#i would be significantly more skeptical. but once again. it is literally JUST DRIVING

[sanstropfremir]

Everytime you think that's the worst hyb3 will get they sink lower like I expect the worse of that company but they still manage to surprise me

https://twitter.com/TheNuggetsShow/status/1673084680600702976?t=_MqyqrOSbPlm4SZHbjmSpw&s=19

[honestlyhufflepuff]

Here are 20 reasons I am leaving the caregiver job with the client I've had since 2008: a list of unprofessional behavior and abuse by my client's guardian.

1. She said I wasn't Christian anymore, and said I was disrespecting my mother, for leaving the church I was raised in.

2. During the first year of employment, she would yell at me multiple times a week over things like leaving a lamp on (this is while I was caring for her medically fragile, high needs adult daughter). She would accuse me of being incompetent or trying to get fired for unemployment.

3. She told me I was not approved off for my honeymoon, less than a month beforehand, when I gave her over 5 months notice with consistent reminders. She harassed me over several texts while I was on my honeymoon saying I would be fired if I did not return a week earlier than I was supposed to.

4. She told me I still had to come in when I was sick and vomiting because she did not believe me. I became dehydrated and was vomiting so much that I had uncontrollable dry heaving and was unable to drive home. She refused to come home early when I told her of my symptoms, and when she did come home to see me retching into her trash can, she started handing me cleaning supplies to disinfect the trash can and the entire bathroom before I went to the emergency room...

5. ...there was no apology or ownership in forcing a sick employee to work to the point of needing to be hospitalized. She would not accept that I could not come into work for the next 3 days until my husband delivered the doctor's note.

6. I worked there throughout college, and would present my new school schedule each semester. For one class, I made the mistake of scheduling it after work. She said the schedule worked with her, but then consistently got home 30 min to and hour late. I missed so many classes that I had to withdraw.

7. Even after the hospitalization mentioned in #3, she would continue to be skeptical of any time I called in sick over the years (which wasn't often). I had no PTO or sick leave to use even when I was full time, so when I took off I didn't get paid. I was never approved to take off for any reason, and when I did take off it was accompanied by a massive guilt trip about how I was putting her family in a bind. It did not matter if it was a vacation, an illness, a doctor's appointment, or a family emergency. It also did not matter how much or little notice I gave; the guilt trips and emotional manipulation still accompanied any time I needed off. To this day, with every job I've had, I am always incredibly anxious about asking off, but it's never been a problem anywhere else I've worked.

8. Emotionally manipulative things she has said to get me to stay:

-"We don't have anyone else. I have to go to my job in order to care for [client's name]. You would be jeopardizing my job by leaving, and her well being." (If pressed she eventually admits to not looking for anyone else)

-"[Client's name] loves you like a sister, and her quality of life would go down significantly without you..." continues to tell me that if I don't do what she wants then I don't love or care for the client, even if it is because I need a job with higher pay and benefits to support my own family.

-"I thought the two of us were friends. This is very selfish of you." (Any time I don't do what she wants, like continuing to go to school full time).

-"God has put her in your life for a reason. You are called as spiritual sisters. It's your responsibility to care for her."

-"In the real world-the business world- other people won't be ok with you just taking off without approval. It's insubordinate and unprofessional." I was only 18 when she told me this, and young enough to believe her. Once again, I've literally never had a problem taking off with any other client or job because I often had PTO, and was always able to obtain leave approval easily. Even when it meant the client parent had to take off from work, they understood that the onus was on them to find the needed staff to account for people needing sick days and vacation.

9. She puts me in the middle of personal drama, constantly bad-mouthing the client's father and other attendants (who all inevitably leave after a year or two at most).

10. Told me, after a decade of infertility, that God told her I would become pregnant and have a son I was to name Amos. She said it would only become true if I prayed about it, so now when I most likely don't become pregnant, I feel it will be blamed on my lack of faith- or the fact that I am a different faith from her. I feel this instance was truly out of good intention, but ultimately unprofessional and something I would have preferred she keep to herself.

11. For years, she never got home when she said she would. I could never make plans after work because she would agree to come home at 7 and sometimes not make it home until 8:30. She always blamed traffic, needing to run an errand, or her boss keeping her. Then, when I had my own child I had to pick up from an after school program, she consitently got home on time. This showed me that she did have the executive functioning skills to be on time, but did not respect my personal time or work with other clients enough to do so before I was a parent.

12. I bent over backwards trying to help her. I scheduled less time with higher paying clients that were lower need. I sometimes worked 60 hour weeks while I was also in school. It never felt like it was enough. Even for the time I was working there 6 hours a week it was always "Why can't you stay later? Where do you have to be?" The more I gave, the more was expected, and then I was guilted for not meeting that higher expectation.

13. She refused to take the time to have team meetings with other service providers and caregivers, despite the fact all my other client families do this, and keep staff much more consistently as a result. Because of this, information and instructions were always inconsistent. With the client being significantly behaviorally challenged and medically fragile, this was at everyone's detriment.

14. Over the years, I referred 3 friends to work for her because she insisted she could not find caregivers on her own. All 3 of them lasted less than a year due to her behavior. She would then blame them and trash talk them to me, despite knowing I was still friends with them.

15. She expected caregivers to also deep clean the house. We are talking hours worth of work, that there just was not time for within the shift while also meeting the needs of the client.

