors at play, a key factor behind the high numbers was the Trump administration’s mishandling of the coronavirus crisis. … America, the most powerful country on the planet with the most sophisticated medical technologies, did not have to lose so many lives to coronavirus. The Trump administration squandered vital time as the coronavirus spread across the country. … [T]he grim milestone is a failure of epic proportions on the part of the Trump administration.” The next day, Trump announced the U.S. withdrawal from WHO.

In all likelihood, Trump can’t legally pull the United States out of WHO without giving the agency a large amount of money and can’t unilaterally do so without a vote of approval from Congress, according to the global health legal expert Alexandra Phelan of Georgetown University. Though the WHO constitution does spell out how a nation may withdraw, Phelan says, it is clear that a departing country must settle all its debts with the agency. And joining WHO required U.S. Senate ratification. Exiting would require Senate approval, payment of all debts, and a full year’s notice. According to the Kaiser Family Foundation, which tracks such things, U.S. dues, which are assessed based on national GDPs, have ranged year by year between $107 million and $119 million over the last decade. In addition, the United States commits up to $400 million annually in voluntary support, making it the single largest donor to WHO. The 2020-2021 budget for WHO is $4.8 billion. The Trump administration has been a scofflaw, having never paid $81 million of its dues in 2019 and none of its $118 million for 2020. And $900 million in Obama administration commitments made for 2018-2019 have not been honored by the Trump White House.

If Trump can get over the congressional and financial hurdles, he still faces significant moral hazards. Most of the agency’s spending is on health programs for the world’s poorest and most vulnerable. In addition to the loss of U.S. funds, WHO is facing a $1.3 billion shortfall in funds from other sources and cost overruns due to emergencies, including the Congolese Ebola epidemic and the COVID-19 pandemic.

Immunization programs worldwide, including the polio eradication effort, have suffered thanks to lockdowns and diversion of public health and medical personnel to the COVID-19 fight. On May 22, a host of international organizations, including WHO, warned that 80 million children under the age of 1 were at risk of acquiring measles, diphtheria, polio, and other vaccine-preventable diseases. With the United States withdrawing its financial support from WHO, those vaccination efforts will likely suffer further setbacks.

The U.N. estimates that 130 million people could sink backward into extreme poverty due to the pandemic’s impact on the global economy, creating further health needs. Malaria programs worldwide have been disrupted by supply chain issues and lockdowns, which have interrupted the delivery of mosquito nets, drugs, and testing equipment.

In addition to imperiling the lives of the poorest of the world’s poor, the United States is, by quitting WHO, sending more signals to the world that the Trump administration intends to go its own “America First” way in the coronavirus fight. But the rest of the world is hurriedly forming trade and research alliances, committing to working together to find treatments and vaccines for COVID-19. Some of these collective deals have been forced inside WHO; others are regional pacts—the Trump administration has joined none. While it is certainly possible the first effective vaccine is invented and developed by a U.S. company, it is at least equally likely the innovation will come out of China, Europe, Asia, or perhaps Latin America—and the American people might find themselves at the bottom of the list for access to the life-saving supplies because Trump opted out of all international agreements and cooperation.

“We need to be engaged with other countries for the benefit of people who spend their time in places like Detroit,” former U.S. Treasury Secretary Lawrence Summers said this week. “This is not primarily a moral issue. This is a forward defense of our national security interests.”

Trump screwed up his tariff fight with China in 2019, forcing enormous subsidies for American farmers facing bankruptcy due to the loss of grain and livestock exports. When COVID-19 first appeared, Trump was trying to realign trade deals with China, so he confidently told a gathering of financial elites at the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, that China had the epidemic under control and that there was nothing to worry about. When it turned out that the epidemic was a pandemic, Trump issued the travel restrictions and assured Americans that there was nothing to worry about. As it became obvious that there most definitely was a great deal for Americans to worry about, amid national spread of the coronavirus and a wildly chaotic federal response, Trump blamed China. It didn’t take long for the U.S.-China blame game to grow toxic. Then the president added WHO onto his list of scapegoats.

The pain for this childish abhorrent behavior will now be felt on the COVID-19 battlefields and in every poor community that relies on U.N. agencies for emergency food, child immunizations, essential medicines, and guidance. Trump’s decision to punish others for his own failings is no surprise at this point in his presidency—and still completely reprehensible.

— Laurie Garrett is a former senior fellow for global health at the Council on Foreign Relations and a Pulitzer Prize winning science writer.

[webcricket]

Catch a Falling Star

Characters: CastielXReader ft. Sam and Dean Winchester, and special guest, Crowley

Word Count: 2101 (Part 5)

A/N: Part 5 of a Soulmate AU mini-series.

Summary: What if angels didn’t end up just anywhere when they are banished by sigils…what if sometimes they end up exactly where they need to be? Turns out you are Castiel’s grounding stone, and it’s more complicated than either of you realizes. Crowley magnanimously tips the Winchesters off to a brooding danger regarding their feathered cohort. Cas gets a taste of the ordinary life.

Completed series Masterlist:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/165166387163/catch-a-falling-star-masterlist

“I’m telling you. Stone cold, it was weird,” Dean alleged, six-pack of ice cold lagers clinking as he set them on the library table. Condensation oozed out onto the polished mahogany surface of the wood from the mushy edges of cardboard. “I mean, we both know I’m hilarious and I didn’t get so much as a single giggle out of her.”

“Yeah,” Sam snorted mockingly, “weird.” Dean garnered minimal sympathy from his brother on account of Sam’s long-suffering endurance of Dean’s habitually incessant jocularity as a method to diffuse stress between hunts. The hilarity, with repeated exposure, had devolved into background noise – something akin to the monotonous humming tread of the Impala’s tires on asphalt rather than humor. Sam thought from Dean’s account of his conversation with you that you sounded like a perfectly reasonable and discerning individual and someone whose personality matched well to the angel’s decidedly temperate wit.

Dean snapped the metal cap off one of the bottles, the sharp wet hiss of pressurization bubbling in the air. He continued speculating, “I’d bet you anything…”

The younger Winchester noticed the dapperly dressed figure idling in the alcove of bookshelves first.

