#also i did finish my paper today before i did my sewing. in case anyone was wondering. so its a big day of finishing things for me

[muirneach]

FINISHED MY QUILT 😁😁 yayyyy shes alllll done. i will take pictures tomorrow when there is light but shes so pretty….

[recklessmark]

chapter four: you’re my first kiss

—from DISCRETION series

Summary: you incidentally met a notorious CEO and your gut told you that you must claim this man. and even the fact that he’s engaged to someone else didn’t stop you from achieving what you want.

Pairings: CEO! Mark x Designer! Reader

Warnings: none

Words: 1520

—previous: chapter three-i love him forever, is it better than you yet?

“I come to see Y/N.”, it’s a familiar voice.

Alicia turns around, she hesitantly speaks to the man. “Sorry, Y/N is really busy. You can tell me if there’s a problem.”

She knows Mark Lee is not someone she can get involved with but you’re now looking like a corpse, nothing different from Ursula from The Little Mermaid. If she lets anyone see you like this, you will definitely murder her and cut her body into pieces. Moreover, you’re drained, Mark is the powder with a fuse like you, just add some friction, this whole studio will utterly explode.

Mark is getting too impatient now, taking advantage of Alicia thinking about the situation, he passes her to directly open your office door.

“Wait! No-“, Alicia sighs, silently collecting her stuff, in case that you’ll fire her.

Closing the door, Mark’s eyebrows tighten as he sees plenty pieces of wedding dress fabric on the turfed carpet. There’re some mannequins wearing lavish wedding gowns.

You ignore the sudden noise in your room, continue tucking your face in your paper sketch. You’re in a rush, this is the last dress, you have to complete it in time.

“Ali, grab me a black coffee cup, I definitely can stay up all night.”

Mark quietly leans on the doorframe, listens to your demand. You feel something weird, Alicia always do things immediately, why she hasn’t left yet, neither speaking up.

You angrily yell, “God just fucking go out!”

“You’re getting mad at me?”

You froze at your seat, your dark-circle eyes widen, not even dare to look up. With this appearance, you will be traumatized with embarrassment if you raise your head. You instantly open a drawer of your working desk, finding sunglasses and a mask, putting them on before standing up.

“Wow, Mr Lee has time to visit me huh?”

Mark weirdly looks at you, and steps forward. You anxiously make two steps backward, “Mark, if you need to say something just say it. No need to be this close.”

Normally, you’re like magnet whenever you see him, worry that someone will be faster than you even for a second. But now you’re trying to make a distance from him. Also wearing sunglasses and face mask indoor, he wonder do all designers act like this?

“Take them off.”

You chuckle nervously, “To preserve the prettiest image of me in your mind, we should better talk like this.”

But who is Mark Lee? He will follow what you said?

Seeing Mark doesn’t back off, you’re getting more and more frantic, and your body surely can not bear his. He quickly spreads his arm out, firstly the glasses, pitifully laying on the carpet.

“Y/N, you...”

You sigh, taking your mask off, revealing the exhausted face. “What do you want? I don’t have time.”

Mark feels something hurt in his chest. He finally can see an arrogant person like you being like this but he can’t find a hint of happiness. “I can’t call you. Where’s the dress? You’re gonna ruin the wedding by letting the bride be naked huh?”

Your face lights up like you’ve just found another universe. You didn’t think about that but now you will consider whether you should do it.

Your eyes wander around the room, your index finger points at a silver suitcase in the corner. “Over there, come have a look yourself.”

He glances at you and then walks towards the suitcase, unlocks it.

You actually put a lot of efforts into that dress, even the material is super pricey. Although it takes a lot of money and time but you are satisfied with the result, you didn’t make it for Kim Yeri, you made it because Mark asked.

“You like it? My competency is way better than you anticipated right?”, you cockily say.

“Right, very good.”, he nods.

You’re surprised, Mark never praised you like that. Staring into oblivion, a shadow lands onto your figure, you snap back to reality. Looking up, your face is now an inch from Mark’s. His fingers tilt your chin up, “I didn’t see you a few days, you missed me to even turn out like this huh?”, he sighs.

You giggle, decide to get along with his joke. “Right, and you have to take responsibility for me.”

You think it was just a simple joke, there’s no way Mark would accept that stupid accusation.

“Okay!”, he nods, seriousness glinting in his eyes.

Your mind has just been blown away by his simple ‘okay’, “No more joking, I have lots of work to do, if there’s nothing else you can go”. You move away from the hand on your chin, walking towards the sewing machine to finish your work.

“When will you be done?”, he checks his watch.

You stop a bit, look at the watch on your wrist to estimate the time. “If you stop irritating me, probably before this afternoon.”

“Alright, I’ll wait.”

A warm feeling fills up your chest, except of Alicia, no one has said they would wait for you, and the potential reason for that is none of them can actually wait.

Marks takes his phone out, decides to call Yeri.

“Mark!”

Yeri picks up the call without hesitation when the contact’s name appears on her phone. She’s been worrying when Mark told her he was coming to your place to see the wedding dress.

“Yeri, I’m busy today. I’ll bring the dress to you tomorrow, bye.”

Yeri has a lot of things to say but the things she heard were two sentences and the sound of the ring-off call. Her face displays an unbelievable look, she frantically messages you.

Alicia sees your phone brightens up, a message appears. She frowns, it’s from a stranger, after thinking a little bit she decided to bring the phone for you. She wants to know what’s happening inside too, the curiosity is kicking in her.

Knock! Knock!

“No one can come in! Go!”

Alicia deadly heard Mark’s voice, she stomps on her feet, confusingly speaks up.

“Y/N! Someone texted you she wanted to send you her paintings. Can I answer for you?”

With a speed of light, you run to the door, snatch your phone from Alicia’s hand and mumble a quick “thank you” before slamming the door shut. Alicia is so confused now, she didn’t even a see a single thing and you already closed the door. She’s getting more curious now, wondering what are you doing inside that she can’t see.

You smirk, the messages are continuously blowing up your phone. Until the phone stops vibrating, you speak to Mark. “Your fiancé really wants to control you that much huh? She even demanded to see me, why do I feel like we are cheating on her?”

He glances at you, lets you continue talking.

“Shut your phone down.”

“For what.”

“She’s calling you.”

He doubtfully comes to take your phone,

[10:26am] you: “I’m not being with Y/N, don’t bother her.”

His feeling for you is going up day by day. You did that to make Yeri think both Mark and you are playing with her, didn’t you? As you expected, his phone rings few seconds later. You quickly pick it up, also on the speaker mode.

“Mark! Why did you lie to me? You’re with Y/N, aren’t you? What are you doing with her? You want to cancel our wedding right? Fine, I’ll do it myself!”, her voice sounds angry.

You smile in satisfaction, she’s threatening Mark? Who she thinks she is? He slightly shakes his head, hang up the call and sit back again. He keeps Yeri besides him that long cause he thinks she knows how to behave. Many people want Mark but they’re all not as fortunate as her. All of a sudden, you just appear out of nowhere, smarter, prettier, more talented, more prominent than her. She certainly doesn’t want to lose everything. Everything she did few minutes ago has just blown all good impressions of her in Mark. He now only wants to push that girl far away from him as much as he can, he doesn’t know if he can control himself not to get furious at her.

You look at Mark’s no-emotion face, tracing his jawline with your hand.

“Baby? Don’t get mad okay? The wedding is carefully planned, I even made a beautiful dress like that. You can not cancel it.”

Mark suddenly pulls you down by your arm, a second later you feel something wet on your lips. He kisses you, his tongue licks your lips delicately. You can only squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the tender kiss on your lips.

He only pulls away when you’re dying for air, you collapse in his embrace. “You kiss so bad, don’t tell me you’ve never kissed someone.”

You stand up again, “You’re the first one I ever kissed.”, you honestly say.

Although you do have a lot of ex boyfriends but you never went beyond holding hands or hugging. Mark Lee is the first person you allow to cross the barrier. But little do you know, when he heard he’s your first kiss, he wants to actually cross the barrier even more.

Mark grabs your waist, pushing you down to sit on his lap.

“What’s now Mark? I haven’t finished my work.”

“You can work later. Now answer me, no one has fucked you right?”, he stares into your wide-opened eyes.

—next: chapter five-distraction

©️  DREAMYKRAM. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

taglist: @nuoyii @jjikyuu @generantionct @keemburley @skrtbeepbeep @sunshinedhyuck @jenotation

[ieyasuwu]

Unspoken Thoughts

Ieyasu x MC

Warnings: none it’s all fluffy

———

Your fellow crackhead decided to write a fanfic 😗✌️ bare with me, I haven’t writen anything creative in a while. Only writing I did was some dumbass essays for schools. I was on a call with my best friend at 3am- because that’s obviously a good idea- and she was all like “bro why don’t you write fanfics for your otome fandom, you love writing” and I was all like “holy shit, you’re right!”

Probably won’t do this again but fuck it we in here.

———

I slid the door to my room open and entered. I was finally free- I never thought that the war council would end! I looked around the room and noticed how quiet and empty it was. I’ve become so used to hearing a “‘welcome home’” from MC I’ve almost forgotten what if felt like to have this room to myself.

Even though she isn’t here yet, I still find myself imagining her clumsily getting up and rushing to my arms. I can still see her goofy grin as she looks up at me, her beautiful flush cheeks, her eyes that told me I was the world to her, her soft lips just inches away- god, I missed her!

I wanted to feel her warmth in my arms once more, I wanted her to sit on my lap, to tell me about her day, to kiss those soft lips, to caress her smooth cheeks, and to tell her she meant the world to me! Obviously, I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that! but I didn’t have to anymore. She has been good at knowing how I truly felt. Although, sometimes it could get annoying. It’s like she can see right through me, it’s like all my deepest feelings are displayed for her and her alone.

I really wasn’t in my right mind today- I haven’t seen her for only a day and it’s already driving me crazy! I knew that she was just caught up with work and will be back soon, but I couldn’t get the thoughts of her out of my mind. My beautiful, but strange MC, always occupying my thoughts. Damn it! I needed to get back to work. I needed to focus! I sat down at my desk and took out some ink and paper, I noticed an unfamiliar box next to my desk with a note placed on top.

“‘Don’t skip your meals okay? My nose is still stuffy from all the spice, so you better finish it all! -MC’”

Only an idiot would cook something that would make her this uncomfortable, and only an idiot would waste time on something like this! but- she’s my idiot. Damn it, I didn’t have time for these distractions right now!

