#ah yes...Ira

[mexipoopy]

[theroseempress]

Dino ask time! I'm gonna pick my favorite dinosaur for this - Carnotaurus!

DINOSAUR YAY

Carnotaurus - share a scene that contains some cool worldbuilding

Yeah, so here's the thing, I haven't actually gotten to the 'proper writing' stage with any of my WIPs, and thus all of my worldbuilding simply sits either in my head or a document. However, I am in the proper writing stage of what I'm calling Renegades (a superhero story which is only in that stage by benefit of not having gone through the script stage first whoops), and here is a snippet from that!

Ft; a few tidbits about Ira's powers and also Ira's dynamic with Trick and HB. Does that count? I'm going to say it counts.

Ira strode down the hallway, staff tucked under his arm. I need a damn drink. Ira’s powers burnt off most kinds of alcohol too quickly for him to get drunk, but there were a few kinds that made him at least fuzzy-headed. (And yes, maybe this wasn’t a good time for it, but there were enough capes around that Ira could just suck in some extra energy and clear his head anyway) Biting back a growl, Ira resisted the urge to blast a hole through the nearest wall, instead clenching his hands into fists. Eversor. Destroyer. There were very few capes that dared to mess with Ira, especially when he was angry. And Ira was angry. He contemplated portaling to the kitchens instead, then shoved the idea away. His skin felt like it was tingling; that was never a good sign for his control. Make a portal now, and next thing you know he’d be blowing the building up. (Ira’s control over his powers was much shakier than most people realized. Paris and Laurel were the only other people who knew the ins and outs of Ira’s power as well as he did. Raw energy was much harder to manipulate than it seemed, and with his powers’ lack of an off-switch, Ira was a conduit for any he passed. … He was glad Paris and Laurel stayed around, much as he worried about losing control. There weren’t many people who would befriend a ticking bomb)

[heart-of-the-blizzard]

@ira-sturm

Cephalopod

“Sepapod” he nods with finality. “What sepapod, bloo lady?”

[blacknedsoul-blog]

An unnecessarily detailed analysis of the (re)encounter between Annabel and "Leo" (part II)

Evil tongues say I've had this shit in the oven for several weeks because I bought the fast pass on episode 105 and smoked the whole season one afternoon when I was bored as a fucking oyster about to climb the walls. Don't listen to them, they're telling the truth.

So, yeah, people. We had a flashback. One that comes right after the last one we had. Aside from the fact that we finally know a little more about Theo, I want to focus on the direct sequel to a review I did a while back. So let's get started.

I'm still trying to decide if Annabel is complaining just because she had to get off her ass or because "Leo's" room being so far away from hers is, ahem, inconvenient. Another detail that someone mentioned on the discord, is that Annabel does this thing where she grabs her dress when she is trying to maintain the performance.

(later edit: someone commented to me that actually their rooms are ridiculously close to each other. So allow me to insert ridiculous jokes about how the first thing Ira will do when these two are engaged is take his precious daughter who is not to be touched before marriage somewhere else).

...Ah, they put... they put Annabel in Lenore's old room. Yeah, that must have been uncomfortable as shit. 

Okay. This is something I kind of suspected in her first stolen moment at the Arboreum, but I think this confirms it for me: yes, Lenore teasing Annabel is a way of expressing annoyance without being directly hurtful. 

Raise your hand if you enjoy seeing "Miss Proper Lady" lose her fucking temper. Bonus points if she deserves it. 

Lenore, I don't know if taking your clothes off is the best way to get Annabel to stay on topic. I do want to emphasize her face in that moment, though, like she knows Annabel cares about her, but she's still angry at her, and pressuring her to drop the mask is literally the only way she has to express it. I like it because it's consistent with her stolen moment in the Arboreum. 

"Admire this magnificent door made of door. Yes, an excellent door. Wonderful door. Eyes on the door, Annabel, eyes on the door and not on your crush taking off his jacket in front of you. Also, don't think too much about the fact that if anyone sees this, everything that is important to you will fall apart".  

Pause. Where did we see Annabel say that? Ah, yes. Well, if we had any doubts about posh besties, this confirms it. 

I want to linger on the faces of both of them in this scene because, for the love of Nyarlathotep, they are painful to watch knowing that this will end with both dead. 

Yes, Annabel, this "perhabs" was very VERY serious. 

I'm sure this is the second time in Annabel's life that someone has asked her if she wants something. And it's the same person. Ouch.

Does anyone else in the squad find it disturbing that ANNABEL is concerned about moral issues? 

That's not how Kabedons are made, missy. 

LENORE, LOOK AT THE FUCKING FACE SHE'S LOOKING AT YOU WITH, SHE WOULDN'T BE "PRETENDING TO BE IN LOVE WITH YOU", SHE'S EATING OUT OF YOUR FUCKING HAND RIGHT NOW. IF SHE WASN'T AFRAID OF JAIL AND WASN'T SO VICTORIAN, SHE'D BE ASKING IF SHE COULD GET IN YOUR PANTS.   

Okey, I need to know how this went from "pff, it's not a real marriage, we're both women!" to "I'm gonna fuckin' whore myself with Nyarlathotep Tumblrsexymen to come get you, baby. Shit, if these two die without having this conversation, I'm going to shoot myself in the mouth with a medieval arquebus. 

I like this moment because it tells you two interesting things: one is that Annabel must have a complicated relationship with her father, she cares for him and maybe feels he loves her in his own way, but at the same time Ira is her jailer, the main culprit of the golden cage she's trapped in. Another thing: we know Lenore used to care about her father, but come on, after everything that happened, I doubt she gives the man a second thought. 

...I wrote practically the exact same dialog in a fanfic. Actually, in the first Nevermore fanfic I ever wrote, when the fuck did my bullshit ever come true? 

I was racking my brain for a while about why Annabel keeps doing this. Like, look at this shit, even Ada or Morella would be able to see that this is bullshit. And I think I have an idea why. 

I think Annabel started to figure out how to make this work even before she came in. Maybe she's not all in, but at least the idea is tempting. The thing is, she's putting a lot on the line here: her life, her relationship with her father (the only family member we know of), what little freedom she has.

And that means she has to put her chips on the right person. She knows how the social game works, she knows how to manipulate the stakes of her hand, maybe she even thinks she knows how to get around those pesky legal snags when they come up. 

But she's not cunning, she's not quick-thinking, she lacks determination, and she's definitely not brave. Lenore can wrap herself in big dreams and beautiful words all she wants, but if she can't make up for Annabel's weaknesses, it's a losing bet from the start. On top of that, she has to be able to read her: in Victorian engagements, even your pet was into that shit, so sneaking away to plan things would be more of a rare privilege than a constant, her playmate has to be able to understand her perfectly, because they can't waste valuable time explaining minutiae. They have to be on the same page to the millimeter. 

Annabel is a player. And as such, she knows that in games where you have a partner, the key to winning isn't playing your own cards or chips well, it's being able to synchronize with your partner to give each other better plays until one of you manages to win. 

And if I had to bet, I think that is the Lenore that Annabel wants back: the Lenore who can read her, the Lenore who can get under her skin and know her true intentions even when Annabel is wearing the most perfect mask. The Lenore who can smile boldly and tell her that everything will be all right. 

Of course, Lenore passed the test. With a more than perfect score. 

The chapter ends with Lenore giving Annabel the final decision: if she sees no reason to stay, she won't, and she can assure her that she'll be fine. But if she's in, she'll do everything in her power to make it work. 

This was the moment that tore me up inside because it made me drop the shingle of sad, sad shit. 

Conclusions

And here's why I decided to post this analysis after the season.  

One thing this episode told me was that I was wrong about one thing: the relationship between these two isn't exactly what it used to be. What this episode also told me was that, despite everything, the two of them seemed to be able to communicate and find common ground, to make deals, to give each other choices. Shit we don't see anymore in their time in Nevermore. 

And with good reason.

In Nevermore Annabel and Lenore are adrift. No memories, no identity, no bonds. As if that weren't enough, both are terrified: Annabel has built all her means of survival around a context that she masters perfectly, and in Nevermore she doesn't know what's going on; on the other hand, Lenore's bravery and cunning are qualities that turn from virtues to flaws in a context where every single one of her decisions has repercussions for the people around her; she's willing to take anything, but not what happens to the people she loves. 

These two idiots know only one thing: that they love each other. And for Annabel and Lenore, loving means protecting. They have to try to protect each other because they really love each other. They love each other so much that they can't.

Because the only way for Annabel to protect Lenore is to be the queen of the board, to be the piece that everyone wants to get out of the way because her presence is too much of an inconvenience, because if she's good at anything,  it's dazzling so hard that no one is able to really see her. On the other hand, the only place Lenore can protect Annabel is by her side, she won't have a Spectre, but she's willing to do what it takes to take care of her if she stays where she can fight for her. 

But that won't happen because of the irreconcilable conflict caused by the memory (false or not, in practice it doesn't matter) that the Deans showed Annabel. She can't tell her that, she won't tell her that, how could she? It would tear Lenore apart and at worst alter her memories. But on the other hand, Lenore obviously wants to know, because she sees that Annabel is suffering, she wants to be there, she wants her to let her comfort her, to be by her side to help her sort this out, and all her pleas fall on deaf ears for reasons she can't even fathom.

But without realizing it, in all this devotion and accompanying fear, Annabel and Lenore are repeating the same controlling patterns of those who tried to save the other in life. 

Annabel is doing the same thing Thaddeus did when he got Lenore a fiancé, the same thing the doctors did when they kept her drugged 24/7 as a treatment even though she was sick, dare I say the same thing Theo did: assuming she knows better than she does what's good for her. "Protecting" her, even when that happens to be the agency Lenore is desperately trying to have over her life after being deprived of her freedom.

And on the other hand...this.

