#and so shell dye it or cut it or try new styles and I honestly dont mind and this is just being a Big Sister to let her do this yaknow? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

langdxn · 4 years

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i luv all of the punk!cody boys fr 🥴,, this is gonna sound DUMB as hell how would the boys be with an alt significant other? like would the boys try to get into the scene as well? would they casually wear their s/o’s crust jacket? o m g 🥺👉👈

OH THIS IS GOOOOOD! Also I had to google crust jackets because we call them battle jackets over here but crust sounds soo much cooler 🔥

Basically Grunge!Michael is halfway there already, so he’s no stranger to adapting his style to fit in with you and your friends. From offering to sew on your patches and stud your jackets to cutting your band shirts just how you like them as soon as you get them home, he’s the perfect companion on the alternative road. Somehow he always has the money to buy you the most expensive New Rocks (you can thank Ms Mead for that one), he always seems to get hold of tickets for even the most exclusive gigs and whenever you turn up to them, he immediately leads you backstage to green rooms to hang out with the bands. I guess Satanists really have an underground network of band contacts…

Xavier tries his hardest to maintain his individuality in all situations, but it’s hard to not get sucked into the alternative world when he’s fighting with you over the bathroom mirror in the morning. At first he’s a little aloof, exaggerating his own style to resist the temptation to stray from it. But once he’s bitten by the bug, it’s a gradual process: noticing your eyeliner going missing every other day and seeing Xavier’s eyes darken and darken more as time goes on. He’ll outright deny it at first, of course, blaming his transition on “something I’m trying out,” but he’s not a good liar so he’s not fooling anyone. It’s only when you walk into his studio and find him wearing your crust jacket, blasting Black Flag like his life depends on it. “Err, it’s not what it looks like,” he stutters, rushing to change the tape in his boombox. “Honestly, it’s not!”

Jim, bless him, wants to immerse himself in your scene’s culture from the moment you start dating. He’s almost sickeningly supportive of your style, suggesting new band shirts, accompanying you to gigs (and most importantly protecting you from harm in the pit) and picking out your outfits for date nights as if he was reading your mind. When he’s finished scrubbing himself up for an evening with your friends, he finds you holed up in the bathroom trying to backcomb the hell out of your hair and he sneaks in with an extra hairspray can. “Here, let me help you,” he insists, prizing the brush from your clawed hands. “You know you can get so much more volume if you start closer to the roots, right? I... umm... read that… someplace.”

As much as Duncan would love to blend in with your scene, he finds his suits and ties a strange comfort to him so he doesn’t stray too far. On the other hand, he worships your individuality and it’s part of the reason why he fell for you in the first place. He watches your morning routine intensely, observing every nuance from your excessively smudged eyeliner to your DIY shirts. He gazes on as you stitch a new patch to your jacket, silently making a note of everything you like even if he’s not into it himself yet. Before you know it, there’s new patches laid on your pillow when you come home, a new high-end black lipstick perched on your vanity and a fresh can of hairspray waiting by the sink when you didn’t realise you’d ran out. By the time you interrogate him about his random acts of alternative kindness, he’s got the perfect answer — “You deserve the best, princess.”

Richard is a quiet, angry kid already so your music is simply a gateway to expressing himself more. He loved the pent-up aggression of his own music before you arrived in his life with all your studs and leather, but your influence has brought him out of his shell and helped him deal with his problems outwardly rather than simply retreating to his sketchbook. Of course the sketchbook acts as a vital part of his transformation as he becomes a fantastic artist for band logos, merch designs and supports the heck out of you and your friends. His development into an alternative butterfly is a lot more sudden than you expected when you first met him — one night as you drift awake from a deep sleep, you wander to the bathroom to find him bleaching and dyeing his hair bright green. “I think it’s ace,” he grins broadly, finally comfortable with himself. “We match each other now!”

#michael langdon x reader #grunge!michael #xavier plympton x reader #xavier plympton #jim mason x reader #jim mason #duncan shepherd x reader #duncan shepherd #the tribes of palos verdes #richard x reader #the last time i saw richard #house of cards #house of cards fanfiction #cody fern fanfiction

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activatingaggro · 6 years

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Inktober - 23- Warmth

PHERES DYSSEU | 9 SWEEPS / 20 YEARS OLD SIPARA NZINGA | 9 SWEEPS / 19 YEARS OLD

NOTT TERMINAL, NEAR-ALTERNIAN ORBIT | 4,194 WORDS

The apartment's certainly very..

