#a redo is more like i finished a whole part and decided something was wrong with it. or if i keep doing the same 2 rows over and over

[dailypokemoncrochet]

What pieces did you have to do retries and start-overs the most? And was it because it was difficult shapes/techniques or because you didn't have much experience?

Off the top of my head:

Misdreavus that I remade entirely because I used the wrong colors (original one ended up like a Mareanie/Toxapex color palette that looked okay in the lamplight but not so much in the daylight)

Gloom because I had so little experience at the time (before I actually started this project, <40 Pokemon at the time). I remade the feet over and over for 5 hours, literally. I think I was even doing just the same thing with varying levels of tight stitches thinking that was the problem. I just didn't know enough yet how to make an oval shape as opposed to a round shape.

Totodile for similar reasons to Gloom in that I didn't have a lot of experience at the time. I couldn't get the open jaw with teeth to look quite right.

Aron and Lairon that I redid the heads because I wanted to have a certain effect for the "holes through the armor" part of the design but that level of detail meant the overall piece would end up being too large and so I kept scrapping those.

Shieldon for a similar reason to Aron/Lairon in that I wanted the eyes/face to be set a certain way with the head a specific shape that just didn't come out right and so I ended up doing a really simplified thing.

Tapu Fini because of the shell design being complicated to make as a technically flat piece made into a curved shell, in a way where only the outside showed the design and the inside was blank (still have not found a satisfactory way of doing this)

Venusaur because it kept looking...like a toad, but not in the right way, and I was making one for a giveaway and thus had a higher standard for it

A lot of my redos are for shape reasons (ovoid/flat need different approaches than spherical), or size/detail reasons (too much detail makes for a larger overall piece than I want). Also I will frog a row or a few in most of my crochets as I go to fix small details, but I generally don't get far enough with those that I consider them actual redos or remakes.

[lady-belz]

My Game, My Rules: A Dirty Shorts Fic

Kim Seokjin x Female Reader

Prompt: When he has you pinned down to the bed, leans in and says “Now we're gonna play by my rules.” Author Note: This one somehow got away from me and didn't turn out at all like I expected.

Walking into the apartment, you were greeted by the loud sounds of bombs going off, childish laughter and cheesy music.

Jin was home.

You wanted to roll your eyes.

Ever since he'd come back from Japan with a new gaming console, when he wasn't working his schedule or at the studio with the others, he was glued to his video games.

You couldn't remember the last time you had gone on a date, just the two of you and no distractions.

And it wasn't for lack of trying on your part. You even stood in front of the television in a full see-through pink teddy and his only response was to ask you to move before his character was killed.

You went to bed alone, frustrated and angry that he cared more about his games than you.

He woke you up one morning after a semi-sleepless night (he'd been up all night again, gaming with Jungkook and the loud noises kept you awake) to let you know he had to go to the studio. Namjoon had called him asking him to return to re-do his ad-libs on a song they were working on because the original file ended up corrupted and they had to redo the whole thing.

“Whatever.” you said, turning your back on him to try and go back to sleep. He frowned, wondering at your attitude before he shook it off and headed out.

You managed to get 3 hours of blissful, silent sleep before hunger woke you mid-afternoon.

After a shower, you were in the kitchen making some ramen when you spied the game controller for his console on the coffee table. The longer you stared at it, the angrier you got. You grabbed it and decided to hide it in an empty shoe box in your closet, a place he refused to enter without your permission.

Feeling good about yourself, you returned to the kitchen to finish your lunch before heading into your home office to catch up on some work.

Listening to music helped you work better, so you had your headphones on and blasting loudly, so at first you didn't hear the loud sounds coming from the living room. But in the silence between songs you did.

You quickly removed your headphones and went into the other room to find out what was going on. Your eyes widened in shock at the destruction that used to be your living area. Books, DVD movies, couch cushions were thrown all over the place. Even the coffee table was on its side, looking like an abandoned child on a street corner.

The culprit was currently tearing through the cabinet beneath the television.

“Jin, what the fuck?” you shouted, catching his attention.

“Have you seen my game controller?” he demanded. You took a half-step back and scowled, crossing your arms.

“You wrecked the living room because of a game controller?”

“Yeah, where is it?”

“I don't believe you!” you sighed, disappointed. He looked at you, confused.

“What's wrong?”

“What's wrong? Oh I have a list, Kim Seokjin.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, his inner voice shouted “Full name, dude! You are fucked!” and he suddenly realized he may done something to upset you.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked.

“Mad doesn't even begin to cover what I'm feeling.” you snapped back, turning on your heel and stomping away. He heard the bedroom door slam a moment later. He sat back on his heels, lips pursed. Taking in the destruction he caused, he set about cleaning it up, giving you a chance to cool off.

It was near dinner when you finally made an appearance. He had let you be in favor of cooking some of your favorite dishes as an apology for whatever he'd done. But you didn't speak a word to him, choosing to ignore his existence as you shared your dinner at the table.

His phone pinged a notification from the group chat and he took a quick glance at it.

JK: Hyung, Overwatch later?

He started to type a yes but chanced a peek at the sad expression on your face as you picked at your food and changed his mind.

Jin: Not tonight, Y/n is angry at me and I need to find out why.

Jimin: Maybe because you've been ignoring her for the past 2 months?

Jin: Wah?

Yoongi: Dude, you've been non-stop since you came back from Japan. When's the last time you actually acknowledged her existence?

Namjoon: I thought I was the only one who noticed. I didn't say anything though, didn't want to seem pushy.

Hobi: Hate to say it, but you haven't been very attentive. When's the last time you took her on a date, or hugged her or gave her a kiss and all that couply romantic stuff you're supposed to do?”

Jin sat back in his chair, watching as you took your empty dishes to the sink to be washed. He went over every instance in his head of before and after his discharge and couldn't remember the last time he had even told you he loved you.

Jin: Shit.

Namjoon: We'll put off recording the rest of this week. Lol.

JK: Go fix this, hyung. I'm sorry.

Jin: Not your fault, Kookie. It's all mine and I'm going to fix it.

He glanced up, looking for you but you were nowhere to be found. A moment later you returned to the living room, his game controller in hand, setting it on the table beside him before going back to the bedroom. He did not miss seeing the sheen of tears in your eyes.

He definitely had some apologizing to do.

He was not in bed beside you when you awoke the next morning. You were not surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised...

Until you went into the living room after your shower and saw him standing in the middle of the room surrounded by dozens upon dozens of your favorite flowers. They seemed to cover every available surface. Your mouth dropped open in shock.

“W-What is all this?” you stammered, approaching him. He took your hand, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles.

“I've been an absolute ass to you as of late and I feel horrible about it. I am so sorry.”

“In what way?” you asked, wanting to know for sure if he knew why he was apologizing.

“Beside my schedule keeping me out, when I am here, I'm usually gaming, either alone or with Jungkook when I should be spending time with you. I wouldn't blame you if you broke up with me.” he pouted. You were a sucker for his pouts, and because he knew why you were upset without any prompting went a long way to soothing your hurt feelings.

“Stop pouting, you baby.” you shoved him with a small laugh. He smiled hearing it. Making you laugh was one of his life's pleasures. “And no I don't want to break up with you. I admit, I was extremely hurt. I thought you didn't want me around anymore.”

“Oh no! I would be absolutely lost without you!” he exclaimed, pulling you into his arms, hugging you tightly. “I love you, I cherish you, I adore you.” he whispered into your hair.

“Thank you, Jin. I needed to hear that. And I love you too.” you returned, drawing back slightly to look at his handsome face.

He stared at you for a moment before he leaned in to kiss you, his plush lips mapping yours. Your heart rate accelerated as you kissed him back. You forgot how good his kisses made you feel and a soft moan rumbled in your throat.

Still kissing you because he didn't want to be separated from you for one second, he scooped you up into his arms and strode toward the bedroom.

You took your time undressing one another, kissing each exposed piece of skin revealed before you found yourself beneath him in the middle of the bed.

“Jin, I-” you started to say as he pinned your wrists to the bed above you head. He shushed you, a dark glint in his eye that made you tremble with want. He leaned in to whisper in your ear as he settled his naked body between your thighs.

“Now we're going to play by my rules. So be a good girl and moan for me.” he smirked, making your core throb...

-End-

[cl0wn-cryptid]

AAAAA FINALLY 1/9 of my mane 9 inspired designs. Just warning I have a lot to say with this being the first part sorry ;w;. Still not the final design but! A good step! Ever since I started this series on a whim I’ve been absolutely fighting with these designs. After I finished the original drawing of Desert I decided on these sort of chibi refs (which originally were gonna be more simple but of course I complicated things haha). Things were going well, I got the clean up sketches done for all 9, but as I was trying to finish Pinkie’s lines I burnt out.. and I honestly just need to completely redo her again (aside from the human form which I am happy with). Pinkie and Starlight have been the biggest challenges species wise for this whole series. Honestly there’s a lot I need to change with all “pony” forms in general, aside from Trixie who’s human form I’m the most dissatisfied with. I’m not sure this’ll make sense, but when it comes to the human races I tend to just go with the popular head cannon’s (since I agree with them) or what I imagine them as. But Trixie… I went with something random for the sake of it (Hawaiian), I don’t even remember why, but I feel almost wrong for doing it because it had no thought behind it. Maybe I’m over thinking it? I’d like to hear some feedback (or even your own race head cannons for Trixie!). Either way I’m definitely gonna redo these a lot in the future after all the refs are done because there’s plenty I could improve on.. Plus.. The canvas’ are so small I lose so much detail I wanted.. Ah well..

Aside from the general stuff, here’s some info on Desert herself! Species wise I knew pretty quick I wanted to mix her with a kitsune to have a nyan cat thing going with the tails, I specifically modeled her after a fennec fox because I adore the interpretation of RD being the smallest. Then I used the rainbow bee eater for colors and used the American kestrel as some loose inspiration. Body type was super obvious for me, pear shaped and athletic, which I definitely wanna push more in the future. For the human form I’ve seen lots of people make her Latina, so I went with that (plus I just can’t see her pale-), along with Japanese because well, kitsune, thought it’d make sense. Outfit wise, while I do love the simple tomboy outfits she’s usually given I really wanted her to have some kinda athletic punk outfit, which I probably will change up later to look cooler but it’s fine for now I suppose. Some fixes I know I wanna do is make her tails less plain, and give her actual paws because I just think it’ll look nicer even if I’m a bit sad she looks more fox than pony.

Hhhh that was a lot of info dumping, but! I’d love to hear some feedback :3 I know a lot could be improved so feel free to give some criticism! Also it’s obvious but when I started these I decided on doing a little artistic top nudity.. No real reason, I just like it.

[glamorousruins]

Art Dump #1

I have some time on my hands today so I decided to compile a small post with some drawings/sketches that I've made but never officially posted on my blog! Some are pieces made for friends and others are just drawings I made for no reason lmao

I decided to do this to feed yall some content but also so I can appreciate my art a bit more because right now I'm not all that happy with it kawjshdg

Anyways here we go! (imma also explain some of them cuz I wanna)

so this was a drawing i tried doing of an overblot!Ace design made by my very lovely mutual @ai-0uch !! I had this whole idea of what I wanted to do but then I realized something- I did his design wrong aKWEJHGRH. He has a flower over one of his eyes and I didn't realize it until After I started coloring. Not to mention the fact that for some reason this drawing is too intense for my laptop to handle??? Every time I try opening it to work on it it just closes the app. So I'm physically unable to work on it

Still love how I did his hair though. And I may actually redo this since I'm still so in love with this design

Punk Ruggie!! This was a sketch that was inspired by the Punk!Ruggie design created by my lovely mutual @minccinoocappuccino !!! I loved how scrunkly he looked and just Knew I had to sketch him

This sketch is actually what made me adopt and more sketcher style! My "sketches" are usually always filled with clean and neat lines which kinda defeats the whole purpose. So this little doodle was great because I got to have fun with it and make it as wild as I wanted

And I really like how it came out!! His nose and smile are my favorite part of this one

This is a little fan art I did for another one of my mutuals, @twisted-lusty !! I remembered seeing his post about this guy n went "oh he's horrible. I must draw him" and this was the result

I actually don't hate it??? There is def a lot I could fix about this but I liked the eyes a lot!! I had such a fun time that coloring this in was very enjoyable. And that's hella important to me because coloring in my drawings is my favorite part!!!

Usually, during my drawing process, i color in the eyes mid-sketch so I don't get bored. And I take so much time coloring since it's very relaxing for me to do

oh this fucker

Okay, this is just a silly little doodle that I made for an ask but I still love how it came out??? His face shape, the perfect head-to-neck ratio, his smile??? mwah mwah

It might not seem all that important but unfortunately, I have the terrible habit of pointing out every flaw in a drawing after I finish it and it usually makes me dislike what I made. I'm working on not doing that dw, but I actually like this one. Not to mention, the lineless look of his hair??? Woah that's new

ok so this is getting long so I will be making a second part soon

[theweasleysredhair]

CHLOE MY LOVE! congrats on 4.6k -- honestly not sure how you don't have a million more followers because your blog and your writing is freaking brilliant! so happy to have formed a genuine friendship with you :') brb getting emotional. anyway! for your event, could you write a little something with my love george with a few different prompts? is that allowed? 3 and 8 from angst, 10 from fluff? who's surprised, i'm all fluff, congrats again my darling you deserve it all x

thank you so so much angel!! 💕 of course i decided i had to do a fake dating drabble for you erica, i got v carried away with it too so hope you like a super long drabble that turned into practically a whole fic - enjoy! ❤️

theweasleysredhair’s 4.6k follower event!

~~

3. “I told you not to fall in love with me.”

8. “I can’t pretend anymore.”