By taking full responsibility for what happened, Lenore is doing the same thing as Ira and all the people we meet in Annabel's life: denying her agency as an individual. Annabel is not a naive brat who was seduced by sweet words, she is a grown woman who was very, very clear about what the risks were. That they both ended up dead is partly her fault, but by turning this affair into "if I hadn't gone looking for you," Lenore completely invalidates Annabel's feelings, desires, and choices. 

A relationship that was once built on respect for choice and shared decision-making has now become a power game that neither can win, because one of the most important foundations of their relationship is that they are both equals. 

I'd like to end this on a more positive note, but...uh...well, the thing is, I don't. Like, that they're going to reconcile, they're going to reconcile, you know? But for that to happen, somebody's got to give them a massive punch like, something that tears them apart so they realize how fucking bad they are do-

You know what? Yeah, that might do it.

[ghxstlly]

The New Attorney

488 words, Attorney AU

The first time Mr. Poole and Mr. Becker met Ms. Riggsby (Anxiety) c:

—

“...—Your Honor— s—sorry, motion to recess?” Stiffening, feeling the eyes of Mr. Becker, the jury, everyone suddenly on him, Mr. Poole stood up from the counsel table, smoothing his hands over his jacket. “The Defense would like a short break before we continue.”

“...Mr. Poole,” The judge said after a long pause, looking sternly at him over her glasses. “With all due respect, your partner is in the middle of a line of questioning.”

“Ah— yes, I know, Your Honor. But, uhm, the Plaintiff is… having difficulty, and I would like to give her the chance to collect herself before we proceed with the cross examination, if that’s alright.”

At that, across the room, frazzled, shaking, Ms. Riggsby shrunk down in her chair, her gaze darting to Poole, eyes vaguely shiny with unshed tears.

“Fred— what the Hell are you doing?” Poole heard Becker mutter to him under his breath and ignored him, glancing between Riggsby and the judge, who studied the agitated orange attorney for what felt like forever before sighing deeply, her frown falling into a look of resignation.

“Fine. We’ll resume in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Poole said almost distractedly, watching as Riggsby bolted through the courtroom doors at almost the precise instant the judge’s gavel struck the block.

It was a strangely familiar sight, stirring something in him that he couldn’t name as the room erupted into whispering and Becker approached him, his frustrated glare darting between the doors and his husband’s transfixed face.

“You wanna explain yourself?” The short attorney huffed, his hands balled into fists at his sides. “I had the witness right where I wanted ‘em!”

“You need to cool down a little— you’re freaking her out.” Poole shot back after a little pause, turning to him with an unimpressed frown and crossing his arms. “She should have objected to you like six times.”

“I— what?” Becker barked, his eyes widening a fraction. “Why should I care if I’m freaking her out?”

“Because, Ira, this is obviously her first trial and I think you’re being excessively severe.” 

“Excessively severe? Jesus, Fred, last I checked, this was a courtroom, not a daycare.”

“Oh, knock it off.” Rolling his eyes, Poole glanced back to the courtroom doors, his frown softening a little. “I was like that once, too, you know. Try being compassionate for once.”

“It’s not our job to be compassionate.” Becker grumbled, following Poole’s gaze and nearly groaning aloud. “So what if our opposition is squirrelly and can’t handle being cross-examined? That just means our client is better at picking legal representation than hers is.”

“Okay— you’re being a real jerk, you know that?” Stepping past his husband with a huff, Poole found himself moving to leave without a second thought.

“Oh, come on, where are you going?” Becker called after him, raising his hands in an exasperated gesture when Poole’s reply came.

“I’m gonna go talk to her.”

[apparitionism]

Bonus

Happy particular Monday! Here’s a story for it, which came about mostly because I wanted to put a couple of people into a clichéd situation, and then I had to do leadup and aftermath... anyway, it’s intended to be a two-parter (yes, I know; aspirations) set in a not-entirely-canonical season 4, in which the Warehouse did get brought back and Helena did leave without explanation, BUT Artie doesn’t go full Father Data and Leena doesn’t suffer the consequences—mostly because Mrs. Frederic has sensed some badness to come and thus sent Artie and Leena away. Because why not? Also I have Claudia jumping into Caretakering, and even a bit of Artieing, with some enthusiasm.

P.S. I know I haven’t yet finished last year’s Christmas story—that’s a pain point—but I genuinely am working to get back on various horses, including that one. Weather (in all senses) permitting.

Bonus

“I genuinely cannot believe we’re stuck in an elevator,” Myka says. It may be the most true statement to which she’s ever given voice.

****

SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER...

Myka’s reasonably pleasant thought, burring along as background to her monotonous tasks, is I don’t mind this. She and Steve are in the Warehouse office early in the morning, doing file inventory, and it’s true: she doesn’t mind it. It’s a little lacking as a holiday activity, but with Artie, Leena, and Pete all away, “lacking” is pretty much the flavor of the moment.

Claudia pokes her head in and says, “Ping.” She’s unenthusiastic, speaking of lacking. Where’s the usual revving about what it might be this time? “At some midwestern accounting firm, because it’s important to have a boring Christmas.”

Ah. “An accounting artifact?” Myka asks. Speaking further of lacking: here, it’s artifacty zing. Then again, artifacty zing got Myka trapped in Alice’s mirror, among other catastrophes, so maybe boring isn’t so bad. “Balance sheets?” she ventures. “Pluses and minuses?”

“Some people at this pingy company just got extremely large Christmas bonuses,” Claudia says, “and some got their pay extremely docked. So yeah, ‘balance sheets, pluses and minuses’ just about covers it. Probably. I mean, I might be trying to manage expectations here.”

Claudia’s certainly right, in that getting one’s hopes up—about anything (or anyone)—is a fool’s game.

But still, there’s something to be said for boring-but-remunerative, even if only for some people... what a nice idea. “I’d like a Christmas bonus someday,” Myka says, “instead of a Christmas penalty. Which I think pretty accurately describes the Pete-plus-artifacts situation.”

“It’s two days before Christmas, and he hasn’t done anything yet,” Claudia says. “That you know of,” she amends.

“Because he’s been with his family in Ohio for the past week,” Myka points out, and she’s gratified when Claudia rolls her eyes. It’s practically a concession.

Steve says, “It’s inappropriate to say ‘Christmas’ bonus these days. It’s ‘end-of-year.’” The contribution suggests he’s listening with only one ear.

“I wish appropriateness mattered here,” Myka says, not really to him but in general. Who knows how a Warehouse HR department would make heads or tails of the application of employment laws—much less employment niceties? “Not that it makes a difference. Christmas, end-of-year... call it Fred, and we still wouldn’t get one.”

“If I ever do get a bonus, I’m absolutely naming it Fred,” Claudia declares.

Myka shakes her head. “Poor Fred. Doomed to be injected right back into the discretionary economy.”

“Inject-o-what are you even talking about?”

“Just a guess, but: you’d spend it on things you don’t need.”

Claudia harrumphs. “Thanks for lumping me in with the avocado-toast-and-Starbucks crowd. My fiscaling is way more responsible.”

“Really? What would you use Fred for?”

“Asus VG278HE gaming monitor. Plus a graphics card, maybe the Nvidia GTX 690, depending on how hefty Fred is.” At Myka’s snort, Claudia challenges, “Fine, where would you inject it?”

“My Roth IRA,” Myka says immediately. She’s not sure what assets her evil, crazy, or dead self will need in retirement, but given the many and varied forms each of those, or combinations thereof, could take, it seems like a good idea to have a financial plan in place. That’s another thing a Warehouse HR department might be useful for...

“You’re the actual human manifestation of an accounting artifact,” Claudia accuses. “Speaking of which, here’s the deal. I gotta stay here—some Mrs.-F homeworky stuff—and Steve’s busy reassuring all the misfit toys in the building that Leena hasn’t deserted them forever. And I’d say ignore the ping entirely, but your never know what’ll go viral, and I bet Artie’d say the last thing we need is another financial crisis. Or maybe you’d say it. Anyway, you’re it. And for your backup, when you get to Cleveland—”

Myka groans. “Cleveland? Seriously? Pete’s going to be so mad about you pulling him away from the family.”

“I’m not pulling him away,” Claudia says, blinking like she’s some innocent little lamb.

Myka groans again. “You’re making me do it?”

Claudia shrugs. “Sure. Why not. You’re partners, right? But here’s some advice: wait till you get there to call him. You know, put off the misery, if that’s what it is, as long as possible. Besides—more advice—I really think you should spend your travel time thinking about bonuses. Who gets ’em and why. Because what’s a bonus, really?”

“An economic stimulus whose nametag reads ‘Fred,’ if I’m understanding things correctly.”

“We’ll see what you think about that when you get to Cleveland.”

“On the day before Christmas eve,” Myka grouses. “By the way, that’s a whole lot of ‘advice,’ coming from somebody who’s over a decade younger than I am and not technically my boss.”

“By the way,” Claudia mimics, archly mocking, “we’ll see what you think about that too.”

“When I get to Cleveland?”

“When you get to Cleveland. On the day before Christmas eve.”

“Sounds like the title of a lesser Christmas carol,” Steve says—he’s tuned back in to the conversation. He then says, with his grin that curves so impish, “Think we could get Mariah Carey to sing it? It’s a hit if we get her, right, no matter how lesser?”

“‘When You Get to Cleveland on the Day Before Christmas Eve?’” Claudia skeptics. “Hit-wise, that’s gonna need a lot more power: Mariah dueting with Darlene Love at the very least. Plus we’ll need a Destiny’s Child reunion for at least one chorus.”

“Thanks for reinforcing my sense of how awful this is likely to be,” Myka tells them both, and Steve’s grin turns apologetic.

Claudia, however, shrugs. “Maybe you’ll sing it different.”

Myka is now the one to roll her eyes. “I won’t sing it at all.”