"Chalk-y," Sipara offers, bouncing through the door. "Cave-y? Looks kinda, like, I dunno, the murder room in Cleaver, right? But look on the bright side, dude, it's +5 to intimidation when bozo over here brings folks home. I can be like, yeah, totes, don't natter at me, pupaface, just getcha coffee and stick to Hads, and I won't show you my murder dungeon."

"I was going to say it's very modern," you protest, wrinkling your nose, but she has the right of it. Nott Terminal's housing is fascinating in an exotic way. The walls aren't drywall, like you're used to, or even wooden boards. You suppose that would've weighed too much, hauling it up.

No, instead it's cocoon, pressed smooth until it looks almost like a more organic stucco. The floor's of the same material, you think, just polished smooth and glossy. If it were stripped bare of furniture, it'd be unsettling. But there's windows, at least, to break up the white of the walls. And there's wood furniture everywhere, with a style that's familiar in the mahogany of the wood, and the pillows strewn apart. But in others, you suppose you're seeing Hadean's influence.

For one, in the shriveled head on the end-table by the door. When you accidentally make eye contact with the empty pits, you force yourself to turn away. "You have a murder dungeon?" you ask, wandering over to a display case by the kitchen nook, and Sipara chirrs mockingly after you.

"'course I have a murder dungeon, duhhh. C'mon! Need it for my wis debuff, baby, otherwise, like, I'd totes be a munchkin, and who wants to deal with that?"

The display case, at least, is cute. It's wood, filled with a basket and feathers that you're satisfied to recognise. There's books on the interior, and games, and on top of it..

She has, you're not surprised to find, brought her Steelborn plushie up from the planet. What you're not expecting is to see it staring you in the eye from the mantle, surrounded by smaller, yet infinitely fatter, looking stuffed grubs of various colours. One has keratin that looks almost silky. You reach out to pick it up, curious, scooping it up neatly under the legs -

- and it twitches to bite you, fang-filled mouth opening in a chalky shriek of outrage.

"Pher!" Sipara wails as you desperately flail your arm. The grub does not come off. Its legs are clawing madly at the air, even as its body scrunches up to try and make it look bigger. You can feel it growling. Or maybe that's just Sipara's nails scratching at it as she tries to wrestle it free. "Be careful!"

"Why is it alive?"

"Because she's a prosthetic base! And don't call her an it, jeez -" She wrestles her pet project free, then rubs her nose against its forehead, eyeing you irritably. "She's a fifth generation psibuster," she complains. "I just got her to start producing null venom. Which, like, don't worry, it's made to work on blues, not, like, us. We're too hot, it'll start breaking down. Isn't that right, cutie?"

She plants a kiss on the top of its head. The grub opens its mouth and shrieks inconsolably as she dumps it back on the mantle, then it's squirming back to its place on the Steelborn.

The other grubs shift. "Lovely," you deadpan, as Sipara takes a hold of your arm and tugs you away. "What if they fall? Isn't it dangerous for them to be up there?"

"Nah, dude, they're from my hardcore stock. Up to three hundred pounds of concussive force afore their shells flinch! They're fiiine. And their feet are too prickly to fall, anyway. Once, they got on the ceiling, and I couldn't get 'em down, like, even with a broom - are you bleeding?" she demands, abrupt, peering down at your arm. Her ears pin back. "Pheeer."

There's rosewood welling on your arm, sure enough, but you shrug her off. "It's fine," you assure her. "It's - Sipara!"

She's already darting into the kitchen. When she emerges, it's with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, ominous in the dark skin, and a bandage. "You shoulda said you're bleeding," she complains. "Get your arm out of your mouth!"

"I don't need peroxide, I'm cleaning it -"

"You're gonna get gangrene, and your arm is gonna rot off, and then you're going to die, but not before, like, I drag you for putting your arm in your mouth, dude. Like, what the fuck? You know where that grubs mouth has been. Or, like, if you don't, pro-tip: bugs have only got one exit hole, dude, you don't want that in your goddamn mouth. No, shut up, don't argue!"

