Inside Penguins Hockey: What animal would you be and why 

Letang: cheetah
Fehr: bear
Rust: polar bear
Cole: wolf
Sheary: dog
Dumoulin: dog (English Bulldog)
Kessel: his dog
Schultz: dog (Golden Retriever)
Kuhnhackl: cat
Daley: lion
Murray: bald eagle
Crosby: eagle or lion
Malkin: snake or scorpion
Fleury: monkey
Hagelin: dolphin
Bonino: penguin

  • humanities me: the rise of the modern state is imbricated with the violent imposition of a kind of instrumental rationality favorable to capitalist development, which seeks to transform local knowledge into bureaucratically-legible and controllable forms; which blithely and zoologically enumerates juridical units together by their numbers of Jews with and without civil rights, cattle, unmarried women, etc, and this is bad because
  • quantitative social science me: holy shit check out this bomb ass dataset of Prussian counties (1812) by Jews with and without civil rights, cattle, unmarried women,
In Purrfect Harmony [ML Pop Star AU][Part 1]

I CAVED. Chapter 1 of the Miraculous Ladybug Pop Star AU, based off of my post here. One zillion thanks to everyone who has contributed, supported, and demanded that it be written! I hope you all enjoy! If you want to add ideas, art, comments, or anything to the mix, I’m keeping track with the following tags: #ml pop star au #IPH #In Purrfect Harmony #popstar au

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug
Pairing: Marinette Dupain-Cheng x Adrien Agreste
Tags: ML Pop Star AU, AU, fluff, kissing, music, terrible jokes, swearing, some alcohol consumption
Rating: Teen
Words: 4010

Part 2

There’s a rhythm to the work. It’s in the hushed shimmy of silk unfurled from garment bags. It’s in the click of hangers paged through like chapters in a book. It’s in the hot buzz of stage lights casting rainbows on scuffed floors.

There’s a rhythm to the work and it’s the clip of heels and the swell of voices. It’s the gasp of a pin pricked too far through a seam and the yelped regret and the sideline titters that follow.

There’s a rhythm to the work: the flashing of sequins, the hitching of dresses, the crisp snip of scissors eating up stitches like dreams, the half-step of a warming voice knocked off key by a shirt to the face.

There’s rhythm, and bobbins, double-sided tape, tinny falsetto over speakers, and shouting, lots of shouting to the beat of pounding feet and the world around her breathes as a waltz: Mar-i-nette, Mar-i-nette, Mar-i-nette -


“Marinette! Earth to Marinette! He-lloooo!”

Blinking, Marinette looks up. Chloé looks down with a sneer.

“It’s expensive for them to make calls to the Moon, Marinette, so you’d better pick up.”

The fluorescent pink vinyl skirt Marinette had been sewing Chloé into reflects a warped version of her confused face. She opens her mouth to ask what Chloé meant, only to feel the shift of metal between her lips; Marinette bites down and smacks her lips together tightly to keep the pins she’d been holding onto from sliding into her throat, or worse - dropping onto Chloé. As such, the question escapes Marinette only as a muffled, “Whmmmma?”

Nathalie has been calling for you for like, the last 60 seconds. You should probably go if you like this job,” Chloé says. Her eyes light up in delicious glee as Marinette swallows a curse and almost swallows a needle.

Marinette had been so focused on preparing Chloé’s piece for the first day of filming that everything around her turned to white noise, but now as she whipped the last few stitches into the cloth edge connecting the vinyl skirt panels, she could hear quite clearly the agitated shouts for her. Chloé, of course, had done nothing to help, or indicate that Marinette’s mouthful of sharp objects was keeping her from responding. The opposing sides of the skirt melded into one, Marinette gave the skirt a sharp tug to test, and she was off across the studio at a jog. With one hand she waved towards where Nathalie Sancoeur stood, waiting in the middle of a jostling crowd, and with the other she collected pins and needles as she spit them out. Marinette came to a stop and shoved her tools in her pocket, where she knew she’d regret them later.

“Sorry,” she wheezed, “I’m so sorry, I was just finishing up Chloé’s outfit for the video.”

It was impossible to tell which was more unfortunate: Nathalie’s last name, or the fact that she often lived up to it. Her dispassionate gaze settled on Marinette. She sniffed, then looked down at the tablet in her hand.

“Mr. Agreste is waiting for you in the small conference room,” Nathalie said, “You’re late.”

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