Surprisingly, Claudia doesn’t go with another eyeroll. “We’ll see,” she says, and Myka is struck by the Mrs.-Frederic resonance in her words. Does the homework include practicing the enigmatic tone?

Steve looks up and catches Myka’s eye. He winks. Myka would wink back, but he would probably interpret that as her saying she understands what’s happening. And that would be a lie: serious enough, probably, to make him wince and massage his temples.

So Myka just blinks—not Morse or any other code, just basic eye-moistening blinks. Then she goes upstairs to collect her always-packed travel bag for her trip to Cleveland.

****

Her flight departs late, of course; it’s December in South Dakota. But that’s this-time fine, because it allows Myka a necessary excess of opportunity to prep her Pete-placation. Under her breath, she practices the delivery of such words as “shorthanded” and “necessary,” aiming for maximum sincerity.

When she at last emerges from her Cleveland Hopkins jetway, that extensive prep deserts her entirely, for what awaits her is the manifestation of a Christmas wish she has worked overtime to convince herself would not, could not possibly be granted:

Helena.

Whose arms are crossed, and whose posture betrays that her foot might recently have been tapping out impatience with the plane’s tardy arrival. The attitude is so normal, so entirely of-the-world (rather than of-its-imminent-end), that Myka wants to reverse course, get back on the plane and redisembark, just so she might meet it again, meet it and refeel this wash of absolute relief at seeing Helena impatient in an airport.

Devious, Claudia, Myka thinks. Outstandingly devious. “Hello, Fred,” she murmurs, then tries, in the ten seconds she has before she and Helena are in proximity to speak, to engage in a far more consequential prep.

For Helena has been gone—has been, as Myka put it to Steve not so long ago, “god knows where”—since shortly after the Warehouse did not explode. She was there, in the Warehouse, but then she was gone, and Myka was told only that Helena had “matters to attend to.” God presumably also knew what those matters were, but Myka hadn’t, in the wake of that first moment of absence, and hasn’t since, been able to pry any information about matters or their whereabouts out of anyone, divine or otherwise.

And through the seemingly endless wondering, Myka’s mind and heart have gnawed themselves ragged.

Until this moment, when the wondering and gnawing end: now her blood speeds, coursing with urgency even as everything else seems to slow.... her movements, her reactions, her thinking, all are sluggish, unresponsive; only her blood matters. This blood knowledge. For all her wondering, she’s been avoiding gnawing her way to that answer.

“Claudia said you needed backup” are Helena’s words when they meet.

Myka’s attempt at prep has fallen grievously short—not that she could have risen to such an occasion, not when hearing that voice for the first time in some time, and certainly not when faced with what her blood’s embarrassing insistence has forced her to confront anew. “I... assumed I’d be calling Pete,” she says, to at least go with truth.

“Interesting assumption. Perhaps necessary, if you believe I’ll be insufficient.”

Myka’s impulse is to reassure: “More than sufficient—you’re necessary,” she would shout, or better yet, whisper. Instead, because Helena’s tone is neutral—is she in actuality indifferent?—she falls into a defensive, businesslike crouch, offering only implicit denial of the premise of Helena’s statement. “Let’s head for the accounting firm,” she says, internally cursing herself.

Cursing, but also justifying: Helena is here as backup, thanks to Claudia’s cleverness, and Myka should not assume (speaking of assumptions) that she even wants to be here. All focus should be on retrieving the artifact. Certainly on that and not on Myka’s (honestly) predictably overexcited blood.

She tries to concentrate on Claudia’s advice (while at the same time trying not to resent her success at being cryptic about it): what’s a bonus, really? Helena’s presence, the sight of her, the apprehending of her impatience, the experience of blood: whatever else may happen, these have been—must be—are!—the bonus.

****

The cab ride is quiet. Myka’s resolve to think only of backup and bonus is dissolving by the second, and she lets words reach her tongue that might start a conversation with Helena about things... but those words don’t escape her lips, for a strand of formality seems to be stiffening Helena’s spine. Does she know how Myka cherished her impatience? Is she attempting to discourage such adoration?

Myka, in regret and relief, follows that more-strict lead.

That’s a bonus too, though, for it turns the ride into unpressured, liminal time, perfect for simply basking in presence. It’s best, Myka is now thinking, to treat this reunion as something that was of course going to have happened. For backup or other professional purposes. Despite the fact that it’s the thank-god fulfillment of recurring, desperate dreams.

However: at one point in the traffic-backed silence, Helena, completely unprompted, turns and smiles at Myka.

Myka smiles back.

It’s a previously missing puzzle-piece slotting into place... yet in its aftermath, Myka finds herself having to push with force against a will to worry over other missing pieces; in particular, she must fight the fret-intensive futility of trying to count them.

****

They find the accounting firm’s lobby spacious but quiet—holiday-low staffing, presumably. Myka asks the receptionist, “Is there someone we can talk to about end-of-year bonuses? Also penalties?”

“I’m a temp,” says the young man. His tone suggests it’s his answer to every query... but then he adds, very quietly, “Unofficially, there’s this one guy...”

That has the ring of “artifact,” so Myka nods, encouraging him.

“Super-vocal about his paycheck the other day. How tiny it was. I mean, he’s the kind of guy you might have theories about what else is tiny, but I—”

“Who was that?” Myka interrupts, even as she feels Helena’s readiness to laugh. Mr. Super-vocal is thus probably not a wielder of an artifact; more likely, one of that wielder’s... victims?

“Bob,” the temp says. “I’m sure he’s got a last name, and I’m sure he thinks everybody should call him ‘Mr. Lastname,’ but my care level? Anyway he’s down the hall—one of the only ones in the farm today. Spite-working. Maybe on his anti-everything manifesto.”

“Down the hall” turns out to be a vast expanse of cubicles: definitely a farm.

Myka says to Helena, “Follow my lead?”

“Always,” Helena says.

It’s a tonally sincere utterance—and in that, admirable—but it’s also manifestly untrue; nevertheless, Myka’s blood decides to believe it, to recognize it as another puzzle-piece. I really need to function, Myka tries to explain to her interior. So if we could climb down just a couple rungs. Like to the cab-ride level, maybe?

Her body refuses the agreement.

Of course.

The occupant of the first inhabited cubicle they find is an over-coiffed middle-aged man who clearly spends far too much time in tanning booths. He’s typing aggressively, as if the force of his keystrokes will power his message. His manifesto?

“Are you Bob?” Myka asks him.

“You better be here about my money,” obviously-Bob says, clearly spoiling for a fight.

Myka finds his demand incongruous—his job has to do with other people’s money, and Myka and Helena are manifestly other people. Who could have money. Fred or otherwise.

“In a way,” she says. She follows up with “We’re from the IRS,” and it’s never not funny for that to be useful. Bob winces, as if she's about to strike him. Also never not funny. “We’ve noted some suspicious discrepancies in end-of-year reporting.”

“You have?” Bob asks. Now he’s avid rather than confrontational.

“Looks like some overreporting. Also underreporting. So you see our concern, particularly about effects on withholding.” She is making this up, as she generally does whenever she has to go actual IRS on someone. Read up on tax law, she reminds herself, as she generally does every time. Not that she’ll ever have the leisure to do that... “What we need to find out is whether it was in error, or if it warrants a full investigation.”

“Nancy Sullivan,” he says, with contempt, the name itself a curse. “She’s the one you should investigate, and then send straight to jail. She’s always been a witch about year-end, but now?  On steroids. Talking about making her list, threatening to mark down people she doesn’t like, including yours truly, as naughty... and then we got our paychecks, and somehow she did it! No idea how she managed to push that garbage through, but I swear you better get her up on some kind of charges!”

He rises abruptly, clutching a slip of paper; his chair topples over behind him. He shoves the paper in Myka’s direction, his knuckles nearing her astonished nose—but in the instant before contact, Helena intervenes, her arm blocking his, stopping his forward motion.

Backup.

Helena plucks the paper from his pushy hand. “And what’s this?” she asks.

A pretty minimal manifesto, Myka thinks initially. But then she replays his screed in her head, and his babbling about Nancy Sullivan resolves into meaningful references; struck by the realization, she very nearly misses his next statement: “My pay stub. She can’t just do this.”

Helena says, “Of course not.” She’s soothing him, her voice a faux-caress. It’s enough to tempt Myka to act out, just to hear it directed her way, even as Helena continues, “But we understand some of your colleagues, to the contrary, received large bonuses.”

His “tanned” skin darkens further. “Guess she thought they were nice. To her. Suck-ups.”

Mya looks a Find out anything else that’s relevant at Helena, who nods. Retreating back to the pre-cubicle hallway—relieved that her nose is intact—she Farnsworths Claudia. She skips the pleasantries, starting with, “A very disgruntled employee says the woman who signs off on bonuses was making a list.”

Claudia chortles. “You’re hilarious. Was she checking it twice?”

“This is my point. We don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with, not yet, but I bet that’s the crux.”

“I should’ve known you weren’t aiming for hilarity. So you really think this is some Santa thing?”

“No. I’m saying words about lists because I think it’s a grocery thing.” Myka wants to shake her fist at the heavens and every deity who occupies it. Occupies them. All the heavens. “Of course I think it’s a Santa thing! I also think it’s Pete’s fault somehow.”

“Just because it’s Christmas? C’mon.”

“Christmas and Ohio?” Myka snorts. “You c’mon. I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“Maybe you should though. For peace of mind?”

“That’s another thing I don’t believe in. Just see if you can find anything about a Santa’s-list artifact, would you?”

“Roger. By the way, how do you like your backup?” She chortles again and disconnects.

“I like my backup like I like the sunrise,” Myka tells the blank Farnsworth screen.

“What about the sunrise?” Helena asks from directly behind her.

Myka wishes the sound of her voice were either more or less startling. She wishes also that she knew exactly how much overhearing had occurred.

“It’s inevitable,” she sighs.