I hurried to finish all the food she made for me. Oh- It was delicious... Of course, it was, she made it for me. Anything she does is perfect. From her sewing to her laugh, everything! I wanted so badly to be by her side. As these overwhelming thoughts took over I found myself picking up my quill and starting to doodle pictures of her. Her face still clear in my mind, not like it would ever leave. I’ve memorized every inch of her and did my best to print it down on my paper.

About an hour went by and I’ve finished the drawing. I think it turned out pretty good. I especially like the expression in her eyes~ Yes, I think I’ve captured her well. As I admired my work I heard the door slide open.

“Ieyasu, I’m home!” I heard, the voice I’ve longed to hear, the person I’ve been craving to see- She’s finally here!

“You’re late.” I plainly stated, quickly putting the drawing away and trying to hide all these racing thoughts going through my mind. I can’t believe I would miss anyone as much as I’ve missed her.

“Sorry, Sorry, I’ve had a lot of orders to get done today. Oh! You ate the food I made. Was it good?”

“It was fine.” As if she would have to ask. It’s all gone isn’t it? Can’t she figure it out herself?

“Good! I’m glad you liked it!” I spoke too soon. Her face beamed, her smile radiating. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. Hoping she would understand what I wanted, I held out my arms towards her.

Not surprising, she understood immediately. She rushed towards and plopped down on my lap. God, she was so precious! I gave her a squeeze and she let out the cutest giggle.

“Did you miss me or something?” She turned so she was facing me and wrapped her arms around my neck.

“Yes.” I let out. Shit- I didn’t mean to say that! Her eyes widened, but before she could look at me I buried my face in the crook of her neck. I don’t want her to see my expression right now! I felt my face heat up and my mind whirling.

She tensed for a second due to my hair tickling her neck, but she quickly relaxed and held me close once more. She giggled as she stroked my hair lovingly. Hmm... I loved the feeling of her fingers going through my hair. I loved the feeling of being in her arms.

“I’ve missed you too!”

“mmm” really? She missed me too? Was her mind also consumed by thoughts of us together?

“Umm, Ieyasu?” She stopped her strokes and turned her head to the drawing I’ve made under my desk. She let go of me and went to retrieve the, not very well hidden, paper. “What’s this?” She asked looking puzzled at the sheet of paper that had that drawing of her on it. To me it was a fine piece of art, but- to her she made a face at it like she’d seen a disfigured ghost-

“Can’t you tell? It’s you.”

“O-of course it is... Did you draw this?”

“No Mc, wasabi broke into my room and drew a picture of you.”

“Haha, right. Well, wasabi is a real artist in that case.” She looked at the drawing for a few more seconds before breaking with laughter. She then hugged the paper to her chest.

“What’s so funny?” I turned away baffled.

“Hehe, you drew a picture of me! You’re so cute!” She smiled at me. That smile was the most precious thing I had. Even if she was laughing at me- and even if she was crazy enough to call me cute- I’d do anything to keep my Mc happy. If only there was a way to freeze time just so I can admire her for a little longer.

“Cute? Who are you calling cute?”

“Who do you think?”

“Hmm no, I think you’re the cute one here.” I smiled at her. I couldn’t contain my happiness. When she looked this happy it was so hard to resist! I pulled her towards me again, my arms snaking around her waist from behind. I placed my head against her shoulder again and embraced her tight.

“Why did you paint it though?” Mc asked. She put the paper down and placed her hands on mine.

“No reason.” I just missed you.

“You drew me for no reason, hmm?”

“That’s right.” No- you wouldn’t leave my mind all day!

“Then, can I keep it?”

“Do whatever you want” I’m glad it made her happy.

She laughed as if she already knew my true thoughts. There wasn’t anything I could hide from her anymore. I guess I don’t mind though, I don’t mind being so completely vulnerable to her touch. I don’t mind my thoughts always being consumed by my memories of her. If only I was able to tell her all I’m thinking, but she didn’t mind since she was able to already understand all of my unspoken thoughts.

———

Thank you @nuttytani for the suggestions and proof reading! It helped a lot.

Thank you @xarexraven for proofreading I’m glad you liked it!

And another tag for my lovely @choi-jiyu

[artificialqueens]

Galactica, Chapter 15 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: ! Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Last Chapter: Bang Time.  

This Chapter: It’s party time when Fame finally approves the new Spring line. Also: Trixie paints, Courtney gets a windfall, and an out of town visitor stops by.  

Reminder: Indonesian is indicated with brackets [like this.]

***

On Thursday morning, a roar sounded through Galactica, as Fame had finally approved the last of the changes to the spring collection. Trixie blasted “We Are the Champions” on repeat as he popped several bottles of champagne, serving it to everyone in everything from empty Starbucks cups to glass jars as they were finally, finally, finally free after more than three weeks of constant soul crushing hope smashing hard work.

“Trixie, it’s Alyssa for you,” Kandy told him, pointing to the phone beside him, line one flashing green.

He rolled his eyes and picked up. “Hello?”

“Sir. Please turn off that hideous straight boy noise and bring your team upstairs to join us for a real party,” Alyssa said. “We still have almost an hour before the meeting and I think a little dancing is in order.”

“Fine, fine,” Trixie laughed. “We’re coming now. But I really don’t think you can call Queen ‘straight boy noise.’”

“Whatever. Just come up!” Alyssa gave him a definitive tongue pop before hanging up the phone.

Trixie turned to his employees. “Party upstairs in marketing!”

“What about the Fashion Week meeting?” asked Blu anxiously.

“That, my dear, is a problem for our future selves.”

***

Pearl sat in her office, her legs on her desk as she folded paper planes and then threw them into her trash can, while listening to The Clash, trying to drown out the disco that was blasting from the bullpen.

Pearl didn’t respond to the knock on the door, but Trixie opened it anyway, a smile on his face.

“The Clash? Really?”

“Shut up, I’m heartbroken.” Pearl held up her hand, flipping him off before leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes, turning up her music.

Trixie signed.

“You’re not heartbroken.”

“Am so.”

“Stop pouting, Pearl. You know how many girls you’ve been a dick to? So this one doesn’t want you. Well, serves you right.”

Pearl cracked an eye open, her nose crinkling into a frown.

“It does! So come on...we’re going to join the others, and you’re gonna have a couple of drinks and get over yourself. Fashion Week is coming up and we need you to be on your A game.”

Trixie held open the door, beckoning her to follow.

With a groan, Pearl begrudgingly stood up and followed Trixie out of her office.

“Shut up, I’m always on my A game.”

“As if.”

They both laughed, Trixie putting his arm around Pearl as he ushered her towards the celebration.

***

“No, you can’t go.”

“But Violeeet,” Courtney whined, laying over her desk, looking at Violet with gigantic puppy dog eyes. Everything in their office was basically shaking along to the rhythm of “It’s Raining Men” from the floor below. “Pleeease.”

“No.”

“Why do they get to party, and not us? It’s not fair!”

“Because it’s our time to work now, so be quiet and get to it, there are a tough few weeks ahead.”

Even though Violet’s words were harsh, Courtney didn’t feel cut by them; she didn’t even feel intimidated by the fact that Violet apparently didn’t think of the last two weeks as tough. She was too proud of the fact that she’d finished all of the packets for the marketing meeting--and early, too.

She closed the final folder with a flourish.

“All done!”

“Already? Good job.” Violet stood up and walked to her desk, picking up one of the folders, brow wrinkling. “Why is it so light? Did you forget one of the sections?” She opened the folder and began to look through.

“No, it’s all there! I triple-checked!” Courtney chirped happily.  

“Courtney.” Violet closed her eyes. “Did you print the meeting materials duplex?”

The way Violet spat out the word, it sounded like a slur, and Courtney was confused. It made perfect sense to her to print everything double-sided. She’d saved over two reams of paper that way.

“Well, yeah. I figured we’d save a ton of paper if-”

“Did I ask you to print duplex? Huh?” Violet demanded, slamming the folder down.

“No, but I thought-”

“Well luckily for all of us, it’s not your job to think, because you’re not very good at that, are you? It’s your job to follow instructions!”

Courtney nodded slowly, the light in her completely turned off compared to the happy, bubbly girl she had been only moments before.

“I’m sorry, Violet. I’ll redo them.” Courtney picked up the master documents again, biting her lip.  

Violet instantly felt bad, like she had kicked a puppy.

“You know what? It’s fine. Maybe no one will notice,” Violet sighed. “Why don’t you go join the party while I prepare the boardroom for the Fashion Week meeting?”

Courtney lit up, the smile reappearing on her face.

“Really?! But you just said-”

“Yes really, now go before I change my mind. Have fun. You have 30 minutes.”

“Thank you!”

***

Pearl was in a horrible mood. The boardroom was filled to the brim with people from every department. There were even a few interns squeezed around the perimeter of the conference table, and it made the room cramped and uncomfortable to be in.

Pearl had been fuming on the inside since last Sunday where Violet had closed her door right in her face. No one had ever done anything like that to Pearl, and what was worse, she didn’t even know why.

Violet was tripping around the edge of the boardroom, clearly anxious since she had little to no control of the situation. Normally everything would have been perfectly crisp, neat and organized which were not the words anyone could use to describe the situation they were in now. Pearl smiled, satisfied, to herself when she could see Violet practically scream on the inside when Kim Chi dropped part of her meatball sub on the table, using her meeting agenda to wipe the sauce away.

Pearl leaned back in her chair, everything suddenly a lot less irritating now that Violet was officially losing it.

***

“Alyssa, I want invites sent out as soon as possible, you can borrow Laganja to get it done. Trixie, I know you have worked incredibly hard but I need you through the home stretch. Prepare a backstage team for Fashion Week, I want everything double and triple checked. Pearl, find every contact you can and make them aware of our show. Violet confirmed the location yesterday and has found a garden team that can hopefully transform our venue into the tropical jungle we wanted. Ivy, I expect you to run the style department for the next few days while we rebook our models, and yes Trixie, we will try to stay close to your vision. Raja is pulling in favors right now and we hope we can get everything confirmed Monday. You’re dismissed. Oh, and Kim, please clean up after yourself before you leave.”

***

Trixie stepped out of his taxi, looking around as he put his wallet into his fanny pack, then feeling guilty about it. Katya swore up and down that the Bronx neighborhood where she taught was perfectly safe, but he always found himself a little nervous there regardless. Nothing could ruin his mood today though, he was finally free after weeks of constant sewing, of spending countless hours in the fabric district looking for just the right shade, to endless phone calls with their suppliers, tailors and the long discussions with the botanist at The Royal Botanic Garden in Kew in England trying to get a hold of Marianna Norths original drawings.