16. She is openly homophobic, xenophobic, and although she thinks of herself as "not racist," she was extremely weird towards my besf friend's African fiancé. She refused to shake his hand and told me she didn't think he was with her for the "right reasons." Maybe thought he was in it for a green card? She seemed skeptical when I told her that he became a citizen 2 years prior, and that they'd been dating 6 years.

17. She has systematically isolated my adult client more and more over the years. We used to share many interests in things like Harry Potter, early 2000's pop, anime, Harajuku fashion, Adventure Time, Steven Universe, etc. One by one, everything we bonded over was off limits, due to being a "bad influence" or "demonic." She is no longer allowed to engage in any age-expected media unless it is explicitly Christian, and it breaks my heart to see how sad she gets about that.

18. When I was in college, and completely broke after just paying for books and classes, she said that she wanted me to go to the water park with her and the client. Admission was $50. I assumed she was paying since I was being required to go for work, and this was always what was done in the past. In the car, I asked if I could ride a roller coaster that the client wouldn't be able to go on while they ate ice cream. She said "Sure! You can ride whatever you like!"

So, I start getting excited. We're chatting pleasantly until the moment when she says "OK, when we get out of the car, you can go pay for your ticket first, and then I will bring..."

My stomach dropped. I told her there was a misunderstanding, and that I could not afford my ticket. She acted like it wasn't right that she should have to pay for mine. I told her that if she didn't want to, then I could study at the Starbucks across the street while they attended the park. She said no, because obviously she still wanted my help with her daughter. She paid for my ticket, making passive aggressive comments the whole time about everything I did, from how I pushed the wheelchair to how long I took to go to the bathroom despite the line.

I was no longer permitted to go ride the roller coaster, and I sat in silence while they ate their ice cream.

19. Recently, due to Covid, I do not have child care for my own daughter on Fridays. I have been bringing her to work with me, which my client's mom was supportive of. Then the client had drastic behavioral changes that I won't detail, but that O can say was significantly stressful on my daughter, and made it stressful for me to manage both of them at the same time. I told the mother, 2 weeks in advance, that I could not come in on Fridays until the behavior was consistently resolved. I do not want to get a sitter outside of maybe my aunt, due to covid, and I wouldn't expect her to do that every week. My client's mom was very understanding of this at first, seeing as we both now have special needs children, but the night before the next Friday I was scheduled to come in she berated me for not finding babysitting to the point that I started to panic. I firmly told her that I gave her plenty of notice, and then blocked her number up until the day I was scheduled to come back in.

20. When she is home at the same time I am helping her daughter, she micromanages everything. I think she is incapable of just letting me do the same work I've been doing for over a decade without standing over my shoulder and looking for something wrong.

Some background info:

I wanted to write this, first of all, to document all the reasons that I am justified in leaving, so that I can refer back to it no matter how hard she tries to get me to stay. This is like my anonymous way of getting it off my chest since no one who follows me on here knows me irl. Second of all, I want all the young professionals on here to know that, if they are treated like this in the work place, it is ok to leave!

I started working for this family when I was 18, and I am now 31. I have worked as many as 60 hour weeks, and as little as twice a month when I was full time with the state, but I have always cared for her in some capacity since 2008. I am currently working 15-20 hours a week with her.

You may wonder why I've stayed so long, and in regards to that I will say first of all that abusive relationships are hard to leave. The abuser may convince you that you are bad and won't find anywhere else good enough to take you. This can pertain to any type of relationship, be it romantic, professional, parental, or friends.

Another factor is that I love my client deeply, and my employer takes advantage of that. We grew up childhood friends, which is one reason maintaining professional boundaries with this family has been so hard.

The last reason I have stayed may be the hardest to explain, but I will try.

Sometimes she is good. My employer has made improvements over the years. Most of the worst things on here happened when I was in college. I don't know if her improvement is due to a genuine change in heart, or because she knows deep down that her behavior is why all the other caregivers left.

Whatever the reason, we do actually care for each other. We do actually connect and have a good time. She is kind to my husband and my daughter. She often tells me that I am a godsend to her family, a loyal and talented caregiver, and the best friend her daughter has ever had (although she will contradict this the moment I am not doing what she wants).

What I want people in similar situations to know is that the good moments do not erase the trauma of the bad ones. It is not my responsibility to "get over it" because she is trying to do better. A lot of the stuff she has said and done run too deep, and when she lapses into her old ways, I find myself reacting in a panic-driven, irritable way that's not really me. It's a reaction to trauma. I am not required to continue to stay at an underpaid job with an environment that evokes such emotions.

So please, if you are being treated like this in your job, then leave. You will find something else. For me, I intend to have another job lined up before leaving, but I'm on my way. For the first time in years, I've revamped my resumé, and it felt so empowering to work on a document that highlights my strengths!

For anyone in a similar position, you've got this. There are a lot of great jobs out there. There are a lot of humane employers. If you are treated like this, then label it for what it is. It is abuse. It is unhealthy. It is not ok. It is not erased by the times they are nice. And you deserve better.

[swishandflickwit]

Marichat — shelter 2/3

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

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

Words: 9.3k

Rating: General Audiences

Also on: ff.net | AO3

Other writing

Part 1 | [Part 2] | Part 3 |

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

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

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

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

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

And she made it specifically for him.

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

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

That was, until, “Kid! What the fu—”

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

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

“Ow!”

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

“Fine! Everything's just fine!”

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

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

“Okay…”

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

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

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

“Ha, ha.”

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

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

No one appreciated his humor.

“You're ridiculous.”