In response, Helena blinks.

They take the elevator to Nancy Sullivan’s office.

In that elevator, which is aggressively mirrored, Myka can’t help but glance repeatedly at herself. So many reflections. You called this into being, thinking about Alice’s mirror before, she accuses. She tries not to focus on how her hair could really stand to be more controlled... she’d focus on Helena instead, but who knows how that would be received? Instead she allows herself one glance, then looks down.

She likes being on the elevator with Helena, though; it’s a space of relative privacy, like the cab. Have they ever before been on an elevator together? Alone or otherwise? She runs through their interactions, fast-forwarding from the Wells house to D.C., Tamalpais to Moscow, Yellowstone, Colorado Springs, Ohio (here Myka trips over the fact that Helena’ s now been to Ohio twice, if only once in physical form), Pittsburgh, Hong Kong...

The review—the speed with which she can conduct it—reminds her of how limited that time has been, so: an elevator ride. Yet another bonus.

“That fellow,” Helena remarks, and Myka looks up again; their eyes meet in the mirror of the elevator’s doors. It’s uncanny, as if they’re both holograms, so Myka turns her body toward Helena, who meets Myka’s actual eyes and continues, “He attempted to make a lewd joke about his willingness and ability to be naughty when it’s called for. I pretended not to understand.”

Myka can’t help it: she snorts. “I bet he didn’t buy that for a second.”

“I have the ability to perform ‘prim’ when it’s called for,” Helena says, and Myka has to acknowledge that statement as good evidence of itself. Then Helena’s face reshapes into a devilish grin as she says, “In a slightly different vein, his quailing at those three letters with which you assailed him? Hilarious.”

“Letters?” A little perverse-quirk makes Myka want to hear Helena say them, though she’s probably not pulling off “disingenuous” in making the request.

Helena seems fine with the perversity, for she obliges: “I,” she begins, then draws out “Aaaaare.” Then, after a beat: “Esssss.”

Myka now herself feels assailed—by how right Helena’s reading her. She tries to step it down with, “I wasn’t aiming for hilarity. I never do. Claudia can vouch.” But she does spend a little moment thinking about the context of that previous assailing: we’re from the IRS. We are here, together, from an agency. We, together, represent. It isn’t by any means everything Myka would have wanted... but it’s something: part of this bonus. “Fred,” she says, sotto voce.

The office they’re seeking is on the building’s highest floor, suggestive of Nancy Sullivan’s bonus-approving rank; it features several large windows, one of which affords the office a view of the hallway, and vice versa. Through it, Myka and Helena watch a woman, presumably that powerful Nancy Sullivan, writing with a quill-esque pen.

“It’s the pen,” Myka says, because it has to be. “It’s always the stupid pen.”

“Always?” That’s unusually tentative, like Helena’s trying not to step.

“Okay, once,” Myka concedes. “My dad and Poe and a pen, and as a result I’ve developed a severe aversion to those quill things.”

Helena takes a beat. Then: “I never liked feather pens.”

“Are you just saying that,” Myka says, because she might be, and she might admit it, and that might be good or bad or something else Myka has no way of evaluating. Why does Helena say words like this? And for that matter, why does Myka keep spending her limited time on this planet trying to parse them?

“Yes? In that I’ve... said it?”

That really didn’t help with any of the whys. “I mean, just to make me feel better?”

Helena shrugs. “The fact is, today’s ballpoints et cetera are far more reliable. Does that make you feel better?”

She’s playing at being obtuse—surely that’s for a reason? But Myka has no time to wonder further, for Helena is knocking on the office door and opening it without waiting for an invitation, and the real retrieval is underway.

Myka flashes her badge. “I’m Agent Myka Bering, and this is Helena Wells. We’re from the IRS.” She glances at Helena—all these glances!—and gets a small smirk in response.

Rather than introducing herself, the woman says, “Really? I bet that’s not true.”

“Why?” Myka asks. Have she and Helena, over the course of the elevator ride, lost their ability to perform “official” correctly?

“I have a feeling you’re here for this,” Nancy Sullivan says, and she lofts the pen, waving it like a wand. “Mostly because I also have a feeling that I want to close my fist around it, punch my way past both of you, and make my escape.”

Well. “That’s self-aware,” Myka says. “Unusually so.”

“Thank you? Although it’s less self-awareness than kind of a... sixth sense.”

Helena raises an eyebrow at Myka. “Sixth sense aside, we appreciate your good sense to refrain from attempting to punch your way past us. That would have ended poorly.”

“I wish I’d had the good sense not to use this pen,” Nancy Sullivan says.

“Is there a reason for your wish?” Helena asks. She sounds, to Myka’s ears at least, like a recently summoned, slightly flummoxed genie.

“Because of how much I liked using it—particularly when I realized nobody was going to question anything. I signed off on all these orders, and it was like...” she trails off. Then she concludes, “Magic.”

To keep her talking, Myka prompts, “Was it?”

“Having the power to reward good people has been fantastic,” Nancy Sullivan continues, “but penalizing the awful ones? I mean I’ve sort of resented feeling compelled to use the word ‘naughty’ about them, because that’s way out of character for me. But other than that? Utterly spectacular.”

“Bob,” Helena suggests.

“Oh, god, you met him?”

Helena offers a dry “Alas.”

Nancy Sullivan’s smile is as dry as Helena’s tone, astringently vindictive. “I could not have been more thrilled to hit him and everybody like him where it hurt... I admit I’ve always been kind of judgmental, but wielding this pen? Intensified. Like, the hates are more. In particular, the hates are more. I’m not saying the Bobs of this company didn’t deserve what I did, but I feel it more. Punishment. It’s satisfying, but also weirdly costly. Grinch-in-reverse costly.”

That’s a little on the nose. Myka glances at Helena again, because the satisfactions of punishment, of judgment, even of hate, are among the things they will need to talk about. Maybe. Someday. If they are to have a someday that is theirs... if that is even possible after so much time and tribulation... Myka lets the glance grow into a gaze, a resting regard, and it stays that way until Helena, too, glances, with the result then that their eyes meet and lock... such a clasp, Myka feels, could ground that potential, and potentially necessary, talk of things, if only they were not in the middle of a retrieval...

...which makes Myka think. Why are they in the middle of a retrieval?

“I wish I didn’t feel like I need to articulate this, but where did you get the pen?” she asks. Because she has a niggling sense of something larger happening, something beyond her grasp. Nevertheless, it is not—repeat, not—a vibe.

Fine. It might be a vibe.

“My cousin gave it to me,” says Nancy Sullivan.

“Your cousin,” Myka says. “Whose name is?” Now she’s knows what’s coming, and that has nothing to do with a vibe: no, it is entirely deduction based on experience.

“Pete Lattimer.”

TBC

[esuemmanuel]

My Little Devil.

I have these two faces, at least I speak of those that are visible - the others are usually hidden and I have not even seen them-; the heavier of these two is the dark one, the infamous and inhuman; the insensitive, the foolish, the clumsy and childish… Yes, it is the face of a child overcome by malice, fed on the vanity and zeal of my bile. This face peers into the mirror and gnashes its teeth, then smiles to show me them broken and eaten away by its constant vomiting of anger…. This child eats my fingernails and his filth from my hands… and sweetens his tongue with my vilest madness. Ah, how he hates me! But, he cannot live without me; this is what displeases him most. He knows himself my slave, but also my master; the tongue that crawls down my neck while his teeth bite my throbbing. Oh, the pain is intense! it burns! it crusts! It transgresses my flesh and crushes my bones… but, the child… this child enjoys and has no pity; it continues to tear my flesh until it reaches my soul.

Mi Pequeño Demonio.

Tengo estas dos caras, al menos hablo de las que son visibles —las otras suelen esconderse y ni yo las he visto—; la más pesada de estas dos es la oscura, la infame e inhumana; la insensible, la necia, la torpe e infantil… Sí, es el rostro de un niño vencido por la malicia, alimentado de la vanidad y el celo de mi bilis. Esta cara se asoma al espejo y cruje los dientes, luego sonríe para mostrármelos rotos y carcomidos por sus vómitos constantes de ira… Este niño come de mis manos las uñas y su mugre… y se endulza la lengua con mi locura más vil. Ah, ¡cómo me odia! Pero, no puede vivir sin mí; esto es lo que más le disgusta. Se sabe mi esclavo, pero también mi dueño; la lengua que se arrastra por mi cuello mientras sus dientes muerden mi latir.¡Oh, el dolor es intenso! ¡Arde! ¡Quema! ¡Castra! Transgrede mi carne y a mis huesos aplasta… pero, el niño… este niño goza y no se apiada; sigue arrancando mi carne hasta alcanzarme el alma.

[hoarding-stories]

The bomb team: Ah yes! We're tagging along with Ira to set some explosives and damage the Vanguard's efforts to get to Predathos!

Matt: You take half of 158 points of damage. You are flung bodily up and out of the entrance by the force of this explosion. The ground moves outward, then sinks back in.

The bomb team:

[sentience-if]

What's the most mundane thing that'll make the RO's think "oh. I'm actually dating Io, and I'm lucky for it." I imagine for Val it would take a bit because they and Io could already be very close so changing from platonic buddies to romantic buddies wouldn't outwardly or even inwardly for that matter, their love for eachother is just a bit different now is all. It's honestly so funny to imagine Val and Io viciously making out and everyone thinking, "ah yes, typical Io and Val shenanigans." But then they say they are dating and not a single soul believes them.

u may be interested in this and this 🤭

I think Val has that realization like every other day and it surprises them just as much every time. the self-control to be purely platonic with Io is a hard habit to break. remembering that they don't have to anymore makes their brain go !!! oh shit!!

Connie: the moment Connie realizes they can't remember the last time they were actually annoyed by Io's presence... oh it's so over for them.