10. “Because I love you.”

~~~

Character: George Weasley

Word Count: 1884

WARNING: there’s no ‘read more’ bc i’m on mobile and couldn’t get it to work hahaha i apologise

Taglist: @dreamer821 @gracemayhateyou @criminalyetminimal @firewhisky-kisses @obsessedwithrandomthings @angelinathebook @iprobablyshipit91 @potterverseimagine @slytherineheir @kpopgirlbtssvt @rexorangecouny @wand3ringr0s3 @ickle-ronniekins @sehunasbitch @cryingforcrystalpepsi @kashishwrites @girl-next-door-writes @susceptible-but-siriusexual @crissdanvers @besitos-41 @heart-of-tempered-steel @andineversawyoucoming @mytreec | message or send an ask to be added/removed!

Disclaimer: Gif isn’t mine, credit goes to whoever made it

~*~

PLEASE DO NOT REPOST MY WORK! REBLOGS ARE ABSOLUTELY FINE! <3

+ + + + +

“I need you to date me.”

In shock, you dropped too many of the porcupine quills into your potion, making the liquid turn a nasty shade of green and sizzle as it practically exploded across the table. You sighed frustratedly, grabbing your wand and cleaning up the potion before turning to the person who spoke - one half of the Weasley twins and one of your best friends, George Weasley - who apparently found your reaction extremely amusing.

“I beg your pardon?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest. The hint of a smile was still etched onto his face as he leaned forward, “I need you to date me.”

You felt yourself grow warm at the thought, “You’re joking, right?” “For once, I am not,” he shook his head, “I um, I told this girl I couldn’t go to the Yule Ball with her because I had a girlfriend who I’m going with instead. Except, I don’t have a girlfriend. So you can see my dilemma.”

“This may be a stupid question but... if you don’t have a girlfriend, why did you tell her you do?” You raised an eyebrow, half curious, half amused.

“I didn’t want to be rude and just tell her no because she was really sweet. So now I need to find someone to date me, and I thought of you,” he explained with a shrug, playing with some of the potion ingredients you’d left at the end of your table.

“There are so many other girls you could have-“

“I don’t want anyone else, I want you,” he said almost desperately, before sighing downheartedly, “C’mon, it wouldn’t be so bad, and it wouldn’t have to be for long! Just until the Yule Ball. It’s not like we’d have to pretend that much! I spend most of my free time with you as it is.”

“How do you know I don’t already have a date, huh?” You asked, beginning to start your potion all over again before Snape got the chance to scold you.

George’s face dropped and his jaw clenched, “What do you mean? Who asked you?”

“Well, no one. But my point was, what if they had?”

“Then you’d tell them you’ve been given a better option - me - and that they were never good enough for you. You know, the truth,” he nodded triumphantly, running a hand through his hair.

You shook your head at him with a smile, glancing up at him before your gaze travelled back to your potion.

“So what do you say?”

You pondered it for a moment, before replying, “Fine.”

George broke out into a large grin, wrapping his arms around you and very nearly swinging you around the room in excitement, “Darling, you are the best! I owe you big time!”

“Yes, you do. Now, do we have any rules we need to discuss?”

“Like what?”

“Like, I don’t know, a backstory, how we got together, how far we’d go with PDA - I vote not too far if I’m honest,” you said nervously, toying with the hem of your jumper.

“Well I vote the opposite, I think we should have lots of PDA constantly, all the time!”

“George,” you said warningly, though you couldn’t help the way your lips curved into a smile.

“Fine,” he dragged out the last syllable, “I can only think of one rule. A very important rule that I’m sure you might have a hard time not breaking.”

“Go on?”

“Whatever you do, don’t fall in love with me!” His eyes widened dramatically as he pointed at you. “No chance of that happening, don’t you worry,” you laughed, stirring the potion.

“Well that was rude of you,” he said in mock hurt, a hand on his heart as he pouted at you. You cracked a smile and shook your head, “Oh be quiet will you, and pass me the rest of those porcupine quills, I have to finish redoing this potion that you made me ruin.”

“Nagging me already,” George mumbled, “We really are a couple.”

***

You realised pretty quickly that you were wrong about there being no chance of falling for George. So very wrong. Turns out the chances of falling for George Weasley were 100%, because somewhere between being his friend and being more, you fell head over heels in love with him.

If you were honest with yourself, you’d had feelings for him before the whole fake-dating, but figured you’d mistaken them for feelings of strong friendship.

Now you knew - you didn’t want to be his friend, you wanted him to snog you against a wall as he whispered sweet nothings in your ear.

And all of this was because of one simple kiss. You hadn’t expected it, didn’t know it was going to happen. All you knew was that one minute you were walking down the hallway with George’s arm around your shoulder - not even for show, really, he just walked with you like that anyway - and the next, your back was against a pillar, your eyes widening as you stared up at George, feeling yourself growing warm.

“W-What’s going on?” You stammered out, heart pounding as you lost yourself in his brown eyes, suddenly getting the urge to run your hand through his ginger hair and pull him by his tie down into a kiss.

“She’s watching,” he murmured, nodding subtly down to the end of the hallway. You couldn’t see anyone, but took his word for it as you figured you were just overwhelmingly flustered from the proximity.

And suddenly you realised what position you were in: his hands either side of your head, trapping you between his chest and the pillar, your own chest barely an inch away from him and his legs brushing against your own.

Your breath hitched in your mouth, noticing how his eyes flickered from your eyes down to your mouth before moving back up again. Your lips parted a little, chin tilting ever-so-slightly upwards as you waited to see what he’d do.

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” He murmured, and suddenly his lips were on yours, pulling you into a desperate kiss, him cupping your cheek to bring you closer, his other hand sliding down the pillar to grab your waist.

This wasn’t a kiss from someone who was just a friend. This was a kiss that made your toes curl, set your skin on fire and made you want more - so much more.

And in that moment you realised you loved him. You didn’t want to go back to being George’s friend, not when you knew how his lips felt against yours, how his hands felt holding your waist.

He’d finally pulled away for air, still pressing shorter kisses to your lips as you both breathed heavily, and you dragged a hand through his hair, just how you’d imagined.

You knew, right then, that you were in love with him. All of a sudden, and very very full on.

After that, you suddenly noticed and admired everything about him, from the way he laughed to the way he bit his lip as he glanced your way.

And the thought of breaking this whole dating thing off - something that you’d both planned to happen the day after the Yule Ball - made you feel sick to your stomach. The thought of never kissing him again made you want to scream.

You couldn’t imagine going back to being friends. Not when you’d had a taster of what it was like to be George Weasley’s girlfriend.

You argued with yourself, one half of you wanting to end it with him now in order to save yourself further heartbreak, and the other half wanting to continue for as long as possible. It was all you could think about, from the moment you woke up in the morning to the moment you went to sleep at night. And you decided you couldn’t keep going like this, it wasn’t fair to you.

You couldn’t keep pretending you weren’t in love with the ginger boy.

And so, when you found yourself sat in his common room late one night two weeks after that first fateful kiss, sharing one of the red plush couches with him, his leg pressed next to yours and your heart racing, the rest of the students already in their dorms, you decided to be honest with him.

“George?”

“Yes?” George waited for your reply, however at the silence, he looked up curiously, finding you chewing on your lip in thought.

“Are you okay, love?” He asked, concern seeping into his voice as he looked at you, noticing how restless you appeared, how lost in thought.

“I um.. yes? I mean no,” you frowned, “I mean- I don’t know.”

He shifted, his body tilting towards yours and he grabbed your hands in his, bringing them up to his lips so he could press a kiss to you knuckles, “What’s wrong, what’s going on?”

“I can’t pretend anymore, Georgie,” you whispered, afraid if you spoke any louder your voice would fail you.

“What do you mean, you can’t pretend? You’re scaring me, princess, please tell me what’s going on in that mind of yours,” he frowned, hating the idea of anything even remotely bothering you.

“I can’t pretend to be your girlfriend anymore.”

And suddenly George felt like he’d been winded, a pain in his chest he could only liken to heartbreak, if he was to be so dramatic.

“What?” His voice was small, especially in the silent room. He wanted to know why. Had he done something wrong? Made you feel uncomfortable at one point? He’d hate himself if he had.

“I can’t pretend because- because I fell in love with you,” you breathed out, lips trembling as you stared at your clasped hands, “This isn’t pretend for me anymore, this is real! And it’s scary, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

There was a silence and you couldn’t bring yourself to look up at him, not wanting to see the look on his face as he tried to come up with, you presumed, a way to reject you.

“You wanna know why I asked you to be my fake girlfriend?” He asked suddenly, squeezing your hands and waiting for you to nod slightly at him, before continuing, “Because I wanted a reason to ask you to the Yule Ball without being rejected. Because I wanted to spend even more time with you, to have a glimpse at what it would be like to date you. Because-because I love you.”

Your felt your heart skip a beat as you finally looked up at him, meeting his eyes as he smiled at you.

“You love me?” You whispered.

“Always have, I reckon.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face as you allowed him to pull you closer to him, “Well I guess it’s definitely a good job I fell for you, huh?”

He grinned cheekily, biting his lip as he replied jokingly, “Well, I don’t know really, I mean, I thought I told you not to fall in love with me.”

“Yeah, well,” you spoke, letting a soft smile creep onto your face,

“As it turns out, I just couldn’t help myself.”

[hotchley]

heavy is the head that wears the crown

Hey besties...

This was my first CM fic, and it was only on ao3, so I am now cross-posting it almost a whole year later because I changed my url and was redoing my masterlists so... yeah.

IT IS FROM A YEAR AGO PLEASE DO NOT COME FOR ME IT'S ALMOST EMBARRASSING JUST COPYING IT </3

Trigger Warnings: depictions of child abuse, aftermath of abuse, canon-typical violence, references to self-harm (it’s not depicted, but hotch has some unhealthy thoughts in the hardwick scene), heavily implied sexual content

read on ao3!

I

He remembers the last time his father laid a hand on him perfectly. He remembers it perfectly because it was the most painful. When he was feeling particularly low, he wondered if his father knew he was going to die and wanted to watch his oldest son try and hold himself together as one small act of defiance.

He remembers how each strike with the belt hurt more than the last. He remembers how he tried to keep his voice down, because Sean was sleeping, and he didn’t need to ever find out that their father was a bastard. He remembers that the pain became unbearable the moment his father pressed the still lit cigarette to the cuts and that he had screamed so loudly, he was scared the neighbours would come running. Remembers how his father had yanked his hair so hard more tears pooled in the corner of his eyes.

But they didn’t fall. Not when his father shoved him to the ground and left him to deal with his injuries himself. They didn’t fall then because he knew that for one more night, his mother and Sean would be safe from his touch. And that would have to be enough to keep him going.

They didn’t fall when the nice lady from reception asked to speak to him and told him how sorry she was but the hospital had phoned to say his father was dead after suffering a heart attack at work. He didn’t cry then because he was too busy thinking about how Sean was going to be destroyed. And his mother would likely retreat further into herself, leaving him to pick up the pieces and take over the home.

He didn’t break at the funeral. Sean was clinging to his hand, tears streaming down his face, even as he didn’t understand why daddy wasn’t coming home. He wanted to fall to his knees and scream, because despite everything that man had done to him, he had never touched Sean, not even when he had been at boarding school and unable to protect him. But he didn’t, because neither he nor his brother had access to their inheritance, and they needed to survive. His mother wouldn’t work- and he wouldn’t want her to. But it meant it was up to him.

So he looked at himself in the mirror, put the mask that transformed him from Aaron, the delightful teenager who was in the theatre club, into Mr Hotchner, the man who could provide for his family and be who they needed him to be.

It was almost too easy.

II

If he thought about it for too long, he would classify the whole incident with Vincent Perotta as his version of a breakdown. As the garrotte tightened around his neck, and as it became harder and harder to fill his lungs with the need to live, all he could think of was his father and Haley. His father smirking as his eldest son finally met the end he deserved- killed by someone he should have been able to defeat in the dark because he had gotten distracted- and Haley, home with a son barely old enough to hold his own head up.

Haley.

The image of her holding their son gave him the strength to shove the unsub- he didn’t deserve to be named- away. And then the flashlights came into view and he knew he was safe. They had come to get him. He wasn’t alone. The relief was quickly overshadowed by the officer they still had to find, and the confession they still needed. He should have known Gideon would know why he had refused everyone’s offers of help. Why he hadn’t even loosened his tie. The ghost of his father saying he deserved the pain still haunted him.

He hadn’t wanted to finish it. He had wanted to stay as far away from that bastard as he could. But Jason Gideon never asked questions. He phrased demands as questions. So he put back on the Unit Chief mask and said sure. But he knew as soon as he said some that he had messed up. He just hoped nobody else would notice.

The world had never been kind to him.

He didn’t know why he didn’t just walk out without responding. Why he chose to stand there and admit- or as close as he would ever get to admitting- that his father had abused him. That the shards of his words and actions still broke his skin and damaged his heart and filled his lungs with poison that he had to inhale. Maybe it was because he needed to remind himself. He was not his father, and he never would be.

Haley was awake when he got home. He felt bad, she needed all the rest she could get, but she had smiled, and said she loved him. It sounded like a reminder rather than a confession. He had managed to smile, gratefully getting in the bath she had run for him, scrubbing the hands of a murderer off of his skin.

She made love to him that night. Took her time, brushing her lips over every bruise and scar. He had wanted all the lights off, still disgusted by the sight of his father on his body, but she had asked if having the lamp on the dimmest setting was okay, and he had said okay. She said she was so proud of him- was always so proud of him. And she didn’t laugh at the tears that fell after.

He wondered what Jason had said when he phoned, but he never asked.

III

After Reid killed Tobias Hankel, he kept it together. He had to. Because as clever as Spencer thought he was being, everyone knew he was keeping information from them. And Hotch wasn’t going to let him become the next Elle. He wasn’t going to let Gideon convince him everything was fine, because it wasn’t. And it wouldn’t be. Not for a while. Maybe not ever. But that wasn’t the priority. The priority was making sure Reid would be okay at the hospital. Then to get home. Then to give his statement. It wasn’t about making him better. It was about helping him get through each stage.

He didn’t break, because his team already hated him. Reid had called him a narcissist, and whilst he knew what was really being said, he couldn’t help but worry his youngest agent thought it was true. He knew Reid had initially believed what he had said to Phillip Dowd, but they had worked to move on from that. He thought they had. Maybe they hadn’t. Maybe Reid really did think Hotch viewed himself as better than everyone. If only he knew the truth.

Morgan had called him a drill sergeant, but he could handle that. Prentiss saying he trusted men more than women wasn’t hard to understand. He could argue that in her case, it was justified. But JJ calling him a bully without any hesitation had been like a knife to the heart. Worse than that. It had been like a small paper cut on each part of his body, so the pain would never fade. Not properly, because as soon as it stopped in one place, it started in another. He had tried so hard to love all of them. Especially her. She reminded him of Haley. Not because he was attracted to her- he wasn’t, no matter what rumours flew around- but because of her spirit. Her kindness. Her warmth towards everyone. Her willingness to trust. Her ability to be good, despite all she had seen.

Jason had been the only one to not say anything. But Hotch knew he would’ve had something to say. That was why he’d cut them off, started talking about an argument he had forgotten until then.

He didn’t break that night. Or the night after. He pulled away from the team, observing from a distance. He didn’t deserve to cry. Not when it was his fault Reid was struggling with a drug addiction he thought he was hiding. His fault JJ couldn’t even look at dogs without shaking.

It was his fault. He would lock away his need to fall apart until he could look at them without guilt clouding his mind.

IV

Deep down, he knew he would be going back to an empty house after leaving for the case. Still, it was painful to see almost every trace of Haley and Jack gone. It hurt to look around the place they were meant to raise their son together and only see his own clothes and shoes. The plates Haley had picked because they were more fun than the set from her parents. The crib he had assembled before leaving. Jack had migrated to a bed, but they had just never gotten around to getting rid of it. The photos from the case that had ended everything.

He sat on their bed, head in his hands. At some point he started crying. For everything he had done wrong, for everything he was going to still screw up.

And then the phone rang. And Spencer was speaking too quickly for him to understand everything that had happened, but he managed to grasp the most important fact: Gideon was gone. He had left them. With nothing but a letter, addressed to Spencer, that he had left at the now cleared out cabin.

Despite the weariness stamped into his bones, he told Spencer to stay where he was. He drove to pick him up, took him back to his apartment. Said Haley would understand when he started to panic about taking him away from his wife. He rocked Spencer to sleep, singing the same lullabies he heard Haley sing to Jack when he wouldn’t stop shrieking. Noted there were no new marks on his arms and breathed a sigh of relief. He had to stop pulling away from Reid now Gideon was gone.

He couldn’t believe it. Well. He could believe Gideon leaving, always knew the day would come where he would decide he couldn’t do it anymore, and he had thought that day would be when Bale blew up six of their best agents, but when it didn’t happen then, he had dared to hope that it would never happen. He couldn’t believe Gideon had left the way he had. With only a goodbye to Spencer.

And he wanted to be mad at Spencer, because he was there and it would be so easy, but he looked at his sleeping figure, and knew he couldn’t. It wasn’t his fault. But he was mad at Gideon for only saying goodbye to Spencer. Because he had been the one to step up and become Unit Chief when Gideon was placed on leave. He had sacrificed his marriage and his life to make sure the team stayed together. Him. Not Morgan, definitely not Reid. Wasn’t he worth saying goodbye to? Had he really meant that little to Gideon?

For the next few weeks, everything served as a reminder. Reid quoting something or other reminded him of a book Gideon had recommended. A smile from a stranger in the street reminded him of Haley. The silence of a too big house reminded him of how he had failed. A comment about fallen agents made him think of Jason and Elle.

He wanted to walk away as well. Beg Strauss for that transfer and go to Haley. Tell her he would do anything, if she would just come home. But his team- the team Gideon had already abandoned- were depending on him. They didn’t hate him now, but they would if he left as well. So he helped JJ with the requests, took interest in the languages Prentiss could speak, offered to listen to each and everyone of Reid’s lectures. He let Morgan take control every once in a while.

And if he became more Hotch than Aaron in doing so, then that was the price he would pay for not being better.

V

Chester Hardwick was- for lack of a better term- an absolute shit show. Going into a cell with a dangerous serial killer and picking a fight with him had not been the plan. The initial plan had been to get in there, do the interview as quickly as possible, drive back to Quantico in silence- Reid never spoke on the return journey (he had never fully decided if he hated or loved that)- and ignore Haley’s demands for another night.

Then JJ phoned. And he knew she was trying to keep her tone professional, to not pass judgement on his soon-to-be ex-wife, but it was impossible to miss. Haley had clearly made it into a big deal that he hadn’t answered her calls. It angered him. He didn’t want to give up his son, or only be able to see him on the weekends because it wasn’t fair. He couldn’t guarantee he would even be available on the weekends, but he could guarantee to be there after a case.

Haley didn’t want to accept that. She didn’t want to amend the custody agreement. He didn’t want to go to court and have his faults brandished, but he didn’t want to back down. Which meant they were stuck. And she knew he would eventually be forced to give in and lose.

Again.

He told himself he needed to keep it together. He wouldn’t shout at Reid, not when he was still recovering from Hankel, from Gideon, from all the other bad things that had happened to him since then. And if he was being completely honest, he probably couldn’t shout at Reid, even if he needed to. For although he knew Spencer wasn’t the same innocent, uncoordinated mess that had joined his unit five years ago, he was still so good and kind. Hotch wouldn’t take that from him by shouting because he was frustrated at himself.