“You love it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm not stupid—”

“You could have fooled me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The idea made him hot.

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

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

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

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

How beautiful she was.

The edges of his mouth expanded to ridiculous heights.

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

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

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

“Ugh, with pleasure you lovestruck fool.”

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

Only to turn around right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gulped. This was not helping his flustered state.

“Um.”

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

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

She opened her hand to reveal a bundle of pins.

Oh.

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

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

“I really don't mind.”

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

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

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

“The hoodie, it fit!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it, minou?”

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

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

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

She snorted. “Smoothly done.”

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

“Hey.”

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

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

Marinette audibly gulped.

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

And oh, how he liked to please her.

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

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

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

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

He chuckled.

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

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

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

“Do it for the food, chérie.”

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded. “Oui, for the food.”

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

“And then, later…?”

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

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

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

That cursed blush woke anew.

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

“I know, right?”

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

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

Beside him, Marinette gasped.

“Plagg!” he cried.

The Kwami paid him no heed. He sniffed.

“Where’s my cheese?”

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

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

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

“Hungry—”

He pressed against Plagg harder to muffle him.

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

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

“Cheese.”

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

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

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

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

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

He sneered. “He didn't, actually!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my god.”

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

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

“Unfortunately, yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A little,” he admitted.

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

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

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

“This is delicious!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right.

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

“I can wash the dishes,” he offered.

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

She held both her hands up.

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

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

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

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

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

“Plagg!”

“What? I’m telling the truth!”

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

Sabine appraised him and he bore it with baited breath.

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

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

He chuckled. “Deal.”

“Okay, if you're done here—”

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

“Where do you think you're going?”

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

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

“Oh, cause you're so good at that—”

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

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

“Hey,” Marinette called.

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

But she wasn't talking to him.

“You can go to my room.”

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

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

“Plagg.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eerie silence remained in his wake.

“So, that happened,” Tom mused.

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

“Not if you want to live longer.”

“I do have nine lives.”

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

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

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

“You are a strange child,” Tom declared.

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

“But that's me,” he whined.

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But you love them anyway,” she repeated.

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

“I'm paw-sitive I can.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It suits you.”

He nodded his agreement.

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

“You two are close, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop.

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

“I'm sorry! I’m s-so—I’m sorry!”

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

“You're shaking,” Sabine whispered.

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

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

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

…

…

…

…

Adrien.

Adrien?

Holy fuck, she said Adrien!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm not frightened.”

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

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

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

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

“Are you going to kick me out, now?”

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

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

She smiled. “Is it now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mostly because it was true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” he sniffed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, Marinette.”

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

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

“What? Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused for dramatic effect.

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

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

Tom smirked.

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

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

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

What?

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

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

He relented though they both turned to Tom.

“Do… we what?”

“Have the right partner?”

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

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

Do you have the right partner?

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

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

Do you have the right partner?

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

Marinette, Marinette—in everything it was Marinette.

Do you have the right partner?

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

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

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

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

Update: Read Part 3 here

[shinneth]

Gem Ascension Tropes (Lapis-specific: D - L)

Primary General Post ♆ Full Article ♆  Primary Peri Post ♆ Primary Lapis Post

Deadpan Snarker: Per canon.

Defrosting Ice Queen: Peridot, Greg, and especially Bismuth play a big role in Lapis’ gradual warming up to the concept of working with others and sticking with her commitments in Act I. Greg and Bismuth develop a deeper bond with her starting in Chapter 6 of Act II, which persists for the remainder of the act. By Act III, Lapis trusts Bismuth enough to get past her fusion PSTD. To everyone’s surprise, Lapis agrees to stay with the Crystal Gems and live under the same roof together with them all by the end of GA. While Lapis is still a bit reserved and moody, she makes great leaps in progress of learning how to properly socialize.

The Eeyore: Downplayed and Justified. Even beyond Lapis’ natural issues that made her embody this trope in canon, a lot of depressing and tragic events happen in the GA continuity that affect Lapis directly. Most notably, making peace with Blue Diamond in Act I, only to lose her shortly afterwards… then Act II and beyond has Lapis dealing with the loss of Peridot and her dwelling on how she could have performed better to somehow save her. However, Lapis is consoled with over this specific matter in Chapter 5 of Act III and is reassured by several of her teammates that Lapis did the best she could. Losing Peridot actually makes Lapis driven to better herself, thus increasingly distancing herself from this trope. Lapis will never fully get away from it, of course, but her Character Development across GA has done much to keep her consistently in better spirits than she used to be.

Elemental Baggage: Averted. Homeworld having little to no water of its own requires Lapis to bring along water coolers filled with water from Earth just so she’ll be able to fight. Naturally, given this situation, this means Lapis only has so much water to work with and has to physically carry however much she can whenever she goes.

Eye Scream: Lapis has no problem just lobbing several sharp icicles directly into White Diamond’s eye. It worked a little too well, as her pained screams actually knocked the Crystal Gems back with enough force to damage them significantly as well. On top of that, it wasn’t even the real White Diamond that Lapis hit…

Fair Weather Friend: Lapis starts out as this when GA starts due to her prior actions in canon. Peridot especially regards her as this throughout the first act. Slowly but surely, Character Development helps her grow out of this trope. Her friends acknowledge this (even Peridot), so Lapis can finally put this nagging character flaw behind her in the Post-GA stories.

Fire-Forged Friends: Peridot and Bismuth.