He went through the side gate into the playground, heading for Katya’s classroom when he spotted her. She was on the east side of the schoolyard, her blonde hair collected in a high ponytail, her feet in wellies and a pair of overalls on, painting the wall in front of her. Right now Katya was working on a giant sun, so her hands, clothes and hair were covered in yellow and orange shades of paint.

“Hey Miss! I don’t have a library card, but do you mind if I check you out?”

“What?!”

Katya turned around, hands on her hips, trying to cover up a clearly amused expression with her most serious Scolding Teacher face, until she realized that it was Trixie who had called to her.

“Sugarbutt!!” Katya ran over to Trixie, her shoes making a whoosh sound with each step before she jumped into Trixie’s arms, covering the both of them in paint. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re finally finished with the collection, so I came to see you.”

Trixie laughed as Katya clung to him like a tiny koala cub, the two of them enjoying being in each other’s company again after way too long without actually seeing each other.

“What are you up to here?” Trixie smiled, looking up at Katya, kissing her nose and the paint there.

“I’m painting! Look!” Katya wiggled until Trixie put her down. She pointed to the wall of the building, which was half gray concrete and half an explosion of color.

“I’m painting the ocean.” Katya smiled brightly. “This will be the coral reef and over here is the sunken ship with the scaaaarry ghosts and then way over there.” Katya pointed, “I’ll make Atlantis with all different kinds of mermaids!”

Trixie looked around, the wall was truly gigantic, his own smile matching Katya’s. “So you finally got the budget?”

“Well, not exactly.” Katya had grabbed her paintbrush again, continuing on the sun. She’d been lobbying her principal for the last year to get funding to decorate the courtyard where the youngest students spend their breaks.

“What do you mean not exactly?”

“We didn’t have the funds to buy the paint or hire a painter, so now I’m doing it myself!”

“Katya, are you committing vandalism on your own school?!”

“No, no of course not!” Katya held up her hands. “ I made a deal with the principal. I pay for the materials and do the painting myself.”

“And what’s his side of the deal? What do you get?”

“Um...a pretty wall for the kids?” Katya smiled, clearly unbothered by the free labor she was doing if it would brighten her students’ day.

“Well, in that case...” Trixie smiled, picking up one of the brushes. “What part do you want me to work on?”

“We need a colony of clown fishes over there.”

“Colony of clown fishes coming right up Ms. Zamolodchikova!” Trixie did a mock salute, immediately starting to fill out the sketches that Katya had done.

“Hey Trixie...”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

***

Courtney was sitting at her computer, absentmindedly checking Facebook and drinking a coconut water, enjoying the rare peace and quiet even though she knew she should be working; Violet had given her a spreadsheet with a massive list of names to confirm for Fashion Week, and she was only a third of the way through.

But on the other hand, Violet was out of the office, taking a trip to the tailors for Fame, who was at a charity function with Patrick, so the office was completely quiet. And there was no harm in a tiny break, right?

The door opened and Courtney jumped, quickly minimizing Safari and pulling up the Fashion Week Spreadsheet, pretending to be working.

“Hey Courtney.” Ivy smiled, the other’s teal shirt making her red hair look stunning.

Courtney breathed a sigh of relief that it was just her, even though she’d never been fully at ease with Ivy. She had just never met anyone else who was as genuinely sweet and upbeat as the girl who was standing in front of her.

“Hey Ivy!” Courtney smiled as soon as she got herself under control. “What’s up? Fame isn’t here right now, and neither is Violet…”

“Oh, I know.”

“You do?” Courtney wrinkled her brow, looking at the overflowing shopping bags Ivy had placed on her desk. “Then what’s all of this? Are they for Fame? Should I store them here?”

“No Courtney,” Ivy laughed, pushing the bags towards Courtney. “They’re for you.”

“Really?!” Courtney looked into the bags and squealed happily. “Ivy… These are… These are real designer things!”

“I cleaned out the Warehouse, and most of this is too out of date to use for the website or shoots, so you’re welcome to take whatever you want.” Ivy smiled at Courtney’s enthusiasm, not telling her that the bags in front of her were mostly filled with the clothes that no one else wanted. But Ivy knew that Courtney would appreciate it--she’d seen the young assistant repeat articles of clothing enough times to know that her closet was nowhere near as full as most of their coworkers.

Courtney grabbed a purse. “Oh my god! This is Marc Jacobs! And what are these? Banana Republic pants!” Courtney smiled, her enthusiasm making Ivy laugh while Courtney emptied out all of the bags, acting like a kid on Christmas as she clapped her hands in happiness over the Stuart Weitzmen shoes and Badgley Mischka dresses. And best of all, loads of Galactica pieces that she would never have been able to afford on her own. Finally, she’d be able to really fit in--and toss the tired black pencil skirt from Target that she’d worn about 4 times over the past few weeks.

Courtney looked up at Ivy, tears in her eyes.

“Thank you… Seriously… Thank you so so much Ivy.”

“Don’t mention it, we girls gotta look out for each other.”

***

SUTAN: Hey. Are you there?

VIOLET: Yes, why?

Sutan smiled and leaned back into his chair. It was a little after eight, and Sutan was pretty sure he was the only person left in the office, not that he minded. His days often going by in a blur of everyone and their mother needing something, so it was nice to have the place to himself, giving him time to think.

SUTAN: Dinner at Annisa tomorrow?

VIOLET: Can’t. Busy.

Sutan wrinkled his brow. Busy? He stood up, getting a cigarette from his drawer before he opened the window, leaning out of it as he returned to his phone.

SUTAN: How hard is Fame riding you over there if you can’t go out?

VIOLET: I think the question is how you’re not busy, Fashion Week is in 10 days?

Sutan snorted. Fashion week was indeed in 10 days, as if anyone would let him forget it.

VIOLET: I want to have time. I promise.

***

“To Karl!”

Fame laughed, the sounds of the groups glass clinking together filling the bar, Karl was smiling brightly as they toasted the man clearly enjoying the fact that he was the center of attention for the night, everyone treating him like a wayward son, even though he had been in New York two weeks earlier.

“So, what’s new in London?” Raja smiled, easily falling into conversation with Karl, who adored entertaining.

Fame loved drinks night with her friends. When they were in their twenties they had met up several times a week, but by now it was a miracle if she could get all of them together once a month for a weeknight cocktail or two.

Juju and Detox hadn’t been able to make it, but with a teenager and twins toddlers, they were somewhat excused.

Fame took a sip of her drink, allowing herself to just sink back and fully enjoy the sounds and laughs of her favorite people talking and laughing together, the sounds of her husband’s chuckle next to her feeling like a warm blanket as she leaned against his side.

“So is no one else going to point out what’s going on with Sutan?” Bianca asked.

Everyone turned their attention to Sutan, who looked up from his phone, a smile quickly fading from his face.

“What?”

“Why do you look like that?” Bianca smiled, the woman clearly beyond entertained as she leaned on her hand, her finger twirling on the stem of her wine glass.

“Look like what?” Sutan put his phone down, and it didn’t escape Fame’s notice that he made sure to flip his screen to the table. Maybe he did actually have something to hide.

“I don’t know, weird,” Bianca said.

“I don't look weird, you look weird,” Sutan retorted childishly, which made Bianca cackle and attempt to kick him under the table.

“She's right,” Raja said, head tilted. “You do look weird. You're all…”

“Smiley?” asked Karl, taking a handful of peanuts from the table.

“Yes! That's it! It's creepy,” said Bianca.

“My smile is not creepy!” Sutan groaned. “Why are we even talking about me?”

“Don’t listen to them.” Karl smiled, which earned him a squeeze on his arm from Sutan.

“Thanks, Karl.”

“It is a little bit creepy,” Raven chimed in.

Fame giggled.

“See?” asked Bianca. “Even Raven agrees, and we all know her favorite pastime is arguing with me.”

Raven threw her hair over her shoulder, and Fame was very pleasantly surprised that she wasn’t going to argue that point. Bianca and Raven were almost always throwing insults at each other, and while it was entertaining most of the time, it also got very draining in the long run.

"Raven, remember that I'm your boss.”

"Manager," she corrected.

"Boss. Now pack up the attitude." Sutan folded his arms, feigning seriousness, but a hint of his dopey smile remained.

Fame leaned forward, telling him, “I think your smile is beautiful, Tan.”

“Thank you!”

“Yikes,” Raven muttered, making Bianca snicker.  

“You know what, it is beautiful! Fuck all the rest of you, except you Karl, you can stay.”

“Thanks man.” Karl gave Sutan’s cheek a kiss, which made him roll his eyes and growl.

“See, now you look normal,” Bianca declared, gesturing to his now sullen pout, no one noticing the flash of hurt on Karl’s face.

***

[So.] Sutan almost wanted to sigh at the sound of his sister’s voice, Raja sliding in next to him at the bar. [What’s going on with you?]

Raja was stunning in her black jumpsuit with a green top underneath, heavy golden jewelry on her arms, her long hair styled with tiny braids that made her look like a warrior goddess.

[Nothing is going on.] Sutan picked up his beer, hoping that his sister would leave him alone, but he was never that lucky.

[Please.] Raja smiled. [You’ve never been able to lie to me, Tantan.]

[I don’t know what you’re talking about.]

[You’re seeing someone.]

[Wha-] Sutan groaned, realizing that the battle was probably lost for good. He sat down, and Raja took a seat next to him, his sister flagging the bartender for a drink. [How did you know?]

[Are you asking me that?] Raja raised an eyebrow. [I know you, brother dear. The smiles, the texting, the fact that you suddenly couldn’t make dinner last week-]

[I told Raven at work-] Sutan guessed that he had technically told Raven in passing, but what was a sister in law worth if he couldn’t send messages along.

[So who is she?] Raja smiled.

Sutan opened his mouth to explain Violet, the ever mysterious, beautiful weird new girl in his life, but then realized he couldn’t. And further, he didn’t want to. He was enjoying having her all to himself right now, and not terribly anxious to break the spell.

[Let me keep this one.]

Raja raised an eyebrow. [So it’s serious?]

Sutan shrugged, and Raja kissed his cheek.

[I love you,] she said. [Even when you’re pretending to be mysterious.]

Sutan smiled.

[I love you too.]