Klaus: he needs to be pulled out of context. Any situation outside the Acropolis/the Religious will reset his brain a little and remind him both that he's human and Io isn't a given

Ira: maybe a little less mundane, but Ira does have legitimate delusions and occasional difficulty discerning reality, so any time Io is able to anchor them through that will make Ira immensely grateful and aware of just how real Io is

Kat's sort of ... always aware of it, surprisingly. Like, yes, she's got a pretty high opinion of herself but she's just as proud of Io as she is of herself, if not more. Idk, Kat just very much lives in the present

[lambergeier]

2023 bookpost 🥳🥳🥳

43 books read this year! about 2/3rds of last year's number, but i fell off pace in summer and for the last two months and never actually have a target or care about my pace anyways, so 43 is a good solid number imho. as last year, full list with light commentary below, recs are bolded:

JANUARY

Neuromancer by William Gibson

The Browns of California: The Family Dynasty that Transformed a State and Shaped a Nation by Miriam Pawel (i am punished for my desire to learn more about the two governors brown's effects on the state of california with: family hagiography. should have known tbh)

Between Two Fires by Christopher Buehlman (SOOOOOO GOOD. apocalyptic/religious horror in 1350's france during the black plauge. for fans of the terror, and fans of people who are in love but for whom the love won't alwayshelp!)

The Mirror and the Light by Hilary Mantel (hilary ilu u were one of the greatest novelists of the past hundred years it was an honor to be alive at the same time as you. this could have been 200 pages shorter. ilu tho)

Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? by Seamas O’Reilly (short, sweet childhood memoir of the irish writer/comedian who, famously, tweeted that story about meeting the president of ireland on ketamine.)

FEBRUARY

Either/Or by Elif Bautman (girls can i tell you. i didn't realize this was a sequel until like 100 pages into the book. that was on me.)

Two Doctors Gorski by Isaac Fellman (ah mr fellman. lol)

The Swimmers by Julie Otsuka (really cool piece of fiction, first half told from the collective viewpoint of a group of regulars at a public swimming pool, second half about the one specific swimmer who's losing her independence to dementia. short, packs a punch)

Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier (UNDEFEATED!)

One Man’s Terrorist: a Political History of the IRA by Peter Finn

Nightcrawlers by Leila Mottley (love to see local 22yos succeed wildly. does NOT mean this book was good god bless)

MARCH

The Memory Police by Yoko Ogawa

The Passenger by Cormac McCarthy

Stella Maris by Cormac McCarthy (to be clear, if you are not a cormac mccarthy fan, these books will not make you his fan. they are very much about this man's incredible hopelessness regarding a world that has invented and used the atomic bomb. what can be redeemed, etc etc. i loved them, despite a major part of the plot being consensual sibling incest, they were beautiful and phenomenal, they were not light reading)

APRIL

A Smile in his Lifetime by Joseph Hansen

Glory by NoViolet Bulawayo (cannot recommend the audiobook highly enough. emma read the paper copy to catch up to where i was in the audiobook so we could listen together on a car trip, and she agreesTM that the audiobook is the way to go)

MAY

Barbarian Days by William Finnegan

The Dark Lord of Derkholm by Dianna Wynne Jones

JUNE

We Don’t Know Ourselves by Fintan O’Toole (really really really cool nonfiction about ireland since the 1950s, part autobiography, more parts cultural history of a very quickly changing nation. fascinating to read this within 12 months of finn's one man's terrorist, which was a very leftist history of the IRA, and keefe's say nothing, which was an only very slightly leftist history of the IRA that was most interested in like, how compelling the history is (not a drag on it). o'toole not as big on the IRA as the other two! understandable!)

JULY

The Binding by Bridget Collins

The War That Killed Achilles by Caroline Alexander (for all fans of the history of the story of the illiad!!! short and passionate!)

Flux by Jinwoo Chong (solid new debut scifi - who thought it could still happen!)

I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jeanette McCurdy

The Witch King by Martha Wells (this book sucked ass!!! have mentioned this several times already this year!!!)

An Oral History of the New York Commune, 2052–2072 by Eman Abdelhadi and M. E. O'Brien (some things about this book were fun, many were infuriating, absolute worst had to be the insistence that in the future: therapy would solve even more problems that it does today :))

The Last Samurai by Helen DeWitt (see my beautiful wife's post on the subject)

Stay True by Hua Hsu (beautiful, deserves the pulitzer, not 100% my thing but still very good)

AUGUST

Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver (the voice was hard to get used to for the first 50 pages, but i ended up really liking this tbh. i've never read copperfield, so not sure if that improved the experience)

Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner

The Boys by Katie Hafner (a mistake to read this, but at least the twist was funny! there wasn't anything else in the book, but only a partial waste of time at the end)

Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin (finally read this, which has truly polarized my extended social circle, but i ended up liking it. i didn't always get what it was doing 100% of the time, and didn't so much feel compelled to find out, but i tore through it and will always be a sucker for a story about that doesn't fix you but does keep you alive. can see both sides of this debate)

American Overdose: The Opioid Tragedy in Three Acts by Chris McGreal (we have to kill every sackler. solid history of the epidemic. EVERY sackler.)

SEPTEMBER

The Season by Kristen Richardson (half-baked history of the debutante social ritual. but, not like there's many other histories of the subject!)

All the Horses of Iceland by Sarah Tolmie

Big Swiss by Jen Beagin (funny, contained extensive dirtbag lesbian behaviors, but lacked some heft at the end)

In Memoriam by Alice Winn (do you s2b2? do you want some solid, tome-like origfic? do you want all of those things and also siegfried sassoon rpf? well great news!)

Now We Shall Be Entirely Free by Andrew Miller (pleaseeeeeee tell me if you have read this or do read this it was SOOOOOO GOOD and i had NEVER heard of this guy before!!! fantastically written prose, everything builds with infinite dread to a single horrible punchline, i am still wowed thinking about it)

The Trees by Percival Everett (haha hey wanna get fucked up. dark dark dark comedy)

OCTOBER

Flowers from the Storm by Laura Kinsale (really enjoyable if slightly overlong romance novel that i got off a rec list for historical romances with disabled love interests. does a really good interesting job of giving the love interest full breadth and agency despite severe processing impairment following a stroke)

Mobility by Linda Kiesling

The Rachel Incident by Rachel O’Donahughe

NOVEMBER

NO BOOK NOVEMBER MFS

DECEMBER

Not Even the Dead by Juan Gómez Bárcena (would also like to know if anyone else has read this so we can try and figure out what the fuck was going on right at the end!! also the fact that this is primarily about mexican history, written by a spaniard, with the specter of the US very prominent in the book is like. hm i would love to be able to read some mexican press reviews of this lol)

When Crack Was King: A People's History of a Misunderstood Era by Donovan X. Ramsey (picked this up following the opioid book, which discussed but didn't go deep on how the country's reaction to the opioid epidemic was so vastly different from the crack epidemic. put a lot of stuff into context lmao.)

WAIT AT SOME POINT THIS YEAR I REREAD RUMO AND HIS MIRACULOUS ADVENTURES BY WALTER MOERS. I DON'T KNOW WHEN. DIDN'T WRITE IT DOWN. BUT I DID REREAD IT. 44 BOOKS. shout out to mr. moers for writing some extremely fucking creepy books for teenagers <3

okay i was gonna do more about like general trends and vibes of this year's books, also about the four books i am still reading rn lol, but i have been typing for soooooooooooo long so i'm just gonna reblog with more thots in the morning. stay prepared everyone

[all-hallows-street]

Lingzi's Odaibako/Twitter Answers Collection Volume 2

Continuing the compilation of Lingzi's Odaibako answers. Click here for Part 1.

You can still send questions/comments/requests through Odaibako but please be respectful and mindful! As the author stated they will not respond to any questions or suggestions about future content! Also do not spam, Lingzi answers in rare bursts so they might not get to answer your comment any time soon.

A few clarifications. I will skip some doodle requests/drawn answers and will compile them later in a post with all of Lingzi's twitter drawings. Everything with [] marks an edit so the English sounds more natural.

16. Hello. I have a question. There is a scene where Nini imagines (delusions) having a child with Lily. Can demons and angels actually have children? Is there a mix of devils and angels? I was curious because angels themselves don't seem to reproduce.

Yes, that's just Neil's fantasy. Angels don't have the ability to reproduce~

Source

17. Hello Teacher Lingzi I'm Japanese and I'm learning Chinese. I would like to translate your manga All Saints Street into Japanese. But I understand copyright. Can I translate your comics and quote your images? (Also cite sources, of course.) Or is it difficult for an individual to do this?

Ah, sorry, I haven’t looked at the question box for a long time 😂 I don’t know if it’s too late to answer now 🙏🙏😭 If it is only for the purpose of learning and communication, it is no problem to translate comics that have been released for free! 👌👌

Very important answer for me lol.

Source

18. Do you have the names of the demon representative and the vampire representative? (Other representatives too) I like it very much😭

That's a new character created by the animation team, and I don't know him either... (laughs)

Source

19. Hello! I am Japanese. I learned about Halloween Street through anime and fell in love with it! I particularly like Ira. I want to know what kind of woman Ira likes🙇‍♂️💕︎💕︎ I like your comics❣️

Does it mean love in love...? I think he might not be interested in women... nor other genders... He is mainly not interested in relationships, but if I have to choose one trait, I think he might like [loves and is good at playing games] 】Female w

Source

20. Seven-year-old Anna looks similar to a seven-year-old human, so Damao must be in his twenties? How long is a werewolf's lifespan?

The lifespan of a werewolf is almost the same as that of a human, and Damao should be around 25↑🤔

Source

21. Hello Teacher! In the anime, Neil's age is stated to be 16 years old, but I read that in the original story, the devil is 80 years old and becomes an adult. Are the age settings different between the anime and the original?