Instead, he provoked a dangerous serial killer. That had been one of the few things Haley had never gotten wrong about him: he never did things half-heartedly.

So instead of asking questions to help understand why Hardwick had killed all those women, he shrugged his jacket off, loosened his tie (the memory of cold metal pressed against his neck still woke him even now) and raised his hands on a man who could very easily take any of the things in the room and kill him.

It was stupid. It was reckless. It was the kind of behaviour his father would beat him for, that Haley would shout at him for, and that Rossi would probably give him a round of applause and a drink.

But he was so angry at everything and everyone and he needed to relieve the tension but he couldn’t do it by going down the firing range and shooting a gun because it wasn’t the same. Maybe he was exactly like his father in that respect. Maybe it was the first step into becoming the monster he always knew he would be. It was unfair to say all abused children became abusers. It was fair to say profilers were just unsubs on the right side of the law. Sure, they did the right thing, but at the end of the day, they knew how serial killers and child abducters worked. Crossing the line wouldn’t be hard for any of them.

He raised his fists at a serial killer because he needed to feel something under them. He needed to release the anger and sadness and guilt that flowed beneath his veins. Needed to see the blood on his fists from punching something too hard as a reminder he was human. And he knew that wasn’t healthy, but it was the truth.

Something he had never been good with.

It was stupid. And he should have- could have, very easily- died.

But of course Reid saved him. Dr Spencer Reid, who was always rattling off statistics nobody understood, who had almost been sick at his first crime scene, who had teared up during his first solo interrogation, saved him. By playing to his strengths. He went on and on about the effects of abuse on a child, about the psychology behind finding release in murder, about what made someone into a serial killer.

He kept his audience of one captive for so long that the guards came and unlocked the door without Hardwick ever laying a hand on either of them. He managed to talk a serial killer out of murdering two federal agents. Hotch felt so proud. And disgusted with himself. Reid had talked long enough for the anger to evaporate into thin air and the shame to rain down on him like a storm.

What had he done? It wasn’t falling apart, because he knew what it was like when he fell apart, and that wasn’t it, but it was horrifying. Humiliating. He had put himself and his own issues above Reid’s safety.

He was every bit the narcissist Reid had once described him as being. The thought made him sick. Today it had been a serial killer, but how long before it became his team? Before it became his son?

He felt sick. But he forced himself to get behind the wheel, rejecting Reid’s offer to take over the driving for a little bit. He knew Reid hated driving. But when they had been on the road for a good twenty minutes, and the younger agent still hadn’t said anything about the journey back, or the sky, or the cars around them, he knew he had screwed up.

Scratch that. He had fucked up.

Which was why he told Reid the truth. He hated speaking about his personal life, had always struggled with being open with others, especially the people he worked with because he was the Unit Chief and that meant he was supposed to be there as a strong presence that couldn’t be harmed, but Reid deserved to know why Hotch had been so willing to try and get himself killed.

“I am sorry. I shouldn’t have endangered you like that. It was wrong, and if you want to say something to Rossi or Strauss, I won’t stop you,” he said, after his confession that he couldn’t get what he wanted.

“I won’t say anything Hotch. You would never purposely disregard my safety. Even if you put yourself at risk, any harm that happened to me wouldn’t be deliberate. I know you kick better than a nine year old girl, and that you were holding back with Dowd because you didn’t want to hurt me too badly. And you didn’t,” Reid replied.

His throat went dry. “Hurt you too badly? As in, I did hurt you?”

The sudden fear he radiated made Reid pause. A bad move. Hotch was a damn good profiler, and whilst he always tried to follow the no inter-team profiling rule, some things were just too obvious to miss.

“I need to pull over,” he said.

Reid nodded, face pale and terrified. Luckily, he didn’t follow when he got out the car. And when he returned, Reid handed him a bottle of water and a mint.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he had whispered after Hotch had begrudgingly taken both.

“I hurt you,” Hotch replied. There was no point in trying to be the Unit Chief now. Reid had dismantled his shields by accident, and no suit or back-up weapon could prevent Aaron emerging and taking over from SSA Hotchner.

“But it wasn’t intentional then, and it wasn’t intentional with Hardwick. And you would never hurt Jack. Not in the way you think you may. I’m not saying you’re never going to make a mistake, you will, but you won’t hurt him the way your father did. You’re too good of a person to do it. I saw you holding Jack. The love in your eyes couldn’t be faked. And the way you rocked me to sleep after Gideon left was gentle and kind. You made a mistake with Hardwick. And that’s okay. You don’t have to be perfect. Not with us.”

Hotch stared at him. “I- how do you know about my father?” he asked, defences rising. The only members of the team who had known were Gideon who never followed the rules, and Dave, who had always had a soft spot for him.

Spencer flushed. “I didn’t profile you. We shared a room that one time, and the door to the bathroom wasn’t closed properly so I saw the scars. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been looking.”

“It’s okay,” he said, because it had to be.

The younger man didn’t seem convinced.

“Spencer.” The use of first names always drove points home. “It’s fine. I suppose everyone was going to work it out at one point or another. Thank you for not bringing it up then.”

When they pulled into the car park at Quantico, Reid did something very unexpected. He hugged Hotch. For a moment, he stood there, frozen because it had been so long since someone had done more than shake his hand that a hug felt so foreign, but then he regained control of his body and he bought his arms up and around him.

“Thank you Spencer,” he said.

“You once said to JJ that it’s okay if you lose it every once in a while. That it reminds us that we’re human. I think you should take your own advice.”

He nodded. But he didn’t.

He signed his divorce papers without contest. Haley was right: Jack deserved better than a father who could never confirm whether or not he would be there. He deserved better than a father who woke up in the middle of the night, and he definitely deserved better than a man who’s biggest fear was not that someone else would hurt their child, but that they would be the one to hurt them.

He signed the papers.

And then he got spectacularly drunk.

VI

He used to love New York. He had never worked there, but one of the few holidays he’d had with Haley that hadn’t been cut short was spent in New York. They’d never had a case there, which was why they were both so eager to go.

It had been so nice, to be in a city, and not remember an unsub who tortured women then left their bodies in ditches, or who had preyed on vulnerable children and then manipulated them into joining their twisted cults.

He had loved New York.

And then Kate Joyner had died.

He wasn’t stupid, and his hearing wasn’t damaged when they first arrived. He heard JJ’s remark about her appearance and the tone in Emily’s voice when she had repeated his earlier statement that they had liased together.

It embarrassed him. If he had heard, then Kate definitely knew what they were saying. Not only did she have better hearing than he did, she was also pretty good at reading lips- a skill Hotch had learnt in SWAT and taught her for fun. And she had been staring at them, not him, when they spoke. It wasn’t going to be difficult for her to fill in the gaps.

They hadn’t slept together. He had been happily married at that time, still affectionately calling Haley at every opportunity. And she hadn’t been interested in him like that. They had just been friends that worked well together. He had found it easy to open up to her, and she had liked him because his Southern upbringing meant he was nothing but a gentleman to her.

Then they were both blown up, only he walked away with nothing but a ringing ear and a breaking heart. She would never do anything ever again, and it was all his fault. Everyone he cared about either left or died- his mother, Haley, Kate and Sean.

“Look man, I’m not going to pretend you’re fine because I’ve called your name twice and you haven’t even raised an eyebrow so you’re going to pull over and I’m going to drive,” Morgan shouted.

Hotch slammed the brake far too hard, and turned, glowering at his subordinate. “I could’ve crashed the car then. You don’t need to yell.”

“Yes, I do. What is going on with your ear?”

“It’s nothing.”

Morgan looked at him, the disbelief clear, but eventually rolled his eyes and turned to stare out the window. Hotch took the hint and started driving.

When they got back to Quantico, Rossi was tucked away in his office, and when Hotch looked through the paperwork he needed to fill in, he found half of it missing. JJ had left a note with her file saying she had moved his meeting with Strauss to next week. Garcia had left a batch of chocolate cupcakes with one of her many soft toys. Prentiss had already written her report, with no evidence of Reid’s input. Morgan appeared with his not too long after they returned. Reid offered to take the consults he had to do before he went home to an empty apartment.

He accepted, the impossible smile making an appearance.

His team- no, his family- were always going to be there. He realised then that he could depend on them. That they wanted him to depend on him. Because they could all trust him with their lives, and everything they had done since landing had been to show him that they understood. That he wasn’t alone.

His joy lasted till the door to his apartment swung open, and he was greeted with the impersonal furniture, boxes he hadn’t had the time to unpack. The absence of a smiling blonde and excited little boy pretending to be a superhero.

Instead of breaking, he pulled out a file about a case involving missing women. They had all been pregnant, unmarried and blonde. He hadn’t wanted JJ to see it. So he worked on a profile late into the night, only putting the file away when he was pleased the police would be able to find the unsub.

He couldn’t protect his team from a lot, but this. This he could do. It was better than them realising he wasn’t worth baking for, wasn’t worth their attempts of comfort and walked away.

I

Haley was dead. She had been killed in the home they were supposed to raise their son in together, all because he had wanted to be a hero and refused to take the deal. The deal she had never found out about and would never find out about because Foyet had murdered her. It was stupid, but Hotch wondered what would have happened if he had taken the transfer. It wouldn’t have been this.

Foyet was dead. He had killed a man with nothing but his bare hands. He was worse than his father. He had killed a man who said they had surrendered because he was angry. And he knew Foyet would have never surrendered. He would’ve waited for Hotch to move away and then killed him, found Jack and made good on his promise. He knew that, logically, there was no other option.

It didn’t make him feel any less like a monster. That was part of the reason why he had sent Jack away as soon as possible. He didn’t want his son to see him covered in blood long enough for it to become a proper memory. Didn’t want his son to see it and start asking if his daddy had been hurt by a bad guy because he didn’t want to explain that this time, daddy had been the one to hurt the bad guy. He had hurt him so badly that he was never coming back.

And neither was mommy.

The only real parent Jack had ever had was gone, and he didn’t know what to do. He had never prepared himself to have the conversation about death with Jack. It was morbid, but he had always assumed Haley would be the one explaining that sometimes bad things happen to good people, and because of that, dad wasn’t going to be coming home anymore, because he was going to go to heaven instead.

He’d never been particularly religious. But he wished he was. At least then he could believe himself when he finally told Jack that mommy had gone to heaven like some of the other kids’ grandparents.

Not for the first time, he wondered why he ever thought having kids was a good idea. He hadn’t wanted them at first. He hadn’t wanted to bring a child into the world when so many people were evil and malicious. Hadn’t wanted to put anyone else at risk of becoming the object of his anger. He didn’t want to repeat the actions of his father and become the monster in the closet he had always been terrified of.

Then he had met Haley, and she reminded him of the stars. For she brightened even the darkest moments, and he just knew that no matter what he became, if she had his children, they would shine like the brightest star, and they would never become irreparably damaged by his own paranoia and fear because she would be there for them.

Now she was gone. And it was all his fault.

But he managed to keep it together at work for his team, and at home for his son.

Jessica had been a lifesaver, taking Jack out when Hotch needed a break, staying with them until Jack had settled into the apartment properly. She even dug up old albums and gave them to Hotch, saying that he deserved to have them. The two of them had grown closer, and he was happy for that, but he just wished it hadn’t taken the death of Haley to let them bond. Jack had nightmares about a loud bang, and sometimes he would wake up crying for his mother, but Hotch had already started looking into therapists for children, and he also sat with Jack, stroking his hair and reading him stories till he fell asleep.

He never told Jack he too had nightmares about lots of things, and sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night, terrified and wanting someone there to comfort him. Both Jessica and the bureau psychologist he was forced to see had told him to, but there was something- pride mainly- that prevented him from ever admitting to his son that he wasn’t okay.

At work, he compartmentalized as much as was humanly possible. The team were doing their best to cope, and he knew the only reason he’d been offered the option to take his retirement package or return, as opposed to being fired without any benefits, was because of the accounts they had given Strauss. Accounts that framed him as a man desperate to bring a killer to justice and protect his son, as opposed to a man who had become obsessed with one particular case that had hindered his ability to do his job.

He never said thank you, because he knew they wouldn’t understand. In their eyes, he had been heroic. He had done what any of them would have. But Hotch knew he hadn’t. He knew his team. They were better people than he was, and they would never have killed a man who had surrendered, no matter how bad their crimes had been.

So although he wasn’t okay, he kept it together. He kept it together for as long as he could, and he ignored his own broken heart, ignored the constant replay of the final conversation he’d ever had with Haley and the sound of gunshots ringing out. He ignored the nightmares and the memories, the sick feeling that overwhelmed him every time he remembered that Foyet had won by destroying him and then moulding him into the person he’d sworn not to become.

He stayed strong because he had to be. But it was becoming harder everyday as the threads that held him together frayed with every scream from his son’s bedroom, every sympathetic smile Strauss gave him in meetings, every hand Jessica placed on his shoulder, every file his team tried to hide from him and pass to Rossi to sign off on instead.

It was three months after that the thread finally snapped clean in half. He had thought he was getting better. Jack certainly was. His twice-weekly trips to the therapist were proving to be beneficial as he was sleeping through the night more often and finding it easier to talk about his mom, even if he didn’t fully understand what was going on. Jessica had gone back to work and was slowly moving through her own grief as she tried to honour the memory of her sister by sharing her memories with her son and ex-husband.

Aaron thought he was doing the same, but maybe repressing and coping had become the same in his mind.

It was late, but Jack had gone to see his grandparents with Jessica and he didn’t fancy going home- not when the rest of his team were still there- so he got a coffee, ignored their concerned faces and started working on a consult he hadn’t got round to the previous day.

He dropped his mug the moment he opened the case file and saw who the victims were.

All blonde women. All divorcees. All of them had been the ones that filed, and all of them had filed because they felt neglected. All of them had been awarded custody of the child, without a court hearing. The police were stuck because they couldn’t find anyone in the local area who had been married to a blonde woman and had one young child.

The sight of their bodies, mutilated and bloody, made him sick. The images blurred as he tried to blink away tears. Next to the photos of their dead bodies were the pictures of their faces, genuine smiles and sparkling eyes, blissfully unaware of the evil that was about to happen.

He didn’t hear the mug shatter into nothing as hot coffee went all over the wooden flooring. All he heard was a gunshot, then another and then a third, and Foyet taunting him, saying he would find Jack and show him the bodies of his dead parents. Maybe he screamed, maybe he couldn’t make a sound, but he couldn’t see anything properly as tears streamed down his face and made everything unfocused and fuzzy.

“-you hear me?” someone asked.

He blinked. Why was he on the floor? What had happened? He looked down, saw his knees pulled to his chest, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“What?” he managed to say, voice hoarse.

“What’s wrong?” Rossi asked, kneeling beside him.

He looked up, saw Spencer and JJ in the room, Emily and Morgan in the doorway, and Garcia behind them.

“Nothing,” he lied. He was supposed their leader, the mom of the team- he had grown to accept that title. He couldn’t fall apart in front of them. “You’re going to hurt your knees if you sit like that for much longer.”

Rossi cursed in Italian. “Kiddo, I don’t care. I want to know what’s going on with you. You’ve been pretending to be strong for these past few months, and we know how much you hate anyone interfering with your personal life, but if you’re hurting, you need to let me help.”

“It’s nothing,” he repeated.

JJ picked up the file, opened it without a word. “Oh, Hotch. Why didn’t you let one of the others deal with it?”

There was such sadness in her eyes, he couldn’t look at them. “Because I can handle it.”

The sound of Reid’s cane coming closer gave him something else to focus on. “Hey Hotch,” he greeted gently. “Do you want to know something? After Hankel, I found it almost impossible to deal with consults involving someone who was using drugs, either on themselves or the victims. I had to try and pass the files off to Morgan and Prentiss. I can do them now, but it still hurts. So it’s okay.”

“No it’s not,” he said. “It’s not because it’s my fault she’s dead. If I hadn’t rejected the deal, all those people on the bus would still be alive, Haley would be here and Jack would have a real parent, who could be there and comfort him, instead of a failure of a father who can’t guarantee to keep him safe and who wakes up shouting in the middle of the night.” He didn’t know why he suddenly opened up, but Reid just had that effect on people sometimes.

Reid blanched. Rossi pulled away, shock all over his face. Garcia pushed her way into the room, heels louder than Reid’s cane and threw her arms around Hotch in a tight hug. He felt the sleeve of his shirt start to get wet, and it was only then that he realised Garcia was crying.

“It is not your fault that Haley died. It is Foyet’s. He killed her, and you had no control over his actions. You did the right thing by not taking the deal, and don’t you ever think otherwise. You are a real parent. You’re a parent to almost everyone on this team, and you’re a wonderful father to Jack. Stop beating yourself up. You’ll never be able to protect him from everything, but that doesn’t mean you’re not good. You are the best man I know, and I know some pretty great people. So dry those eyes, and let us help you,” she said, determined.

He stared at her for a few moments.

“Sir,” she added hesitantly.

“Do you honestly believe that?” he asked, more tears threatening to spill.

Garcia nodded.

Morgan crept closer. “I know what it’s like to grow up with a dad. And Jack will never have to go through that, because even if you’re not there in person, you’re there emotionally. He won’t remember missed soccer games or forgotten parent-teacher conferences. He’ll remember how you read to him, how you always listened.”

“My father turned up to everything I ever did. But it never felt like he cared. It felt like he was just trying to keep my mother happy. When you go to Jack’s things, he knows you’re there because you love him, and that is all any child wants,” Emily added.

“You’re more of a father than my own dad ever was,” Reid declared.

“Hotch, you were the one that taught me that this job doesn’t have to take everything away from us. That we can still form meaningful relationships with others. You never doubt my choices, you just make sure I’m able to back them up, and you’re the reason I don’t go home fretting about whether or not I made the right call,” JJ said, tucking the file away.

“Aaron, I never got to meet my son. But every time I see you smile, every time I see you handcuff another unsub, or speak to a victim, I am reminded that family is not just blood. You’ve been strong for far too long. Let yourself fall and trust us to catch you,” Rossi finally spoke.

“I just couldn’t believe she was gone. And then I saw the photos, and I realised it must have been like that for someone else when she died and it finally hit me and I just couldn’t, but I thought I was moving on and-“ he couldn’t speak, the words not able to push past the lump in his throat as the emotions finally overwhelmed him and the soft cries became mournful sobs that eventually calmed into sniffles.

Rossi and Garcia never stopped hugging him. Reid kept his hand on his shoulder. JJ smoothed his hair, singing the same lullabies that Henry heard every night before he slept. Morgan and Prentiss stood to the side, having locked the door and closed the blinds.