Sipara herds you like a small dog. She's scarcely two inches shorter, and she's slimmed out in the past half-sweep. There's a new hardness to her body, with less give in the places you're used to: when she nudges you with her hip, it's more bone than fat that sends you stumbling. It makes sense. Stress does that to all of you.

And she and Hadean have faced a great deal more stress, the past few perigees, than you have.

So when she nudges you onto the pile, you don't protest. You just fall onto it, shoving at the pillows and blankets until they fall into something more suitable to lay on. It's not how you would've made it, if you were making a pile for you and Sipara. The blanket strewn atop it all feels like cotton, rough enough to catch your skin, but it makes sense. Hadean doesn't like being warm. And between her and him, heat must sink into every part of the pile.

When she sprawls out next to you, curling up until her legs are thrown over yours, you can see how. "Gimme your arm," she demands, already reaching for it.

"You could ask," you complain.

"You could, like, die of gangrene, too, but we're not coverin' the things we could do, loser. C'monnn."

Sipara's rattling away as she works, cleaning off the wound with all the care as if it was something actually major. It's nostalgic, honestly, the two of you lounging in a pile, cleaning up wounds.. and it's all the better for the fact that when you lean forward, burying your face in her braids, she smells the way she always has, cardamom and saffron and burnt sugar.

She lets you stay there for a moment. Then, with a chuff, she knocks her head under your chin instead. "I've missed you," she says. "A ton. I'm, like, super duper glad you came up, dude."

"Well, he had to visit eventually," Hadean drawls, stepping into the room. "Sup, Pheres."

There.. should, you are aware, be something unfortunate about your auspistice wandering into the room to see you lounging in his pile, with his moirail. But Sipara was your moirail first, long before he'd ever stepped out of Jejunus. It isn't as if you're papping her. It doesn't hurt him to share.

And he's never minded before. You can't imagine a brief stay with the program has gone and made him possessive. Especially not when Sipara cuts the bandage neatly with a fang, binds it, and then rolls over to face him. "Haaaaaads," she wails. "I thought you were sleeping. C'mere!"

"I can't sleep," he says, stepping forward.

And you stare at him, because this is the first time you've ever seen him like.. this. "Oh my goodness," you say, marveling, then you bound to your feet, abruptly enough that Sipara goes tipping back. She's growling from the pile, a stutter-start noise that keeps trying to go too deep for her voice, but you pay her no mind. There's a more important matter to focus on.

Namely --

"What happened to your face?" you demand, a hand flying in front of your mouth, and then you're bounding into Hadean's space.

Hadean's too tall! Even if you stood on tip toes, you can't quite reach his face. But that's fine. He's got a braid you can grab hold of and yank, hard enough to pull his head down to level.

"Whoa there! Try not to murder me," he protests, but you just click your tongue at him as you squint at his piercings. Because his face's covered in them. He looks like Rmeros, almost, all black steel against the pallor of his skin, but.. no, he's not quite that bad. He's not wearing leather, at least, no matter how garish his jewelry is.

He's got piercings in his eyebrow. You're tempted to tug one, but then you imagine if it comes out. There'd be blood, and he'd probably bite you, and - when Hadean grins at you, showing off his fangs like he followed that thought, you balk. It's not as if the piercings are important, anyway, compared to the fact his smooth is skin, unmarked by ink or varnish.

You've never seen him without his tattoos before. He looks.. older, like this, without the white to distract you, and you're tempted to lick your hand and wipe at his cheek, too, just to see if you can fix it.

Impulse control is difficult. You give in, but his skin remains the same perfect gray, even when you press down as your finger drags. "What did you do?" you demand. If your ears could pin back, they would. Hadean's never so much as changed his clothes in the time you've known him. Sometimes, you were convinced, literally. "You look so.. so..."

"Punk-rock?" Sipara offers up cheerily.

"Edgey! You look like you're about to go off into a rave and sell me drugs in the back alley," you decide. There's a ribbon threaded through his braid in Sipara's vivid orange, and you regret, suddenly, that you hadn't thought to buy one in maroon. Well! You'll be here for another night. You'll find time, or else you'll go home, mix up some dye, and actually get the proper colour of things.

Or you'll see if the fellow who made your doll has anything in the same hue in fabric, and make a ribbon for yourself.