“…she’s…,” Dean trailed off, spying his brother’s annoyed glower.

Crowley made no overt attempt to conceal his presence, taking full advantage of Dean’s self-indulgent deliberation to surprise the brothers. Rule one of ruling: You don’t become King of Hell without taking advantage of every opportunity, however quaint, to vaingloriously make an unannounced entrance.

Sam’s scowl deepened into the line of his brow, his eyes trained cagily on the shamelessly shrugging demon.

Dean followed his brother’s irked gaze and proceeded to choke on his beer, sputtering, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Hello boys,” Crowley crooned, a conciliatory smile toying upon his lips. He held up a half-empty carafe of whisky to his nose, disapproval glinting in his piercingly cool mien as he swished the amber liquid around and inhaled. “By the way, where do you keep the good stuff?”

“We don’t,” Dean groused, losing the will to drink his beer.

“Hmm,” Crowley frowned critically, “then how do you expect to entertain your esteemed guests while they wait?”

“We’re not here to provide you with entertainment,” Sam retorted through a clenched jaw, his frustration over their repeatedly failing errand to locate a mysterious all-important treasure chest and deliver it over to the demon boiling his blood.

“I beg to differ, on the whole I find you boys moderately more entertaining than a box of rocks,” Crowley observed smugly, revolving to set the carafe on a side table. “Marginally less intelligent, but you can’t win them all, can you?”

“You leave the door unlocked again?” Dean accused his brother without looking at him.

“No,” Sam’s voice wavered, not actually one-hundred percent certain of his answer, realizing he might have forgotten to lock it after his morning run. They’d exited later from the garage egress so it would have been overlooked. “Maybe?”

“Sammy, how many times do I have to…”

“Kids!” Crowley interrupted. “They grow up so fast, don’t they?” He sauntered into the golden glow of lamplight, burying his hands in his pockets, the glossy sheen of his coat fabric attesting to a keenly refined taste for extravagance. “Speaking of which, I thought you boys could use a cheerful pick-me-up in the form of, well, me. You know, to liven up the empty nest and all.” He flashed an affable grin at the brothers to no avail.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean snarled, shooting a chagrinned here-we-go-again glance in Sam’s direction.

Crowley stepped nearer the table, feigning interest in an open book placed thereupon. Leisurely extricating a hand from the deep recess of his overcoat pocket, stretching out the torture of the brothers’ aggravated anticipation of his reply, his tongue grazed the tip of a pointed finger in preparation to leaf through the brittle yellow folio. “Rumor has it your beloved homing pigeon has flown the coop. Got his feathers all ruffled over some pretty dove in New York,” Crowley elucidated casually, persevering in the pretense of studying the text before him while gauging the brothers’ response to this sensational suggestion regarding their stowaway seraph in his peripheral vision.

“And?” Dean rolled his vibrant green eyes, allowing the tenseness seizing his shoulders to relax.

Sam, too, appeared more at ease – alert scowl dissolving into a passive glare.

Crowley cursed internally, not permitting his chagrin at not being the one to deliver the lurid news to the brothers to shroud his debonair disinterested demeanor. “And, if you’ve any hope of retrieving my box and holding up your end of our mutually beneficial little arrangement, you’re going to need your goose and his golden halo to fall back in line.”

“We’ll find your stupid box,” Dean grumbled. “And enough with the bird metaphors already, Hitchcock.”

Crowley sneered impudently at Dean.

“How did you hear about Cas anyway?” Sam quizzically arched an eyebrow.

“A sparrow chirped in my ear just before I broke his neck,” Crowley stated ominously. “Between you and me, I’m afraid I’m not the only one who heard him sing this particular song.”

“Who else– son of a!” Dean swore at the currently empty space previously occupied by the now cheekily decamped demon.

Second rule of ruling: Startling arrivals must be punctuated by inconveniently timed exits. In other words, always leave your audience wanting more.

“Castiel?”

The convalescent angel felt the light tickle of your fingertips trace beneath the tufts of dark waves ringing his forehead, perceiving your whispered prayer as a resonant echo in the stillness of his mind. Hours ago, the consciousness of his vessel had succumbed to the warmth of the dappled late afternoon sun streaming through the treetops, the rhythmic splashing lap of water on the graveled lake shore, the joyful harmony of bird and insect venerating the glorious day, the comfort of the oversized generously stuffed lounge chair, and most of all to the waking dream of you tending to a shaded patch of the garden tucked below the porch railing. Before his marveling eyes, your nurturing hands patiently teased life itself from the barren soil.

“Are you awake?”

A small smile tugged at his mouth. Despite the finally stymied hemorrhage of grace from his shoulder wound and his rapidly recharging vigor, he could not deny an intense fondness for your continued yet wholly unnecessary doting care.

“You’re doing that eyes-closed super-relaxed thing you insist isn’t sleep again,” you noted with a grin, taming the mop of his unruly hair with your fingers, prompting him to open his eyes.

He grasped your dirt-smudged hand, guiding it to his lips to pepper your knuckles with feather-light kisses, appreciating the fact these very same hands that worked tiny miracles in the earth had also sparked something vital in his own heart that bloomed under your tender affection. “Disengaging awareness from my surroundings is the most efficient method by which to expedite my recovery.”

“Uh huh,” you chewed your lower lip skeptically, “it’s uncanny how much that description sounds exactly like sleep.”

Cas’ smile widened, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes, wavering when he spotted his cell phone clutched in your palm.

“It’s Dean,” you offered him the phone, adding, “I don’t think he likes me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” the angel accepted the cell, focus following your retreat back into the yard amidst the rainbow of flourishing flowers. He held the phone up to his ear, an indignant gleam in his expression, “Why don’t you like Y/N?”

“Geez, hello to you too, Cas,” Dean grumbled.

“She thinks you don’t like her,” Cas reiterated, “why?”

“I was under the impression she doesn’t like me.”

“How could she not like you when she doesn’t know you?”

“She doesn’t laugh at my jokes.”

“I don’t laugh at your jokes,” Cas stated matter-of-factly.