[kingofdirtandnothing]

@polyfacetious big ass Christmas Drabble Extravagaza: Day Twenty

“Did you know that there’s not any real appreciable difference between salt water taffy and regular taffy?” The guy in the nice suit browsing the bins of taffy looks up at Barry, cocking a brow at him. He’s been in the store for a couple of minutes now, and after a brief ‘hi, how are you’ exchange, Barry had said nothing else. Until now.

“So salt water taffy was invented in 1883 in Atlantic City, on the boardwalk. It was invented by this guy named David Bradley, I think that’s what his name is. And anyway, so he had a taffy shop out on the boardwalk. Because, tourists.”

Barry gestures around himself, to the small shop and its pristine white walls and white tile floors, to the barrels holding the candy all made of rich, dark wood. The only real pops of color in the place were the pieces of candy themselves, almost pastel behind their white wrapping paper. 

This whole street was a tourist attraction. A collection of immigrants who set up shop here right next to each other, selling a little bit of everything. Barry had seen the article about it in some tourist magazine, solely because Diego had it framed and on the wall in the front of his shop. 

And Diego’s tacos were definitely worth waiting in line for. So Barry waited like everyone else, and it meant he had plenty of time to do things like read the article that was framed on the wall that talked about ‘found family’ and ‘eclectic tastes’. Barry was pretty sure that last little bit was because of Klaus, but he wasn’t sure.

“So. Atlantic City, right? Right off the water on the pier, big ferris wheel, super cool place, even back then. But it flooded.” Barry stops, cocking his head. “I don’t think the ferris wheel was there in the 1880s.” But he can’t look right now, because he’s pulling taffy. 

That was the allure of the place. All of the taffy was hand pulled. No machines here. Barry did all the pulling, cutting and wrapping. Super boring work, but it gave him time to think when it wasn’t busy, and his biceps looked pretty sweet. 

Even right now, he’s grateful that his work t-shirt is a little tight around the sleeves as he takes the long strand of shiny white taffy and folds it back over the hook on the wall. From there, he pulls it down towards him again, lengthening the strand before he folds it back over the hook again. 

“I look it up later. Anyway. Atlantic City.” This story was all over the place, but the guy in his probably expensive and very nicely cut suit, wow he looked good, he was just watching Barry with his arms crossed, expression amused. “It flooded. Soaked the guy’s entire stock of candy. Once everything dried out, he took a bite of it on a whim.”

Barry glances over his shoulder and grins at the guy. Looks like the taffy wasn’t the only one on the hook today. “Said it tasted pretty good. So from then on, he sold it as salt water taffy. Made it tourist-y.”

He takes the white taffy from the hook and slaps it down onto the marble slab he’d cut it on. But first, he needed to roll it into something like a log. Barry always liked the way the taffy looked at this stage, with its bright sheen and its pliable nature. Like solid snow, or something. 

“But the thing is when you’re making taffy, when you’re making any kind of candy really, you’re going to boil the water with the sugar to get your base. And when you boil the water, it takes the salt right out of it. Seriously, it’ll crust the bottom of the big brass pot we use. I have to scrape it out sometimes.”

Barry folds the taffy in on itself like a big, soft pretzel and gives it a squeeze. He was going to need to punch it out a little before it would be ready to be cut. 

“So salt water taffy doesn’t actually taste any different than regular taffy. It’s just-”

“Tourists.” The guy answers, his voice low and rough, like sandpaper at the bottom of the well. “Do you tell all your customers about the history of ripping off tourists, or am I just special?” The smile, which really couldn’t be called a smile, tugs at just one corner of the guy’s lips. 

“I’m bored.” Barry grins right back at him. “But if you need someone to tell you that you’re special, I’ll be your man.” 

That earns him a small huff of laughter, and Barry finds himself proud of the sound. Yeah, he did that. “Oliver.” The guy, Oliver, holds a hand out to shake over the top of the glass separating the open part of the shop from Barry’s work area. 

“Barry.” He peels the glove off of his hand and tosses it into the trash can he keeps beneath the counter before he shakes Oliver’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Oliver.” Oliver has nice, strong hands. Callused, too. Not what Barry would expect from a guy wearing a suit that looked like it cost more than what Barry made in a month. “You read the article, huh?”

There’s a split second that Oliver looks sheepish before he settles into the conversation. “You guys get that much foot traffic in here from the New Yorker article?” Wow. Diego just had the article up, not the rest of the magazine. Barry didn’t know it was such a high end magazine that spoke so highly of their little street. Maybe that’s why they were getting so many people browsing up and down the street.

“Yeah.” It’s Barry’s turn to huff out a laugh, pulling a fresh glove out of the box and slipping it on before he gets back to the roll of taffy in front of him, punching it down before he rolls it out again into a little shiny log. “They tend to hit all the ‘greatest hits’, that’s what Tony calls them. The places in the article. But it works out for the other spots, like the book store, because then the tourists think that they’ve found some great hole in the wall that a reporter didn’t even find.”

Oliver glances down at the briefcase sitting at his feet, emblazoned with his initials and gleaming in the afternoon sun. “Guilty as charged.”

The taffy is a nice, long log now. Ready to be cut. Barry grabs the rounded cutter and starts on the far edge, his cuts swift and precise, a long practiced movement. As close to muscle memory as a person could get with something sharp in their hands.

Or at least as close as Barry Allen could get with a knife in his hand. Because the tip of his left thumb would beg to differ. 

It was fine, they sewed it right back on. It wasn’t really that big of a deal anyway. Though Felicity didn’t think it was funny when Barry suggested that the next big thing would be blood taffy. No one ever tapped into the goth market with candy.

“That’s cool, though. You came because of the article but you still adventured outside of your routine and maybe your comfort zone. I’d be proud of that if I were you.” Also, if Barry were Oliver he’d probably never wear a shirt and spend the rest of his life looking at himself in front of a mirror, Narcissus style. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re too nice?” Oliver reaches up to adjust the knot of his tie and Barry’s thumb almost makes a repeat performance. Luckily, it’s just a really thin piece of taffy and not a piece of thumb that rolls across the cool marble. 

“Oh yeah.” Barry laughs, and gives up on cutting anything else while Oliver was still here. He could go ahead and get these pieces wrapped and ready to do, and then no one was at risk of a bloodbath. “All the time. Felicity, she’s the other owner of this place, we split it fifty-fifty, she always tells me that I’m too nice for my own good.”

Then again, Barry thought Fels was way too nice for her own good. But he was too nice to say something about it, so maybe she had a leg up on him. 

“Doesn’t it bother you? Knowing that people might take advantage of you? Or scam you? Or hurt you?”

Barry is pretty sure this isn’t the kind of conversation you have with the guy who runs the taffy shop on your vacation if you have anyone else to talk to. That makes it all the more important that Barry listens. “Well yeah. No one wants to be hurt. But I think about it like this. If I keep the windows closed all the time because I’m worried about rain, then I miss out on all the good breezes I could get, too.”

It’s a weird, mixed metaphor but it seems to sink in, because Oliver is watching him very closely, and with something like respect in his eyes. Nailed it. 

Barry shrugs and reaches across the space between them, holding his hand out to Oliver, palm up. In it, a single wrapped piece of white salt water taffy, rolled up neatly in wax paper, the ends twisted inwards and fanning out, like the candy you would see in a cartoon. “Here, have a free sample.”

He had a bad habit about free samples. Barry just couldn’t help it, he liked seeing kids light up and laugh when they had their first bite. And it’s no different watching Oliver carefully unwrap the piece and pop it into his mouth, his eyes widening briefly in surprise. 

“I know, right?” Barry shifts eagerly from foot to foot, and gives in, popping that thin, misshapen piece from the end of the roll into his mouth. Taffy wasn’t complicated, when it came to ingredients. It was just a few things, and most everyone had them at home. It was the process that made something special out of the ingredients. “You’d think I’d be sick of this stuff, being around it all day. But I’m really not. I love it.”

‘It’ meant more than just the candy. It meant the shop, the street, the crazy dream that he and Felicity jetted off to follow right out of college. Barry’s life was kind of crazy and he wouldn’t trade that for anything. 

“I can see that.” Oliver doesn’t speak until he finishes chewing and swallowing his piece of candy, unlike Barry who had no problem speaking behind his hand with his mouth full. Oliver takes the candy wrapper and smooths it out flat in his palm before he places it on the top of the glass case, sliding it back towards Barry with the tip of his index finger. “And I’d like to see you again.”

Wow. That was smooth as hell. Barry needs a second to parse the fact that the very attractive businessman was looking at him like that. Like Barry was another piece of candy that he wanted to unwrap. “Barry.” Oliver’s voice cuts through all those wild, tumbling thoughts. “I want you to write your number on here.” Oliver taps the piece of wrapper.

“Oh!” Yeah, Barry was not picking up on that. He laughs nervously, ducking behind the counter and nearly braining himself on the glass before he’s able to find a permanent marker on a low shelf. Barry scribbles his name across the square, and his phone number underneath it. 

Even if Oliver changed his mind and never called, even if Barry never saw him again, this whole afternoon would be worth it to see Felicity’s face when he told her the story about getting hit on by the suave businessman in the middle of the afternoon on a Monday. 

Definitely worth it.

[cptnsantiago]

i hope i never lose the bruises that you left behind

summary: It was seventeen years to the day. Everyone he knew said it would get easier, that the pain would lessen; and he thinks he’s figured out why. This revelation only makes it more painful. 

Jake is forgetting her.

read on ao3 / major character death

-

Jake hasn’t seen Amy in seventeen years.

He’s 58 years old now; their daughter is fully grown and about to graduate from college. She’s thriving, maybe because she barely knew Amy. Maybe because she didn’t have to experience the same trauma he did. Luna had only been four years old when Amy was shot in the line of duty. He still remembers it so clearly. Every time the memory returns to the forefront of his mind, he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes so hard until he sees stars.

Stars are more beautiful than watching your wife fall to the ground again and again.

It was seventeen years to the day. Everyone he knew said it would get easier, that the pain would lessen; and he thinks he’s figured out why. This revelation only makes it more painful.

Jake is forgetting her.

He’s surrounded by memories of her, photos and videos. But he can barely hear her voice or her laugh in his head anymore. He used to close his eyes and see her beautiful smile with the crinkles forming as the smile grew, or her concentrated frown with the other cute crinkle in her eyebrows. She rarely shows up in his dreams anymore, it had been a few months since she last made an appearance in his imagination where everything was okay .