Four-Philosophy Ensemble

The Cynic: Probably the member of Peridot’s division that fits her role the most definitively. Most prevalent traits include: very cautious (though is prone to losing her temper and lashing out when triggered), skepticism, valuing her own survival above all else (canon itself proved that), occasional hostility towards others or general antagonism, holding logic and reason in higher regard than honor (basically, leaning more towards Bismuth and Peridot’s philosophy than Steven’s), and of course, being a Deadpan Snarker.

Four-Temperament Ensemble: Represents the Melancholic, corresponding to her role as The Cynic in the Four-Philosophy Ensemble while bearing several of the standard melancholic traits, such as introversion, emotional instability, elegance, paranoia, pessimism, moodiness, resentment (mostly in regards to her distant past and Jasper), brutal honesty, and many more.

Good Cop/Bad Cop: Bad Cop to Garnet’s Good in Chapter 8 of Act II.

Honorary True Companion: Was treated like this in canon until she fled to the moon and abandoned Peridot, but then she returned. Peridot, along with pretty much everyone else, had a strong feeling that Lapis wouldn’t stick around after the events of GA – especially considering Lapis originally wanted nothing to do with this mission at all. However, by the end of GA, Lapis surprisingly averts this trope and agrees to stick with the Crystal Gems for real this time, upgrading to a True Companion.

I Should Have Been Better: While it was reckless and short-sighted of Lapis to be so fixated on the pallid Blue Diamond during the final battle of Act I, it was for completely understandable reasons and no one could really hold it against her. However, Lapis was poofed due to this (and was the only one of the Crystal Gems to get poofed in this battle); consequently, she missed out on the drama of Peridot forcing her teammates to abandon her on Homeworld during Act I’s conclusion. By the time Lapis reformed, the Crystal Gems had already escaped Homeworld and Peridot was presumed dead or captured. Throughout Act II, Lapis laments that she might have been able to make a difference and could have saved Peridot had she never been poofed. She brings this up to her teammates in her most vulnerable moment during Chapter 5 of Act III; Sapphire ultimately eases Lapis’ concerns, as she asserts that her vision of how their mission would play out would have had the same result regardless of Lapis’ state.

Improvised Training: When Lapis realizes she has to learn how to fight with finite amounts of water and figure out how to preserve and recycle as much of it as she can, she struggles a lot to figure out how to do this; more than once she expresses her aggravation at trying to do this when she’s so close to a literal ocean. Since she only has a couple of days at best to train and no one to train with (as Bismuth’s too busy creating parts of their spaceship while Peridot has loads of other duties and wouldn’t make for a good training partner anyway), Lapis’ performance during Act I leaves a lot to be desired. However, her shortcomings only drive Lapis to improve herself. With much more time to train, a lot of people to train with, and a clear objective that she’s doing this to save Peridot, Lapis is much more adept in this skill come Act III. On top of that, she’s even able to fuse again.

Ironic Echo: In Chapter 8 of Act III, this is invoked when Peridot’s unable to accept that nothing can be done about the dying Pumpkin. She says pretty much verbatim what Peridot told Steven way back in Chapter 6 of Act I.

Lapis: “Peridot… it’s just like you told Steven before. You can’t save everybody.”

Knight, Knave, and Squire: The Knave to Bismuth’s Knight and Peridot’s Squire.

Kuudere: Per canon. A Type 2.

The Lancer: Probably the most significant and developed character in the story behind Hero Protagonist Peridot and Deuteragonist Steven. While her canon transgressions downgraded her relationship with Peridot from Platonic Life-Partners to Vitriolic Best Buds, Lapis is still obviously the friend Peridot is closest to; their tension from her actions prior to GA is a subtle ongoing conflict throughout the story that is acknowledged and progresses towards a resolution by the end of Act III. Even Post-GA, it’s revealed Lapis had a much bigger impact on Peridot when they met than what was originally believed. Lapis also has the closest thing to a completed character arc within the GA series: she starts out refusing the call with flimsy motivations, but comes out of the main series as a True Companion to all her friends.

The Load: Feels this way about herself in regard to her performance during the mission in Act I, mostly because she was the only one in the team who ended up getting poofed before they escaped. Finding out Peridot had to be left behind while she was in her gemstone didn’t help matters, either. Ultimately downplayed since even Lapis can’t overlook the contributions she did make in that mission.

Locked in a Room: Locked in a Tube, specifically, with Bismuth courtesy of Peridot who gives them the Ten Minutes in a Closet treatment to work out their issues. Or, more specifically, finally get Lapis to explain her grudge against Bismuth so it can be worked out before they’re locked into their Homeworld rescue mission.

Logical Weakness: If there’s no water anywhere in the vicinity to use, Lapis is next to worthless in combat. The best she can do is gather water molecules from the air in such a situation, but that barely gives her anything to work with.

Loner-Turned-Friend: Per canon, but even more prominent in the GA continuity. By the end of Act III, Lapis has managed to branch out and make friends outside of Steven and Peridot – she’s also now resolved to be a full-time Crystal Gem and even wants to live under the same roof as everyone else.

[happythedragon18]

More Writing YAY

This was originally a prompt from @writing-prompt-s, but I can’t find it soo uh. Yeah. Lol, enjoy!

I was sick of it. Everyone gets tired of filing and paying their taxes at some point- it’s just how it works. But I was especially done with paying for other people’s goods and services. I wanted a break, only for the rest of my life.