Once he had enough awareness to realise what he had done, he tensed and waited for the hit. It never came. What came instead was a series of encouraging smiles, the option to talk, or just sit in silence. The promise to never leave. To always be there when he needed them.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“You’re our family Hotch. We’re not going to let you suffer,” Morgan said.

Everyone nodded.

It wasn’t easy, falling apart. Especially not in front of your colleagues. But Morgan was right, they were a family. So Hotch finally let himself fall, finally let himself feel all the grief he had been burying for so long, and for once in his life, he let someone else catch him. He let them in. He accepted their support, however long it took for him to actually do so was irrelevant. He let himself cry, and he let his family dry his tears.

They wouldn’t leave him. Not now. Not ever.

But soon, he would be saying goodbye to JJ, wondering how they were going to survive without her. He would be faking Emily’s death, then fleeing because he was a coward who couldn’t bear to see their grief-stricken faces. He would be forced to confront his own actions, reveal the deadly secret that had been slowly killing him. He would damage the trust that had taken so long to build, damage the friendship he had with Morgan, potentially ruin the friendship between Reid and JJ.

He would be crying himself to sleep. Having nightmares that stopped him from doing that for more than a few moments.

And then Garcia would find him rocking himself in his office, whispering I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, to himself. She would drop her request for advanced technology, and once again wrap her arms around him. She would tell him that he did the right thing, that in time, everyone would forgive him, would trust him again. He would look at her, and her heart would break, because her boss should never look that pale and broken, and ask if she was sure.

She wouldn’t be able to answer for a moment. And then she would say she forgives him. And that it was okay.

The next day, Morgan would ask him to check a file. Reid would tell him about the stars. Garcia would bring him a slice of pie. Rossi wouldn’t make any comments that undermined his authority or showed a lack of trust. Prentiss would call him Hotch again, instead of sir. He would invite them for dinner, and they would all accept.

He would confess that keeping the secret had broken him, and they would all forgive him. He would finally let himself cry, let them put him back together. And they would decide to have a very dodgy sleepover- Garcia’s suggestion- because Jack wanted to see Henry, and who could ever say no to his requests.

And that night, Spencer Reid would phone his sponsor, not because he was scared of using, but because he didn’t want to.

Jennifer Jareau would snuggle up to William LaMontagne Jr instead of pulling away from him like she had the past few months.

Derek Morgan would not blame himself for everything that had gone wrong that day.

David Rossi would not curse the God he believed in, he would thank Him for bringing Emily back safely, and for granting Aaron peace.

Emily Prentiss would sleep without a knot in her stomach, for she would finally be sure her family would be okay.

And Aaron Hotchner would watch his family with a smile, before he finally fell asleep as well, not a single tear needed to exhaust himself. He would be a little more whole, once again sure the people around him did truly love him. And he would remember his wife, just before he fell asleep, and it wouldn’t hurt, because he was happy.

[not-using-this1]

Accepting

Would you look at that finally a Yelena Belova oneshot?! Yes, I decided it was time to upload her on here again so she’s back :) 

This oneshot is actually from my wattpad (AssassinEssa) where I upload mostly all the time so if you want go check it out!

Hope you all enjoy this one ;)

Y/n tells Yelena that she likes women because she feels safer with her than her own family who she knows for a fact won't accept her. Yelena reveals her secret.

Warnings: mention of abuse, mention of torture, swearing (I think theres like only one in there)

Word Count: around 1600 words 

She couldn't hide this anymore, but she had to. Her family wouldn't accept her at all so there was really no point in telling anyone. She knew for a fact her father would practically disown her (not that he already hadn't) and her mother would just scream at her for hours and then try to set her up with multiple men. Of course she could withstand those things due to her past and the abuse she had recieved the whole of her childhood...but this could likely get her killed (her fathers ex-millitary and her mother and her don't even get along).

Thank fuck she was able to get away from her family due to a program...but that only put her through more torture until she became the woman she is today...although she is still fearful of her parents.

The only person she could trust and even feel safe around was Yelena Belova, although she is rather intimidating, the two women grew quite close during the whole program and after leaving it behind started to stay with one another.

Despite what other people thought of the blonde russian, Y/n knew her more than anyone else, including the black widow Natasha Romanoff. That's when she decided that enough was enough and practically ran over to Yelena' apartment in the rain without even calling or texting her first.

Yelena is her only home.

Y/N' POV

Standing outside of my favourite person' apartment, I hesistated for a moment. I don't understand why...I felt safe with her. Maybe it was the fact that I was scared even she might not accept me and then leave me all alone and I didn't want that.

No, she wouldn't do that to me and I know it, she may be well guarded and barely show any emotion but she's not evil, she understands me better than anyone just like I do her. Finally knocking on her door, I heard a loud crash and "der'mo" (shit). Before I could even open the door, Yelena had already opened it, a bandage wrapped around her hand. Of course I was worried but before I could even say a word..."Got back from a mission last night, cut my hand during it but it's fine."

Before I could even open my mouth to say a word, Yelena interrupted me as she let me in her apartment "Now, what's wrong Y/n?" I looked down at her hand with the bandage on it, still wanting to know if she is really okay and what happened...drive this conversation away from me and what I'm here for but I somehow don't think that will work. I sat down on her sofa, she followed after me sitting next to me, frowning at me...worried.

"You gave me a scare when you called me last night while I was still on this mission, I would've come to you but I had to finish it." She added. I wanted to say it but I was still so terrified that this could all possibly go wrong and I would lose the one person who has been through so much with me...we helped each other through so much pain, on missions emotionally and physically.

I tried to make sure I wasn't going to cry because well I rarely even cry much anymore, I honestly don't have much tears to cry because half my childhood I cried, because of how horrible it was...hence why I'm the way am I now with my ability to fight, spy skills and some very deadly moves.

I froze in place, didn't know what to say or do.

Yelena noticed immedietely that something was wrong, she grabbed my hand with her not-injured hand, I tensed up for a few seconds until I looked up at her, she gave me a small smile and that damn smile just made me calm down and ease up.

"Its okay Y/n, you're alright here." Yelena was clearly encouraging me but also reassuring me at the same time which is exactly what I needed right now. "I can tell you everything 'Lena but this...this might change things for us." I spoke truthfully. The thing is not only am I attracted to women but I'm in love with the blonde sat next to me. The woman who has stuck beside me since we were teenagers and when I was taken to the GRU (black widow program).

Yelena had never been easy to get along with at the start, she was willingly in the program and just wanted to be somebody...I understood that and then from their I guess our rocky friendship grew. But I knew back then that we loved each other...like we still do now and I want today to be the day to tell her.

Because her existence means the world to me.

"Look Y/n, I don't think what you're going to tell me would change anything. I won't hate you. I know these earlier memories of us are horrific but I remember you never giving up on being my friend during the program, you drove me absolutely crazy to the point we even fought phyiscally but at the end of the day we'd always patch each other up. What I'm saying is no matter what I could never hate or leave you not after what we've been through together." There was this soft tone in her voice, it was so calming and so soothing, she really did know how to make me feel safe, wanted and needed.

"Yeah I remember, I've mostly blocked out the bad memories to be honest but sometimes they come back up and I think that you'd react the same." Yelena nodded her head, she understood where I was coming from and that was clear. She knew that all she needed to do was be here and listen and that's exactly what shes doing.

"Do you remember when you and I got a little curious back in the dorms and we kissed?" I asked her, she looked at me and nodded knowing full well what I meant. "Yeah, I remember. It got you sent for a punishment." Yelena added, she frowned at me not looking very happy I bought up that one particular memory.

"Well that was because all my life I've known that I have liked women more than men since I was younger. In fact I've never even liked men. I have tried so hard to but I feel like I'm broken like there's something wrong with me." I finally got that part out of my system but the next part was going to be the hardest...if she accepts me.

Yelena gave me a smile and squeezed my hand ever so slightly, her thumb gently rubbing my hand in the process "You're not broken Y/n and there's nothing to be fixed. You are unique the way you are and besides no one is stopping you this is the 21st centuary my darling." Yelena spoke giving me a smile at the end, her voice soft as she let out a slight chuckle.

"I know but no one in my family would accept me and-

"They're assholes if they can't see that you're still you just because you are attracted to women, it doesn't make a difference and don't you ever put yourself down like that ever again. And besides you always have a place in my world and by my side." I cringed at that a little and laughed at how cheesy that was for the blonde because she's never like this that much.

"That's cheesy even for you Belova" I laughed, she looked at me and rolled her eyes removing her hand from mine "And I thought we were having a moment".

"Wait we were I just-" I panicked just a bit and grabbed her hand but in the process she dragged me down on top of her as she fell back on the sofa we were originally sat on. She playfully wrapped her legs around my waist and I couldn't help but whimper at the slight contact of me pushed against her. "Y/n?" Yelena asked sounding all serious for a moment.

"Do you maybe want a redo?" She asked me. I looked at her confused for a good few seconds not exactly getting the message "what do you mean by redo?"

The smirk on her face, however, told me everything. It was because of the fact I bought up that one memory. But I wasn't expecting her to say that to me. I didn't know how to exactly respond to her but even before I could even say another word she managed to flip us over on the sofa effortlessly and now she was on top of me, my legs wrapped around her waist this time.

"I really like you Y/n. Now kiss me before I change my mind." She states.

With that being said I wasted no time in pulling her down for a kiss, arms wrapped around her neck as she makes the kiss deeper, slipping her tongue in.

"How" she whispers as she pulls away but then kisses me again "would you" she adds bringing back in for another quick kiss "like to move in with me?" I was about to say 'yes' but I couldn't even say anything as she pulled me back in for another kiss.

"Yes of course."

"I'm so happy you told me that you liked women and I'm so proud of you. Because as do I." Yelena adds as she finally lets me sit up. "I'm happy to. Now can we sit and watch movies?" I asked her.

"Yes, but we won't be watching much." Yelena winked at me, I rolled my eyes at her but agreed.

I'm just so happy that I decided to finally tell her, it was worth it. She really does mean so much.

[blueprint-han]

at eleven night, find me ↠ hjs.

genre: sorta platonic au? ; fluff, just petting Jisung’s head as he falls asleep on your lap 🥺

⇥ warnings: none at all.

wc: 1.3 K 🤡 (sighs why am I like this)

⇥ disclaimer: this fiction does not aim to represent the activities of the real Han Jisung, nor does it represent JYPE in any form. Events are pure fiction. ♡

type: drabble

network tag: @stayverse​​ @districtninewriters​​ @inkidz​​

part of: the url drabble game; requested by @sleepylixie ​ (requests for this are closed now!)

↯ note: okay so fair warning, I wrote this in 2 hours at midnight whilst I was sleep deprived, so if it’s bad that’s why. :(( Hops you like it though, and I’m willing to redo it if you didn’t <33 🥺😔🥀 ⇥ dawn.☀️

The annoying rooster that popped out of your antique clock did it’s usual routine at 11 pm, though it was surprising of you to anticipate the loud shrill of the bell when it did so. You weren’t even sleepy, just on edge with wanting to meet your friend after a long time. 

You’d admittedly missed Han Jisung, your best friend a lot. His presence every evening beside you, his cute pouty eyes and the way he’d fill his cheeks with food, making him look like the sweetest, cutest squirrel. He wouldn’t let anyone touch his cheeks, but he’d make an exception for you, especially because he’d secretly love it when you’d cup his cheeks and swoon over how adorably red he’d turn when he was shy. 

There was no wrong happening that kept the both of you separated this week, just that you were busy with your thesis and he was busy with his music assignments; and overall the week had reduced you to a tired, grubby state. You so desperately wished to just let go, relax and have a fun time — and it was going to happen soon enough, you figured. Han Jisung had every which way of making you laugh, even if he did basically nothing.

How did you meet? It wasn’t a very special entrance, you just found that he sat alone at lunch, decided to approach him, talked to him for two days and viola, best friends. It sounded too good to be true on paper, but something about Jisung just… clicked. You shared mostly the same interests, and even if you didn’t, neither of you were unwilling to try new things. It was one hell of a wild experience to be with Jisung. Or Sungie, as you called him.

The lighting of your room was practically dim — owing to the “cozy” effect you were trying to create. Warm light splayed through the lamp placed on the wooden table — an antique one again, because you were a huge fanatic of antiques. The air smelled oddly of cinnamon and apple pie. Everything was just perfect — now you just needed one person to step through that door.

“Y/N!” 

And almost like it was fate, a heavy weight threw itself on your back, scaring the shit out of your senses as you shrieked loudly. 

“Agh!... Wha- Jisung!”

You slapped his arm, causing him to recoil in shock as he rubbed the area, a pout on his lips. “What?”

“Couldn’t you’ve rung the doorbell?”

“Couldn’t you’ve remembered to lock the door?” Jisung said, walking around the couch to plop down beside you. He’d changed his hair color, gone from a dirty ash blond to a jet black that complimented his skin tone more according to your preference. You’d had no time to keep up with yourself, let alone Jisung, so you figured you’d missed quite a lot of stuff.

His eyes still sparkled the same way, but his eyebags had gotten more prominent, and he seemed dull, like he’d missed out on days of sleep. Which you were sure he did. His hair fell over his eyes, however, masking how tired he truly was, but you could see through the mask very, very clearly. You also took a moment to admire how pretty he was, because admittedly, Han Jisung was drop dead gorgeous.

You succumbed to the temptation of running your fingers through his hair, strands soft on your skin as Jisung yawned at the action, the sound oh-so-pure and delicate. Tucking them behind his ears, you splayed a gentle smile on your lips as you watched Jisung take your hand in his.

“How was your week, love?” Jisung asked, leaning into the backrest of the couch as his eyes were close to fluttering shut, more because of the way you were running a thumb across the back of his hand. 

“It was okay, I guess.” You shrugged, reaching for the glass of water that was on the center table, relief running through you when the cool water rushed through your throat. You didn’t even know you were dehydrated, figuring that you were most likely distracted from Jisung’s arrival. “You look sleepy.” You pointed out as a matter of fact, noticing the way Jisung’s eyes were barely peeking out over his heavy, drooping eyelids.

“Yeah, I had to stay over at the studio a bunch of times so I’m sleep deprived, you could say.” His voice was raspy as sleep threatened to consume him when you reached out, lacing your hand through his hair again. You weren’t quite sleepy yourself, because you tended to be more of the night owl. Jisung looked absolutely ethereal in this lighting, honey caramel skin almost glowing in the faint light, accentuating his features.

It was always a common habit for you to run your hands through his hair and vice versa. You never remembered who picked up the habit, or when you picked it up, but it soon became an addiction to have Jisung’s fingers massaging your scalp slightly. And it was the same for him.

“Hey,” You slid a hand underneath his head, his warm cheek resting against your palm as Jisung opened his eyes only lightly to look up at you. “You’re gonna end up with a sprain if you fall asleep here.”

“But I haven’t talked to you in so long…” He murmured, nuzzling into your touch as he yawned yet again, and your heart fluttered in your chest. In all honesty, you didn’t know if your feelings for Jisung diverged from platonic affection, or if it was just your mind, and honestly, you didn’t really care either.

All you knew was that Jisung was here, you were here, in this moment, together. That was all, and that was enough.

The boy was taken aback for two seconds when you silently pulled him down, letting him rest his head on your lap before he got an idea of what you were implying. Throwing his legs on the couch Jisung snuggled into a warm, comfortable position. One of your hands tangled into his tresses again, while the other one was intertwined with Jisung’s slender, shorter fingers.

“Mmh,” He hummed in content, placing a soft kiss onto your thigh which led you to shiver. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, baby.” You immediately replied, not an inch of hesitation in your voice.

“Tell me about your week then, love.” Jisung murmured, and you chuckled. Anyone could see how far drifted into sleep he already was, and honestly, a part of you loved how adorable he got when he was sleepy. Sleepy Jisung was more clingy, more whiny, and made your heart swell so much faster — it was almost unreal. He was just plain adorable.

You were tempted to ask him if he’d even stay up to hear the whole story, but nevertheless, you began reciting your hectic week, filled with all the fun memories, the stressful ones, the sad ones, all of them. At times you raised your voice, which jerked Jisung awake, but he’d just hum in content before falling back asleep, which would in turn only make you coo over how cute he was.

Jisung couldn’t help it either, your hands in his hair and your soft hand engulfing his own was admittedly too much for him to keep his eyes open. It was such a soothing feeling, at this place he felt his heart at peace. Relaxed. He could banish any negativity from his mind just by hearing your voice, now.

When you finished, Jisung was huddled into a ball, having fallen into deep slumber as you continued patting his head. The gentle smile that always found itself when Jisung was like this creeped back up to your lips, your eyes fluttering close as you simply took in the delicateness of the moment. 

It was almost midnight now, and even though you and Jisung had barely talked, you felt as though you’d communicated for years, simply by hearing each other out. Your friendship wasn’t the kind that could be found anywhere — it had to be made, and a part of it was gifted. It was the best gift, really. 

Because when the clock struck eleven night, you knew you could always find him, no matter what.

↯ note: 🕯️ ignore me this is just a small prayer that tumblr doesn’t make me battle the tags yet again 🕯️ may the tumblr gods be in my favor atleast this once ;-; 🕯️ ⇥ dawn.☀️

[piccolini-cuscino]

Getting to the truth.

You’re Bruce’s assistant, but more than that, you’re his friend – his only friend. So, naturally, when he arrives at his own party injured and looking worse for wear, you’re worried. But there’s more than one truth-bomb in store for you!

Note: I had no idea how to finish this one, so it’s a bit garbage (you have no idea how much I wanted to change it up and have it basically be the fic version of Secretary, but alas, this is boring and smut free), but I’m so here for an emo millennial Bruce Wayne and a lil but of humour with my angst.

“Why am I organising a ball for all of Gotham, when Bruce won’t show up?” you sighed, turning to Alfred.

“Listen, I’m just the butler. How am I supposed to know what Master Bruce gets up to at night?”

“You live here, Alfred.”

Alfred leaned in close, peering at you from above his round spectacles. “And you’re his very beloved assistant.”

“Don’t remind me,” you huffed. “They’re only showing up for him, you know. They don’t care about the Wayne Foundation. Orphanages and education. He’s the richest man in Gotham, and no one’s seen him in years. The press would kill for a glimpse too.”

Alfred was fond of you. He always had been. He reckoned you brought a little bit of light to the place the second you walked into Wayne manor, fresh out of college. So, you knew his words were sincere when he spoke, with a gentle pat on the arm. “Well I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.”

“Good enough for me,” you said, turning towards the door. “I’m going home to get ready. There’s a new Dior suit hanging in the wardrobe. Tell the boss to wear it, will you? And remind him to tuck his shirt in. That’s if he decides to show up.”

It was a night of your own making, and you watched it unfold from the lobby. Checking off names. Stopping drunken high society snobs from vomiting into 17th century vases. Directing everyone and their dog towards the bathrooms. But, for the most part, you found yourself alone, dancing with yourself in the cracks of pale moonlight that streamed like silver ribbons on to the sparkling checkerboard floor. No sign of your boss.

Until something caught you off guard. Quiet, shuffling footsteps over by the study at the foot of the staircase. A dark figure emerged from the shadows, hobbling, ascending. Step by step.

“Hey! You can’t go up there!” you called.

The figure moved faster, breaking into a pained jog.