Since Luna was old enough to understand the pure grief her father experienced, the day had always gone the same. A schedule of sorts. She was her mother’s daughter.

Jake usually remains in bed until Luna shows up with two bowls of Lucky Charms at midday. They would eat in silence, even when she was a child and she would want to wake him up earlier, she would remain silent. Luna knew it was the hardest day of the year, it always was. She would eat their favourite cereal in silence before snuggling, the both of them silently crying.

Luna usually leaves after thirty minutes, allowing him sometime to drag himself to the shower and put Amy’s favourite flannel on - it’s old and in tatters, but she always loved it on him so he’ll sew the crap out of it until it falls apart -  so they can go about their day. This process usually takes over an hour. His chest constricts, walking around their room, trying to function without her. The room is a mess and she would loath it; so he needs to clean it. Sometimes he thinks to himself that he doesn’t want Amy to be upset when she gets home. It’s been seventeen years but sometimes he believes she might come home.

Jake usually exits his room by 1:30, and they get out of the house a half hour later. The drive to the graveyard is exactly 34 minutes away, and he tries his best to keep himself calm on that drive. Luna was already freaked out enough by driving in Brooklyn, and with her nerves amplified by the day itself, he needs to remain sane. So he closes his eyes.

This time he can’t force the stars to keep one of the most distinct memories of Amy away.

~

“Okay Luna, you’re spending the day with Grandma and I need you to remember one thing.” Amy is squatting in front of Luna, hands on her shoulders. “Can you remember what it is?”

“That I’m the best kid ever?”

“Yes, of course.” Amy rolls her eyes with huff of laughter, “But what about Grandma’s rule?”

“Don’t touch her paint without her express permission…” Luna tips her head back and slumps her shoulders. “The walls aren’t canvas.”

“Good girl.” Amy pulls her in for a tight hug, “I’m sure if you ask nicely, Grandma will let you paint your own vase.”

“Really?” Luna pulls back, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Definitely. I’m sure she’ll even show you the vase I painted at your age!” Jake interjects.

“I love you, mija.” Amy pulls her in, squeezing her one last time, before letting her go.

“Love you more, mom.”

Amy scoffs, trying to hide her growing smile. “Not possible! I love you the most.”

“I can prove that I love you more!!” Luna stands proudly, hands on her hips. She holds the pose for a moment before wrapping herself around Amy again, smothering her face with wet kisses, finishing off with a raspberry to her cheek.

“I’ve been convinced.” Amy laughs, tucking the loose strands of hair out of Luna’s face. “What about you dad?”

“I think you’ve finally been beaten, Ames.” Jake kneels down as Amy gathers herself, “Now it’s my turn.”

Jake joins Amy in the car just a few minutes later , she has a dreamy smile on her face and has a hand over her heart. “I can’t wait to have another baby.”

“Luna is spectacular, she’s gonna be the best big sister.” Jake notes, lacing his fingers with her spare hand and running his thumb over her knuckles. “I can’t wait either.”

Amy leans over her seat to place the softest, and probably the most intimate kiss they’ve ever shared. Jake sighs happily as the separate, leaning against her forehead. “Do you think your mom knows we’re pawning Luna on her so we can have hot baby making sex today?”

“Definitely. She can read minds!”

~

He wishes more than anything in the world that Amy had said yes to calling in sick so they could spend all day together instead. But Amy insisted he go to work, because he had a stupid important killer perp still on the streets. He tries to shake the thought away, one that haunts him. It was his important case that got her killed.

He doesn’t even notice they’ve arrived until Luna places her hand on his. “Dad?”

Jake looks from her hand to her face, a weak smile appearing on his face as she does the same. In a way, he will forever have memory of Amy. Luna was almost a clone, in personality and looks. This was both a blessing and a curse; some days it’s a great comfort that they were so alike, it was as if she was always there but then other nights it made Jake miss Amy so bad that he would cry to the point of not being able to breathe properly.

“Dad? Let’s go, yeah? Mom’s waiting.”

“Mom’s waiting…” Jake’s hands begin to tremble under Luna’s, his throat tightening. “Maybe you should just go, I’ll wait in the car.”

“Dad, I’m here. I won’t leave your side.” Her grip on his hand only becomes tighter, and her eyebrows knit together just like Amy’s always did. “Promise.”

Jake always struggles visiting her grave. He’s never been able to go alone, or with anyone but Luna. After all, she’s the reason he’s still a reasonable member of society seventeen years later. Jake hadn’t been a great parent. Luna tries to convince him otherwise, but there were countless times he had been unreliable. Not being able to get out of bed for weeks sometimes and she had to step up to look after the both of them.

Daddy, I can’t imagine how you feel. I know you miss her. Luna at eight years old, only just beginning to really understand the reality of what happened.

Stop blaming yourself, she made her choices. This isn’t your fault, dad. Thirteen year old Luna when he had barely left his room for two weeks.

Tell me more about her. I want to know her more, dad. It had only been weeks after a two week stint in bed and missing a parent-teacher conference.

He eventually opened up, it was the first time they went to her grave. Only his second time there since her funeral. He cried for the first time in front of Luna there, really cried. Jake told her all about his life with her mother before she was born, after she was born.

His healing process had been long, but he did return to being a functioning member of society outside of work. Still, he had weak moments like any human, and sometimes they were so heavy he forgot how to breathe. But he did it anyway.

Jake had only kept the day’s leading up to Amy’s death secret to Luna, she didn’t need to know or experience that pain if she didn’t have to. He never spoke of the funeral either, about his epic meltdown and being held down by Captain Holt as he experienced a pain unknown to man.

~

Gina had stayed with Jake overnight before the funeral. She helped get Luna ready, and cried with Jake as he asked her to help him with his buttons as well. Luna had mostly been confused during this time, always asking her aunts and uncles why daddy couldn’t stop crying and asking when mommy was coming back .

Jake didn’t remember arriving at the graveyard, only remembering the sight of her casket ready to be lowered into the ground. She would absolutely hate being buried underground, too claustrophobic, he had thought. People made speeches he couldn’t listen to and he somehow managed to drag himself up to the podium and unfold his paper with great care.

“A-Amy… Amy Santiago, um… She, she was-” Jake shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut and letting the tears fall freely. A few moments that felt like an eternity later, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Holt. Jake moves aside and allows Holt to take over.

“Amy Santiago is the love of my life.” Holt starts, his voice already cracking but continues with a clear voice. “Amy is the smartest person I’ve ever met. So smart, and funny and wonderful and beautiful. She is the best mom and the best wife. Amy really was the ultimate human slash genius, none of us at the nine-nine couldn’t keep up with her if we tried.”

Jake and a few others laugh slightly at this, and he wipes fresh tears off his cheeks before Holt continues. “Amy was a strong and determined woman, she never let anything get in her way. Her dream was to become the youngest female Captain in the NYPD, and I’m grief stricken that I’ve lost her but also just as bad that she was only able to make it to Lieutenant before she passed. She would have made the best Captain, sorry Ray.”

Holt takes a pause as he reads on a few sentences. “I don’t know how to live without her, and it’s so unfair. To me, to Luna - she will never really know her mom and that makes me angry. She’s the best woman I’ve ever known and she won’t know her. That’s the worst, pardon the language , fucking thing about this. I miss her, I’m going to miss her for the rest of my life. I love you forever, Ames.”

Soon after, when the casket is lowered is when Jake loses it. He collapses besides the ditch, his hand laid flat on the and he just can’t breathe. Amy is really gone and she’s not coming home.

He feels Holt wrap his arms around him, and he thinks even Luna runs up to him and hugs him. It’s not very clear but if it was, he hoped she would never remember this moment.

~

It’s a hard day, it always was. But watching as Luna places Amy’s favourite flowers on the gravestone before sitting on the damp grass and pulling Jake down with her truly warms his heart. “Hi mom.”

“Let’s get into it. Our daughter is actually the smartest woman ever. End of story.” Jake laughs softly, “But really, tell her Luna.”

“Okay, so. I’ve told you before that I’ve been studying forensic science and psychology, and I’m almost done with that degree. I’ve decided to further my education, gonna get a masters so I can be a more of a leading force in the field.” Luna pauses for a few moments, as if giving Amy the chance to react. She twists her hands and takes a deep breath before continuing, “I hope you’re proud. I’ve worked really hard to do well, and I know dad is proud and he never fails to remind me of that. I just hope you are too.”

“Of course your mom would be proud, Luna.” Jake takes her hand this time, seizing the opportunity to be the comforter for once. “She would so adore the smart, independent woman you’ve become.”

Luna nods with a shy smile, tucking her hair behind both ears just like her . “I miss you so much, mom.”

“We both do. So much.” Jake adds with a sad sigh.

“I don’t know if you’re feeling it too, but this year feels especially heavy and sad.” Luna shrugs, “I keep watching videos of us from when I was younger and the photos. So many. It just sucks that you’re missing from all the photos now.”

Jake nods along with this, managing to hold back his own tears and wiping the ones falling down Luna’s cheek. “Any other updates for mom?”

“I met this guy, pretty recent, and I really like him.” Luna looks away, knowing what her dad’s face said without looking at him. “ Dad it’s pretty new, and isn’t now a good time I can tell you both ?”

“I guess. I will be getting more info later, get ready for dad cop.”

Luna lets out a snort, and it’s lighter from that moment. They joke and chat as if Amy was there next to them, and it was just a regular picnic as a family. It’s not long before Luna stretches and stands up. “Shaw’s? Everyone’s gonna be waiting for us.”

“Uhm, I think I’m gonna hang back here.” The shock is evident on Luna’s face, it takes her a few moments to process what he’s said.

“Dad, are you sure?” Luna kneels next to him again. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“It’s been seventeen years since I’ve been alone with her... I owe her this.” Jake shrugs, “Go ahead without me. I’ll meet you there.”

Luna crashes into him, hugging him tightly. “I love you, dad. Bye mom, I love you the most.”

With a press of her fingers to her lips onto the gravestone, Luna is gone. Jake is alone with Amy for the first time in seventeen years. Jake simply sits there for a few minutes, staring at the engravings on her stone. Her final resting place.

Lt. Amy Santiago

August 7, 1983 - October 19, 2024

Ultimate human slash genius.

Daughter. Friend. Mother.

“Hi Ames. It’s been a while.” Jake bites his lip, a sudden guilt washing over him as he sits there longer. “I’m sorry I’ve never come to talk to you alone. I was… scared? I don’t know, I miss you so bad. I can’t bare coming here to talk to you and you not being able to talk back but… That’s not fair to you.