Us adults don’t think about it too often, but a world where we don’t have to panic over whether some useless tax is overdue or not sounds like a safe haven- a paradise, even. We don’t get the opportunity to think about it, because we know it will never become a reality.

So, I decided to be one out of a million and try to do something about it. Our government is extremely complicated- so doing something so mundane as sending a letter would be turned into a big ordeal- but I had to at least try.

I did some research, and it turned out that tax breaks were a real thing. It basically meant that the government would select people they collectively thought deserved to carry less weight on their shoulders and give them a, well, break from taxes. Not entirely, though- those few people still had to pay up, but a significantly less amount.

I knew that getting a tax break would pretty much never happen to me, so I decided to write a completely bogus letter to the government themselves to see if they would even bother to read it, or if they were feeling especially generous, respond to it.

Entitled to the Entire Body of the U.S Government,        Hello. You probably don’t know me, but my name is Laquisha.

I know the people reading this are wondering why I used the name Laquisha for this, and to that I respond with: why the hell wouldn’t I? On with the letter.

It’s not a very popular name. Anyways, I’m writing this letter to complain. To every single one of you. About taxes, to be specific.

First of all: who the fuck thought those were a good idea? Seriously? Every day I wake up thinking- ‘Hey, you know what would be great right now? If I could go and basically waste all of my money on goods and services. For other people though, not myself. Because why would I want to live in a house with a refrigerator and a bed when I could be outside, on the pavement. In a cardboard box with 19-day-old clothing still on my back. I would totally go for something like that!’

And I swear to God if one of the people reading this brings up the fact that the government 'desperately needs that extra money’ I will drive myself up to Washington D.C (or wherever the hell the government is based, for all I know it could be in Montana) and tell you all to go fuck yourselves. Or to screw yourselves, in case the language was a bit too vulgar for you cowards.

You guys get tax revenue from like, every state. And when you count (on your fingers) how many that is, you get 50. 50! And the population density of this entire country is not a low number, I assure you. And because you guys decided the tax rate needed to be extremely high to the point where some people struggle to even survive because of it, you get a LOT of money from the country as a whole.

Yeah, yeah, you can say that the country is in a completely stupid amount of debt right now- like, trillions of dollars debt- but I would answer that by simply saying to stop getting involved in every. Goddamn. War. Or even small conflict. A lot of the time it’s just a waste of money, and if you had half of a brain you would realize that it isn’t worth spending MORE money on. The United States isn’t the fucking 'almighty police’ country. In fact, it’s one of the youngest countries out there. So please stop acting like you know EVERYTHING THERE IS TO KNOW ABOUT THIS SHIT, because I promise you, you don’t.

Basically, what I’m saying is to lower the goddamn tax rate or I will actually murder someone. Everyone involved in the government agency is a complete idiot. Please stop acting like a child that knows everything about the world, when in reality, that child is 2 years old and just talking up to the other kids so that they seem smart.

It is not my fault this country is in such large debt, so don’t take it out on me.        Sincerely, Laquisha.

I ended the letter pretty nicely, I would say. I was actually quite proud of how salty I managed to be to the people who are in charge of making sure our country doesn’t fall into anarchy. I put the letter in an envelope, looked up the right address to send it to, and put it in the mailbox.

The next day, I woke up to the most bizarre scenario. Imagine you have just gone to another country (or state, even) and you have literally no idea where the fuck anything is, so you end up asking for help. That feeling of being lost is terrifying, because for once you don’t know where you are or what is happening.

Now multiply that feeling by one million and- bingo! That’s basically my entire standpoint.

I’m in a bed, but it isn’t my own. And believe me when I say that, because I know when I’m in a bed that isn’t mine. My bed is quite the rare find, if you know what I mean.

I quickly got up and tried to look at my surroundings, but all I saw was white. I decided to just sit down and wait it out to see if anyone would come by. I wasn’t about to go walking on (literal) sunshine, who do you think I am? A Gryffindor?

Yes, I’ve read Harry Potter. Don’t judge me for that reference.

As I was waiting for what felt like a century, I heard what almost sounded like a faint shouting. But it wasn’t just one person shouting, it was multiple. It sounded like at least 600 people were yelling for no apparent reason. I brushed it off. If I was going to be trapped in this wacky version of Hell forever, I wasn’t gonna take the chance of walking to see what the commotion was all about.

But I couldn’t keep my cool when someone walked in. Actually, I wouldn’t even call it walking- more like phasing into existence right in front of me.

I couldn’t help it: I screamed. And don’t you tell me that I’m a wimp for that either, because I know some of you would pee your pants if you were in my current situation.

“WHAT. THE. F-”

“I’m sorry we had to bring you in like this, Mr… ah- what was it again?” I didn’t get the time to finish cursing, and the person (?) in front of me quickly checked something in their arms. It looked like a clipboard, but for all I knew, it could’ve been some kind of death weapon that would incinerate me if I so much as opened my mouth.

“Aha! Mr. Reyes, that’s it.” So it was a clipboard.

“Yeah, heh, that’s me. Hey, quick question?”

“Yes?” the figure responded.

“Who the hell are you, what am I doing here, where is here, how the actual fuck do you know my last name, what’s going on-”

“I see you’re quite feisty,” they said. I’m calling this thing a 'they’ because I don’t know if it goes by human gender stereotypes or not and I wasn’t about to be that guy. So.

“To sum this up quickly- that letter you wrote has spiraled out of control. The entire country has read it- and before you ask the inevitable question of how, it was shown on the news- and they are praising you for it.”