After a lapse of silence which prompted the angel to check the screen to ascertain if the call had been dropped, Dean again spoke, “I, uh, yeah, I guess you have a point. And for the record, I never said I didn’t like her. She sounds great Cas, really. Sam and I, we’re both happy for you. I’m glad you took my advice to heart and gave her a chance.”

For friendship’s sake, Cas permitted Dean to believe his drunken anecdote had a smidgeon of influence where it had not, responding, “Me too.” In reality, the angel never had any choice. The stubbornness and insubordination in affront to universal will to delay the inevitable? Certainly. But choice? Never – you were always something that was going to happen to him and he to you.

“So, you, uh, you keeping busy out there?”

“This morning we went to a farmer’s market to purchase seasonal produce. Are you aware there is more than one variety of sweet corn grown for human consumption? There’s silver queen, with pearlescent kernels that are so tender it doesn’t require cooking to render it edible. In the butter and sugar hybrid, the kernels are a mix of white and yellow…”

“Sounds exciting,” Dean’s tone indicated he thought Cas’ bucolic foray sounded like it was the exact opposite of exciting.

“Tonight, Y/N is going to teach me how to make something called some mores.”

“You mean, s’mores?”

“That’s what I said, some mores.”

“No Cas, it’s called a s’more, not some more.” The fleshy smack of a palm striking a forehead sounded in the speaker. Sam could be heard heartily chuckling in the background.

“You’re not making any sense, Dean.” Cas could hear Dean’s eyes sardonically rolling around in their sockets. The disconcerting noise only added to the angel’s bewilderment.

“S. Apostrophe. More,” Sam spelled it out, having seized control of the conversation from his flabbergasted brother.

“Oh,” Cas nodded, “thank you for the clarification, Sam. That explains my inability to find any information regarding them on Google.”

“Anytime, Cas. Have fu…” Sam’s words faded as Dean grabbed the phone again.

“Look, not to rain on the co-ed scout camp jamboree thing you’ve obviously got going on out there, but we thought you should know according to Crowley, who dropped by for a pleasant chat about his stupid freaking box, we’re not the only ones who know about you and Y/N.”

Dean’s warning devastated Cas’ reigning sense of calm, reminding him about the dangerous world lurking beyond your enchanting lakeside realm. Bolting to his feet, he anxiously scanned the garden. Finding you safe and sound stringing a vine up a trellis, he breathed a relieved sigh as he sat on the top stair to better keep a watchful eye on you.

Dean continued, “We got a salt and burn a few states over, then we’re heading your way. So just watch your back until we get there, okay?”

“You don’t have to do that, Dean. You should continue trying to locate Crowley’s box. If he wants it that badly, we can’t let him get ahold of it until we know what it contains.”

“Right,” Dean agreed, “which is why we need your help finding it.”

Cas understood. He understood the Winchesters, his brothers in arms, were coming to take him away from you and that he would go forth willingly by their side as he’d always done. He understood he could stay to defend you within the boundaries of your home, or he could soldier away to better shield your exposure to the gruesome minutiae of the never-ending battle of good versus evil within which he was forever firmly entrenched. “How long until you get here?” he asked Dean, observing your figure meandering up the cobblestone walkway toward him.

“Three days, maybe less if this ghost cooperates,” Dean answered. “You know what, just call it three days. We’ll snag a motel in town if we get there early to stay out of your hair. Enjoy the s’mores.” The call ended.

“Are we expecting visitors?” you bounded up the stairs and settled beside the angel, head dropping to rest on his mended shoulder.

“Sam and Dean will be here in a few days.”

“That’s great!” you beamed, “I can’t wait to meet them. I know how important they are to you.”

Cas wound an arm around your waist, pulling you nearer and planting a kiss on the crown of your head. He inhaled the scent of your hair, honey and lavender riven with the rich loam of the earth and sunshine. For an angel, three days seemed only a slightly longer timeframe than the fleeting span of milliseconds marking the blink of an eye. It’s worth every minute, Dean’s sentiment echoed in his mind.

Part 6:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/164058430460/catch-a-falling-star

[hrrytomlinson]

happy spring!! here are a bunch of fics I’ve enjoyed and loved reading throughout the month of april. I recommend that you read these great fics in may, if you haven’t already.

(all fics with a star are my favorites and if there are two stars then it was a favorite favorite)

1. Pour Your Heart Out (92k)

Louis is his soulmate. Or at least Harry thinks he is. Louis feels the same as Louis. But there are a lot of people named Louis in the world and this Louis might not be the Louis. It’s besides the point though, because Harry knows he can’t allow himself to get close to any boys. He just can’t and he’s told himself this multiple times. He has to simply stay away from Louis Tomlinson. But he can’t. Harry Styles can never stay away from Louis Tomlinson. It’s physically impossible for him to.

2. Love Endless (Path to Permanence) (241k)**

So now Louis' finally done the love thing, and it's already in jeopardy? Just his luck. Harry's evil twin is back, and that can't mean anything good. It never has. Even with the help of friends, will Harry and Louis be able to keep him at bay? And is Auron really who they should be worried out?

...Only one way to find out. [Book 2/4]

3. Like to Keep You Laughing (12k)*

Louis gasped. “Are you straight? Oh, I'm sorry, man. You should’ve just told me; I would’ve left you alone.”

“No, no, that’s not it," Harry said. "I like guys. I definitely like guys.”

“OK…”

“Louis, I’m ace.”

Louis snorted. “Kind of full of yourself, aren’t you?”

—

Or, the one where Louis is a frat boy who likes to hook up and Harry is someone who doesn't hook up ever.

4. Be With Me So Happily (42k)**

Harry Styles may have had his doubts at first, but by the time the gates to the elephant sanctuary came into view he was one hundred percent positive. Louis Tomlinson hated his guts. Like hated, hated. Like loathed-him-on-sight hated.

From what Harry could tell, he hadn’t even done anything close to insulting enough to warrant the disdain that was Louis Tomlinson’s default expression whenever he looked at Harry. It really wasn’t fair. Especially since he’d been lusting after the man from the second he’d laid eyes on that pretty, pretty face with those pretty, pretty eyes.