“I don’t know if it’s my age, or my general goldfish memory b-but I feel like I’m starting to forget you. Not forget you but just the little things. Smaller memories that aren’t significant but they’re precious, every moment with you was important and it’s fading .

“They discontinued your favourite shampoo. I kept using it so I would never forget what you smelled like, but one day I went to the bodega to stock up and they were out. I looked everywhere, Amy. But now they don’t make it and I can’t quite remember what you smell like, it was flowers I know, but I don’t know at the same time…. And your laugh… I can’t hear it as clearly, I have to watch videos to remember it. I feel so awful, how can I forget my wife like this. I’m a bad husband, a bad dad and god I miss you Ames.

“Luna was right. This year is harder, and I just want you in my arms again. I can’t remember how it feels to hold you in my arms, I just remember it was good. You were good. Great. All I needed in this world. You were too good to leave us so soon. I know you would hate me for this but I still blame myself. I can’t stop it, you are the one that helps me think logically but you’re gone and you have been for seventeen years. Because of me.

“We keep on having all these celebrations lately. Like Nikolaj got an art deal with a comic book publisher, and Charles was so proud. It was a great party, and I went home that night and all I could think about was how you weren’t there.

“I wish I had been more careful. If I hadn’t been so careless in the first place, I wouldn’t need to call for stupid backup. You’re gone because of me. Amy, I’m so sorry. You should have been here for Luna growing up. You should have been able to make Captain. It was my case - Amy, I can’t forgive myself.

“I want to remember every detail about you. But I can’t. What your lips feel like, how it feels when you run your hand through my hair, how it felt when I would return the favour. You deserved so much better. I love you and I’m so sorry.”

Jake lets himself go then, sobbing until he can’t get air into his lungs and it hurts. “How does it hurt the same? I wish it wouldn’t hurt this much. I wish you were alive.”

He doesn’t know how long he’s there crying but he assumes it’s a few hours. Luna shows up eventually, a bottle of water and a muffin in her hand. She helps him up, and he lets one last tear fall before Luna helps him walk to the car. His suspicions of how long he was there are confirmed on the drive home as he watches the sunsets, driving past Shaw’s.

Arriving home, he heard Luna mention cooking dinner but he hears nothing past that as he lays on the couch, his eyes heavy from crying.

~

This case had been kicking his ass. Weeks spent on it, more women were being killed and he couldn’t find him. A survivor had even been able to give a good enough description of him to find the identity of the man, but he hid well. So well. When he was finally spotted a precinct over, Jake had immediately rushed out, nodding when Amy offers her support with a few officers as a back up.

And on his way there, there was an updated report of shots fired. It very quickly turns into a more serious situation, and the backup he didn’t think he’d need was summoned.

Amy.

She was a very capable lieutenant, but the thought of the two of them being out in a situation such as this together made his stomach turn. This would be the first time they’re out in the field together in dangerous conditions, the first time they were in danger at the same time. He almost freezes.

Luna.

This was too risky, a chance one of them could get hurt was doubled, even with backup. He almost wants to tell her to go back, he didn’t want to put her in danger. But he knows his wife, she would argue and this was not the time nor place. Amy would stay. They couldn’t leave Luna alone, they had to be careful.

Amy gives out her orders, and positions are taken. Except he fucks it up, he had been too in his head about Luna potentially being by herself. Jake ends up where Amy is supposed to be, and at first it seemed like it was going to work out for them. The victim is lying on the floor, only a graze to her face but she’s terrified.

The perp had been right next to her, holding his gun at her head. Jake and Amy had their own weapons aimed at the man, telling him to freeze and put the weapon down. Amy’s eyes skirted to the shaking girl on the floor, ready to protect at a moments notice.

He sees everything in slow motion, and of all the things present Jake wants to forget, this was the main one. He watches as the main raises his gun anyway, and Jake is firing his own weapon as the perp does as well. He wishes he didn’t see Amy in the corner of his eye, jumping in front of the innocent girl, struck by the bullet despite her vest and collapsing to the ground.

Amy groans loudly as she hits the floor, clutching her thigh as the girl scuffles away and Jake is shouting something into the radio and he disarms the bleeding criminal on the ground. All he can focus on is his wife on the ground, blood rapidly flowing from her leg despite the pressure she’s trying to put on it.

Jake rips off the jacket over his vest as he slides to his knees next to Amy, taking her bloody hand in his as he uses his other hand to apply as much pressure as he can. “Hold on, Ames. Ambulance is coming.”

His tries to make his voice as soothing as possible, but he watches as the blood doesn’t stop even with the pressure he’s put on the wound. The bullet must have hit a major artery. Fuck.

If Jake had just focused on his orders, he could have taken out the perp from behind with the butt of his gun without anyone getting hurt. But instead he was on the floor next to his wife who was slowly bleeding out. “Where the fuck is the ambulance?”

“Hey, Jake. Look at me.” Jake hesitates before looking down at Amy. She’s so pale, but she attempts to smile at him, trying to sooth him when she’s the one bleeding out on a dirty floor.

“You’re gonna be okay, Ames. Just stay with me okay?” Jake voice cracks, adding more pressure and watching as it does nothing to stop the bleeding.

“I’m okay. I’m with you.” Amy reaches her bloody but uninjured arm up to touch his cheek. “Jake, I need to say something.”

“Amy no, we’re not going there.” Jake shakes his head furiously, “The ambulance will be here soon. I’m not leaving your side.”

“Tell Luna I love her, Jake. Make sure she knows this, okay?” Jake looks down at her again, somehow paler than before and now she’s crying. “I love her and never let her forget it. Support her, be the great dad I know you are.”

“Amy stop, you’re gonna be okay.” Jake is sobbing at this point, he hates the idea of her thinking she’s gonna die. Because she wasn’t.  “You’re gonna be okay and you’re going to continue to be a great mom to Luna and our family is only gonna get bigger. Just stay with me.”

“Jake…” Amy struggles, “Promise me you’ll both be okay?”

“Amy, I… I can’t. We’ll all be okay together.”

“ Jake , please.” Amy hiccups, her arm now too weak to stroke his cheek.

“I… I promise.”

They spend the longest minutes sharing words of love, and Jake is still insisting that she’s not going anywhere but there is so much blood - his jeans and other clothing is drenched in it. “I love you forever, Ames.”

Amy motions for him to move closer, and when he’s close enough she threads her fingers in his curls and pulls him down for one last kiss, whispering her reply. “I love you forever.”

~

Jake wakes up with a gasp, and he can’t find air to put in his lungs. “A-Amy, Amy.” It’s all he can manage to get out and Luna rushes to his side, her hands gripping his shoulders so he stops shuddering. “It’s all my fault. My fault.”

“Dad, no. Please take deep breaths, remember what we practiced when we feel scared.”

Jake really tries but he can’t stop crying. It was his fault. His fault, he could have followed orders correctly. He fucked up, it was his fault Amy was dead.

Luna pulls him in, holding him tight until somehow his breathing evens out and the tears are less of a waterfall. “I need to know what happened that day, dad. I want to help you. It kills me to see you hurt like this and blame yourself when I’m sure it’s not your fault.”

Conflict rages inside him. Luna is surely mature beyond her age, and she deserves to know but she shouldn’t need to know. It hurts, so why should he burden her with the knowledge of what happened that day? To help himself? He was used to the pain that came from that memory dream that appeared often. He won’t be selfish like that.

“Dad, please .”

Jake gives in, and he doesn’t realise how much of a relief it is to talk about it. He had been set in his stubborn ways and always refused to go to therapy, to recover .

Luna cries a lot, and he holds her the way she has done for him countless times after the nightmares he’s had over the years. “So mom sacrificed herself to protect that girl from this criminal. And you blame yourself?”

“I could have done something different, like properly follow orders instead of being skittish. Things would have turned out so different, and this was my case. My case that took us out on the field that day. I could list so many more reasons her death was my fault, Luna.” Jake laughs with a sarcastic huff. “No matter what anyone has ever said, I stand by it being my fault.”

“You know who I blame?” Luna asks softly.

“Me? Because it’s my fault.”

“No. The criminal, for being a criminal. Trying to hurt an innocent woman, who was then bravely protected and kept alive by my hero mom.” Luna’s passion matches the way Amy got angry, maybe even exceeding Amy. “This was in no way your fault. Mom was doing her job, and she died.”

He was the reason he couldn’t remember her voice on demand, it was his fault he can never run his hands through her hair. It’s his fault he can never be truly happy again. “But-”

“No, dad, I’m talking!” Luna screeches. “You’ve been torturing yourself over this for seventeen years and it’s time to stop! It’s tragic and I miss her and I know you do so much, but you can’t blame yourself when it was the criminal who pulled the trigger. You didn’t kill Amy. A murderer did.”

“God, your passion matches your mother and I’m just a little scared.” Jake laughs, more tears streaming down his face. “I think I can accept that? With a bit more time… That it’s not my fault.”

“I think mom will rest even easier knowing you’ve said it.” Luna wipes her father's tears off his face, “Forgiving yourself for things you can’t control is the only thing that will bring you peace.”

“I’m so glad you got your mom's smart genes. So wise.” Jake says, “Now, tell me what you made for dinner and I’ll tell you some new stories.”

“Oh! Yes!” Luna claps happily, still sniffling. “I found a recipe written in her handwriting so I cooked that!”

“Oh sweetie .” Jake grimaces, unable to control his laughter. “I got a story for you! But first you’re gonna want to throw whatever concoction you made in the trash. And quick .”

It will forever startle Jake to look at Luna. What a miracle he had created with Amy, his reason for living. She had become everything he and Amy had wished for, late at night when Luna was pressing on Amy’s spine and she couldn’t sleep. She was so her own person but so like Amy. How Jake would have coped without her in his life he doesn’t want to know.

Jake doesn’t think he will ever fully recover; Amy was the most important person in his life. He almost doesn’t want to stop feeling the pain, it helps him remember. The good and the bad, and his memory is bad enough that those smaller things about her are gone. It breaks his heart.

Amy will stay with him forever, she’s a permanent scar on his heart. He couldn’t blame himself, hurt himself, forever. It wasn’t fair to Luna, almost as unfair as having her mother ripped away from her at such a young age. Jake forgives himself, for Luna.

So Jake cherishes the scar, he feeds it with love and new memories made with Luna. It’s all he can do, for Amy.