With nothing else to do, you threw off your heels and sprinted after the intruder. Taking the stairs two at a time. They were heading for Bruce’s bedroom. No one, not even the various women he liked to entertain – not even you, as close as you were – went in there. He was a tremendously private man.

Finally, reaching out, you managed to grab their arm.

The figure flinched away in pain, then they turned to you.

“Bruce?” you gasped, feeling your heart race at the sight of him. His dark hair, unkempt and dishevelled; jet black rings around his eyes. His whole body seemed to tremble and heave. “What happened to you?”

“It’s nothing,” he said. Then he broke out into a witter. “Go back downstairs, I’ll be there in a minute, I’d hate to miss out on all of your hard work. I just need to–”

But you pulled him back, swiping your thumbs through the muck beneath his eyes. They were blue, but they always looked so dark. Like a pained void. “You need to clean yourself up. Let me help you.”

“You don’t need to see me like this. Go and enjoy your evening. I’m speaking to you as your boss. Please. Go.”

“Yes, Mr. Wayne.” You straightened up at his words and turned away. But before you reached the stairs, he called your name. If looks could kill, Bruce might have been a heap on the floor. But those eyes, again, dulled any hurt you felt about the distance between you.

“You look beautiful, by the way.”

You couldn’t look him in the eye. It was a battle even just to thank him politely for the compliment. And your legs shook all the way back to the lobby, through a strange mix of worry and giddiness.

You kept yourself to yourself for twenty minutes, alone with your panic, before Bruce returned. Gone was the darkness around his eyes, and his hair was neatly slicked back. He cut a strong, proud figure as he walked towards you in his suit. Even if he was sporting a limp and clutching his side with every step.

“I thought I told you to enjoy the party?” he smiled.

“Sorry, Bruce. There’s just no one to watch the door and show people where the…” You trailed off as he gently took your arm, leading you through into the reception hall. A warmth radiated from him, soothing but stoic. Nothing like the frantic panic from before.

“Help me get through this,” he muttered as the room fell silent. All eyes on you and Bruce.

The party quickly resumed; music played and the chatter of the guests around you echoed through the hall. Occasionally, beneficiaries of the Wayne Foundation would introduce themselves to your boss, or business bigwigs would try to bend his ear about trade deals and contracts and bureaucracy. But one thing was constant throughout the whole ordeal – Bruce’s hand never once left its place on your waist.

You could feel it there. The way his fingers would trail through the material of your dress as people talked and talked and talked to him. And the tension, when he balled his fingers up into a fist when faced with people that he just didn’t have time for. All those little cues forced the question from your lips. “Would you like to dance?”

You knew he didn’t dance. He hated it, in fact. But in that moment, the gratitude was evident on his small, weak smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Something was wrong, though. He flinched when your hand draped over his shoulder. His gait was unsteady. And no amount of makeup could disguise the bruise underneath his left eye. You kept glancing up at it as the two of you daintily spun circles around the room. And he kept glancing down at you, knowing now that you had noticed.

The song ended and Bruce’s hands dropped to his sides. “I think I’ve had enough for one night,” he said with another defeated smile. “People might begin to talk.”

“I think we need to talk, Bruce.”

His eyes darted over his surroundings before they returned to you; his lower lip pinched between his teeth.

“Please,” you pressed.

“Come with me.”

You and Bruce slumped into two cosy armchairs in his study, with a roaring fire, a coffee table and two glasses of scotch between you. “Don’t think Alfred and I haven’t noticed you sneaking off all the time.”

Bruce rolled his eyes and stared at the flames. “I’m your boss, remember?”

“You’re also my friend. And you also looked like crap earlier. Who did that to you?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, shifting in his chair, letting out an audible groan.

“They obviously hurt you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“No you can’t. I think me being here says that much. C’mere,” you said, beckoning him.

“When you’re right you’re right.” Bruce might have been your boss, but he still knew better than to defy you; he slumped to his knees and shuffled over to you.

“Let me take a look at the damage.”

For the second time that night, Bruce recoiled from your touch as you gently pulled up his shirt, exposing a galaxy of bruises along his ribcage and a large, makeshift dressing on his lower abdomen. “Easy,” he said, swatting your hand away.

“How did you get that?” You peeled it away from his skin as gingerly as you could manage. Rather than concern, your voice grew cold. Serious, even. “What have you been doing?”

“I’m a little disappointed,” Bruce remarked through gritted teeth.

“How so?” you asked, running your fingertips over the slap-dash stitches that held together the vivid red gash.

“I thought this was something else.”

“Something’s eating you, though. And who did these stitches?”

“I did,” Bruce said, his jaw clenched.

“Can I redo them?”

Bruce was growing breathless by the time you finished inspecting his wound. “First aid kit’s in the top drawer of my desk,” he wheezed.

“Rubbing alcohol, too?”

“It’s all there.” Bruce wearily watched from the floor as your pale outline trailed its way across the study. His heart growing faster. “You really do look beautiful,” he said, his voice quiet and spiked with hope. He couldn’t meet your eyes when you looked up from rummaging in the drawer, so he stared down at the rug, finding interest there instead, with one hand clawing through his hair. “What was it that you wanted to ask me, by the way?”

“I really don’t like repeating myself, so cut the bullshit, Bruce.” You were so matter of fact, breezing back over to him and joining him on the floor. “I wanted to know where you go at night.”

“If I told you the truth, then you’d have me shipped off to Arkham.”

You poured some of the alcohol on to a cotton swab, keeping your eyes on Bruce. There was always something so defeated about him when the two of you were alone, that no one else ever got to see. And something always got in the way of him being honest with you. “Want to bet on that? How do you know I’m not already considering it?”

Bruce almost chuckled, but the sting from his side made him draw a sharp breath. He studied you out the corner of his eye. “Do you really… want to know?”

“It’d be nice to not have to spend my evenings with Alfred, who worries like a mother hen.”

Bruce choked out his next string of words in quick succession. “Can I tell you something first?”

“Before I cut you open?” you quipped.

“Preferably.”

Before Bruce reached the end of that word, you had already snipped through his self-administered stitches, revealing just how deep the wound actually was. Your feeble attempt at being jovial quickly switched to a reserved kind of worry.

“You’re the first person who’s ever really understood me. You never pry or say too much. You’re always there. And you have such a low tolerance for bullshit. You don’t coddle or bow down because I’m Bruce Wayne. Plus it’s nice to be around someone who isn’t in their sixties or who knew my father…”

You hummed in acknowledgement, neatly weaving the wire through Bruce’s skin. Too focused on the job at hand to really get what he meant. Until his fingertips brushed over your jawline.

“You’re my only friend in this godforsaken world.”

“Besides Alfred,” the pair of you said in unison.

Biting back a fit of laughter, you stroked his cheek and he keened, like an animal craving affection. “What are you trying to say, Bruce?”

Every fibre of Bruce’s being tensed with renewed panic and a tinge of awkwardness. His wide eyes searched for something, anything, to focus on, as long as it wasn’t you. “I’m…I guess what I’m trying to say is that… I’m–“

With a mental fuck it, you threw caution to the wind. You couldn’t stand hearing him bumble on like this. Closing the gap, your lips crashed on to his. He tasted like scotch and cigars, and this much of him was never going to be enough for you. Just when your hands tangled through his hair, Bruce pulled away.

“I’m the Batman.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Bruce nodded.

“I would’ve settled for ‘I’m in love with you’ you know.”

He sighed, sitting back so casually now that the difficult part was over. “That, too.”

“You can’t lie to me anymore, you know that, don’t you?”

He nodded again.

“So,” you said, glancing around the study, “which bookcase is actually a revolving door?”

“Huh?” Bruce asked, pulling down his shirt.

“Secret lair… a bat cave, if you will.”

“Oh,” he said with a chuckle. Then he pointed towards the bookcase behind you. “It’s that one. Pull out Ulysses and it’ll… spin right round. Be careful not to let the bats out, though. They’re kind of like my pets.”

“Fuck you, Bruce.”

“I can show you if you want?” he said, hopefully, as he scrambled to his feet.

“I’ll settle for another kiss. And you getting some rest.”

“You’re taking this surprisingly well,” he said, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“What, the bat part or the other part?”

Bruce chuckled and planted a small, soft kiss to your forehead. “Both.”

“I had my suspicions. One thing’s for sure though…”

“What?”

“You might need a few pointers with your eyeliner.”

[httpsaiki]

hi, I saw requests were open and had to send one >//< hope im not bugging you too badly eheh. anyways, may I request a teruhashi x fem!reader fic? maybe on a first date to a shopping district or mall. and reader is semi nervous and has slight doubts about dating someone like teruhashi, in which teruhashi reassures her.

Hi! You most certainly may! I loved this so much, I think Teruhashi is honestly a really great character and this idea was far too cute to pass up. That being said, this is very self-indulgent and I really hope you like it! Teruhashi deserves all the love! If this isnt’t what you wanted, please let me know and I am more than happy to redo it! Thank you for your request!!

----

Reader is female! There are mentions of insecurity of things like self-worth, social status and offhandedly body image, so please don’t read if you are sensitive to that.

WC: 1627

Kokomi and the reader have never had a proper date and today seems like a great day! But, the reader is nervous as Kokomi is just so perfect in her eyes (and everyone else’s). She of course picks up on this, and comforts her beloved girlfriend.

—————————————————–

You had been adding the finishing touches to your outfit, getting ready to head out. Were you ready for this, though? A date? With Teruhashi? While you were close enough to her to know a bit more of her true self - you are dating after all - it was always at least a little nervewracking being in public with her. Normally, your dates would be stay at home things, like study dates or a simple dinner, nothing out of the ordinary from before you started dating. You opted for the small things as Teruhashi got constant stares and her fans could be over the top sometimes. It could be very stressful, as you both usually just wanted to relax together. Today, on the other hand, you’d made plans to go out shopping It was finally summer vacation, so why not give it a shot? You two always talked about looking for clothes together and walking around cute shops and sightseeing.

The thing was, Teruhashi looked perfect no matter what she wore. You adore that about her, of course! But it did make getting yourself ready rather stressful. Every time you got dressed to see her, you’d always ask yourself how you’re so lucky. Before you got together, you’d been friends for a good while, and eventually, it evolved into more. You were both happier this way, and you knew she did care deeply for you. Still, you needed to find the perfect outfit for this outing, and the one you were wearing just wouldn’t cut it. This would be what you both classified as your first date, it was a big deal and you felt you needed to look your best.

You really had the best luck, huh? Right as you were about to change, the doorbell rang. Teruhashi was here already! This outfit would have to do. Running over to the door after quickly checking everything over, you opened it to see Teruhashi standing there, a polite smile adorned on her face.

Oh wow. She's stunning. Even more so than usual, she just looked perfect. Feeling your nerves come back even stronger, you tried your best to match her smile, greeting her, to which she excitedly echoed the greeting. It was time to go shopping, and you would just have to see how this works out.

On the way there, you both managed to make small talk. Whether it be talking about each other’s day or small things, like how nice it was that school was out for a bit. Nevertheless, this part was nice. There was little to no public pressure, save for the occasional stare from some random person, but that was something that you’d gotten used to by now. Once closer to the mall, you became quiet. It would be busy today, a lot of people would see you. You still believed your social status was so far from Teruhashi’s, and she would be embarrassed to be seen in public with you. You continued to make your way to the mall, despite being lost in thought. You managed to hide your doubts from Teruhashi for the time being.

The first shop you entered was a clothing shop. Despite it being generic, you and Teruhashi had a great time picking clothes for each other to try, whether they be purposefully horrendous or genuinely good-looking clothing. Both of you walked out with something new, but nothing that you had picked for yourselves, choosing to favour the clothes the other had picked out. It was a wonderful time, and that continued for a few more clothes stores, both of you giggling and smiling the whole time. You’d also visited some book stores, browsing various selections and enjoying each other's company (albeit, a bit quieter now). You held hands as you browsed some novels with Teruhashi, trying to find something you could read together on a future date.

Your worries had been long forgotten until you walked through the doors of the shop you dreaded the most. It was summer, so it only made sense she’d want to visit a shop like this. A swim shop. You hesitated to enter the door, and the change in your personality was almost immediate. You became more reserved, knowing Teruhashi would outshine you here no matter what you did. 

“Y/N?” Teruhashi turned towards you, grabbing your hand, “Is everything alright? You’ve gone quiet…”

Of course, she’d notice, this is Teruhashi, the most wonderfully observant person you know. She’s always worried more about the people around her rather than herself. 

“Sorry,” you apologized, “I’m fine, though.” Well, that wasn’t very convincing. It was hard to lie to her, and the rush of nervousness and doubt didn’t make it any easier. Teruhashi looked at you in the eyes, you’d never seen her so unimpressed. 

“I know you’re lying. Let’s go out to that bench. Please tell me what’s wrong.” She pulled you out of the swim shop, to the bench she’d pointed out earlier. She sat down and looked at you with the most serious expression she could muster. She was genuinely concerned, that much you could sense. It was easy to see in her eyes how much she cared, and you knew there was no way she’d give up on this.

Looks like you had no choice but to tell her, She’s worried about you, and there was no resisting that. Once Teruhashi got her mind set on something, she always saw it through to the end. And you being upset on your first date? She cared about you far too much to watch it any more. She wanted to help you feel better, more than she’s ever wanted to help anyone before.

“Okay. I’ll tell you.” She gave you a reassuring smile, holding one of your hands in both of hers as if to tell you that it’s going to be alright and she would be there to help you through this. With a sigh, you explained your feelings of inferiority, how you knew she could do better, and how you felt you would only ever hold her back. Her smile never wavered. It wasn’t happy, no, it stayed reassuring and supportive, communicating she had listened attentively to all of what you said.

“Y/N..” She trailed off. For once in Teruhashi’s life, she had no idea how to reply. How was she to tell you just how much you mean to her? How she thinks you might very well be the most beautiful girl in the world. You were everything she wanted in a person. Supportive, understanding, caring, and someone who’s able to see her as more than just a pretty face. She leaned in a bit closer, hugging you briefly before deciding on what to say.

“Thank you for telling me. I want you to know that I really don’t see you that way, and even if I know I can’t change how you see yourself, I want you to trust me when I say there is nobody else I want to be with. You’re so perfect for me, and I could never be happier with another girl in my life. I’ve had an amazing time with you, and you are so so much more than you think you are. I know I can’t fix it, but please let me support you and help you feel better for the time being.” 

By the end of her little speech, you both had tears in your eyes. You’d never cried in front of her, but this time you couldn’t help it. She hugged you again as those tears fell, rubbing your back to comfort you until you felt better. 

Once you calmed down, you offered to go back into the swim shop, if Teruhashi didn’t mind. You wanted a second try to have fun with your girlfriend. That’s right. Girlfriend. The word hit you harder than it had before, she picked you and it really wasn’t a joke. You smiled next to her, walking back into the swim shop.

“Hey, Teruhashi-” You were interrupted by her before you could finish. 

“Call me Kokomi.” To that, you just about screamed. Your smile widened greatly (and in her head, Teruhashi had a mini-meltdown and how cute you are).

“Okay. Kokomi, do you want to get matching swimsuits?”

She clapped her hands together, practically jumping in excitement. “I do!”

Hurrying further into the store, you both searched the walls of swimsuits and accessories until you landed on a swimsuit that was just perfect. You showed it to Teruhashi, who thought it was the perfect one too. Buying them, along with some shoes and sunglasses that Teruhashi picked out, you headed out of the store. It was getting late anyway.

You would both say today’s date had been a success. Feeling closer to your girlfriend, and getting the reassurance that you had no idea how badly you needed, you felt a lot better than you had this morning. You would never know how nervous Teruhashi had been this morning, either. Maybe someday she’d be brave enough to tell you how you made her heart stop and managed to make everyone else disappear. You’re really something special to her. You dropped her off at her house, placing a goodbye kiss on her cheek, never having seen her face so red. She promptly did the same, thanking you for such a wonderful day, and telling you how she hopes you two can do something together again soon.

And who knows, maybe you guys would have to go to the beach sometime soon. Those swimsuits need use, right? No matter what you did, as long as it was together, you and Teruhashi would be able to rock this world. With her, you knew you could do anything.

[ourladylennon]

this is a stress rant and also I absolutely have to get these thoughts out of my head and onto something so that I can understand how I'm feeling. so pardon me.

I have some very mixed feelings about my latest tattoo experience and it has been incredibly, astoundingly stressful. For anyone who was interested in how it went.

and after typing out this whole rant and reading it back my advice is: ALWAYS make sure it is exactly what you want. ALWAYS speak up if you don’t.

I have a specific style, as everyone, but the style of tattoo I have is a bit of a niche that can be hard to find: geometric design with dotwork/pointillism/stippling techniques to create shading rather then standard fill in shading. This shading style is incredibly time consuming and taxing for the artist and I've had a lot of trouble finding people who specialize in this (and within my area).

I started with an artist about 3 years ago, whom was new to me but known to be good. Got my appt set up, he drew me an entire sleeve- it was absolutely gorgeous. Went through two sessions and his work is genuinely amazing. Clean. Precise. Detailed. Unique. I didn't vibe with him too great but it was something I kind of put aside. But without explaining the whole fucking mess that became, just know that our artist-client relationship fell through. This left me with only the beginning of my tattoo. The whole ordeal was really stressful and upsetting so I put down the goal of getting it finished to try and recoup. And I just continually hit roadblocks trying to find artists who are good at dotwork and willing to do it. Often times they live in other cities/states/etc. Obviously this involves meeting a new artist, trying to figure out if it's a good fit, driving out for consultations/redoing all that process- s t r e s s. Now with covid, it's even more difficult because almost every artist I've come across that I've considered has closed books. All of them being out of town which is fine because it would be worth it. It's expected.

But after three years of this go around of trying to find someone, I was getting really put out by the process and just wanting to get this thing going. (Mistake #1- or #2 technically cause fucking up w the first artist is where it all started and I do regret it to this day).

A new shop opened IN my town- a miracle!!! I started following an artist whose work I found to be particularly amazing. Clean lines, clean shading, artistic seeming. Didn't see any pointillism, but I just like kept seeing her work and thinking damn that's good. So I decided to reach out and told her this is what I'm looking for, a dotwork sleeve and here are some examples of the style I like. I specifically mentioned this and asked if they'd be interested in working on it because I know that dotwork is not everyone's thing. The artist replied and said they've been wanting to get into and would like to do that (we'll call this mistake #3. Do not assume the artist, even if very good at other things will be good at all things. Do not go to an artist wanting a specific style without having seen their work for THAT style).

At this point I sent over pictures of my current tattoo that we'd be adding onto for reference. In my mind this is what I thought would mean: "I am looking at what you have to see how to incorporate it into a new sleeve design and see how I can create a collaborative piece and mesh the two together." (Mistake #4: that was not the case. Do not assume. Anything. Ever.)

The appt date was relatively quick despite the fact that I figured she'd be booked out for quite some time (red flag #1: not because she wasn't busy. But because this was not a whole lot of time to come up with a design but I figured "Well she knows her capabilities better than I do and she wouldn't suggest it that soon if she weren't sure). In my previous experiences, the artist will send you a proof or have a separate appt to review the design. I never received an email with said design (red flag #2, in my personal opinion. But I thought I was just being...extra? Also just thought, okay I'll see it at the appt and it will be OK, right? <- mistake #5).