"Hads can't sell drugs, dude, he cries if he even smells a honey-drop." Sipara sprawls out across the pile, rolling onto her back and wrestling with her boot. She chucks the first one at the door.

"Yeah, my ancestor should've pailed a honey badger too," Hadean snarks, and she chucks the second right at his head. He catches it with a grin, tossing it back at her, which starts off a brief game of toss-the-boot, and..

One night, you're going to have to get Kit integrated properly into your clade. It's been othering to have her distant from Sipara and Hadean, and she deserves to be here, milling about with the rest of you. But that'll take thought and consideration, because you're not quite sure how to pull it off.

It's something to think about. As of right now..

Hadean's not looking at you. You click your tongue, and when he ignores it all the same in order to catch the boot, you give up. Bouncing onto your heels, you reach up, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck to haul him down. "I'm trying to talk," you complain, but you don't get much more out, because Hadean jolts like you've struck him.

Sometimes you forget that he works as a fighter. One twist frees him from your grasp, even as he lands a hand neatly in the center of your chest to throw you off. His lips are curled back to bare his fangs, and - that's where Sipara got that noise, you think, because he's actually growling at you, loud enough that it sounds like a rock was thrown into a trash compactor.

It only lasts a second. You're jerking back immediately, hangs up in front of you to pacify, while Sipara's bounding to her feet. She slips neatly between the two of you, reaching up to pap him with one hand, and hook her other arm hard around his waist. "Stop that," she snaps, sparing an apologetic glance towards you. "C'mon, dude, it's Pher -"

And he does stop, just as she's tugging him towards the pile. His eyes are wide. He's not flushing, the way you are, but you can see his pulse jumping in his throat, in the peek of skin afforded by his high collar. "- sorry," he manages, voice still rough. "Uh, sorry about that."

You'd wondered if the program had made him possessive.

You hadn't considered it might've left him traumatised. But - of course it did. They'd had him in a collar, and here you are wrapping your hands around his neck like the worst kind of reminder.

Sipara hauls him down into the pile, then curls up half on top of him, her chin resting on his collar, her arm splayed across his chest. “Ah. No! I’m sorry,” you murmur, dawdling. You don’t know if you should hop into it. Hadean looks.. flinchy, almost. Your auspistice isn’t made for unease. It leaves your mouth dry to tihnk you inspired it. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you. Ah -”

You cup a hand under your hair, fluffing the curls to add volume, and to give yourself something to focus. “I brought gifts,” you offer, because - you don’t know what else to say. This is suddenly, hideously awkward, in a way you’ve never quite felt before. But you’ve never scared Hadean. “Including that sword I mentioned -”

“Calm down, pololo,” he says, rolling his eyes, and pats the cushions. Because he’s going boneless and languid into the pile, back at ease as quickly as you’d spooked him.

You’re sure it must be intentional. It’s hard not to be grateful all the way. “The sword’ll be there later! Are you going to sit down, or just stare? You’re making me tired just looking at you.”

“He’s making me tired jittering,” Sipara complains, opening an eye to peer at you. “C’monnn, Pher, I can’t deal with two greyhounds, getcher ass down. We can see if we can, like, make him over-heat. Didja know fish can’t sweat? I bet he just dies like a fish.”

“Wow,” he drawls. “A dog and a fish? Why do i have to be the shitty animals?”

“Because an antelope won’t fit.” You settle down next to the two of them, but then Sipara props herself up with enough force that Hadean oomphs. With her free hand, she drags you over by the collar, until your horns are resting on his sternum, and she’s close enough to rap her head against your horns. It’s a thoroughly uncomfortable position.

But when Hadean grunts and shoves her off with a hissy complaint, sending her sliding - and you with her - the resulting scuffle’s enough for everyone to get comfortable. In the end, you’re resting your chin on Hadean’s ribs, head buried on top of your arms, while Sipara’s using his lap as a pillow with her arm threaded around a leg to drag it nearer. No ones horns are in the way. Your combined legs are only mostly off of the pile, but that’s fine enough: the ground isn’t precisely chilly.

“I have a new violet customer,” you announce, once everyone’s settled. It’s only a small lie, but you’re not certain you’re comfortable telling the truth, not it’ll only spawn more questions. “Or, well - they’ll be a customer soon enough. That’s where I got the sword, Hadean! Which, ah, you’ll see later. They collect alien artifacts, apparently.. isn’t that something?”