[kiruuuuu]

Smoke/Mute oneshot in which, as usual, utter chaos happens and I attempt an explanation as to where these pink Siege skins came from. (Rating M, crack + some sexiness going on, ~2.7k words) - written for @glockchen​ who asked me to write anything about these skins and I could never say no to you ♥♥♥

.

It starts with a simple drawing.

As it’s a perfectly normal morning in Hereford, the canteen, including the kitchen, is in complete and utter chaos: Caveira has followed through with her threat of disgustedly pouring what she calls bleached bullshit (also known as refined sugar) into Dokkaebi’s collar because the Korean woman forgot to buy ‘proper’ sugar, sparking a small war in their corner of the room, Blitz is currently burning the third batch of eggs and looking to his boyfriend for approval (and Rook reacts with a pained smile), and Bandit is surreptitiously trying to trip everyone walking past while pretending to be an angel in Montagne’s direction.

Mute and Smoke are sitting somewhere in the middle of all this, only half listening to Sledge’s tired mantra of they’re all adults they can clean up after themselves don’t get up let them make their own mistakes and learn.

“Gargle is such a typical, ugly English word”, Maestro muses and feeds the Scotsman a bite of his cheesecake because who needs breakfast food when there’s cake. “It’s onomatopoeic, agreed, but if the love of my life told me ‘I just gargled with maple syrup’ I wouldn’t care how sweet the kisses were because it’d be the same as if I proclaimed myself to be moist. Ugh.”

“I dunno, it can be pretty romantic”, Smoke shrugs and surreptitiously rolls his eyes at Mute – it’s clear why, the two lovebirds next to them are once again wholly lost in each other. “I sometimes gargle with Mark’s come and he never complains.”

Sledge chokes on the cheesecake and looks like he’s about to protest the mention of bodily fluids while he’s eating (and Mute gets ready to retaliate by pointing out the bright purple lovebites peeking over the Scot’s collar as well as the faint bruises on Maestro’s neck), when there’s a sudden, dramatic entrance. The door flies open and in strides Tachanka, head held high, stance proud and a fond smile on his lips.

Most of the ruckus dies down over the abrupt change in mood as the Russian makes a beeline for the fridge, carefully stepping over Bandit’s outstretched foot, avoiding the two flailing women and ignoring the sharp smell emanating from the stove. Now Mute notices the piece of paper in Tachanka's hand which he unfolds and then pins to the fridge door with a few magnets. From this distance, all Mute can see is a whole lot of pink.

Seeing as most pairs of eyes are glued to the old man by now, Tachanka grins and addresses the room with his booming voice: “If you ever ask yourself why the hell you’re still here – this is why.”

Curious, Mute leaves the quiet argument of what constitutes as revolting behind and joins the small crowd gathering around Tachanka, catching a better look of what seems to be a child’s drawing. It’s hard to make out at first as more than half of it is just a mix of different shades of pink, but eventually he identifies it as Tachanka himself holding what looks like a little girl, only his uniform has been recoloured from his usual olive and he’s displaying a horn as well as a mane and even a tail.

If he’s honest, it’s adorable. He knows the story, Glaz told it with a sheepish Tachanka modestly brushing him off but smiling appreciatively anyway: on their last mission, the old man heroically rescued a girl and made sure to carry her to safety and even reunite her with her parents. Judging by Tachanka's expression, it’s one of the most touching fan letters he’s received and he’s immensely proud, as he should be.

At least until Blackbeard steps up and snorts at the display. “Not at all your colour, I’m sorry to say, this looks like the gayest version of you”, he points out. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

“Says the guy with the man bun”, Pulse shoots back immediately.

“Is that bold-faced envy I hear? At least I have hair, Jack.”

“Yes. Too much of it. I’m just waiting for you to start stealing Sébastien’s plaid shirts.”

“I am comfortable enough in my masculinity to experiment with non-traditional looks, thank you very much. When’s the last time you changed anything about your appearance? I’ve seen your driver’s license. The only new thing about you are your wrinkles.”

Mute considers texting Smoke to stop demonstrating his ability to shove an entire piece of cake into his mouth and instead witness this rare American-on-American smackdown but forgets all about it when Tachanka, who’s been listening with a decidedly unimpressed scowl, chimes in: “You call yourself confident but mock this gift I got? Just because it’s pink?”

Belatedly, Blackbeard realises his mistake of potentially angering Tachanka of all people and tries to backtrack. “Well, I mean – only because you’d look silly wearing it. The picture is cute, but you in a pink uniform -”

“What’s wrong with a pink uniform?”

“It’s not really – it’s too visible, and you in pink is just laughable.”

“What’s wrong with me in a pink uniform?”

Mute is failing to suppress a grin by now. While Tachanka sounds perfectly calm and pleasant, Blackbeard is getting more and more flustered by the second. “It’s not a manly colour. You agree with me on that, right? You’d look stupid.”

“Pink used to be a boy’s colour, you know. A softer red, in a way. I think it’d suit you, it’d go with your hair.”

“I’d rather drop dead than be caught wearing something like this”, Blackbeard mutters and then wisely retreats before Tachanka's good mood dissolves into something else.

Amused, the Russian turns to Mute and mirrors his grin. “Confident in his masculinity, hm?”, he repeats doubtfully.

“We can actually make a pink uniform for you”, Mute suggests, causing Tachanka to perk up. “James has dyed clothes before.”

“Would you? I’m beginning to like the idea more and more. I can wear it during training and dazzle everyone.”

“I’ll even do you one better. Just wait a few days.” The two of them nod at each other and Mute returns to his table where Maestro is currently praising the soothing quality of green tea for an upset stomach. “James, I know what we’re going to do today”, he announces with a glint in his eye.

.

“Are you sure these are the correct measurements?”, Smoke complains for the nth time around the needles between his lips. Doubtfully, he holds up the patterned trousers and frowns at them, visibly dissatisfied. “They look too short, babe. They look like they’d fit me.”

Odd, isn’t it?, Mute thinks and bites his cheek until he trusts himself to reply without sounding highly entertained. “Those are definitely the correct measurements, I’m sure.”

“I bet you’re bloody grateful I can sew or else you’d still be watching Youtube tutorials.”

“I’m glad your mum made you fix the clothes you ripped on the daily, yes. Teaches you about the value of your time.”

“Teaches me not to buy expensive garb, more like. How’s your unicorn coming along?”

Mute takes a moment to inspect his work. After airbrushing one of Tachanka's helmets a lovely shade of pink, he started to add a few more personal touches he expects the Russian to enjoy: a pair of bear ears which Bandit owned – and no, Mute didn’t ask for details –, an actual unicorn horn he improvised out of a few available materials plus a mane made from faux fur which Frost generously donated once she caught wind of their project. He’s currently gluing letters onto the monstrosity since the rainbow he added for good measure has dried already. All in all, it’s solid work and he’s happy with it. If this doesn’t make Tachanka's teammates question some of what they thought they knew about him, then nothing will.

“See, I get why we’re making two of these abominations, babe, even if you haven’t told me the reason outright”, Smoke murmurs more to himself than directed at Mute, “but why three? Did anyone else want one? Are we gifting one to Dom? You know he’d wear it, especially with this sexy leopard print. Christ, we’re not giving the old man the leopard, are we? Because I’m sure he’d say something like ‘I have the underwear to match it’ and thank you, now we’ll need some brain bleach.”

“He’s not the only one I know who’d have matching knickers”, Mute states drily. “And Dom isn’t the only one I know who’d wear this.”

Smoke stops messing with the hem and throws him a deeply distrustful look. “Babe. Are you serious?”

“I have the perfect ears to go with it too.”

His quiet statement makes his lover’s brows rise. “They’re for me, aren’t they.” It’s not a question and so Mute doesn’t answer. “Really though – are you taking the piss or does the thought of me wearing this stuff actually turn you on?” Mute steadfastly refuses to respond and instead focuses on lining up the letters playfully. Maybe he could add glitter, yes, in any case he needs to not think about Smoke in a leopard print uniform, absolutely not squirming on his lap, the rappel harness flattering his thighs and soft mewls -

The rustling of clothes catches his attention and when he looks up, Smoke is half naked already. “What are you doing?”

“Trying it on, what does it look like? You want me to wear this, so I will.” He pulls on the finished pieces of his uniform and poses only partly jokingly. His arse looks amazing and Mute forgets how breathing works for a moment, resisting the urge to reach out and cop a feel because then they’ll never get it all done. “Bloody hell, this is tight.”

“Yeah”, Mute agrees distractedly and openly disregards the concept of eye contact entirely in favour of ogling other body parts, “like I said: definitely the correct measurements.”

Grinning, Smoke walks over to where he’s sitting and buries a hand in Mute’s hair to drag his head forward and smush his face into his exceedingly prominent bulge, ignoring the slight resistance and massaging Mute’s scalp once he’s started mouthing at the growing erection rubbing against his cheek. “Why don’t you get the ears, babe?”, Smoke hums and seems not at all perturbed by his unusual attire.

.

A few days later, Mute stands outside of Blackbeard's room, taking a deep breath and checking the time again. The American’s daily schedule is rigid and thus he’s been asleep for more than an hour at this point, not at all disturbed by the commotion outside of the base. They invited everyone interested, distributed beverages and promised a show, meaning there’s a sizeable crowd outside waiting for the main event to happen – whatever it’s supposed to entail.

Tachanka's uniform garnered a lot of approval, and Mute was especially proud to hear almost everyone complimenting his admittedly fabulous helmet, but the real treat hasn’t even surfaced yet.

Once he deems himself ready, he barges into the room and starts shaking Blackbeard awake rudely. “Get up, Jenson, come on, we need you, there’s a situation.” He does his best to appear urgent, and to his credit, Blackbeard is up on his feet before he’s even processed anything that’s going on. “Hostage taken in London, we need to fly out ASAP, get dressed and let’s go!”

He left the door open to let just enough light in for the American to not crash into his furniture as he stumbles about the room, getting dressed and mumbling something incoherent. Mute leaves him no time to think, talking rapidly out of his arse and ushering him out of the room and down the corridor. Blearily, Blackbeard allows himself to be manhandled and merely responds with a few grunts, but once they’re outside and in the middle of the sizeable gathering, he realises that something is off.

Being greeted with cheers, Blackbeard looks around in confusion until his gaze lands on Tachanka toasting him with a can of beer. “The fuck are you wearing?”, he asks and eyes the unicorn helmet in disbelief.