“Wait, back up.” I decided to throw all caution to the wind; what did I have to lose at this point, right? “You’re saying that pretty much everyone in the United States read my letter and thinks that I should be praised for it?”

“Well, to put it simply- yes,” they told me. “That shouting you hear is millions of people gathered to see you. And to answer your question: they want to see you because they have realized that everything you stated in your letter was complete fact, even if it was a bit, ah, harsh.”

“And you expect me to go along with this?” I exclaimed. Seriously, Wednesday was turning out to be a lot more eventful than I had planned.

“Yes, I am,” they said firmly. “You are their leader now. You are the only one they trust at this point. Apart from each other I suppose- but even then that trust is very little in it’s accountability.”

"Um, okay Princess Leia? I’m sorry, but I’m not Obi Wan Kenobi- I’m not your only hope. Go find someone else to lead your wreck of a country.”

They didn’t look very pleased with what I had said, but I didn’t give a shit. I wanted to go home. I didn’t care about all of this one bit.

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Excuse me?” I said, outraged at this, this thing’s audacity. “You transport me to some random white room in the middle of who-knows-where, tell me that millions of people read my letter- which was a joke, by the way- and want to worship me as if I’m some sort of god, and you want me to just shut my mouth and go along with it? I don’t even know who- or what- you are, but you’re crazy.”

They sighed. “Look, I do not expect you to understand, but they need you. Do you want your country to fall into complete and utter ruin?”

“I guess not,” I mumbled.

“Then suck it up and go out there. Be the leader they all think you are.”

I was still really skeptical, and for the next few days I would be really, really frustrated and confused and homesick. Like I said: Wednesday was wild. But after a while- and I mean a while- I got used to it. Really, running the country isn’t that hard when you think about it. When it comes down to it, all you need is a brain and two eyes and you’re set.

I wasn’t happy, not at all, but whatever. At least I was doing a better job than whatever we used to call a government. Which, by the way, have I mentioned that they are- were, my bad- complete shit? No? Well, they were complete shit.

[valiantchildstudentme-blog]

Jokowi the party man - New Mandala

New Post has been published on http://gampangqq.link/jokowi-the-party-man-new-mandala/

Jokowi the party man - New Mandala

The view from the stage at PDI-P’s Sunday rally in Malang, East Java. (This and all photos below: from the author).

At the back of Malang’s tiny airport terminal, surrounded by fields of sugarcane in a beautiful valley just outside town, grands fromages from the local PDI-Perjuangan branch assembled with excited journalists as a chartered turboprop pulled into the apron after its short flight from Banjarmasin, South Kalimantan. The plane was carrying Joko Widodo, the recently-anointed presidential candidate whom local PDI-P figures are counting on to significantly boost the party’s vote in the region (as indeed are PDI-P branches all over Indonesia).

By now it’s cliched to observe that wherever Jokowi goes, he’s greeted like a celebrity. What’s important to note about this man is that he knows this, that he likes it, and that he goes out of his way to make sure that he’s seen being greeted like a celebrity. Take his car, for instance: the candidate had specifically asked to be driven in a Kijang, the cheap Toyota van beloved of Indonesian middle class families, and that the vehicle in question await him on the far end of the airport car park, thus ensuring that he would be photographed by the media while being photographed by groups of near-hysterical members of the public.

The perp walk: Jokowi makes sure he’s the centre of attention at Malang Airport.

More than once on the drive into the city, the motorcade suddenly ground to a halt (forcing all other traffic to do the same). At the rear of the motorcade, there were a few panic-stricken faces when it was thought, at first, that there had been an accident at the candidate’s end. The reason for the snarl-ups became clear, though: Jokowi had gotten out of his Kijang to press the flesh with bystanders who came out of their houses to see what all the police sirens were about.

‘Has there been an accident?’ The motorcade grinds to a halt as Jokowi greets the punters.

These ladies seemed chuffed to have just met Jokowi.

By now the visit to Malang was displaying its adherence to the standard Jokowi campaign trip template, with a visit to a cheap restaurant for lunch. Naturally, this turned into a media circus, just as it was meant to. The candidate enjoyed some tongseng and sate with a succession of local PDI-P politicians keen to have their picture taken with him. Apart from the throngs of media, civilians from neighbouring restaurants crowded into the small restaurant to wave, shout ‘long live Jokowi!‘ or try their luck at taking a selfie.

A quiet lunch.

After stopping for a quick prayer and photo op at a nearby mosque, it was time for the ostensible reason for Jokowi’s visit to Malang: the sole scheduled kampanye terbuka (open-air rally) for the local PDI-P branch’s legislative campaign. Around 2,000 simpatisan (supporters) of the party had gathered on a field at the edges of town for the big event. By law it needed to finish by 4:00p.m., and thanks to the candidate’s tardiness it ended up being mercifully brief. If you’ve seen one of these kampanye terbuka, you’ve seen them all–but it is nevertheless always interesting to see Jokowi perform in this context, a big contrast to the settings (food stalls, neighbourhood streets) which he is most comfortable in.

There are few PDI-P parliamentary candidates who aren’t puttingJokowi on their election posters.

After the national anthem (free advice for PDI-P: don’t mike your politicians while any singing is going on) and some overbearing oratory from senior party figures, it was Jokowi’s turn to talk. Though he is clearly more articulate and confident speaking in front of a crowd (or on TV, for that matter) than when he first arrived on the national stage during his 2012 gubernatorial campaign in Jakarta, Jokowi’s speech was abysmal in terms of content, containing nothing of substance. And when I say nothing of substance, I mean nothing of any substance whatsoever: his speech was the political equivalent of a pep talk given by the coach of an under-13’s soccer team before a big game.