Or ... the one where Harry Styles has a bad reputation and a heart of gold, and Louis Tomlinson wishes he wasn't so enchanted by boys who looked like Disney characters and wore shirts with bumble bees on them [aka Louis is the director of the Styles Elephant Sanctuary and really doesn't want to babysit his funder's spoiled lay-about son for two months].

5. Walk on the Ocean (26k)**

The boy smirked. “So we’re really playing it this way, huh?”

Louis didn’t miss a beat. “We can play it anyway you want darling.” He dragged a finger along the soft inside of the man’s inner arm, earning a shudder as his nail scraped lightly against the sensitive skin there. He liked that he made him do that, wanted to do it again.

The other man stared down at Louis and searched his eyes. “Yeah. Ok,” he finally said, grinning widely. “My name is Harry.”

—

Harry is an on the rise rock star. Louis is as far from the music scene as a famous producer's son can get. They meet and everything changes.

6. Love is on the Radio (35k)

To win a pair of tickets to watch Manchester United playing, Louis may have possibly lied to Nick Grimshaw on the BBC Radio 1 Breakfast Show, asking Harry, his best friend, to be his boyfriend. Problem is - Harry has always been in love with Louis and so, this Valentine’s he’s gonna see his dreams come true, with a tiny bit of a twist, in order to watch the football team they have loved together since they were kids.

7. What’s Stopping You? (14k)**

That shirt was what held his attention again. How many other guys had the same shirt that H and Harry had, and – wait. H… Harry. Harry did yoga. So did H. They both had the same shirt, and had both gotten home ten minutes ago and were cooking dinner.

No way.

Louis looked at the picture again, and stared more closely at H’s lips. They were pink and pouty, with the lower lip a bit plumper than the top, just like Harry. And H had brown, curly hair that reached his shoulders, just like Harry.

Louis looked over at Harry, who was putting his hair back up into a bun as the kitchen was most likely getting warmer.

“Holy shit,” Louis whispered. Have I been flirting with my own roommate all this time?

---

Or, the one where Harry wants to get over his crush on Louis, so he makes a Grindr account to find someone new. Of course, Louis messages him, not realizing H's real identity. It only takes a few days for them to figure it out.

8. Come Away With Me (80k)*

Louis had such big plans. He wanted so much out of life, and so did Amy. Now Bridget is going to grow up without a mother, and she’s always going to wonder what it would be like if this hadn’t happened. He wonders if she’ll blame him for her mother’s death as she gets older, or if she’ll understand that this is just as painful for Louis as it is for her. Louis doesn’t know how he’s going to raise her on his own, because he’s a fantastic father, yes, but he’s always been the fun parent, and Amy was in charge of the rules. He doesn’t know how to make sure Bridget has everything she needs all the time, doesn’t know how to make her favorite meal or how to do that one braid she loves to have in her hair or how to teach her to be the best person she can be. He doesn’t know how to live without Amy, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

Or, Louis has to pick up the pieces of his and his daughter's life after his wife dies, and Harry is a beautiful stranger that just wants to help.

9. In the Night (19k)

“Papa?” Louis questions, quietly enough that he won’t wake Bridget again. “Where did she even learn that?”

“Um,” Harry breathes, staring down at Bridget’s sleeping face. He should’ve known that that was why she was asking. “I may have told her some other names for ‘dad’ when she asked me the other day,” he admits.

“Oh my god,” Louis chuckles, looking down at her.

“She’s never called me it before, though, and I didn’t even think she would,” he says, rushed.

“She wants you to be her dad so badly,” Louis whispers, the smile fading from his face. Harry glances down at Bridget, unable to help his smile at her sleeping face.

“Yeah,” he mutters, reaching up to push a piece of Bridget’s hair behind her ear. “So do I, to be honest.”

Or, the self-indulgent reversed pov and slight continuation of Come Away With Me.

10. Down the Backs of Table Tops (and Ticket Stubs in the Attic) (7k)**

There's only two of them stuck to the house now, two souls tied to the walls and floor and pipes and appliances. Two souls stuck in a world that's moved on without them. Well, two souls and a cat.

He holds up the red fabric for Harry to get a good look at."We're going to decorate!"

Harry thinks this might be an odd shut-ins version of retail therapy, and he looks to Grimmy for guidance on how to explain to Louis that this will not at all help his cause.

11. Carried Away Like Butterflies (17k)

“Actually…” Liam said, scratching his chin absently. “I have a friend who is moving to London soon.”

“Without anywhere to live? Who is it? Do I want them living in my home?!”

“You met him at my birthday party. Harry, from Cheshire. Remember? Really tight jeans, curly hair down to here?”

Realisation dawned on Louis, staring at Liam who was gesturing round about his nipples. Did he remember Harry? Did he remember Harry?

He remembered Harry’s square front teeth biting into his collarbone, and he remembered Harry moaning, loud and obscene with no provocation. He remembered Harry dropping to his knees at the edge of the bed and roughly pulling Louis closer. He remembered, vividly, Harry’s lovely plump lips wrapping around his-

“Lou?”

“Uh- what?” Louis said, startled. “Oh, yeah. Um, I think I remember him.”

—

It was probably a huge mistake for Louis to let his former One Night Stand move into his spare room, especially when said One Night Stand doesn't seem to remember him.

12. Wholehearted (77k)*

AU. When superstar singer and winner of The Voice Louis Tomlinson tweets “Nothing worse than waking up with no milk for a cuppa !! Gutted” he doesn’t expect someone to bring him some. And he really doesn’t expect that someone to have bright green eyes, long curly hair, and (fucking) dimples.

13. Tea and a Blowjob, In That Order (8k)*

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Harry says primly, unfolding his napkin over his lap with an exaggerated gesture.

“Maybe not, but you’ve sure got a penchant for blabbing once you’ve had your arse beat,” Cara says.