I show up, there is no sleeve design. (RED FLAG #3) There are two single mandala tattoos. Outlines only. No shading. I'd also like to say my style is much more geometric fractals than it is mandala. A lot of people find these interchangeable but...they're really much different. (RED. FLAG. #4). I genuinely did not see that coming. Maybe I'm wrong to say, but this was negligent in my opinion and experience. A sleeve design ensures that your finished piece flows, that it works together, you can see the whole picture, modify, etc. Especially with it being an addition to my existing work. Cannot stress how much of a red flag.

I'm wigging out at this point. I don't love them but I want this tattoo. I'm going back and forth thinking, "maybe it's just because the shading isn't filled in I can't picture it." (MISTAKE #6: trust your gut!!!). I tell her OK well I like this about this one and that about that one. She only nods and listens, where I was expecting feedback; perhaps an "OK well we can draw it on" or "I can rework it" etc. She didn't and I am too paralyzed to speak up. (Red flag #4)

Mistake #7: I accept it at this point. I pick between the two. She has to go resize it. I'm having a literal internal freak out and battle. I am someone who DOES NOT know how to speak up for themselves. In any way. EVER. For any reason. At any time. I am a fear based individual, in fact, I am nearly certain I have APD (avoidant personality disorder) and it effects me severely and deeply. To the point that simply speaking to someone can be hard for me.

But my brain was screaming you cannot do this! You aren't sure! This is for life! It's your body!! You HAVE to say something! (RED fucking alert)

She came back with the one design resized and my heart is thumping, my chest is constricting, the throat feels like it's closing. I make myself say it. I tell her I don't think this is what I'm looking for. I literally almost busted into tears trying to say it because I was so fucking terrified and overwhelmed. I've never been in a position where I genuinely wasn't sure whether I liked what I was looking at. She says you don't need to be sorry you should speak up this is your body. So immediately, I lost a lot of tension because of her kindness. I thought she would be angry or rude or upset, just because I'm fearful. She proceeded to kind of go in and shade in with a pencil on the stencil to give me a better idea and apologized that she should have had that prepared. I continue asking questions to assuage my concerns and feel....better....ish. she offers to redraw and reschedule but I went against my gut, gave into my desperacy to continue my sleeve, dismissed my feelings as being just my typical overexertion of fear and did something I NEVER do: turn my back on my instincts. (Mistake. Mistake #8)

She was pleasant and I genuinely enjoyed her, felt comfortable with her which is not something I can say about previous artists and that's a good chunk of why I decided to continue. I liked her, I liked her other work I've seen, I just thought that once the stippling was in that I'd see it was really nice. However, I am laying there and I'm like I do not feel poking, which is literally how dotwork is done. Dot by dot. I'd feel her do the tiniest bit of dot-dot-dot and I'm like OK OK I'm just not paying full attention and missing it. But then I'd hear and feel her shading- standard shading. I'm like why is she using a shading tip? I'm just confused honestly. I'm like I have no idea what the could be for, just assume it's necessary for something I didn't realize. But I can see because I'm laying and my arms at a weird angle.

I finally get a peek while she's pausing and its....not dotwork. It's not dotwork at all, in fact. It's too late at this point in my eyes. It was only partially done but what am I gonna do? Stop her in the middle and have an unfinished tattoo? And then what? (Try to) go to someone else to have them do dotwork and have a half unmatching tattoo? There was nothing I could do. So I resigned and accepted this as the consequences of my actions and ill choices. And that's honestly been the hardest part to deal with: I let this happen to myself because I could not speak up. The only person who could have stopped this was ME. And I could not do it. That's how deeply my issues of fear run. And that is terrifying, pathetic, sad.

I'm not saying I got the world's ugliest tattoo. It's okay. Just okay. In the words of RuPaul, meh. I don't want meh. I want astounding. And I didn't do what I needed to to make that happen or not happen.

I just have been in awe over the fact that I asked for dotwork and the artist expressed no concern over this, literally had my existing tattoo right above where they were working and continued to not emulate that style of shading at all. Most of this is my fault, 90% of it. But there was negligence on the artists side and I genuinely don't think they meant it to be. I just don't think they had enough experience, but they too should have spoke up if they didn't feel they could carry it out. They gave me no inclination that they could not or would not be doing dotwork. At any point. And I do feel upset that I don't think they put in the effort or care to work off my existing tattoo in their design, and in looking back, their design also does not look nearly anything like the designs I gave for example. It was my job to walk away and request a redesign or to cancel and I didn't. So in the end this is on me. And it has been very taxing on my mental state.

To end this shit show: the tattoo I just got costed half of what my first one did, while only having taking the fraction of time as my first and being less then half the size of my first. It is not nearly as clean, it certainly reflects their level of experience. The shop environment was not fantastic: it felt a bit like as if I had walked into a chain restaurant...but a tattoo shop. There were no private rooms, there were no tattoo chairs. They were literal stools and that's not...not professional or normal. And I chose to continue.

I'm faced with some really tough decisions moving forward. I am at least thankful it is relatively small ish and wraps towards my inner arm which makes it less visible. But I'm at a crossroads of whether I go through the whole mess of trying to find a FOURTH artist to try and finish my sleeve the way it was meant to be finished (dotwork, whole sleeve design etc) and make the best of it at the risk of having a fucking patchwork arm. Or I continue to work with this artist and see the design through myself (literally design it myself which I didn't want to do but it doesn't appear that I should leave this to them), so that at least the remainder of my arm is consistent shading and work.

And because I've made it sound like the tattoo is atrocious, be assured it's not trash by any means. It's just not what I wanted. Big sis learned a big lesson.

(the immediate center is bothering me the most. But I think it can be altered. Nonetheless. The skill/experience level shows, unfortunately. And you can certainly see the difference between the stipple shading on my first tattoo and the regular shading on the new one.)

I am trying to be positive and that's all I can do. I accept the results and I think it can be fixed to a certain extent, and I can only hope as I move forward that I make the right decision and that the end product is something I enjoy.

[mysewingadventures]

Making Anne’s Green Dress from Anne With An E - Part 5 (final)

First of all, before I start to talk about the dress I would like to say thank you to all of you who are following this blog. I just saw that I hit a thousand (a whole thousand!!) followers and I am soo excited and glad that there are people out there who share the same passion as me or just find it interesting! When I made this blog back in March or April I honestly expected to be shouting (or writing) into the void but it’s been so amazing to actually have the feeling to have something interesting to tell. So, the biggest thank you to all of you!!

Now, before I get too sappy, let’s move on to the dress.

I left off still not having finished the sleeves and having to finish all the seams. I thought it wasn’t going to be a lot of work, but I tend to severely underestimate the final parts of my projects.

So, first things first, I tried to attach the embroidered part of the sleeve to the upper puffy part and it took me an embarrassing amount of time to figure out why it wasn’t working and what I was doing wrong. So the thing is, the circumference of the embroidered sleeve is smaller than the puffy sleeve, which I did on purpose to add some nice pleats to the stiped fabric. But I couldn’t get the exact measurment right while the sleeve was round, so I needed to reopen almost an entire seam so I could make the striped sleeve lie flat in order to add some pleats so I could then put the embroidered sleeve on top and attach them. Then I could close that opened seam back up and I was left with the top part finished and the bottom part opened because I was going to add hooks and eyes to close it later (spoiler: I ended up just stitching it shut in the end). Then I attached the embroidered collar; I tried machine stitching it first but because I wanted a very small seam at the bottom some of the fabric from the dress must’ve slipped away and it made a mess so I ended up doing it by hand.

Then it was time for the back seams and the buttons! For the back seams I just folded the edge in once and I plan on cleaning that seam up at some point in the future but for now I just needed a clean edge to work with. Then I did the front buttons. I had some small buttons left over from a skirt I made once so instead of buying ones that you can and are actually supposed to cover in fabric I decided to cover regular buttons in fabric. It worked to some degree but I really think I’m going to have to order some different buttons and redo it because now that I’ve tried it on and put it on the mannequin it feels like the fabric is gonna come off anythime soon. But I’m still going to show you how I did it.

First, I just attached the button as normal onto the dress. Then I took a piece of fabric that I wanted to cover the button with and drew a circle that was bigger than the button. I don’t know how much bigger, I totally eyeballed that, but it has to cover the entire button so I’m guessing double the size? Anyways, I stitched around the circle and then cut it out around the stitching. Then I put it over the button and pulled the thread. I also put some more thread around underneath the button to make sure the fabric stays in place and doesn’t fray. I did this with the thickest thread I had because you have to pull it rather tightly so I had to make sure the thread could withstand that pulling without breaking.

Then I did the same thing in the back and added some button holes with the machine.

Now I only had to close the rest of the sleeves and add another seam to the bottom of the dress so it looks like it’s made out of two pieces of fabric. As I already mentioned, I ended up sewing the sleeve together instead of adding hooks and eyes simply because, to be completely honest, I hate sewing hooks and eyes and I also couldn’t imagine it staying closed throughout the day when you’d wear it. I think Anne’s dress had hooks and eyes, if I’m not completely mistaken it was visible in a closeup but I just opted for the "easy way out", which, ironically enough, took me about an hour on each side as it was so difficult to sew from inside of the sleeve without catching any other piece of fabric in between. But this is the result which in real life is even less visible as the color of the thread matches the fabric pretty well.

And lastly, I had to sew the final bottom seam. I just folded a bit of fabric over and machine stitched on top of that.

And this is the result of the finished dress-

It’s been very challenging this time, but I’ve also learned not to ignore lining and the importance of beautiful, neat seams on the inside! (The inside is a complete disaster, hence why I’m not posting pictures of it). But overall it looks really nice, I’ve been a little self-critical about it but I think it turned out okay in the end. It’s just frustrating that I decided not to line the skirt and now I’m regretting it because it’s just laying so flat! I think I might make a petticoat for it. It would’ve been worn under that dress anyways. But in all honesty, I think that with every project I get a little bit better because I make all those mistakes. Now I know that I should always line my fabrics no matter how lazy I’m feeling or that I should leave enough seam allowance to fell my seams.

Some projects are more challenging than others but maybe those are the ones that I can learn the most from.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

[cerseiwondered]

Number 33 plssss

I think I received this prompt over a month ago, and I’m SORRY.

So, this story is set on the same universe as this one, only six months before. So it’s like a prequel. And it follows the same women football rivalry vibes.

Prompt: “An unexpected kiss that shocks the one receiving it.”

-

“Smile!”

Sansa smiled for what it felt like the thousandth time, carefully holding her trophy so it would be visible on the picture in a way that it didn’t seem like she was trying to make it visible.

“Nice. Congrats, girls!”, the photographer said, before raising his camera again and going after Sarella Sand, who had won one of the midfielder positions of the Team of the Season.

Sansa turned to her teammates, Wylla and Brienne. The three of them had been chosen as a part of the CONWEBOL -  Westeros and Essos Football Confederation -  2019 Team of the Season, making their club, Stone Hedge United, the one with the biggest number of players on the squad.

Which was pretty cool, especially because the Athletic Club of Hill Horn had been the winner of the Women’s Conquers League, the world’s greatest club competition. Yet, on the TOTS, Sansa had been chosen as the best right-back, Wylla as the best striker, and Brienne as the best goalkeeper.

“Oh, look at her,” Wylla shook her head slightly, green hair catching the light with the movement, as she focused somewhere behind Sansa.

And the redhead spun around solely to see the grinning face of Margaery Tyrell.

Margaery, who was wearing a glorious blue dress, just a bit tight on the torso and loosely falling on the floor, with her entire arms bare and an unbelievable plunging neckline. She smiled to a camera, holding her Team of the Season left-winger trophy with one hand and her Couronne d’Or, the golden crown awarded to the Best Player of the Season, with the other.

“Notice how she’s holding the crown a bit higher than the squad trophy,” Wylla noted, and Sansa chuckled.

“Who can blame her? It’s the greatest honor a player can be given,” Brienne argued.

“Yeah,” Sansa sighed, taking in the shine of the enormous piece of jewelry in Margaery’s hand.

They were all at the CONWEBOL The Best Awards, the annual event that took place every October, in King’s Landing. The Couronne d’Or was the most coveted trophy, and that year Margaery had won it for the third time, more than any active player.

Which irritated her, because Margaery defended Raventree’s City, Stone Hedge’s biggest rival, yes - but also because it just meant a whole new year of Margaery’s poorly concealed arrogant attitude and superior little smirk, and those annoyed Sansa more than anything else.

Especially when that smile was directed at Sansa herself; and Margaery really enjoyed smiling like that at Sansa when they met before matches. And talk to her, always with the same ironic gaze and that smirk that made Sansa feel like she was being furtively laughed at.

Sansa just couldn’t quite understand why Margaery liked to provoke her so much. Yes, they played for rival clubs, but it wasn’t like Sansa was Margaery’s biggest opponent when it came to awards; they didn’t play in the same position, and Wylla was Stone Hedge’s main woman, therefore the one who could challenge Margaery when it came to the Couronne d’Or.

“Look, there is Coach Mormont!”, Wylla exclaimed, driving Sansa’s eyes away from the other woman. “Let’s go talk to her.”

They did, and Sansa quickly forgot all about conceited brunettes and overestimated individual awards as the party went on. It was always one of Sansa’s favorite events of the year; meeting all of her current and former teammates and coaches, getting a chance to talk to players from other clubs that she usually just got to interact with on the field; seeing all those women she would normally see on dirty uniforms wearing those spectacular gowns.

And there were cameras everywhere, and the food was amazing, and the champagne… The champagne was one of a kind, and when Sansa drank one glass a little bit too fast she decided it was perhaps time for her to go to the restroom and take a deep breath.

But she was just the tiniest bit tipsy, hardly enough to let her display her displeasure when she opened the restroom’s door and found Margaery, leaning against the counter and redoing her makeup.

Before facing Sansa with the largest smile, “Hey! I was waiting for an opportunity to talk to you.”

“Why?”

Margaery’s smile turned into the smirk Sansa loathed so much, “To tell you my crown was not the most shining thing in the party tonight.”

Now Sansa did roll her eyes, even as she felt a blush creeping up her neck. She was wearing a tight, long-sleeved silver gown that stopped mid-thigh. Her neckline was not nearly as impressive as Margaery’s, though.

“Thank you. You look nice as well,” she answered through an almost uninterested tone.

Margaery gave a small smile as she lowered her eyes, and for a fraction of a moment, Sansa felt bad for giving her a perhaps indifferent response - before reminding herself that that was Margaery Tyrell, her club rival and someone she and all of her teammates had learned to dislike very much.

Until, “Congrats on your awards tonight.”

Margaery said it so naturally, as she put some lipstick on.

Sansa narrowed her eyes. “I only won one award.”

“Oh, right,” Margaery pressed her lips together. Her lipstick was matte colored, and it looked nice.

“Perhaps when you said awards, plural,” Sansa, better yet, the champagne started, “You were thinking about the multiple awards my team won. You know, the club with the most players on the squad of the season.”

If she knew that would result in Margaery smirking all over again, perhaps Sansa wouldn’t have said it.

“And I was very happy for all of you,” Margaery lied. “I’m so happy your club managed that when it still had the chance.”

Again, the words left her mouth like they were the most ordinary thing to say.

But they weren’t.

“What do you mean?”

Margaery shrugged, “Well, you know. Now that the VAR, the video assistant referee,” she explained it as if there was any chance Sansa wouldn’t know what VAR meant, “Will be officially used in all of our competitions next season… Forget I said anything.”

She averted her gaze back to the mirror, but Sansa pulled her by the arm, and she stared back at the redhead with wide and, Gods dammit, amused eyes.

“Are you possibly implying that my club is benefited by the refereeing?”, Sansa laughed.

“It’s not me, darling,” Margaery shook her head with a falsely innocent look on her face. “It’s the statistics. If it weren’t for refereeing mistakes, your club would’ve finished the league with nine fewer points.”

“And how many points would your club have lost if it weren’t for your diving? You are the biggest diver in the league.”

“I’m the most hunted player in the league, you mean.”

“Too bad I cannot say the same about last chances of winning anything,” Sansa shot to her. “You’ve probably already won the next Couronne d’Or too. Considering you no longer have to do anything win it.”

Margaery’s eyes now widened with her not expecting those words, and Sansa liked it.

“Considering you got it this year without winning the national or the Conquers league, consequently, not winning anything important.”

Margaery blinked. “I literally scored fifty-one goals this season.”

“A true champion,” Sansa scooted closer, feeling the scent of Margaery’s luxurious perfume, almost closing her eyes with it, “Takes their clubs to the top. They don’t just break goal records against farmer clubs and call it a day.”

Deep down, Sansa knew she was wrong; Margaery was the best, most skillful and creative player in the world, and she deserved the recognition she got. Still, the look on her face at that moment was priceless and Sansa would not let it go.

“Eleanor Mooton,” Athletic Club of Hill Horn’s right-winger, “Should’ve won your trophy. You know that full well.”

Margaery twitched her jaw, and her voice was controlled, “Are you saying all of this because you are aware that you will never win a Couronne d’Or while I play and you hate the thought of it?”

Sansa gave a smirk of her own. “I’m a defender. I will never see the face of a Couronne d’Or, I’ve always known that.”

That was no surprise; the only players who were considered Best Players of the Season were forwards or midfielders.

“You can see the face of it,” Margaery’s voice was husky and Sansa’s ears perked without her perceiving why. “You can see the face of three of them,”

She stepped forward and Gods, they were close and Sansa hadn’t realized it.

“In my shelf. In my bedroom.”

And then it was Sansa’s turn to blink. “What?”

Margaery closed the remaining distance, her hands grabbing Sansa’s jaw and yanking her in.

Their lips touched, and Sansa was shocked. Margaery’s fingers slid from Sansa’s face to her hair, nails stroking her scalp, and Sansa shivered with the feeling of it.

Her mouth tasted so good, like champagne and something sweet, and she sucked on Sansa’s lips, leading Sansa to shut her eyes. Her tongue tried and invaded Sansa’s mouth, stroking Sansa’s own tongue, outlining her lips, and she pulled the redhead’s bottom lip between her teeth and-

It was over.

Before Sansa could do anything, touch Margaery, kiss her back properly, it was all over.

All there was left was that stupid smirk and Margaery’s flushed cheeks.

They jumped away from one another when the door was opened.

“Hey, we were looking for the two of you,” it was Irri, a Dothraki woman who played for the Dragonstone Football Club and who had won one of the centre-back spots of the Team of the Season. “They are taking pictures of the squad.”

Margaery only smiled before leaving the restroom, cleaning her lips with a paper towel and indicating Sansa to do the same, and the redhead followed her weakly.

She felt almost numb when she positioned herself among the other players. And every single nerve of her body responded when Margaery, who was right next to her, whispered in her ear,

“My real bedroom, with my trophies, is a bit far away. But my hotel suite isn’t.”

Sansa gulped.

And the cameraman shouted, “Smile!”

[pastelpastilles]

𝔽𝕚𝕟𝕒𝕝 𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕤

Oh, you thought my last retrospective was the end?

I can finally talk talk talk again, which is a beautiful and freeing feeling. These are sort of scattered, lost thoughts, because I just wanted to summarize the last 3 generations and some of the Process(tm) behind everything.

General Story Thoughts