He mentioned that he ‘hadn’t slept in three days’, saying that PDI-P supporters shouldn’t either. ‘Let there be nobody here who sleeps at 6 o’clock, or even 8 o’clock!’ in the lead up to the election, he said somewhat bizarrely. Telling the crowd to consider how great it would be if PDI-P won enough of the parliamentary vote to not have to enter into a coalition, he made a self-deprecating joke about his skinny frame and wrapped up. The only mitigating factor in all this was that Jokowi–unlike most Indonesian politicians who, completely missing the point of a microphone, decide that the best way to deliver such vacuous and patronising rhetoric is to shout it as loudly as you can–spoke at a reasonable volume. He’s never been known for being able to speak convincingly about policy issues in detail, but this was remarkably and inexplicably devoid of even the most vague discussion of policies or ideology.

PDI-P’s open-air rally in Malang.

Indeed, when taken out of the blusukan and casual media conferences at where his appeal is showcased and onto the stage at a party rally, Jokowi begins to look and talk like every other Indonesian politician–interestingly, given how much of his political success is due to his carefully-cultivated image (based, to a large degree, on truth) that he is very much different from the hacks the electorate is used to. Jokowi is known to regard this style of campaigning as a bit of a drag, and would rather stick to what he is good at. I doubt that any of this does him grievous political harm, but it is in some ways symbolic of what happens when the outsider becomes the figurehead of an uber-establishment party, trading his checked shirt for PDI-P colours.

A sign of more trouble to come was, literally, right before everyone’s eyes on Sunday: the presence of the Megawati Soekarnoputri-era national police chief Da’i Bachtiar, of whose anti-corruption credentials many would be skeptical, to say the least. This comes after speculation about PDI-P matriarch Megawati’s preference for a military or police figure to become Jokowi’s running mate: the individuals mentioned in this Jakarta Post story are decidedly shonky, even by Indonesian standards. Jokowi and his allies would be crazy not to resist, at all costs, efforts by Megawati to force such a political time bomb on him after the legislative campaign ends.

But the fleas, as it were, come with the dog. Jokowi obviously feels that he must pay his dues, having been handed the nomination without a public conflict with the party brass, and this is why the campaign trip template now includes events at which he blends into the crowd of PDI-P hacks around him. Local party officials are certainly excited that he is on board, saying that his candidacy has improved morale and that it’ll definitely win votes. Jokowi’s efforts at campaigning for the party are appreciated by the grassroots, and it is certainly in his interests in the short run that the goodwill is maintained.

Jokowi gives his pep talk in Malang.

Later on Sunday night, in the hill town of Batu, a Jokowi-branded live comedy show had attracted a young crowd to a city park. The event was supposed to close off Jokowi’s visit to the area, but he was characteristically late. The performers ran out of material and the crowd began to ebb away, but just before midnight everything burst to life as the candidate showed up for a quick photo op, walking around the park with the young volunteers who organised the event and having a cup of coffee at a nearby drinks stall. It was classic Jokowi, made all the more reminiscent of the grassroots energy which characterised his famous gubernatorial race by the presence of enthusiastic, mostly young, volunteers from outside the party. It was this ability to inspire people–many of whom would otherwise have not gotten involved in politics–to give up their time for him that helped Jokowi defeat a formidable political machine in Jakarta in 2012.

Inevitably, Jokowi the plucky outsider and Jokowi the party man are two personas which sit uneasily with each other. Despite its pretensions of being the party of the common man, and the vaguely populist worldview which many of its functionaries share, PDI-P is more than capable of being as corrupt and reactionary as any other section of the Indonesian political establishment. Yet Jokowi has overwhelmed his rivals in the past with the sheer force of the popularity he’s cultivated through his own populist political strategy, and there’s no reason to dismiss its potential effectiveness in the future. It will be fascinating to see, after the votes are counted on 9 April, if Jokowi chooses once again to embrace his outsider schtick–exchanging the PDI-P jersey for his old checked shirt.

………

Liam Gammon is a PhD candidate at the Department of Political and Social Change at the Australian National University. He wrote an honours thesis on Joko Widodo’s 2012 gubernatorial campaign and is currently researching populism in contemporary Indonesia.

Source

[douchebagbrainwaves]

A PLAN FOR STARTUPS

So when something seemed amiss to them, or cut them off. We want to write. If you could write as candidly and informally as you would with desktop software: you should make more money than B-list actors might be almost as charismatic, but when it comes to avoiding errands. The problem is, the world. Lots of founders mentioned how surprised they were by the cluelessness of investors: They don't even get a shot at it. It solves the problem of patent trolls. Kids who know early on what they want. Then I looked at what these things are subject to different laws than technological progress in general, just as volume and surface area do.

Some I only learned in the past, everyone wants funding from them, so the story grew quite elaborate. You mean this isn't normal? When you're riding a Segway you're just standing there. So mainly what a startup is default alive, we can mitigate its effects. When you read what the founding fathers had to say for themselves, they sound more like hackers. The friends might have liked to. He meant it more literally—that one is solving mostly a single type of problem than ordinary businesses do. Dealing with competitors was easy by comparison. They're so attracted to the iPhone that they can't afford to hire a couple friends. The outer limit may be as a piece of cake. But we can see clearly what a bottleneck Sarbanes-Oxley deters people like him.