14. Before We Evaporate (37k)*

Louis Tomlinson; executive chef and owner of his own five star restaurant, been voted one of the top chefs in London, and has won several awards for his work in the kitchen. He’s always dreamed of being on Chopped, but never believed it would actually happen. Until it does. Now that he’s officially made it onto the show, there’s one tall, curly haired distraction that might just ruin everything for him.

Or the kinda sorta enemies to lovers Chopped AU with far more smut than necessary.

15. Through Struggles, to the Stars (80k)**

Louis is a Starfleet captain trying to find his place in the universe. Harry is a prince just trying to do what's right.

A Star Trek-inspired AU.

16. You Really Got Me Now (6k)**

Louis is the best older brother anyone could ask for. He knows this because he's agreed to help chaperone his younger sister's school trip to Rome. As it turns out, Italy is full of surprises. Fizzy's Italian teacher is surprisingly hot, Rome is surprisingly interesting, and Louis is surprisingly falling in love with more than just the city.

17. The New Romantics (36k)*

After being blindsided and dumped by his boyfriend Isaac, Louis does the only thing he can do: wallow and mope. But when Harry tells Louis that karma’s going to get Isaac eventually, Louis decides karma isn’t moving fast enough. He takes matters into his own hands, and if he has to drag Harry into his schemes and seduction plans, then so be it.

Or a John Tucker Must Die AU featuring drunk dance sessions, bad disguises, and a seduction plan gone wrong.

18. Ain’t My Fault (6k)**

“Liam, M4M is for sex! You posted in a sex forum about your missing jacket.”

“It is not for sex!”

“It is. Trust me.”

“Well, if it helps me find my jacket then I don’t really see why it matters. Besides, someone already texted me about it. This Styles guy’s coming over in a bit to get it.”

“You invited the avocado man to come get his jacket at our flat after posting on a sex forum. Do you see where this is going?”

“I really don’t.”

“Someone is going to have to have sex with the avocado man!” Louis screeches, and Liam covers his ears.

AU. Liam posts an ad on the wrong section of Craigslist, Louis is pretty sure they’re gonna get murdered as a result, and Harry’s missing an avocado.

19. I Walk the Line (55k)**

Professor Louis Tomlinson is the leading researcher in his field. Harry Styles is Louis’ recently hired grad assistant. Sparks fly between them but something doesn’t add up when it comes to Harry, and Louis is determined to find out what.

What happens when everything Louis thought he knew comes crashing down around him? Is he doomed to repeat his past mistakes? Or will he learn to follow his heart and find a way to forge his own path, alongside someone he’s not sure he can trust, but who might just be the best thing to ever happen to him.

[mystery-moose]

FIC: Angus McDonald and the Flight of the Flying V (24/24)

[AO3 link]

They’ve come a long way, but even ten years after the world was saved, they’re still not quite where they should be. A whim, a missing painting, and a handful of near-death experiences help a flip wizard and his apprentice bridge the gap.

Taako does his best. Angus takes some risks. Introductions are made, bonds are tested, and lessons are learned — better late than never.

a/n: Thanks to everyone who read this far, who read from the beginning, who left kudos or a comment or just enjoyed this over-long self-indulgent nonsense. Y'all have gotten me through some tough times, and I appreciate it more than I can say.

And thanks most of all to @orchidcactus, without whom this fic would never have been finished, let alone been any damn good whatsoever. You are the shiniest diamond, and there is no better beta (or friend) in the world. <3

As he woke from a dreamless sleep, Taako reflected that for someone who didn’t particularly need it, he spent a lot of time unconscious. He’d wondered in the past if that was something common to elves, or if he was a particularly lazy example of one. Though to be fair, a good portion of that unconsciousness wasn’t exactly voluntary.

Alright, that’s enough introspection. Where the hell are we?

Taako wasn’t in pain, exactly, but he was sore literally everywhere, from toe to tip and skin to bone. He flexed his fingers and his toes (all accounted for) and tilted his head to work out a kink in his neck before he bothered opening his eyes.

Clean bed, with white sheets. Clean room, with no real furniture. Single window looking out at the city. Taako didn’t have to be a fancy detective to know what a hospital looked like, though this one didn’t look as fancy as the last one he’d woken up in.

He looked to his right, and found Angus asleep in a high-backed chair by his side. His arm was in a sling, and he was wearing his old glasses; Taako still recognized the places where eleven-year-old Angus’ makeshift mending spells had put them back together just a little bit bent.

Taako smiled and took a slow, leisurely breath.

Everything’s okay.

Then he turned to his left, and found Kravitz sitting in the opposite chair. Arms crossed. Glaring at him.

Or not.

Taako swallowed and chuckled nervously. “Hey, rabbit.”

Kravitz leaned over and twisted Taako’s ear.

“Ow ow ow ow—”

“Do not rabbit me,” Kravitz growled. “You nearly died.”

He let go and Taako rubbed gingerly at his ear. “Yeah, but… I didn’t? So—”

“I get a call from Angus, out of the blue. He put me on with a healer. I had to listen to them detail your extensive injuries, and the likelihood of your recovery, all while I was sitting in our living room reading Fantasy Home and Garden thinking everything’s fine because you didn’t call me!”

“Hey—”

“You should have called me,” he hissed, anger mixed with hurt. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Taako grumbled, noncommittal. “Didn’t really think about it.”

Kravitz scoffed and leaned back in his chair, looking away.

The sad part was, for once, Taako wasn’t bullshitting; he’d never considered calling Kravitz for help. Not once.

“It wasn't—” —your business, is what he had been about to say, but Taako cut himself off before he said something he might actually regret. “—I felt like I could handle it.”

“Handle it?” Kravitz whispered in disbelief.

“Yeah. Handle it.” Taako frowned. “I can take care of myself. Been doing it a long time.”

“Again.” Kravitz leaned in and tweaked his ear again. Taako winced and swatted his hand away. “You. Nearly. Died.”

“So I made a bad call!” he said quietly, holding his hands out. “It happens from time to time!”

“And what happens when you make another ‘bad call’?”

“Jeezy creezy, my dude, what is your damage?” he hissed back. “Even if I died, it’s not exactly 'so long and farewell,’ is it? It’d be like moving to another county for you.”