“I wish you wouldn’t, like, sell to fish,” Sipara says with a huff. “Like, dude, they’re so - so -” She wrinkles her nose, setting her ears back. “Fish-y.”

“Better fish than clowns.” There’s something brittle about the way Hadean says that, but then the moment passes, as quickly as it came. “I mean, still not great, but.. you said they’re going to be a customer, right? They’re not yet?”

You bob your head. There’s something unfortunate about all of this, and the edge that Hadean’s gained in your absence. Something happened, clearly, beyond just his program stay. He holds himself like a bag of glass ready to shatter, and you don’t know gentle you must be to avoid it. Or if it’s your place to try and peer inside.

Probably not. Pile or no, you’re not his moirail.. and no matter how tempted you are, the best time to dig into his business is probably not when Sipara is close enough to bite. “They haven’t bought anything yet,” you confirm. “They’re getting there, though. I’m sure!”

“Okaaay. So, they’re not buying anything, they’re weird, and they’re a fish. Are they at least hot? Because, c’mon, you gotta get your money’s worth somewhere.”

“Hadean!” Sipara hisses. “Dude!”

“What? It’s a good question. Pololo keeps his eyes on the prize,” he protests, grinning. “That’s all.”

You pause, considering. “To some people,” you decide, “but, ah..” They’re taller. They’re finned, and they’re soft, and they’re kind. “Not to me, I’m afraid. They’re like a lowblood, Hadean. You know how that is -”

“And now we’re going back into this.” Sipara curls her lip, lolling her head back. “Wah, wah, wah, lowbloods are so boring, I gotta go stick my bulge in a bilgeblood or it just isn’t any fucking fun.”

“Like you date lowbloods, either,” you accuse her, reaching out to grab her ear. She squalls, twisting to nip at her wrist, but you jerk your hand away at the last moment, dangling in above her head. She lurches up to nip at it, her teeth skimming the skin of it. You howl -

- and Hadean catches you right in the horn with a flick of his nail, following it up with a thwack towards Sipara. Towards, because she’s pulling back with another one of her unempirely howls. “What’re you, toothing? Calm down, no fangs in the cladepile! Just because Pheres's got a hankering for anything cold, blue, and probably with a musclebeast fetish doesn't man we have to pick on him -"

It’s your turn to howl. “I don’t have a blueblood fixation -”

Hadean laughs, warm, and Sipara beams, all teeth. Your outrage can’t last in the face of that. You scowl at them, but it only lasts for a moment - then your expression cracks, one shard at a time, until you’re smiling as well. “You’re awful,” you complain, letting your face drop until it’s hidden in his shirt. “You’re both awful. And - no one has a musclebeast anything! If I was attracted to that sort of thing, then I would think the violet was attractive. They were in a.. a... ”

“Musclebeast suit?” Sipara asks, wrinkling her nose. There’s something very accusing in her tone, not aided by the way she looks like she just swallowed a live bird, and it’d begun to start pecking at her.

“Yes!” You pause. “Well, no. I suppose it was a barkbeast suit.”

“Dude, what the fuck?”

“Oh! Don’t say it like that!” you cry, and.. you’ve missed this, you think, more than anything else since they’ve left the planet.

“Okay, maybe we’re all awful,” Hadean says. “But not fish in a fursuit levels. So they’re not hot, they’re not paying you..” He tilts his head to the side, clicks his tongue as he raises his eyebrows. It’s almost easy to forget the way he was just flinching, moments ago. “- but they've got a musclebeast fixation? I don't know, pololo, that doesn't sound like a plus to me.”

“Iunno, sounds like it's a plus to him. I mean, dude, let's see what the case is, here. Dude’s hanging out with fish that ain't buying, but, like, act super docile.” Sipara’s gone boneless to match him, for all that she’s committed to dragging you. Lying like this, with her eyelashes brushing her cheeks, she looks ready to fall asleep. But she doesn’t. She keeps talking, up until she pauses to add: “- super duper docile. Y’know, like a woofbeast. Like the woofbeast they're dressing up as. No biggie. Except -”

Even you’re unwinding. How could you not? You’re laying about with two of your favorite people on the entire planet for the first time in ages. If this was what it was like for Sipara to live with Iconic, you’re not surprised she could never bring herself to pick sides. It’s just a shame that they had to leave for space, just when you’d gotten settled into sedentary life for the first time.