Regarding this... I checked with the screenwriter of the animation before. They forgot the setting of the comic, so they wrote it according to the age of human beings 😂😂 So just think that the settings of animation and manga are different!

Source

22. Hello, teacher! I don’t know if there is a detailed setting for this, but I am a little curious about whether the ice cream that the devil eats (the name is really apt) is a real soul (?) Can the devil in the All Saints Street world eat human souls?

It’s a real soul 😂 But what’s frozen into ice cream should just be the soul of the fruit (everything is alive👌) Yes, they should like evil spirits and the like.

Source

23. I really like Neil's design. I love Neil very much and I have all his belongings around me. Neil has one side of his hair braided. Why does he braid it? I like it because it's very pretty. Do you think this is fashionable? (I'm Japanese so the translation may be different)

The setting is because Neil's mother's family has the habit of wearing braids for generations, so he and Nick both have braids. (But the real reason is that I like to draw braids and think they are cute)

Source

24. Hello, Teacher Lingzi. Does FENZ have any guidelines for doujin activities? (I would like to know if there are any rules like HMCH, such as distributing doujinshi but not producing goods.)

As far as I know, it has never been posted🤔...So I can't give a formal answer to this question. It's just for reference...As long as you don't take the official pictures privately ( Official comics + animation) should be fine if you print pirated copies and sell them, and do fan activities...

Source

Two similar questions are answered at once.

25. Hello! I recently learned about this through an anime translated into Japanese. All the characters are really cute and I really love them! Will a Japanese translation of the original manga be released…? I really want to read the original… When will the Japanese version of the Manseonggae original comic be released?

Because there are really many people asking about the Japanese single volume, I will give a unified reply here: Thank you for your interest in comics, but… I really don’t know! 😂😂😂 I basically won’t be involved in anything other than [conceiving + drawing] comics, so I really don’t know…but I haven’t heard any relevant news yet, so it should be…not available yet Plan it!

(It's been a year since and there are still no news about an official Jpn manga publication)

Source

26. Hello, excuse me for asking! Previously, you answered in the question box that angels do not have the ability to reproduce, but how are the genders of angels determined? Sorry for the Japanese. I would appreciate it if you could answer. My favorite work🥰

Being infertile does not mean that you have no reproductive organs🫢(probably) I think you can imagine the body of an angel as that of an infertile human 🤔

Source

27. Hello Teacher! Does Abu have a sense of pain? If there is something that everyone has that Abu doesn't, or something that Abu has that everyone doesn't? Please let me know!

I still feel pain, but it’s a special place... Maybe it’s because I’m less sensitive to cold and warm. Even if I only wear T-shirts all year round, it’s OK, but I still wear them with the four seasons in order to better integrate with everyone. To change clothes.

This is being answered through Abu's perspective or the translator is confused af. Source

28. Hello teacher~ I just discovered that there is a teacher’s account on Twitter a while ago, so I looked at all the pictures on Twitter. The series on Ira is really warm and cute, but at the end I saw Ira lying on Teacher Lin’s shoulder. It made me think, is it possible for him to lie on top of others like this (stealing) and moving (lazy)? After all, hiring someone to hold a parasol in summer is equivalent to getting a free taxi without having to prepare sunscreen. Although I don’t know how to deal with the clothing issue.

Haha, it’s because of the clothes that he usually doesn’t do that. Although it’s really convenient... If you can change clothes at home, the probability of turning into a bat is higher. Forget it outside, the clothes will fall off. On the ground~

Source

29. Can devils go into church? 🤔 for example if someone they know gets married at a church do they just have to stand outside? wwww

Oh I never thought about that before, but I think you are right[.] They may not be able to get into the church

Source

30. Hello teacher, I’m interrupting you again (although I am anonymous). I want to ask this time, will an angel still be an angel without a halo? To be more specific, it probably disappears. Also, can angels share halos?

Logically speaking, the angel's halo will not disappear, but it may be damaged and destroyed. If it is broken, just go back to heaven and apply for a new one😌👌It's not a big problem. Yes, Lily also secretly used Teacher Lin’s aperture.

Source

Continue in Part 3

[mexipoopy]

[grigori77]

Critical Role, Campaign 3 Episode 89

Why is Ashley's hammer so tiny?

Strange voice choices ... Ashley: "Wait, what's an English accent?" Proceeds to entirety fail to work it out ... oh, but Taliesin trying Jester is so much worse ... Travis, what the fuck is that? Oh, but Marisha's Nott is actually pretty good ... XD

Oh yeah, that's right ... it's full of city!

Great way to sell it, Laudna ...

Oooooh, plotting ... goodie!

Aha, Juggernaut ... and two little chewing gum guys? Oh, they're FUNGUS? Weird ... Gaz Tomo? Oh yes, of course ... he's huge ... and like a huge John Wayne kinda dude? Crazy ... XD

Myceit? Intriguing ... so they ARE sentient mushrooms, basically ... bizarre ...

Way to give the big man a major existential crisis regarding his food choices, FCG ...

Wait, so the Weave Mind are big bad eugenicists? Boooooo!

"Marked at birth?" Fuck ... this really IS a Mind control-based totalitarian dictatorship ...

The Arx Creonum ... yeesh ...

I'm sorry ... RESET?!!! Like the Matrix?

The Crush? Hmmmm ...

"Psychic bioengineering" ... weird ... it IS a shame they can't get their hands on some of this tech ...

"Taking out the trash?" Oof ...

Quakes? Crap! Not good!

Hey, sometimes revenge can be good ...

Ozo Cruth? This would be the Big Bad, then ...

Oh, I get it. So Gaz is like Johnny Bravo, then? XD

The Tectus? Ewww ... politicians? There's just no getting away from them ...

Holies? Sounds like fun ...

Oh yeah, proper theological GENOCIDE ... not good at all ...

The Great Question ... would you really WANT to know?

The endeavours .. okay then ...

A lengthy figure? If couldn't be ... FUCKING IRA!!! You prick! He couldn't have made it easier for them, could he?

Oh yeah, he's still SO CREEPY ...

Evoroa? A missing Bormodo scientist they need to find? Hmmm ...

Colloquium of Candescense ...

Ludinus' doomsday MacGuffin ... hmmm ...

Dark emerald dragonborn? An emissary of the Strife Emperor ... Bizodan Amorai? Ye gods ... make it easier on us, Matt, PLEASE ...

Prison Break at the Glass Garrison? Ooooh ... THAT sounds like a hot ticket ...

The Changebringer is "broken road?" Hmmmm ...

ASSASSINATION MISSION?!!!

Oh wait .. are they going after Liliana?

Sleep on it ... oh boy ...

Oh my gods ... mushroom escorts? Adorable ... and kind of creepy too ...

A literal bag of water ... CLEAN water, at least ...

This is NOT very private ...

Yes. How DOES Imogen feel about this?

How old IS Imogen? She's 28? Okay, then ...

Oh crap ... orb check? Ah hell ... Otohan is closer now ...

Other possibility is maybe going up against Fearne's real DAD ... hmmmm ...

Oh boy ... emotional intensity engaged! O.O Either choice will definitely be heavy ...

IS there ant chance of bringing Liliana back to the good? Would it be a lost cause? Hmmmm ...

Hey, come on, guys! Bad idea! You NEVER split the party!

"The worst Denny's ever" ... no shit, Chetney!

CAN Fearne summon her demon booty call?

Coin flip! Yay! Whoa ... it lands ON ITS EDGE?!!! Oof ... not a good sign ...

Yes! A Greater Restoration would be helpful, yes ... bring Ashton back up to top level again, Letters!

Ooooh ... the tragic backstory of Gaz Tomo! Whoa ... that's pretty cool ...

29? That's like a STUPID good persuasion ...

The Woven Music Grand Hall? Hmmm ...

Himbo of the Moon ... pfft ... XD

Every part of this plan does sound like a REALLY BIG RISK ...

Oh boy ... so they're gonna try to get through to Liliana in dream tonight ... oof ... this is SO SPECTACULARLY STUPID ...

Oh gods ... the lights or going RED ... never good ...

Holy shit, FCG could bring EVERYBODY along this time? Astounding ... and really dangerous ... yeah, better not to ...

CONTACT!!! Matt: "And we're gonna go to break!" AAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

Nervous ... so very nervous ...

Oh boy ... this is gonna be such s tough, emotionally devastating heart-to-heart, isn't it?

Fuck ... Liliana really HAS drunk thd Kool-Aid all the way, hasn't she?

Gods damn it, Matthew! Why do you have to be such s bloody amazing actor right now? She's in SO MUCpain right now you're gonna BREAK US ...

Waking up again ... yeah, genuine lost cause ... seriously, this sucks so bad it REALLY HURTS ...

Oh come ON Ashton, just SLEEP already! You're a mess! You need it!

This IS the question, IS Ludinus' promise to the Reilorans of relocation a lie or DOES IT have a basis in fact in his plans? Is he just leading them to unwitting ruin? Is he betraying them?

Ah yes ... the difference between religion and truth ...

Hey! Vecna gets sort of namedropped! Yay!

The Dunamussy! Ye gods ... wait, Laura, WHAT ARE YOU ... AAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!! You fool! What have you done?

LONG REST!!! SERIOUSLY!!!

So what's the plan?

Choices ... hmmm ...

Fearne goes looking for Ira ... the Nightmare King is tinkering ... flirty questions ensue ...

Ah yeah, the skinny on Zathuda ... Ira is LITERALLY just sore about them pulling one over on him ... basically Ludinus is Mark Zuckerberg in this scenario ...

All three of the Witches immediately verbally admonish Ira about being a dick ... including the two who aren't there ...

She wants his weird flying beast ... oh she wants A PONY!!! XD

Checking in ... ARE THEY going to go with Ira?

Insight check ... Ashley: "I don't know!" LOL

Evoroa? Might be the wise play ...

Going back to the meeting table to find out what's what, then ...