Kravitz looked actually offended, and for a second, Taako was legitimately confused as to why.

“You think this is about me?”

Oh.

Taako turned. Angus was still fast asleep. Thankfully.

“Contrary to what you may think, there are people in the material world who give a damn about your continued presence in it.” Kravitz crossed his arms again. “Think about that the next time you decide to do something monumentally stupid.”

Taako turned back with a sneer. “I’m not exactly in the habit of rushing in, Krav.”

“Oh, so this was a fluke, then?” Kravitz asked. “And what caused it?”

Taako opened his mouth to respond and Kravitz cut him off.

“I can’t believe you sometimes.” He raised a hand and gestured emphatically between the two of them. “You could have talked to me, could have tried to say something clearly for once in your life. Instead you go off and nearly get yourself killed because running away is apparently the only way you know how to communicate! And then when something happens to you, I have to live with knowing it was my fault—”

Taako reached out and grabbed his hand. Tight.

“Listen,” he whispered firmly, glaring at Kravitz. “Because this is important. Any stupid, callous, selfish decision I make? That’s on me. Not you. Not Angus. Not anyone. No one, and I mean no one, runs Taako’s life but Taako. Capisce?”

He let go and looked away with a scowl.

“Nothing I do is anyone’s fault but mine.”

Silence. Taako hated this kind of silence. It was absolutely miserable. Maybe that hadn’t been the right thing to say, or the kindest. But it was the truth. That ought to be enough.

“You really are very self-absorbed,” Kravitz said flatly. “You know that.”

Taako nodded, staring at the wall. “Yup.”

Kravitz sighed. Taako chanced a glance in his direction. He was resting his head in his hand, rubbing his forehead. He straightened and leaned back in his chair.

“Just call next time,” he mumbled wearily. “Talk to me. Please.”

Taako was about to insist there wouldn’t be a 'next time’ if he had anything to say about it, but decided against it. Instead, he nodded, eyes drifting down to the blanket.

“Sorry,” he said softly. “I know I’m… me. And that’s… it can be rough.”

“Yes. It can.”

Taako gritted his teeth. When he looked up, Kravitz wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning, either. He simply reached over and held Taako’s hand, ran his cold thumb across along the knuckles.

“But I don’t have any regrets.”

Taako felt his mouth twitch into a smile as he leaned back into his pillow.

“Cool.”

Taako dozed off again; he didn’t feel at a hundred percent yet, and didn’t feel like waking Angus if he didn’t have to. He blinked his eyes open to find the boy standing by the door, arm out of the sling and talking to Silvia.

“'Sup?” Taako groaned as he sat up. “What’d I miss?”

Angus rushed over and hugged him immediately. Taako winced.

“Okay, okay, still sore, thanks.”

“Sorry,” said Angus, pulling away. He looked beyond relieved. “Kravitz went to get food, you’ve been out for nearly a day and we were starting to get worried.”

“You kidding?” Taako rolled his shoulder. “I’m the picture of heal — ow.”

Angus laughed — it felt like an age since he’d last heard that — and rested his hand on Taako’s shoulder. “I’m just glad you’re okay, sir.” Taako smiled and pat his hand. “Likewise, boychik.”

He looked over and saw Silvia standing by the foot of the bed, hugging her elbows and smiling nervously.

“Angus filled me in on everything that happened,” she said. “Pretty crazy week you’ve had.”

“Eh.” Taako shrugged dismissively. “I’ve had crazier.”

“That’s… actually true,” Angus said, somewhat reluctantly.

“Oh, hey, uh.” Taako gestured vaguely in Silvia’s direction. “Sorry for, y'know. Thinking you were evil and shit.”

Silvia brushed it off. “It’s cool. I mean, I would have thought I was evil too.”

Taako nodded towards Angus. “He didn’t.”

She blinked. Angus quietly cleared his throat and looked away.

“Nope,” Taako said flatly, propping his elbows on his knees. “Never a doubt in his mind. Should have trusted him to begin with, but I’m a real stubborn asshole, y'know?”

Angus blushed and gently pushed his shoulder. “Taako.”

“What? It’s the truth, ain’t it?” He turned to Silvia. “Boychik’s always been an excellent judge of character. You’d think I’d know that by now, but here we are.”

He extended a hand.

“We cool?”

Silvia smiled and shook his hand. “We cool.”

“Good.”

Taako didn’t let go.

“You break his heart and I’ll destroy everything you hold dear.”

Angus’ eyebrows shot to the top of his head and his mouth fell open.

Silvia didn’t flinch. She leaned in closer.

“Likewise.”

Taako grinned and nodded, satisfied. He let go and turned to Angus.

“You should put a ring on it.”

Angus sputtered helplessly. Silvia started laughing.

Just then, the door opened and Kravitz walked in. He held up two large paper bags and grinned.

“Who wants Fantasy Panera?”

“Oh, hell yes!” Taako clapped his hands together. “Garbage food! Let’s go!”

Taako was halfway through his roughly-adequate approximation of a chicken club sandwich when the door opened again, and a tall woman in plate armor stepped inside. Silvia dropped her sandwich and shot to her feet with a salute.

“Lord-Commander!”

“Oh, sure, come on in,” Taako said through a mouthful of dry bread. “Not like I’m recuperating or anything.”

“At ease, Lieutenant,” the tall woman said to Silvia, amused. “You’re off-duty, remember?”

Silvia shuffled nervously, then sat back down. Her sandwich lay forgotten on the bed.

“Is something the matter, ma'am?” Angus asked curiously.

The woman shook her head. “Not at all. Simply an informal debriefing.”

She turned to Kravitz, still seated by Taako’s side, roast beef on rye in his hands. “Sir, if you’d excuse us?”

Taako reached over and rested his hand on Kravitz’s wrist. “Like hell.”

The tall woman frowned slightly, and opened her mouth to speak before she was interrupted.

“It’s fine, Dierdre. They’re all owed some answers.”

Lady Blisk walked in and closed the door behind her. This time, Silvia and Angus both shot to their feet.

“My Lady!”