Vampires really have been part of the story since the beginning. I really presented berry simblr with this weird, sorta spooky family with bat ears and fangs and tried passing them off as totally normal folks. Somehow, that worked? Dreams do come true.

Originally, Luna was going to live in Forgotten Hollow, but I changed that very last minute. Like, right after I started playing.

The vampires were actually supposed to come to the forefront in Gen 2--Verity Vine was supposed to “sense” them right after her first date with Ries (there’s a scene of her glancing behind her as they leave that clearing, the vampires were actually there!) I pushed them back to Gen 3 and I’m glad I did! I was able to create all the Forgotten Founder lore.

I actually feel pretty good about this as a “first draft.” I know what things I would change now, what should be tightened up.... Even from the first attempt at a reboot.

Now that you know about the vampires, I can explain more about how heirs are chosen... It’s the bat ears. If a child has bat ears, I generally roll to see if they have fangs.

In addition to bat ears and fangs, heirs usually do have some supernatural talent, one that might not be obvious at first. It may or may not come up in the future, but for reference...

Verity Vine is a natural dreamwalker, which we have known since the beginning.

Kabinett was seeing glimpses into the future, guys. He was having prophetic dreams the whole time. That’s why I kept insisting he wasn’t dreamwalking.

Had Maddy been Turned, she would have very much been a Succubus... Her talent is literally being desirable.

Generation 3 Thoughts

From the moment I knew I was doing “double heirs,” I knew Kabi was going to die. Really. It made it very... strange, to finally reach that point, in story, when I had already made my mental peace with it years ago.

The biggest changes were OJ’s path, and Maddy’s final form. Maddy was supposed to lose her memories, and would be forever trying to figure out what happened that night (which is sad)! 

Obviously, the biggest inspirations for Gen 3 were 80s movies and Stranger Things, as well as... Frozen! Elsa & Anna were lowkey inspirations for Kabi and Maddy, and I remember once saying that Kabi’s love story was “more Frozen and less romantic.” 

I think, if I do redo gen 3, I would make that clearer--I think at the end of the day, Kabi and OJ both sort of confused their “I love you but more than a friend” feelings. Kabi’s greatest concern was really always that OJ wouldn’t be part of his family.

Epilogue Specific Thoughts

Each epilogue was a scene I wanted to include when I was planning on a much, much longer (but different) storyline.

Kabinett’s first reveal was always going to be to Luna, after she and Maddy returned from their trip. I cut the events of their trip, though. They aren’t that important to Maddy’s arc, really. That became the first epilogue.

Sage was always going to stick around and be Maddy’s rock, so once I decided Maddy was going the vampire hunter route, I knew Sage needed to be the Willow she was always meant to be. Thus, her epilogue.

The third epilogue was actually just going to be an edit. I wanted to give The Sauce and the Murder Barn a proper send off, and originally it was to Chainsaw by Nick Jonas... And then Taylor dropped folklore and we got exile featuring the Sauce’s Demons.

This is not what his original end was--for a really long time, he was Maddy’s end game. I was pretty committed to it, and what happened was... I was driving home one day, trying to figure out reboot shit, and I just.... knew it was Ojaddy. It had to be them in the end. This was like, last year-ish. I actually stopped driving and messaged Sam like “I WAS WRONG, OJADDY IS THE END GAME” which was pretty out of the blue, ngl.

The fourth epilogue being Veriling was because I was intending on a longer, ongoing arc for Veri dealing with depression/child loss. It got condensed into that awful, sad scene that I love.

OJ’s epilogue was a VERY early scene I wrote, back when he was supposed to leave PB Bay for years and years and years and come back when Maddy was like. 30. Yeah, Kabi was always going to come back and be like “You need to let me go, bud. Please. Date my sister, carry on my family line.”

And of course... Maddy Moon. Once I knew Maddy wasn’t losing her memories of that night, that she was going to go for vampires, I knew I needed her to dust Azura. That last line of hers was what the whole thing was built around lmao

There was actually a bigger scene where she drew the Orange vampire in by flirting, and then OJ arrived and Maddy broke character bc that’s my husband fiance!

But I really wanted to finish this so... We got a rushed, condensed scene.

Reboot...?

Anyway, let’s consider those two up above. It’s kinda weird that I ended on a cliffhanger, where the heirs are on opposite sides of something Big, right? And Maddy just not knowing Kabi’s still technically alive... 

So like. About that:

The spares pretty much disappeared once I called Gen 3 done. In the reboot-version of the story (Lunacy), I cut out a LOT of Veriling’s kids.... Like I halved the amount.

I was purposefully very vague about tagging Kabi’s vampire moodboard as Kabinett Puck. That’s because I’ve been considering Veri taking Ries’ last name in the reboot, and most of my notes refer to him as Kabi Puck.

I also introduced several things that you’d think I would expand on in the epilogues, right? Luna’s gift to OJ, Maddy the Vampire Slayer... Like, there’s a lot to sink your teeth into there!

So... As we hit the epilogues, the timelines of the “reboot” and the “original draft” sort of... merged in my mind. And I really... really... want to keep exploring this world, and finishing Gen 3 off actually helped me decide certain things I would rather do with Lunacy Gen 1. 

This is a very confusing way of trying to explain that... I’m not canceling the reboot, but we are continuing... with Gen 4. Probably soon! I want to play with Ojaddy a bit, because they deserve a bit of a break, and you’ll start seeing Slice of Life stuff on my main soon.

In the meantime, coming up on this blog, I have a fun little project staring Sage that I can’t WAIT to start posting! And eventually... We’ll move back to @simmancy. Not just with my hell project (the Masquerade AU), but also with actual... bpr... content. So if you like these characters... Good news! They’re going Into the New World! And if you don’t like them, well... I think their kids are pretty cool, so. There’s that.

As always... Again, and again, thank you for reading! See you on the otherside!

- Kit

[yourdeepestfathoms]

They Will Certainly See More

  “What do you mean Seymour isn’t here?!”

The stage manager’s eyes were wide and bulging in their sockets from her smoldering gaze. The queens couldn’t help but shy away slightly- all the crew members had an aura that nobody wanted to cross when worked up. 

  “She was sick,” Aragon explained. 

  “You couldn’t think to tell me this BEFORE the show was about to start?!” The stage manager snapped. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Are any of the alts here? Tell them to throw on some makeup and do their hair, they’re going on.”

  “Umm...no.” 

  “What?” The stage manager’s eyes snapped open to stare at Cathy.

  “None of them are here.”

  “WHAT?!”

The stage manager began to work herself up to a proper fit, barking and squawking at the queens and just about anyone who crossed her path like a jungle bird that just had its territory approached by a rivaling avian. She might have tore strips off the cast the entire time if it wasn’t for Anne suddenly piping up.

  “Wait!! What about Joan?”

That made the stage manager shut up. She snapped her mouth shut and blinked before all eyes turned over to the nearby music director, who, up until that point, was peacefully eating a yogurt cup.

  “What?” Joan said with the spoon still in her mouth.

  “That’s perfect!” The stage manager exclaimed. “Joan! Go get your makeup and hair done!”

  “My makeup and hair is already done?” Joan said. She was always ready an hour before the performance starts. “What’s going on?”

  “You’re performing as Jane,” The stage manager said. “Aragon, Parr, go help her into costume!”

  “Wait- What?!” Joan yelped, finally understanding. “I-I can’t- I-” But she was already being herded off into Jane’s dressing room.

The process of redoing her makeup and hair was hellish- there was a lot of tugging and pulling and painful brushing that scraped her scalp raw. She had to get an all new layer of makeup so she wouldn’t look washed out onstage and wouldn’t sweat it all off. Because she was sweating. A lot.

  “God, you’re soaked,” Cathy laughed slightly, combing back Joan’s hair.

  “Mm-hmm,” Joan merely replied. She was stiff in the chair, spine straightened in perfect posture for the first time in her life. Her hands clenched and unclenched anxiously in her lap. “G-guys, I--”

  “I got the costume,” Aragon cut her off, taking Jane’s dress off the rack. 

Joan actually gaped at it- were they really expecting her to wear that?!

  “Guys--”

  “Come on, stand up, Joan,” Aragon urged. “Let’s get this on you.”

  “Guys!” Joan finally spoke up. Her voice had raised a few pitches. “I-I don’t think I can do this…”

  “Of course you can!" Cathy said as she pulled her out of the chair. She and Aragon were being weirdly nice; usually they just ignored the music director unless they needed her for something. Joan guessed it was because they were in a rush and thought that being kind would get Joan to cooperate (which kinda worked).

  “You know the show by heart. There's no way you can screw it all up." Aragon smiled gently as she set the costume on the back of the chair. "We'll be outside whilst you change, call us when you're ready.”

And with that, Joan was alone in the dressing room.

Standing in Jane's dressing room with the woman was one thing, but when she was alone everything felt wrong. Joan felt like she was invading Jane's personal space. She knew it was stupid, Jane wasn't here. Jane was at home, sick.

Deciding to not dwell on it any longer, Joan quickly changed into the costume. The first thing she noticed about the dress was that it was heavy, much heavier than she had imagined. The second thing she noticed was that it didn't fit her at all. Instead of looking like it was tailored to her body, it simply hung from her shoulders, and she didn’t even want to THINK about how saggy it was around her smaller chest. She was practically drowning in the fabric, and Joan wondered if she could just wear her band costume and claim it as an emergency alternate costume, but then the five minute call blasted through the speaker.

Cathy and Aragon burst through the door, stumbling over each other as they tumbled into the room.

  “Come on Joan, the show is starting soon and we still need to have a mic check." Cathy said, giving Joan a quick glance. "You can't go on stage looking like that." Frantically, she and Aragon searched Jane's room for safety pins.

An announcement played over the speaker, saying the show was delayed for another ten minutes. Guilt started to consume Joan as she stood in the middle of Jane's dressing room. She must look rather pathetic, standing there in a dress too big and her face caked in makeup.

Suddenly, there’s hands cupping her cheeks and she flinches in surprise. Aragon is standing in front of her, holding her face while Cathy finished with the last of the pins. The golden queen tapped Joan’s cheek with a finger and Joan stopped trying to avoid her eyes like a dog that was caught drinking out of the toilet bowl, instead slowly meeting her patient gaze.

This was the first time Aragon had ever been affectionate or gentle with Joan. And Joan relished it.

  “You’re going to be okay.” Aragon told her. Her voice was smooth and warm, coiling up Joan’s neck and slithering right into her ears. It numbs her anxiety. 

  “B-but what if I--”

  “Shh...” Aragon stroked back a loose piece of hair that just didn’t want to stay down. She took a silver bobby-pin from her sleeve and pinned it back herself. “You’ll be just fine, darling. We know you can do this.”

  “B-but I-- OW!!”

  “Sorry!” Cathy called from behind Joan. “Yikes. That’s a lot of pins.” She laughed slightly. “But I’m sure it’s fine. The dress is silver, anyway! Matches the, uhh, color scheme!”

A chunk of ice drove itself into Joan’s stomach. She sets her trembling hands over her unsettled middle and Aragon quickly took them in her own. She squeezed them tightly. Oh how Joan wished she actually cared about her and wasn’t just doing this to get her to cooperate.

  “I can’t,” Joan whispered.

Despite always dreaming of getting to perform and dance and sing, actually having to do it sounded horrible. Perhaps because it was forced onto her and she didn’t have a say at all. It would probably be easier if she had volunteered herself.

Maybe.

  “You have to,” Aragon said. “I’m sorry. But I know you can do this.”

  “Come on,” Cathy said. 

The three of them walked down to the wings, where the other three queens and ladies in waiting were already in place onstage. Cathy and Aragon have to leave Joan, grabbing their mics and getting in their spots. Joan took Jane’s place a few moments after them. Right before the lights go out, she saw Maria, Bessie, Maggie, and even her dep giving her encouraging smiles and thumbs up. She shook her head nervously at them, pleading with her eyes for one of them to drop dead so she didn’t have to do this.

But alas.

Blackout.

A cacophony of anticipated murmurs swelled through the audience as the curtains part ever so slightly so the queens can walk out. They were just barely lit up by soft white lights bleeding dimly from backstage. Fog rolled out like great grey waves.

Then, pitch blackness once again.

She tripped. She knew she tripped or stumbled or something stupid while walking out of the curtains. She tripped or staggered or stepped wrong or something and now they all know she’s not Jane and they’re going to laugh at her and--

Joan couldn’t breathe. Her body was on autopilot as she followed along with the others, trying to walk the way Jane would normally walk (and yet she still messed that up with her slight stumble on her way out of the curtains). She hoped that she looked enough like the woman to fool the audience and keep them happy for at least half of the show before they got tired of seeing her as a fraud, but that was just wishful. They could take one look at her (or her chest) to know that she was not Jane Seymour.

And that scared her. 

She was scared of them booing or leaving just because she wasn’t the queen. Which was entirely stupid of her to worry over because the alts and swings went on all the time and everyone loved them. But her anxiety just wouldn’t register that as true facts. 

She was a fraud. And they were all going to laugh at her.

She really didn’t want to be laughed at...

A deep hum filled the auditorium- the beginning of Ex-Wives was starting. The sound seemed to rattle Joan to her very core as she listened to it. It honestly used to be serene and calming, but now it just filled her with icy cold dread. She wanted to throw up from the intense terror waving over her, but her stomach was in too tight of knots to eject anything at the moment.

  “Divorced.”

A cone of purple light rained down on Aragon. There were the twin beats. 

This whole part revolved a lot on timing, and Joan knew if she didn’t say her line at just the right moment, then she would throw Maria off. And she really didn’t want to embarrass her bandmates, too, so she gathered up as much confidence as she could and prepared herself. 

  “Beheaded.”

The purple light comes down on Anne. The twin beat resounds loudly.

This was her moment. One of her many moments, but a moment no less. She couldn’t fuck it up, not after the way she tripped.

The purple light spills its rays of amethyst over Joan and she takes a deep breath.

  “D-ied.”

The twin drum beat thumps heavily. Joan swore the thunderous pulse was enough to shatter her rapidly beating heart, which just picked up even more speed.

Her voice cracked. Her fucking voice cracked.

She wondered if it was possible to swallow her microphone whole and choke on it so she wouldn’t have to do this...

  “Divorced.”

A cone of light encased Anna. Joan exhaled deeply, no one seemed to notice. Maybe she could pretend to be sick, people have gone on sick before. Joan prayed that they had an alternate ready before Heart of Stone; she didn't know what she would do if she had to sing that song.

  “Beheaded.”

Joan was ready to run, she didn't care about letting the audience down. But then the image of Jane popped into her head, she was frowning, like she was disappointed. Disappointed in Joan. That thought made her stay on stage, rooted in her spot.

  “And tonight, London. We are…”

I can do this, She kept telling herself, hoping it would calm her down.

The pause seemed to last much longer than a few seconds. Her nerves mounted as she waiting. Joan raised the mic to her lips a bit early.

Then suddenly she saw Anne take a breath, meaning it was coming.

  “Live!" Joan's voice was stronger than she thought, an excited grin adorned her face. I got it! She praised herself.

The show flew by in a whirl of flashing lights, humming harmonies, and barely-contained pride. The longer she performed, the more Joan got comfortable with the role of being the third queen. And the audience didn’t even seem to mind! They looked like they really liked her!

It was just amazing. Every inch of her body was tingling in joy, fueled by an adrenaline rush that seemed to be made of liquid gold. She hadn’t been this energetic about anything in a long time. Her limbs would ache the next day, but she didn’t care. She just continued to sing and dance and be genuinely happy.

The MegaSix soon rolled around, meaning the show would be over soon, and Joan found herself slightly sad while she danced along with the queens. She wished she could play this part forever, that she could always be in the spotlight like this. People would praise her name: Joan Meutas, the False Silver Queen. And they would love her, they would want her autograph and ask to take pictures with her and go to brag to their friends about meeting her.

It would be incredible.

Joan was so wrapped up in dancing and fantasizing her own popularity that she didn’t even realize something was wrong until a cold breeze hit her bare belly.

...Bare?

The audience gasped, yelped, shouted, laughed, whistled.

Cameras flashed.

The queens turned to her, frozen, eyes bulging out of their skull, mouths hanging open like their jaws had been unhinged.

Petrified, Joan slowly looked down at her naked body, shielded only by a bra and underwear, and the silver dress around her feet.

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3.

Chapter 36: Martin

It’s an interesting weekend, to say the least, partly because of the startling news Sasha uncovered that Jonah Magnus isn’t the only avatar to attempt to extend his life (Jon Prime apologizes profusely for not telling them that, but Sasha points out that it wasn’t exactly important at the beginning and they have to discover some things for themselves) and partly because Tim tells them, Saturday night, that he thinks he’s got enough of a handle on his abilities that he can focus on a single person or object and not risk being blinded by anything else around them. He thinks he can control it. Jon is apprehensive, but agrees that if Tim really wants to test it, he’s willing to let him try a controlled test on Sunday.

They call Sasha, who turns up around teatime with the Primes. One by one they sit opposite Tim in the living room while he takes a deep breath, relaxes, and lets his eyes go slightly unfocused. For each one, he describes what he sees to them while Jon Prime jots down the notes for him, then passes the notebook to Martin so he can stand before Tim. They all know Jon Prime has been marked by all fourteen powers; Tim says he’s hoping to just get clarification on one or two colors he isn’t sure about. It’s apparently too much for him, though, especially since he’s done all the others first, and he passes out. He comes around fairly quickly, but he’s still weak and shaky and both Jon and Martin declare the test at an end. Tim doesn’t argue, but he also won’t go lie down on his own, and the Primes and Sasha quietly let themselves out so the other three can go to bed early.

He’s still a little shaky on Monday morning, but seems in good spirits. Jon hesitantly offers him one of the statements they’ve been saving for Jon Prime; Martin lets them argue for a couple minutes about the recordings before interrupting gently to ask, “Do you actually need to record it for it to count?”

“What?” both of them ask, turning to him in surprise.

Martin shrugs. “I mean…the recorders don’t belong to the Eye, right? So it’s not the act of actually recording them that feeds it. It’s just the reading of them. The…consumption, I guess? If you just go back into the shelves or into the Cavern of Secrets or whatever and read it out loud, that ought to be enough, right?”

Jon and Tim look at each other. “That’s…actually a good point,” Tim says finally. He holds out his hand, and Jon gives him the statement. “Be back in a bit. I hope.”

He brushes off their offers of help and half-staggers towards Document Storage. Jon watches him go, then turns to Martin. “How did you think of that?”

“They mentioned once that…” Martin glances upwards. It’s hard sometimes to be precise without actually mentioning the Primes, so he decides to take a risk and hope Elias’ attention is elsewhere. “Your counterpart used to go out and pounce people to get their statements. But he didn’t record them, just…listened to them. And since we really don’t know what’s actually behind the recorders, except that it isn’t what’s feeding us in return, it just makes sense that he doesn’t need to make it ‘official’ for it to count.”

“God, I never thought of it that way, but you’re right. We really do have a…symbiotic relationship with that thing.” Jon sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair. “I really shouldn’t let you three read any of these statements, but…”

“I don’t think there’s anything to be done about that now, Jon. We’re too tightly connected to it. We could none of us ever deliberately use the abilities it gave us again and I bet there’d be just enough…accidental occurrences to weaken us until we died. Starving ourselves won’t starve it.”

“You might be right, but I don’t have to like it.” Jon brushes his hand against Martin’s and changes the subject. “What are you working on today?”

“Um, we found another statement involving that space station, so I was going to see what I could dig up on that.”

“Good. Just be careful. I’ve got another backlog of recordings to do.” Jon grimaces. “Make Tim take it easy.”

“Easier said than done, but okay.” Martin smiles.

It’s easier than he expects, honestly. Tim is at least pretending to take care of himself, so when Martin tells him that both he and Jon want him to be careful, and Sasha makes it unanimous, he does. Apart from Jan Kilbride’s statement, everything else they’re looking into is something they all know is false, but they have to go through the motions. It’s oddly soothing, in its own way. Most of the morning passes with the three of them simply murmuring to one another when they find something interesting or mocking obviously false statements.