Meanwhile Laudna asks how Imogen is ... Holy fuck ... Laudna GENUINELY dropped sn I love you into the conversation ... and now Imogen's invoking the Delilah situation ... oof ... Imogen drops an I love you too! O.O A KISS!!! It's really sad but SO ROMANTIC too ...

As far as Laudna's concerned Imogen is a full blown SUPERHERO ...

Interrupted by sentient mushrooms ...

Quannika? That is SO HARD to spell ...

Meeting is called to order, then ...

Ira in a bandit mask ... XD

Oh, so HE'S making the selection? Okay ... Fearne, yes, since she DOES have a stake in this too ...

Detonation and infiltration, then ...

Screech Blooms? Fascinating ...

Oh ... hello, Unsettling Presence ...

Selecting their teams, then ... so, Fearne, Ashton, FCG for detonation, the others for Infiltration ...

Oooh ... spooky Reiloran mage type ... a really OLD one ... Ivanas? Cool ...

Yeah, I don't think ANY of us trust Ira as far as we can throw him ...

Working out the technical aspects if what they're about, now ...

Wow, they're all SO BAD at pep talks ...

Charcoal? Hmmm ... oh, it's Invisibility? Cool ... AND they can SEE each other ... ALSO cool ...

So, time to head out, then ...

Seeming for detonation team, then ... oh cool, now FCG is a sentient mushroom ... XD Meanwhile Bormodo Fearne now has a Mister Cytaa ... :3

Separation for the duration, then ... descending into the city below ...

A strange mockery of Exandrian architecture, but twisted through half remembered dreams ... interesting ...

And there's soldiers everywhere ... great ... preparing for the coming invasion, clearly ...

And that's it for tonight ... split missions! Intriguing setup for next time, then ...

[bitchesgetriches]

Drunken Pig Princess, will you play the game where you say what you would do if you got a random $5, 50, 50,000, or 1,000,000?

YES I FUCKING WILL.

$5: I'LL PUT IT IN THE LITTLE MUG IN MY BEDROOM WHERE I PUT ALL $5. THIS IS SO I HAVE SOMETHING HANDY FOR TIPS WHEN I NEED THEM.

$50: KEEP IT IN MY WALLET. I'LL USE IT TO PAY FOR DRINKS OR SOMETHING. NOT SUPER WORRIED.

$500: YOU SKIPPED THIS ONE BUT I THINK IT'S IMPORTANT. I'LL PUT IT IN MY JOINT ACCOUNT WITH BEAR. WE WILL SPEND IT ON HOME MAINTENANCE AND IMPROVEMENT.

$5,000: AH, THE REEEEEEAL MONEY. THIS SHIT'S WHERE IT'S AT. I'M GOING TO PUT EVERY PENNY IN MY BROKERAGE ACCOUNT. IF MY IRA ISN'T MAXED OUT FOR THE YEAR, I'LL PUT IT THERE. IF NOT, IT'LL GO INTO MY GENERAL INVESTING.

$50,000: JESUS FUCK. I'M SPLITTING THIS RIDICULOUS SUM BETWEEN HOME IMPROVEMENT, INVESTING, AND TRAVEL. DRUNK PIGGY WANTS TO SEE PATAGONIA, Y'ALL.

$1,000,000: I'M QUITTING MY DAY JOB AND DOING BGR FULL-TIME.

The Dollar Bill Game, Part 1: If Money Were No Object 

The Dollar Bill Game, Part 2: What Money Goals Say About You

[virgogonegirl]

Last 5 Songs

Hello there! I was tagged by my friend @gabibiaa to post my last 5 songs. I can’t figure out how to find that exactly how that works in Apple Music so here are the last 5 songs I have saved on there.

Mea Culpa (Ah! Ça Ira!) by Gojira, Maria Viotti, Victor Le Masne

Bangerr, I love Gojira and it was nice to see them get some recognition with the Olympics this year.

forwards beckon rebound by Adrianne Lenker

The sad tiktok edits got to me but this song is neat. Pretty lyrics.

Come Hell or High Water by Imminence

This was a song that my brother put me on. The “skin and bone” line fucks so hard. Insane drop.

For Sure by Ethel Cain

9 minute vibe cover by Ethel Cain fuck yes. Really gorgeous instrumentals over really soft vocals.

Erase My Scars by Evans Blue

Big Durge vibes from this one, I always love me some mid 2000s rock.

I’m not going to tag anyone but if you see this and you wanna do it be my guest!

[ghxstlly]

how did feangers (or Becker and pooles lol) wedding go? 🫢

Ive actually wrritten about how their wedding went!

Here you are, for your reading pleasure <3

---

Pacing in tight circles, surely wearing a hole in the parlor’s carpet, Mr. Poole reached shaking hands up to adjust his bowtie for what had to have been the hundredth time as he glanced up at the clock and stifled a wince, for not even a full five minutes had passed since his last check.

“Pull yourself together, Freddie,” He whispered firmly to the empty room, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath in a bid to clear his thoughts. “Y—You can do this. Confidence, poise— just like in the courtroom. Easy peasy. You will be perfectly fine. It’s just a wedding, your wedding, n—nothing to be… ah, nervous about.”

Almost immediately, he deflated at his own words, stopping his incessant pacing to sink into the nearest seat, his head falling into his hands. A strange, weak chuckle escaped his mouth, then, followed closely by a distraught whimper as he did all he could to stave off a bout of nervous tears and wondered how it was that he was meant to get through this without having a nervous breakdown.

This had all seemed so simple in theory.

“Freddie?” Startling him out of his fretting, a voice unexpectedly called from just behind the parlor door, accompanied by a soft knock. With a sharp gasp, Poole bolted upright, hurriedly clearing his throat, trying his best to assume some false facade of composure and only partially succeeding.

“I, erm— y—yes, come in!” He called back, and quickly perked up when it was June who entered, gently shutting the door behind her. “Oh— M—Miss Kelly, hello!”

“Hi, Freddie,” She said sweetly, and, blinking down at the hand that Poole had awkwardly extended for a handshake as she approached, giggled and rolled her eyes, tugging him into a tight hug instead.

“Thank you again— I’m still just so glad you could make it,” Poole murmured against her shoulder, voice wobbling slightly as he tenderly returned her embrace. When they broke apart, her hands slid down to his, squeezing them reassuringly. “I—I know you’re busy, so, it— really means a lot.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything in the world. I’m so, so happy for you, both of you.” She beamed, the sincerity in her words soothing over Poole and working to calm his frayed nerves. “I thought I’d stop by before the ceremony, just to check up, see how you’re doing. You look so handsome! White looks good on you— and I love the bowtie!”

Grinning bashfully, Poole glanced away, bringing one hand up to give said bowtie a little tweak, adjusting it absentmindedly as a light warmth bloomed in his cheeks.

“Heh— thank you, it’s, uhm— it was a gift, from— from Ira, actually.” He said, a dreamy little smile playing about his face as he spoke.

“Your husband?” June corrected, and almost burst out laughing when apparently just hearing the word aloud was enough to make a scarlet flush explode across Poole’s face.

“Y—Yea—yeah—” The lawyer managed to stammer, biting his bottom lip and trying in vain to hold back a huge, silly grin. “I mean— he will be in... In about f—forty-three minutes, anyway. If— if things, uhm, run according to schedule.”

“They will,” Withdrawing her hands, June gave his shoulder a reassuring pat and glanced towards the clock. “I’ll make sure everything is taken care of, don’t you worry.”

“Hah, that’s a relief. I really appreciate it— frankly I’m not sure what we would’ve done without you.” Poole chuckled, a note of relieved gratitude in his tone.

“Don’t be silly,” His friend hummed, waving a playfully dismissive hand. “You would have been fine. I’m just here to make things extra easy. So! How’re you feeling? Butterflies in your tummy?”

“Uhm,” Chuckling nervously, the lawyer averted his gaze and lifted a fidgety hand to the back of his neck. “That would be an understatement.”

“I should’ve guessed.” June nodded understandingly, offering him a sympathetic smile. “But, you know— the scary part will be over before you know it, and you won’t even remember being nervous. Try not to stress so much and just enjoy yourself— it’s your wedding, after all. Let me handle the stressful parts.”

Smiling sheepishly, Poole took a deep, steadying breath and nodded appreciatively.

“I’ll, uh— I’ll try. Thanks.”

“No need to thank me! It really is my pleasure.” She said, beaming for a moment before she abruptly perked up and clapped her hands together. “Oh— I almost forgot— before I leave, there is… one little thing that needs your attention.”

Immediately, Poole stiffened, reflexively standing up straighter as worry returned to his face with a vengeance.

“Wh—what?” He fretted, perhaps a tad more urgently than he intended to sound. “I, uhm, I’m sure I can take care of it really quickly, whatever it is—”

“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that—” She interrupted quickly, raising a placating hand to halt his anxious babbling in its tracks. “It’s just… I really think you should check on Ira.”

Poole blinked, visibly deflating as his brow furrowed with confusion.

“On… Ira?” He echoed cautiously, failing to suppress a concerned wince. “Is… I mean, is he okay—?”

“He’s fine, don’t worry,” June assured him, laying a soothing hand on his shoulder. “I just think it would do him some good to see you before the ceremony— that’s all.”

Tilting his head slightly, Poole held her gaze, wracking his brain for any possible understanding he may be lacking in the matter before humming nervously, almost sounding hesitant to speak.

“Ah… But, uhm… Is that even allowed—?” He asked slowly, and nearly jumped when June made a quick ‘pft’ noise, waving a dismissive hand.

“Tradition shradition, Freddie, no one cares about all of those silly wedding rules. As your Maid of Honor, I am allowing it.” Nudging him with her elbow, June giggled and winked playfully. “He needs you right now, and honestly, I think you need him, too.”

“I—...” Poole faltered, smiling sheepishly as June raised a brow at him. “...Okay. Ye—yeah, you’re probably right. You’re… usually right.”