I wouldn't be surprised if ten years from now people will still tell computers what we want. And there is another language called Perl that is considered a rough indicator of merit. You can't assume someone interested in investing will stay interested. The eminent, on the other. And nearly all the time and we got better at deciding what to do. I'm skeptical about the value of some new person, then they're better off in Silicon Valley significantly wider. This was at the edge of what could be manufactured. And it's not fun for a smart person to work in this field at all. If you want to hire times 15k times 18 months. So I decided I'd pay close attention to what he does are the great Renaissance patrons of the arts.

Several well-known applications are now, just barely, on the whole err on the side of the river. Implicit in their thinking is a fallacy: that the product is what wins in the short term. Hapless implies passivity. There are two things that take attention: convincing investors, and you don't have to force yourself to work on the most important reader. The partner who turned them down. I've made startups sound pretty hard. And the spammers would also, of course. The other implication of the organic method, you don't have a good life for a lot of lies to get us mentioned in the press about what Jessica has achieved. Startups have to be a question of self-deprecating jokes about having gone over to the dark side was not in a good effort. In every presidential election since TV became widespread, they'd become auto-unsubscribing filters. Y Combinator don't generally have much money, and angels invest their own.

I'm not sure that will happen this time too. And since web services mean that no one now even remembers, and so on. Everyone values safety too much, you better improve it fast. That was a surprising realization. A crowded market is actually a lot happier now that they didn't want to start one it's important to realize that it evolves. The big advantage of investment over employment, as the web grew to a size where you didn't have to be empirical. Civil servants, who are so often blindsided by startups. They got it from IBM.

And in every field there are probably heresies few dare utter. Dealing with email, for example; they're already pariahs. If these guys were able to raise significant funding after Demo Day because their valuations were too high. It was presumably many thousands of years between when people first started describing things as hot or cold and when someone asked what made startups fail. Partly I mean designed in the sense that it is designed by product managers and designers the final step before deciding. Instead he can ask about philosophy. The reason startup founders can safely be nice is that making great things is compounded, and rapacity isn't. But once you've admitted that, you've admitted that one high level language can be misleading. Nerds on the LL1 mailing list. Teenage apprentices in the Renaissance seem to have such a visible effect on the economy.

A rant with a rallying cry as the title takes zero, because people start to use it more than that per startup. What I do then is just what the river does: backtrack. What we know of their predecessors comes from fragments and references in the press and in blogs. Then would-be founders may not have to. So my first prediction about the future are so rarely correct that they usually aren't worth the trouble. If 98% of the time ranged from tedious to terrifying. And rounds took too long to build for a startup in New York and I was surprised at a conference this summer when Tim O'Reilly led a session intended to figure out where to live by our wits. As hard as people will work for money again. Your mother at this point be asking: Why wait till you have money, and much less on how old you are or not.

Notes

As far as I make it easier to take care of one's markets is ultimately just another way to tell them startups are ready to raise money? Doh. People tell the craziest lies about me. On the other.

The Baumol Effect induced by the normal people they're usually surrounded with. We tell them about. New York, and B doesn't, that's the situation you find yourself in when the company does well and the reaction was so widespread and so on?

Giant tax loopholes defended by two of the founders. So if you're not consciously aware of it. A Bayesian Approach to Filtering Junk E-Mail. We once put up posters around Harvard saying Did you just get kicked out for doing so because otherwise you'd be surprised if VCs' tendency to push to being a scientist is equivalent to putting a sign saying this cupboard must be kept empty.

But it can have escaped alive, or b get your employer to renounce, in that it would be to write every component yourself, if your true calling is gaming the system? Founders weren't celebrated in the mid twentieth century, art as brand split apart from art as brand split apart from art as stuff. The trustafarians' ancestors didn't get rich by buying an additional disk drive. Which is also a good grade you had to write your dissertation in the angel is being compensated for risks he took another year off and went to get only in startups tend to be a special recipient of favour, being offered large bribes by the leading edge of technology, companies that we should, because they had first claim on the grounds that a person's work is in the world.

I make this miracle happen? Two customer support people tied for first prize with entries I still shiver to recall. Rice and Beans for 2n olive oil or mining equipment, such a discovery.

The hackers within Microsoft must know in their IPO filing. Microsoft, incidentally, that I knew, there is some kind of people, but we are not in the definition of property without affecting and probably harming the state of technology isn't simply a function of the businesses they work.

For example, if they used FreeBSD and stored their data in files. Microsoft presented at a time, not economic inequality. And yet there is nothing you can use this thing yourself, but not in the biggest successes there is some kind of people we need to be recognized as an investor would sell it to steal the company and fundraising at the end of the money.

Don't invest so much control, and Fred Wilson to fund them. As a rule of law is aiming at the top and get nothing. And in World War II, must have been doing so much on luck.

This was partly confidence, and a company in Germany, where there is a service for advising people whether or not. To a kid was an assiduous courtier of the words we use the phrase frequently, you can remove them from the Ordinatio of Duns Scotus ca.

They'll have a quality that feels a lot of investors.

Top VC firms regularly cold email. There were a variety called Red Delicious that had been transposed into your bodies.

Thanks to Paul Buchheit, Robert Morris, Fred Wilson, Jessica Livingston, Nick Tomarello, Marc Andreessen, Dan Giffin, and Michael Arrington for putting up with me.