Tim and Sasha have a standing lunch date every Monday, something they’ve apparently done since they were in Research; Martin joined them once or twice, back at the beginning of everything, but bowed out after a while. It’s not that he felt uncomfortable or unwelcome so much as it is he feels like that’s their thing and doesn’t want to intrude. He waves them out absently, a pen clenched between his teeth as he tries to winnow down the list of Jenny Mackintoshes to a reasonable number that might be the one mentioned in the statement, false though it may be—they have to be sure, after all.

Less than five minutes after they leave, Sasha’s desk phone rings. Technically it’s for the Archives as a whole, and it used to be on Jon’s desk, but since that’s where he does his recordings and the relatively infrequent ringing forced him to have to redo a number of them, Tim managed to sweet-talk someone into installing it out on the main floor. Sasha’s desk is just the one closest to the connection. The ringing sounds more like a doorbell than a phone, and Martin’s still not sure it actually connects to the outside. He leans over and snags the receiver. “Archives, Martin Blackwood speaking.”

“Hi, Martin, this is the front desk.” Manal, as always, sounds slightly apologetic for having interrupted him. “There’s a Ms. Melanie King here to see Mr. Sims.”

“Thanks, Manal, I’ll be right up.” Martin hangs up the phone and glances towards Jon’s closed office door, then decides to just go get Melanie and let Jon know when they get back, if it’s important.

The front area of the Institute is a bit hectic, which it usually is this time of day as people pass back and forth on their way to lunch. He dodges around a few people, murmuring an absent response to the greetings of a woman who could almost be Quentin Blake’s drawings of Miss Trunchbull brought to life if she was a nicer-sounding person, and makes his way over to the front desk. Melanie King stands there, coat still on her shoulders and arms folded over her chest, tapping a foot impatiently against the floor, scanning the room as Manal looks up at her in amazement and adoration. Martin bites back a grin and approaches. “Ms. King?”

Melanie turns to him, eyes narrowed, and studies him for a second. “You’re—Martin, right? You used to work in the library?”

“Yep, that’s me.” Martin’s kind of surprised she knows that. “Martin Blackwood. You need to talk to Jon?”

“Yeah. You’d think at this point I wouldn’t need an escort.” Melanie says the last part almost under her breath.

“You’d think, but Elias gets his knickers in a twist about the oddest things sometimes,” Martin says. It elicits a surprised giggle out of Manal, who quickly covers her mouth with one hand and glances at the steps that lead to the first floor, to Rosie’s office and then the Institute Head’s. Sound travels oddly up those stairs from time to time, and now that Martin knows why the Institute was built, that doesn’t surprise him anymore. “Right this way…thanks, Manal.”

To her credit, Melanie waits until they’re halfway down the stairs before she says, “Does her mummy know she’s skipping school?”

“She’s almost twenty,” Martin says, briefly counting back to make sure he’s adding her age up right. “Been working here a couple years. I don’t think she was all that good a student.” He’s also fairly certain she pulled herself out of an abusive home life, or at least a shitty one, but he’s not going to say that out loud.

Melanie looks tired, but also determined. Martin feels like he’s got a mouthful of seltzer and bites his tongue to keep from asking her if she’s okay or what’s wrong; he knows by now what it tastes like when there’s a statement in the offing, and he doesn’t want to accidentally pull it out of her before she’s ready, or before Jon is. Something about her eyes says she’s only going to want to make this official.

Something about the way she looks at her wrist—take that, Tim, I’m NOT the only person under the age of forty who still wears a wristwatch—says she’s in a hurry, so he asks, as neutrally as he can, “Got somewhere to be? We can go faster if you want.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got a plane to catch, but not for hours yet.” Melanie sighs. “No sense in breaking our necks over this.”

“Sure,” Martin says softly. A plane to catch. Ghost Hunt UK only investigates domestic hauntings—it’s right in their name, for Christ’s sake—and they’re on something of an indefinite hiatus anyway. Either Melanie is getting out of the country for a while, or she’s continuing her research on her own, and he’s not sure which outcome he’s hoping for.

Motioning for Melanie to wait once they reach the Archives, Martin pokes his head into the doorway of Jon’s office and waits until Jon looks up. Jon gives him a short nod, finishes reading the statement aloud, and pauses the recording. “Is everything okay? Tim—”

“Tim’s fine. He and Sasha left for lunch a few minutes ago,” Martin assures him. “It’s Melanie King, she’s back to talk to you. I…think you might need the tape recorder.”

“Ah.” Jon’s face goes through an interesting series of emotions that would make Martin smile in any other circumstances. “I…don’t know if you can sit in on this one, Martin, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’m going to finish up what I’m working on and then head out to lunch myself, if that’s all right with you?”

“That should be fine. I’ll run to the canteen when Tim and Sasha get back. Assuming Tim doesn’t try to foist leftovers on me.” Jon smiles. “Send her in.”

Martin ushers Melanie in and shuts the door behind her, then heads back to his desk. Oddly enough—or maybe not so oddly—the break seems to have done some good, because it’s a lot easier for him to winnow down the list, and before long he has five possible matches. He makes note of them, saves his work, and closes his laptop.

He can feel the edges of a migraine starting up, so he shakes out a couple aspirin tablets and swallows them with the last of his tea, wincing at the powdery drag down his throat. Just as he stands up and reaches for his jacket, Jon’s office door opens, and Melanie comes out, all but slamming it behind her. She’s obviously in a bad mood and Martin isn’t sure if it’s something Jon said or just her general irritation. Something in him, though, can’t leave it be. Not that he wants to know what’s causing the mood…just that he doesn’t want it to linger. Not if she’s about to leave the country.

“Melanie,” he calls.

She stops partway across the floor and turns to look at him, arms akimbo. “What?”

Martin holds up his jacket, feeling a little foolish. “I was just going out to grab lunch. Want to come along? There’s a little sandwich place a few minutes away that does some interesting things with turkey, if you like that sort of thing.”

Melanie blinks at him. “You’re asking…me…to go to lunch with you,” she says flatly.

“Yeah?” Martin makes a show of looking around the Archives. “You see anyone else around here I could be asking?”

“Why?”

“Because you look like you could use a friend?”

Melanie’s eyebrows draw together in a frown. Martin is about to elaborate when she says, seemingly apropos of nothing, “I’m a lesbian.”

“Great! I’m gay!” Martin blurts. “See, we have something in common already!”

Melanie actually cracks a smile at that, and her shoulders relax. It’s only then that Martin realizes she thought he was hitting on her and wants to smack himself with embarrassment. Before he can apologize, though, she shrugs. “Yeah, okay, why not?”

Martin manages a smile back, shrugs into his jacket, and leads her out the employee entrance rather than the main steps.

The morning’s haze has burned off, and it’s sunny without being too warm for comfort. Melanie keeps her hands in her pockets as she walks, her shoulders hunched forward. Watching her, Martin is more and more sure he’s making the right call. She was agitated when she got to the Institute and talking to Jon probably didn’t help. It so rarely does.

There’s something off about the sandwich shop when they get there, but Martin doesn’t know what it is until they step inside and see it liberally festooned in paper hearts and glitter-covered cupids. Both of them groan in unison.

“Want to go somewhere else?” Martin asks Melanie.

“God, yeah. Is there anywhere that won’t be doing…” Melanie waves a hand at the decorations. “This?”

“Um…” Martin tries to think. “Curry shop or a pub. Two blocks’ difference in either direction. Take your pick.”

“The pub. I’ll have plenty of chances for curry over the next…however long. And I could use a pint.”

Martin lets the door shut and turns to the right. “Heading to India, then?”

Melanie nods once, but offers nothing further. Martin lets it go for now.

It’s a workingman’s pub, nothing fancy or pretentious. When the team goes out for drinks—more frequently than they used to—this is the one they usually come to, partly because it’s not too expensive compared to some of the others and partly because the barman has a sense of humor as well as a sense of adventure and will make all sorts of weird mixed drinks for Tim. Also, the rest of the Institute prefers going to one of the more ostentatious, upscale places—the sort that cater to the tourists and the businessmen, really. This one’s quieter, which is just the way they like it. The owner, a man about Sasha’s height but closer to Martin’s weight called Pat, nods as they come in; Martin nods in reply, waves two fingers, then gestures at one of the tables. Pat throws him a casual salute in acknowledgment and points at the stack of single-sheet menus on the table by the door. Martin snags two and hands one to Melanie as they drop down in their seats.

Melanie grunts as she studies the list of daily specials. “I can’t think of anything worse than being single on Valentine’s Day.”

“Getting broken up with on Valentine’s Day,” Martin says dryly, also scanning the specials. “Don’t get the stew. It’s basically just last week’s leftovers. The meat pies should be all right, it being Monday and all.”

Melanie looks up at him in evident surprise, but when Pat comes over with their pints, she orders the pie. Once Pat lumbers off, she says, “Jesus, did that actually happen to you, or is that hypothetically speaking?”

“It was a few years ago, but yeah.” Truthfully, he’s always hated the holiday, dating back to when he was a child and lucky to get a generic card from a single classmate whose mother forced them to bring cards for the whole class. It wasn’t much better when he did start dating. By the time his mother waited until he got back from the disastrous date that culminated in his then-boyfriend storming out of the restaurant, leaving Martin with the check and no easy way home, to inform him she had decided to move into a care home effective immediately, he was pretty much over the whole concept.

“You’re well rid of him, then.” Melanie picks up her glass and stared at it. “Dated someone once who broke up with me three days before my birthday. Came back three months later, told me she was so sorry and wanted to give it another chance. I said yes. Like an idiot.”

Martin can’t help the bark of laughter that slips out. “Let me guess. Your birthday’s at the end of November?”

“Third of December. And I didn’t get it!” Melanie slaps her palm against the table. “She pulled the same stunt again that year, but this time I’d already bought her present. It was while I was returning it to the shop that it hit me she was breaking up with me to avoid all the gift-giving…stuff. God. Teenagers are so stupid sometimes.”

Martin raises his glass. “Cheers to that.”

Melanie clinks her glass against his, then takes a sip and relaxes back in her seat. “So…seriously. Why are you doing this?”

“Seriously, you looked like you could use a friend.” Martin takes a sip of his own beer. “And you looked kind of miserable. Didn’t want you going out of town like that.”

“Hmm.” Melanie studies him for a minute, then sets down her glass and holds out her hand across the table. “Melanie.”

“Martin.” Feeling a weird sort of relief, Martin accepts her hand and shakes it. They’re both smirking when they settle back. “How’d you get into doing Ghost Hunt UK, anyway?”

“Started back in uni. One of the buildings on campus was reputed to be haunted,” Melanie explains. “It was one of those stories that get told to first-year students at the beginning of term, you know? Everyone knew someone who knew someone who’d seen a ghost there. Either you believed it and stayed away from the building after dark, or you dismissed it as a story told to frighten gullible firsties.” She shrugs. “Me, I was somewhere in the middle. I was a lot more skeptical back then, you know? But I wasn’t ready to dismiss it altogether. I wanted proof.”

“So, what, you set up a hidden camera?” Martin asks.

Melanie shakes her head. “No, not exactly. I did research. Lots of it. I wanted to know if there’d really been a fire that someone was trapped in, or a student who jumped off the roof during finals week, or a murdered cleaning woman or whatever. And the thing was, there were a couple of events that tallied with some of the stories I’d heard, but, you know…”

“There’s still that question of whether or not it’s just got enough truth to be plausible so people stop looking.”

“Exactly! You get it. Anyway, I was studying Media and Communications, so when the opportunity came up to do our first student film project, I suggested to Andy—we were in the same class and he was my partner—that we do something regarding the alleged haunting. It was….um, actually, it was originally fiction. To be honest, I don’t think either of us really believed it at that point. But…well.”

Martin nods in understanding. “You found something, I take it?”

Melanie’s eyes sparkle. “Boy, did we ever. It turns out there were two ghosts. One of them was pretty harmless—the one that had jumped off the roof. Turned out it was a student who’d been on the verge of failing out and didn’t want to face his family. Mostly he didn’t appear, you’d just hear him crying in odd corners late at night, especially close to finals week. The other one…well, we weren’t quite sure which one she was, but she definitely didn’t die easy, and she wasn’t happy about it. We got some good stuff on camera and beat feet out of there. Our teacher complimented us on our brilliant script and asked how we’d done such good special effects, and…well, we kind of lied to her, but it worked out. After that I think we both knew we were going to make a career out of that. It was just such a thrill.”

She’s genuinely passionate about her work, Martin thinks, and it makes his heart ache for her that she’s not been able to do it for so long. “I talk with students sometimes—more when I worked up in the library, but one or two come down to use the Archives. Had more than a few cite Ghost Hunt UK as the reason they’re studying the paranormal.”

Melanie flushes. “Yeah, well…yeah.”

Pat brings their lunch about then. Martin’s about to prompt Melanie with another question when she throws one at him. “What about you? How’d you end up doing what you do?”

“Do you mean working at the Magnus Institute in general, or winding up in the Archives?”

“Either. Both. How’d you get interested in the paranormal?”

“Honestly? I just needed the job,” Martin admits. “My mum’s been…she’s been sick for a long time, but she suddenly got a lot worse. I was desperate for a job and the Institute was the only place that would hire me.”

“Oh.” Something in Melanie’s face changes. “I’m sorry. What—if it’s not too invasive, what’s…wrong with her?”

Martin shrugs, feeling the familiar prickle of uncertainty crawl up his spine. “Dunno. They’ve never quite been able to figure it out, actually? I’ve been given a big long list of what it isn’t. It’s not MS, it’s not Parkinson’s, it’s not ALS…and so on and so forth. At this point I’m prepared to say she’s got Liliana Blackwood’s Disease.”

Melanie winces. “God. That must be hell on both of you. The whole not-knowing thing.”

“Worse for me, honestly,” Martin says slowly. Something prickles in the back of his mind; he tries to shut out the feeling, but the Eye—he’s sure it’s the Eye—shoves it through his barrier like someone pushing an envelope under a door. “I think she has some idea what it might be, actually. Or why it suddenly got worse a few years ago. But I also kind of think maybe she enjoys it a little. The attention, anyway. Not the actual being…I-I mean, nobody wants their kid to have to take care of them like that.”

“Yeah,” Melanie says softly. “I don’t think my dad would have, either.”

Martin looks up sympathetically. “He was sick?”

“Dementia. Early onset. Mum took care of him until she died, and then—the job, and I just—I couldn’t be his full-time caretaker, and it wasn’t safe to have him at home alone. I had to put him in a home.” Melanie stares into her half-empty pint glass. “Wish I visited him more, before…”

“He stopped remembering you?” Martin asks gently.

Melanie shakes her head. “He remembered me up to the end, but he died a few years ago. I, uh…is your mother still at home or…?”

“No, she asked to go into a home a few years ago.” It’s a polite way of phrasing it. She hadn’t really asked so much as told him she was going.

“Then maybe you know about…not many people really paid attention when it happened. Even the crew at Ghost Hunt UK didn’t really…” Melanie hesitates, crumbling a bit of pie crust in between her thumb and forefinger. “Did you ever hear of a place called Ivy Meadows?”

Martin’s blood runs cold. “Oh, no.”

“Yeah,” Melanie agrees. “Dad was still there when it burned down. The official story was that it had closed down months before and all the patients transferred, but…I never quite got why they did that.” She sighs heavily.

“Corruption,” Martin says under his breath.

Melanie, unfortunately, hears him. “You’re saying the staff was corrupt?”

“No. Well, yes, but…” Martin hesitates. “Look, there’s…let’s just say someone connected to it made a statement to the Institute. It’s—it was a lot.”

“And you believe it?”

“Yeah. See…okay, look.” Martin picks up his glass and downs about half of what’s left in one go. He’s going to need it. “It’s a really long story, and I don’t think either of us have time for it right now, but…all of us who work in the Archives, we’ve got—we’ve developed these kind of…weird abilities. Powers, you might call them even. And one of them is that we can tell when a statement we’re listening to is something that actually happened—I mean, something that actually happened and really does have a supernatural or paranormal explanation—and something that’s fake or the result of a hallucination or anything like that.” He pauses. “It’s stronger for some of us than others, and we all get it in different ways.”

Melanie cocks her head at him. “Really.”

Martin nods. “Yeah, like—when I saw you at the front desk today? I knew you had a statement and I knew it was something that—uh—wouldn’t go on the laptop. You had to use the tape recorders, right? We only use those when it’s a proper spooky statement. Everything else will record digitally.”

Something about Melanie’s posture changes. “So that’s why he believed me.”

“Yep, that’s why,” Martin affirms. “If you want to know what we know about Ivy Meadows…I’ll tell you about it when you get back from India, maybe?”

“I don’t know that I will get back,” Melanie says frankly. She shrugs out of her coat and pulls aside the collar of her Ghost Hunt UK t-shirt, showing him a wicked-looking scar slashing down from her shoulder towards her heart. “These ghosts I’m chasing down are pretty nasty. It’s why I came to gave my statement—in case I get killed by one.” She lets the shirt fall back to its natural position. “I don’t want to die not knowing the truth. Go ahead and tell me.”

So Martin does. He keeps it as bare-bones as possible, but it takes a serious effort; the static gets louder in his mind and the pressure builds behind his eyes as Melanie gets paler and paler. The Eye wants her fear, and while Martin’s role is usually the comforter, the therapist, the let-it-all-out vent switch, in absence of anyone else to give Melanie the information to devastate her, it appears to be settling. Somehow, he manages to get away with telling her no more than the basics.

“Please don’t ask me for more details,” he mutters at last, breaking off a piece of the meat pie. “I won’t be able to not give them to you.”

Melanie visibly struggles to pull herself together, grief and rage mingling in her eyes as Martin tries to cope with the too-big bite he shoved in his mouth. Choking here in Pat’s pub wouldn’t be the most brilliant move in the world, but it was better than laying out someone else’s trauma to give Melanie more. He manages to swallow at last, about the time Melanie takes a deep breath and straightens.

“I want to see that file when I get back,” she says baldly.

“Deal. Anything to get you to actually make the effort,” Martin says pointedly.

Melanie looks slightly embarrassed. “I’m not suicidal.”

“No, but you don’t care if you die or not. I know what that looks like, Melanie. I’ve been there. You think you’ve got nothing left to live for and nothing to lose, so you’re willing to throw your life away on the off-chance it’ll improve things for someone else. The only difference is you’re not going to do it yourself.” Martin waits until she looks him in the eye, then says, “Whatever you’re looking into, Jon’s going to want to hear about it—we all are. I bet you want to know what’s going on at the Institute. And I really would like to actually get to be friends with you instead of—of speed-bonding or whatever we’re doing here.”

Melanie actually laughs at that. “Same, actually. Okay. Deal. I do my best to survive whatever’s waiting for me in India, and when I get back, drinks and I tell you all about it.”

“Sounds like a plan. Wait, here.” Martin grabs a pen out of his pocket—they seem to be almost as ubiquitous as the tape recorders these days—and scribbles his number on a napkin, then pushes it over to Melanie. “In case you need anything. Or just want to chat or whatever.”

“Thanks.” Melanie pulls out her own phone and types busily away at it. A moment later, Martin’s phone pings, and there’s a text from an unknown number: [Here’s mine back. Same deal.]

Martin saves the number and glances at the time to confirm he’s got time. “When does your flight leave?”

“Four. I’ve got to run home and grab my suitcase.” Melanie checks her own phone. “In fact, I should probably finish up eating here and call a cab.”

“Fair. I need to get back to work anyway.” Martin signals to Pat for the bill and hands over his card before Melanie can object. “It’s fine, seriously. I invited you, it’s my treat.”

“Fine, but the drinks are on me when I get back.”

“I accept those terms.”

Outside, Martin holds out his hand; Melanie starts to shake it, pauses, and then bypasses it and goes in for a hug. It startles him, but he hugs her back. In the back of his mind, he wonders when the last time someone touched her in a friendly manner was.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “You’re right. It feels a lot better heading off with having spent time with—a friend.”

“Good.” Martin hugs her tighter for a second, then lets go as a cab pulls up. “Safe travels. Let me know when you get back.”

“I will. You be careful, too.” Melanie winks at him. “Good luck surviving Valentine’s Day.”

“Enjoy a year without it,” Martin snipes back. She actually laughs and waves before getting in the cab. He waits until it pulls out of sight, then starts the walk back to the Institute, feeling oddly better about a lot of things. It’s nice to have a friend. He just hopes she means what she says about being careful.