“Lieutenant.” Lady Blisk nodded to her. “Dierdre explained how quickly you and your captain acted in the face of a, shall we say, reluctant chain of command. She’s recommending you for a civil commendation. You should be very proud.”

Silvia looked like you could knock her over with a feather. Taako sneered — both at her thrill at validation and at what he saw as a thoroughly inadequate reward — while Lady Blisk conjured a small floating disk upon which she sat. Silvia and Angus both returned to their seats. Kravitz, to Taako’s silent appreciation, had done nothing during all this but continue to eat his sandwich; working directly for a goddess made you a lot harder to impress.

“Captain Yates and his cadre have been sworn to secrecy about what little they know regarding the context of all this,” Blisk explained. “The only ones who know the full truth about the Door and its Key are the people in this room. I’d like very much to keep it that way.”

Angus nodded. “Of course, ma'am.”

“Yes, my Lady,” Silvia said.

“Sure, fine, whatever,” Taako mumbled, taking another bite.

“Where’s the Key now?” Angus asked. “Destroyed?”

“Sadly, the enchantment is too powerful to ever fully destroy,” Blisk said with a sigh. “But you have my assurance that the Flying V is as far from anyone who might use it as is possible.”

“And the Door?”

“Locked. Hopefully for good, this time.” Blisk crossed her legs and rested her cane in her lap. “Of course, this means that the Museum has been informed you were unable to recover the painting — its theft and subsequent destruction have finally made the news.”

Angus nodded. “Figured.”

“Rest assured, however, that the city of Neverwinter recognizes and honors your valor, and will richly compensate you for services rendered.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary—”

Taako slapped Angus hard across the shoulder.

“…but I’ll accept it graciously, ma'am,” Angus said, rubbing his arm. “Thank you.”

Blisk smiled. “It’s the least we could do. Truly.”

“What about Gavin?” Silvia asked. When all eyes turned to her, she shrank a bit. “I mean… what’ll happen to him?”

“'Gavin’ is an alias,” Dierdre explained. “His real name is Gabriel Vincent Stanton. Lady Blisk expelled him from the Guild of Magi some years ago after repeated offenses regarding misuse of magic and unauthorized experimentation. Apparently, he’d been operating under a number of different names before he arrived at your door, Mr. McDonald.”

Angus grimaced. “He was very thorough. I checked his background myself when I hired him, and didn’t find anything out of place.”

Blisk shook her head. “You couldn’t have known. I doubt anyone would have suspected.”

“Mr. Stanton will be spending the rest of his life in a cell,” Dierdre said sternly. “Somewhere isolated and very, very quiet.”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold the fucking stone.” Taako set his sandwich down. “He’s still alive?”

Everyone looked at him. Blisk and Dierdre nodded.

“What the fuck?” Taako threw his hands up. “I went through all that shit and he’s not even dead?! Fuck this!”

Angus closed his eyes, amused. “Sir.”

“No, for real! I am very upset! That bitch-ass piece of shit should be in the ground!”

“Death would be preferable, yes.”

Everyone turned to look at Dierdre, including Blisk.

She shrugged, nonplussed. “Well it would.”

Blisk gently patted Dierdre’s arm, and turned back to the group.

“Well then. Any other questions?”

No one spoke. Kravitz set down his roast beef and extended a hand towards her.

“Pickle?”

She considered it for a moment, then plucked it from his hand and took a bite, humming appreciatively.

“I suppose that’s that, then,” Dierdre said with a chuckle.

“Oh!” Blisk said suddenly, swallowing quickly and reaching into a small purse on her belt. “I nearly forgot. There is one last thing. More of a formality, really, though I’ll spare you the ceremony…”

“Y'know, I didn’t really think they gave these out anymore?” Taako said as he adjusted his hat and admired the large ornate key in his hand. It was as long as his umbrella and twice as heavy, made of pure gold that caught the sunlight as they left the hospital.

“They were meant to go to the city gates, originally,” Angus explained, hefting his own key in his arms. “But since the gates are always open these days, it’s more of a ceremonial thing.”

“Could fetch a lot of dough if we melted 'em down.”

Angus looked at him knowingly. “Or make a nice piece of statement jewelry.”

Taako’s eyebrows rose. While he reexamined the key in this new light, Silvia came up alongside Angus.

“So what’s the first thing you’re gonna do, now that you’re out of the hospital?” she asked.

Angus looked up thoughtfully. “I guess put an ad in the paper. 'Help wanted. Light office work. No murderers need apply.’”

“Make sure to underline that last part,” said Kravitz.

“Double underline,” Silvia added. “In bold.”

“Yeah, because the last guy was so forthcoming about his personal history,” Taako said sardonically.

Angus laughed. “Maybe I’ll swing it solo for a while.”

Silvia quirked an eyebrow. “Solo?”

He turned to her and grinned. “Well, not all the time.”

While the two of them made goo-goo eyes at each other, Taako slipped his wrist through the key and let it dangle from his forearm beside his umbrella. He leaned against Kravitz’s shoulder. Kravitz stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned back.

“Young love, Krav,” he drawled. “Ain’t it sweet?”

“Sickly so, dear.”

A loud horn sounded from the down the street. All of them turned to stare at the very large, very fancy wagon with the ornate side-plating and silver-capped wheels puttering down the street. It came to a stop in front of the hospital doors, and the driver, clad in fancy longcoat, goggles, and driving gloves, jumped down onto the sidewalk.

“A gift from the Lord High Steward,” he said, bowing to Taako. “With much appreciation to you, sir.”

Taako stared at the driver and blinked. He looked at the wagon and blinked again.

“You know,” he said, “I’m really starting to come around on that chick.”

“Brilliant,” Kravitz sighed. “Now we have to take the long way home.”

“Who said anything about home?” Taako wrapped an arm around his neck. “We need to take this baby on the road!”

“Taako, please. I’d really prefer to—”

“We could head to Goldcliff,” Taako suggested, wiggling his eyebrows, and drumming his fingers against his husband’s shoulder. “It’s not more than a week out. There’s nice hotels, fancy restaurants—”

“Really, dear?” Kravitz said flatly, unimpressed. “Restaurants?”