“I'm not hanging out,” you huff, stretching your arms out in front of you. “I wasn’t hanging out!”

“Objection!” she barks out, pointing at you. “You met a fish! You got a sword from a fish! You, like, talked to a fish, probably shook hands with a fish, probably kissed them on both of their gross slimy wrists, like a fish. Their furry, gross, slimey fish-wrists, which means - did you, or did you not, probably get shed on by their weird carpet pelt?”

“You’re so callous. For no reason, really. Honestly, Sipara, they were perfectly silky -”

You realise that was the wrong thing to say just as she clasps both hands to her mouth and shrieks.

“Oh my God, did you touch it? Hads,” she wails, slapping at his legs, “he touched it! With his bare hands! We left the planet, and - and -” A shake of her head sends her braids bouncing. Then she’s leaning forward, so quickly that they lurch in a clatter of beads. “And now he's off, like, getting seduced by freaky seawolves -”

“Oh!” How are you supposed to respond to this? You love your clademate, but “No one is seducing anything! It wasn't even - they didn't have any dedication,” you huff. “If they did, it would have had horns. And fins. What sort of seawolf doesn't have fins?”

“So you have preferences now,” Hadean says with entirely too much interest. You hiss and bury your face back into his shirt, while Sipara lolls her head back and cackles.

“You’re both being cruel. Cruel and untoward! This is why I can’t bring Meukit around, you know. You’d just - oh! You’d scandalise her. She’s a good person, not - not -” You flap a hand demonstratively. It isn’t as if you intend to hit Sipara, exactly, but the yelp when your hair skirts curls is satisfying, in a grim kind of way. “- sorry! She’s not filled with all this raunch, like the two of you.”

“.. what, like, ranch dressing?”

“No! Raunch, as in -” How are you supposed to keep your head down when Sipara’s asking questions like that? When you squint at her, she’s squinting right back, her ears tilted in the half-mast angle that she always does when she’s doubting. She looks like Kabiir, right after you offer her peanut butter to trick her into not barking. “You know what that means,” you accuse her. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not playing dumb -”

“Maybe you are just dumb, then,” you sniff.

Sometimes you forget about how quick she is. Sipara pops up onto her knees in a moment, half-launching herself over Hadean. You shriek, tumbling back. Hadean yelps as her knee bounces off of his in her mad scramble to get at you, but your back is on the stone, and Sipara’s undeterred by the way he snatches at her shirt. She lands on top of you like some pronouncement from high above, hands landing neatly on either side of your head, her knees clasped around your hips firmly enough to pin you in place.

When she tilts her head forward, her braids fall in a curtain around the two of you. One thumps inelegantly into your nose. “Take it back, I’m, like, super smart. Hella smart. A real genius.”

“I will not.” It’s your turn to curl your lip at her. “And if you don’t get off of me, then I’ll bite off your nose.”

“You will not.”

“I will too!”

“Will not!”

“Will too.”

“Will not,” she snaps, “because if you do, I’ll bite off yours!”

“I will too, or - or - I would, if you had enough of a nose to bite!”

“Am I ashing everyone?” Hadean complains, rolling over and onto his seat. “Get up, or I’m laying on both of you. One. Two. Thr-”

Sipara shrieks, right in your ear, and bounds off of you, back onto the pile. She bares her teeth at Hadean before collapsing across his legs again, boneless as a cat. “Don’t quadblur,” she complains. “Gross! Almost as gross as Pheres’s furry fish thing.”

“I don’t have a thing --”

“You do have a thing!” she yowls at you, and it’s your turn to push back into her face, and..

The apartment’s different. The walls are strange, and the colours are off, and it’s not quite your home, even with Sipara’s things decorating every available surface, and Hadean’s influence as clear as fingerprints across it all. And it does look rather like the murder room in Cleaver, if you’re being perfectly honest.

And it has a murder dungeon, evidently, and it’s in space --

-- but you’ve missed this. You’ve missed them, and you’ll just have to make it your space, too.

#[prose]#[drabbles]#pheres dysseu #sipara nzinga #no one wins in ash chicken #rambunctious rusts

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