“I know.” His friend hummed teasingly, looping her arm around his and gently leading him out of the parlor. “I’ll walk you over.”

Sighing softly, the lawyer merely nodded, falling into an awkward silence as he was guided down the hall, across the venue to a closed door secluded at the very end of a short corridor. Though it was a rather short journey, Poole couldn’t help feeling that the few moments it took to get there were the longest of his day so far, as just being outside of his dressing room was enough for the gravity of everything to sink in, a little less than comfortably.

June was none the wiser— releasing Poole’s arm as they approached, she had stopped a few paces short of the door and nudged him forward, smiling encouragingly as he glanced about as though expecting to be reprimanded by some nonexistent chaperone.

“Go on, now— he’ll be happy to see you. Trust me.” She whispered sweetly, turning as she began to walk the opposite way, but not before pecking him on the cheek with a proud, loving smile. “See you soon!”

Murmuring his thanks as she strode away down the hall, Poole felt almost paralyzed with apprehension, watching her a short while before dragging his attention to the door he’d been led to. For a few long, drawn out seconds, he simply gazed at it, his mind wandering unhelpfully back to the swarm of uneasy what-ifs and uncertainties that seemed bent on clouding his thoughts, before he reached up and rapped his knuckles lightly on the wood.

It was an empty pause that followed— a long, uncomfortable silence— before a sharp reply snapped from behind the door.

“Christ, what now?”

“Sorry, it’s— it’s just me.” Poole called back nervously and listened for movement, hearing nothing for a few beats before a series of footsteps approached and the door swung open.

“Fred?” Sounding nearly incredulous, Mr. Becker stood in the entryway, eyes widening a fraction as they swept over the nervous lawyer fidgeting before him.

“Hi,” Poole squeaked, a timid half-smile rising to his face as he waved limply, quickly taking in his fiancé’s appearance, feeling his heart skip a beat despite the knot of nerves that had formed in his stomach. “Uhm— how... are you?”

“The Hell are you doing here?” Becker demanded, ignoring the question as he grabbed the taller lawyer by the wrist and pulled him sharply inside, turning to him with an intense, unintentionally intimidating glare the instant the door was shut behind him. “We’re on in half an hour, are you nuts?”

“I, uhm— well,” Poole quickly said, voice hitching as he tugged lightly on his collar. “First of all, you look great— uh, I mean, really— g—great. Uhm, second— Miss Kelly came by and said I should drop in on you. She… said that you— that you, ah…— n—needed to see me?”

“What? June said that?” Becker barked, and Poole shrugged innocently, nodding.

“Well, what she said was… uhm… Er, y—yeah, that was… pretty much verbatim, actually—”

Immediately, cutting Poole short, the shorter lawyer made a frustrated growling noise, something between a sigh and a snarl as a complicated expression, an odd sort of gruff embarrassment, washed over his face, his eyes quickly darting away.

“Great.” Was all he said, balling his fists at his side and turning away to stalk further into the room, his whole form visibly tense.

Blinking owlishly after him, Poole paused for a beat, taking a moment to observe his agitated fiancé, his brow furrowing with worry at the display, before carefully pursuing a few steps behind.

“Are you… is everything okay—?” He prompted gently,  setting a hand on Becker’s stiff shoulder and ducking his head, trying to meet his eyes, but the other lawyer merely shook him off and continued to fume.

“Fine. Swell.” Becker gritted out, his tone tight but transparently forced in its hardness. Even with his back turned, Poole could see the tension in his shoulders, in his clenched fists, and frowned a little at the obvious lie.

“Nice try.” He said flatly, putting his hands on his hips. “Really, Ira, what is it, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me— you know that never works.” Poole huffed, his frown deepening when Becker stubbornly twisted away as he tried to face him. “Come on, talk to me. I—I mean, are… are you having second thoughts—?”

At that, his fiancé abruptly whirled to face him, whipping around so fast that Poole instinctively flinched, taking a startled step backward as the shorter lawyer rounded on him.

“What kind of fucking question is that?” Becker snapped, a mingled look of hurt and anger flashing in his eyes. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Okay— sorry, look, I—I don’t know, you just— something is obviously wrong, and you won’t tell me, so—…”

He stopped.

Something in his fiancé’s expression had caught his attention just as his eyes met that fiery glare— something so impossibly out of place that it rendered Poole simply stunned for a moment, stricken by the sight.

It was a vague shimmer— a suggestion of moisture gathering along the edges of the shorter lawyer’s sharp gaze, restrained but all the same gleaming unshed in his eyes.

“Are—… Ira, are you… tearing up?” Softening, Poole’s brows knitted together, his voice dropping to a tender murmur, and immediately, Becker reared back, affronted, as though he’d just been slapped.

“No—” He snapped, turning away and bringing a hand up to angrily swipe at his eyes. “My fucking— my eyes are itchy, I’m probably allergic to all the goddamned perfume everyone’s wearing.”

For a moment, Poole only looked at him, his expression growing softer still as he came to understand what it was that had upset Becker so— and, in the process, could hardly suppress the tender smile that vaguely took shape on his face at the realization.

“You’re nervous.” He stated slowly, and watched as his fiancé seemed to deflate a bit in response, his shoulders slumping with a burdened sigh. “You’re… scared.”

There was a pause after he spoke, a heavy moment of silence while Becker visibly struggled with himself, his mouth twisting into a hard grimace, before he finally relented and nodded stiffly.

“...Of course I’m fucking scared.” Becker admitted in a gruff, mumbling tone, and when Poole remained silent, waiting for him to continue, he tightened his jaw, unable to hide the tiny, almost imperceptible wobble in his voice as he continued more quietly, as if embarrassed by his own words. “How the Hell some people manage to go through this multiple times, I will never understand. It’s just… ours feels like such a big deal. It feels like everything— like it needs to go exactly according to plan, but I don’t know what I’m doing and I… don’t want to fuck anything up. To fuck us up.

“And I know that’s an asinine thing to be worried about— but it would appear that all this wedding shit has a way of making me into a goddamn basket case because it’s been bothering me like you wouldn’t believe. I feel like I’m gonna blow a gasket on what should be the happiest day of my life, for Christ’s sake.”

Huffing loudly, then, he turned and raised his gaze, and as he met Poole’s eyes and saw how gently, how affectionately he was looking at him, he couldn’t quite help the tiny, shaky sigh that escaped him as some tension eased out of his posture.

“...Well, anyway. I said it— I’m fucking scared of our wedding. Happy?”

Humming lightly, Poole mused for a moment, fidgeting vaguely before he took a small step forward and carefully reached down, fingers delicately ghosting over Becker’s wrist until the shorter lawyer unfurled his fist and accepted his hand.

“I get it,” He murmured, rubbing his thumb reassuringly over Becker’s knuckles. “Really, I do— for me, uhm… Scared doesn’t even begin to cover it. I am— I’m completely petrified.”

Holding his gaze, Becker studied him almost skeptically, an incredulous frown playing about his face while Poole squeezed his hand, a lopsided, shy grin curving his lips.

“In fact, I, uh... I honestly thought I was going to throw up twenty minutes ago. Or pass out. Or both.” A tiny huffing laugh escaped him at that, his smile growing when he noticed a hint of wry amusement flickering in his fiancé’s eyes.  “Point is, I—I know this is scary, but… you aren’t alone. We’re in this together, and we’ll figure it out. Or… something… Heh.”

Ducking his head a bit, as though embarrassed by his own words, Poole bit his lip and shuffled his feet a bit before continuing, his cheeks flushing.

“Whatever, you know what I mean. We’re gonna be just fine, you and I— as long as we have each other, it doesn’t matter if we don’t know what we’re doing. Together we can— well, you know. Make it work. And Ira, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you could possibly mess this up even if you tried, because... well, uhm, I—I couldn’t ask for a… better partner.”

A pause.

“Really, I mean it. I never believed this day would come, you know— when we met I thought you were sort of— ah, rude and scary. And abrasive. And loud. But now, I think you are the most— the— the, uhm—”

“Okay— that’s enough.” Becker interrupted. Although he was rolling his eyes, Poole could easily see a teasing smirk pulling at his lips, his agitation easing away as he tugged Poole by the hand into a one-armed hug. “Christ, you sound like a damn Hallmark card— save it for the ceremony, would ya?”

Chuckling sheepishly, Poole flushed a little, leaning down into the embrace and resting his head atop his fiancé’s as he returned the hug with both arms.

“Heh— sorry.”

For a little while they remained like that, simply holding one another, enjoying the welcome silence and swell of warmth in their shared proximity. For the first time all morning, Poole felt grounded, protected, as though a heavy weight had been lifted from him while he basked in his fiancé’s secure presence, breathing him in, savoring the moment of peace. Wherever his butterflies had gone, they were forgotten now, leaving behind an odd, bubbling feeling that he almost wanted to call excitement.

It was pleasant, he had to admit.

When at last they parted, Becker kept his arm around his waist, gazing up at him with a fondness exclusive to him, a rare look that made Poole feel weak in the knees.

“...Thanks, by the way.” Becker rumbled out his gratitude, his tone a bit awkward and gruff but the words unambiguously sincere. “That helped.”

Standing up a bit straighter, Poole brightened, biting his lip in a bid to restrain a toothy smile.

“Heh— o—of course, anyti—” He stammered bashfully, only to be cut off by Becker suddenly grabbing him by the lapels and dragging him down for a passionate kiss— one he eagerly leaned into, his legs nearly giving out on him in the process.

Breaking apart just a few short moments later, it was with reluctance, a low, shaking murmur escaping Poole as Becker pecked him once, twice more on the lips before setting him back upright and smirking at him, undoubtedly amused by the flustered, dazed look he’d managed to put on his face.

“Alright, c’mon— let’s go get this show on the road.”