“—and a casiiiiinooo,” Taako finished in a sing-song tone.

Kravitz opened his mouth and froze. Nothing about his expression changed, but Taako saw the red in his eyes light up.

“You know, it has been a while since we’ve had a proper vacation.”

“Hell yes it has!” Taako stepped back and pushed Kravitz forward. “Now go and figure out how to drive that thing. I’ll be right there.”

He turned around. Angus had stepped back with Silvia, and was stowing his key in a bag of holding on his belt. As Taako sauntered over, Silvia touched Angus’ shoulder.

“I’ll, uh. Wait over here.”

Angus smiled and squeezed her hand. She turned away and walked back towards the hospital.

“Well, Ango,” Taako said with a tip of his hat. “Wish I could say it’s been fun.”

“Yeah,” Angus replied with a chuckle. “Me too.”

“Was good to see you, though.”

“You too, sir.”

They stood across from each other, within arm’s reach. Taako felt like there was something else he should say, but he wasn’t quite sure what.

“I told you I’m proud of you, right?” he asked, stroking his chin.

“Yes, sir.” Angus smiled and adjusted his glasses nervously. “It meant a lot.”

He nodded absently. “Right. Good.”

“And I’m glad you came. I… don’t know if I could have done this without you.”

Taako scoffed. “Please. This idiot wizard? All I do is drag you down.”

“That’s not true, sir,” Angus said firmly, shaking his head. “Not at all.”

Taako ignored him and waved dismissively. “C'mon, boychik. Don’t play. We both know it’s the truth. I taught you a few tricks, sure, kept you fed and clothed and shit, but everything you are now — every good thing, at least — that’s all you. Don’t know where you got it from, but it wasn’t me.” “Sir!” Angus exclaimed, gently taking Taako by the shoulders. “Stop.”

Taako shut his mouth and looked away for a moment — the boy’s gaze had gotten very intense. When he looked back, Angus was fighting tears. Taako felt a tightness build in his chest.

“Sir.” Angus spoke firmly, squeezing his shoulders. “You didn’t just teach me how to cook and cast spells. You taught me how to look after myself. You taught me about loyalty, and responsibility, and how there’s meaning in our mistakes. You were there when I needed you, every time. And all that because an eleven-year-old kid asked to come with you, and you didn’t hesitate for a second. I wouldn’t be half the person I am if it wasn’t for you.”

Taako stared at him. The tightness in his chest got worse. He blinked. Blinked again. His lip began to quiver. He sniffled, looked away, looked back. There was no escape.

Angus blinked back tears, smiled, and said, “I couldn’t have wished for a better dad.”

Ah, fuck.

Taako sobbed. Angus pulled him into a hug and held him as he cried into his shoulder. Taako shuddered and shook, clutching tightly at the back of Angus’ jacket as he rode out this despicably visible display of emotion.

“I love you,” Angus said quietly.

Taako sniffed loudly, and so softly he barely heard it himself, whispered, “Love you too.”

He spent a minute there, sobbing into the boy’s shoulder. As he got a hold of himself, he took long, shuddering breaths. Taako gently extricated himself from Angus’ embrace, and shook his head.

“Fuck you,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Ruined my makeup, you little twerp.”

Angus reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Taako snatched it from his hands with a scoff.

“Of course you have a handkerchief,” he said snidely, drying his face. “What are you, eighty?”

Angus grinned. “Next time you can conjure one yourself, Mr. Wizard.”

Taako laughed, brief and watery. He wiped his cheeks and then pocketed the handkerchief without offering it back. Angus chuckled and pushed him gently in the shoulder.

“So,” Taako said, avoiding eye contact. “See you at Candlenights?”

In his periphery, Angus nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Cool… cool.”

He sniffed loudly and exhaled, forcing himself to look at Angus one last time. He looked as upsettingly vulnerable as Taako felt, but he was smiling, and that made Taako smile back.

“Take care, kiddo,” he said.

“You too.”

Taako tipped his hat, and turned away. He climbed up into the driver’s bench alongside Kravitz, who rubbed a hand across Taako’s back.

“We good to go?” Taako asked.

“Good to go,” Kravitz replied slowly. “Unless… you’d rather stay?”

Taako barked out a humorless laugh. “Hell no. I’ve had more than enough of this fuckin’ town. Let’s get goin’.”

He looked back while Kravitz started the arcane engine. Angus and Silvia stood on the sidewalk outside Neverwinter General, holding hands. Taako took off his hat and waved it.

“Adios!”

The wagon kicked on and started puttering down the street. Angus and Silvia smiled and waved as they left. As they turned a corner, Taako sighed and leaned against Kravitz’s shoulder.

“Good kid.”

Kravitz kept one hand on the controls and wrapped the other around Taako’s shoulders.

“That he is.”

Taako closed his eyes and smiled privately.

I did good.

“So when’s the ceremony?”

“We’re not getting married, sir.”

“Really? Because it sounds pretty serious to me, is the thing.”

“Sir.”

“Alright, alright, jeez. She’s coming up for Candlenights, though, right?”

“Yeah. She’s excited about it. So am I, actually.”

“She hasn’t met any of the Bureau before?”

“Nope.”

“Poor maydl.”

“I don’t know, I think she’ll get along great with everyone. Especially Magnus.”

“Yeah, sure, him and his rustic fuckin’ hospitality. But you know he’s gonna be asking about that ring too.”

“…shit.”

“Yep. Done fucked yourself, boychik.”

“…well, at least Merle will be there to preach about the evils of marriage.”

“Ha! If you’re lucky, he’ll be half-cut on Redcheek cider before dinner.”

“You’re cooking, right?”

“No, I’ll be there cheering Magnus on — of course I’m cooking! What kind of question is that?”

“Just asking! Thought I’d get there early and help. Make sure I’m not getting rusty, y'know?”

“I wouldn’t turn down my faithful assistant.”

“Apprentice.”

“Sure, sure, that’s what I meant.” “Right. Well, I’ll call again before we leave.”

“Cool. Keep it real, Angarang.”

“You know it. Love you!”

“…yeah, yeah, you too.”