“The fuck are you wearing?”, Tachanka shoots back good-naturedly.

Finally, Blackbeard looks down at himself. He’s clad entirely in pink, mirroring the Russian perfectly. “What”, he says helplessly.

“I told you it’d go with your hair.”

And while the two start bickering immediately, with Blackbeard pompously proclaiming his intent to undress this instant and Tachanka amusedly egging him on, much to the audience’s delight, Mute feels a tug on his sleeve, turns around and mutters a curse under his breath. “I told you not to wear this outside”, he hisses and tries his best not to glance down at Smoke’s dangerously tight trousers.

He’s wearing the full outfit sans mask, and the cat ears which allegedly pick up on brain activity and move accordingly are perked up in excitement. Smoke was amazed by them the first time he put them on and refused to take them off for an entire evening – and admittedly, Mute’s heart melted a little every time Smoke looked over at him and the ears shot up instantly.

Right now, however, his heart isn’t the body part most touched by Smoke’s appearance.

“I’ve been a naughty kitty”, Smoke purrs and begins wrapping himself around the taller man, “you should punish me.”

And while the whole thing in itself has nothing erotic about it, it achieves the desired effect nonetheless as Mute is overcome by the sudden urge to stuff Smoke’s mouth.

Before he can act on it though, Bandit appears by their side, ignoring Blackbeard's repeated insistences that while pink is apparently a feminine colour, there’s nothing wrong with femininity, it’s just not for him (and Tachanka merely lets him talk with a partly disbelieving, partly entertained smile). “Have you seen Gilles? I don’t know where he is.”

“He said something like ‘I have one of these’ when he saw Chanka and then disappeared”, Smoke informs him helpfully and receives a concerned frown. “No idea what he was on about but he seemed excited.”

“Well, he better not be -”

Bandit trails off in horror and neglects to shut his mouth, so Mute and Smoke follow his line of sight while most of the noise around them dies down as well. It quickly becomes clear why: Montagne’s standing in the doorway to the base, wearing – well. What is he wearing?

Only on the second glance does Mute discern the butterfly pattern, noticing that it even continues over his balaclava, harmonises well with the hot pink helmet and – are those feelers?

Montagne catches sight of Smoke’s attire and nods approvingly. “That’s… a choice”, he states. “Maybe a little too racy but I don’t dislike it.”

“What do you think is going on here?”, Bandit addresses him weakly and looks torn between wanting the ground to swallow him whole and wanting the ground to swallow Montagne.

Now the Frenchman seems to be questioning himself, expression turning sheepish. “Isn’t this… these aren’t designs for breast cancer awareness? I thought -”

“See! That would be the only acceptable occasion for a man to ever wear pink!”, Blackbeard tells Tachanka triumphantly while pointing almost accusingly at Montagne, sparking yet another discussion now involving most of the people present.

“Does it look bad?”, Montagne wants to know sadly and only cheers up once Bandit has walked over to reassure him and started to play with his antennae – Mute can only imagine the amount of willpower it takes for Bandit not to make a thousand inappropriate and/or sarcastic jokes at once.

Not that he’s in a much better situation, seeing as Smoke is attempting to seductively meow in his direction. Sighing, he grabs Smoke’s wrist and drags him along. “You look hot but please never pretend to be a cat again. Promise me, James.”

“If I do, am I allowed to wear this on a mission?”

Smoke’s bright smile is going to be his doom one day, he knows this. He predicts quite a lot of arguing about the use of this particular outfit but can’t really say that he minds, not when they do most of their fighting in bed.

And maybe he’ll tell Smoke to put the mask on this time as well.

[tbehartoo]

All I Want for Christmas is You(r Last Name)

for @jazztastic-panda and @mlsecretsanta for ML Secret Santa 2017

Characters: Adrien Agreste and Marinette Dupain-Cheng, also mentioned Nino Lahiffe and Alya Ceasire

Rating: General

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Adrien has started to realize that he has more than a little crush on his “good friend” Marinette. He realizes this when he sees what he’s been doodling in the margin of his notebook.

Word Count: 2940

On AO3         On FFN

Adrien Agreste was sitting in his Chinese class waiting for the time when he could be back with his friends. He had most of his classes with Nino and a very few with Marinette and Alya, but Chinese was the only class where he didn’t have at least one of his close friends with him. The only thing that made this class bearable was that lunch was right afterward, which meant an hour eating with them. That was usually his favorite part of the day when they were able to hangout together and eat good food. After lunch today would be his last class before the winter break started. Adrien was looking forward to the break for once. His father was going to be traveling to New York and he’d been given permission to stay with Nino. That automatically meant they’d be spending lots of time with Alya and Marinette. This Christmas was going to be awesome!

One of the things that made this class nearly unbearable is that he only took it to fill the foreign language requirement for the lycée. He’d had tutors in Chinese almost since he could speak, and this stuff was so basic that he practically did the class half aware and still passed with flying colors. He’d tried to test out of the class but, though the teacher complimented him on his command of the language, he was unable to get an exception to the requirement, so here he was in his first “year” of Chinese listening to students murder their pronunciation and trying not to laugh when their penmanship turned an innocuous looking character into something decidedly racier.  

They had been assigned writing some basic sentences in their notebooks while the teacher walked around correcting penmanship and grammar. Adrien had finished the page in record time. He’d torn out the paper and had it waiting to be turned in at the end of class and then started writing some more complex sentences so that he wasn’t just sitting there. Instead of merely writing, “I go to the park with my friends” as he had for the page to turn in, he wrote, “On sunny days, when the blue sky calls, my friends and I romp carefree through the jade colored grass.” He was proud of this sentence. For one, it had taken him a full two minutes to remember the Chinese character for “romp” and for another it reminded him of the picnic in Nice he’d had just last summer with Marinette, Nino, and Alya.

He’d had a lot more of those kinds of times lately. Over the last three years, since being allowed to attend school, he’d had plenty of moments spent with this family of his heart. It seemed like Nathalie had been able to convince his father to give him more time for his studies and less time in front of the cameras. As long as Adrien’s grades stayed up this translated to more time with his friends.

“After school I like to…” He’d answered the short sentences with “practice fencing” as there was no way he was going to say “save Paris from ridiculous, but highly destructive, monsters while wearing magic spandex.” It just didn't translate well... and he didn’t know the Chinese word for spandex. There was so much more to his after school life than just fencing though it did figure big into the picture. It was one of the few things he and his father had in common and another reason he’d been given more time. Monsieur D’Argencourt had doubled his training time as he had started winning more tournaments. Their hard work was showing great results. He thought back to his last fencing match.

“Are you ready for this?” Marinette asked as she walked into the arena with him. It was an overwhelming sight to see all of the best fencers from around France gathered in one place.

“Well, ready or not, the tournament is here and I’m not getting any more practice,” he replied with a grin.

“You are going to be fantastic,” Marinette told him. “And win or lose we’ll still have the celebratory cake and ice cream waiting back at the house.”

“Oh?” Adrien knew it was there. Her parents had insisted that they have such celebrations after his tourneys when they found out that his father had left town on the day of his first national competition. “What flavor of cake is it?”

“I’m not telling you,” she said with a glint in her eye. “Last time I told you I’m sure you threw the  competition just to get to the cake that much quicker.”

“How many times do I have to have to say it?” Adrien asked the sky. “I did NOT throw my match against the 100th world ranked foil fencer just to get back to the triple chocolate cake with raspberry filling and chocolate ganache!” He laughed at her scoff. “It just really helped lessen the sting of losing to someone else’s lucky shot. That’s all.”

They had a short staring contest and then broke into giggles.

“I’m still not telling you,” she sing songed. “You’ll just have to find out later.”

“It’s a deal.”

They scanned the crowd to see if anyone else from the school had been able to make it. Nino and Alya both had work so they wouldn’t be there. It was a long shot that anyone else would be able to come, but sometimes they did show up. Marinette had made sure that everyone on the class chat page knew when all of his competitions were. It was a little embarrassing, but also kind of nice. Marinette almost never missed a match if she could help it. It was really nice to have her support at those events. He always felt better when she was there.

Adrien came back to his Chinese class when one of the other students asked him for help with their sentence. Adrien helped her out and then turned back to his own writing.

He’d written “My friend, Marinette” before he’d drifted off into his memories. How should he finish a sentence beginning like that?

“My friend, Marinette, likes to play video games in which she always beats the snot out of me”- Well it was true, but not the full picture of the girl in question.

Marinette played video games with a competitive zeal that bordered on obsession. She loved to play them anywhere, at home or the arcades, against anyone, friend or stranger, and played them with equal determination to win whether or not she was familiar with the game in question. Adrien loved to play against Marinette, but he really loved to watch her play. There was a fire in her eyes when she was competing and trying to figure out a game. Her celebratory dance was also one of the things he loved to watch, especially when she wasn’t celebrating his downfall.

She had a passion and enthusiasm for life that was infectious.

He’d spent hours working on class projects with her, Nino, and Alya and was never surprised at the creativity and dedication she put into her school work. Their class presentations were often the high point of any semester. Between her creative ideas, Nino and Alya’s technical expertise and his flair for the dramatic they almost always had a spectacular performance for their teachers. They were becoming the stuff of academic legend and lore.

Adrien thought of quieter times with Marinette. There were evenings where they had movie nights at his house. Nino would bring the movie, Alya would bring the “smuggled in” candies, and Marinette usually brought the popcorn. Sometimes there were cuddle piles at Alya’s when the Ladyblogger was feeling depressed and overwhelmed. There were track “parties” at Nino’s where it was mostly them sitting around listening to his music mixes and playing Truth or Truth (Alya’s prefered version of the party game Truth or Dare). There were so many little moments spent together just laughing and smiling that Adrien couldn’t count them.

There were times he’d visit her as Chat where they’d talk on her balcony about the day’s events or her dreams for the future. Sometime they’d discuss how he was doing when he was not feeling particularly able to talk as Adrien. It was nice that she didn’t know he was talking about a life he felt he didn’t have the right to complain about, but that she freely encouraged him to share as much as he could. He felt a little guilty using his anonymity to talk to her that way, but it was nice to know that she treated him as a friend in any situation.

Sometimes he’d visit as his civilian self and get caught up in watching her as she sewed one of her designs. They often talked about her drawings and her dreams of becoming a great fashion designer. Other times she talked about how she worried that pursuing such a dream would turn her into someone like his father who would get too busy for her friends and family, which Adrien strongly denied could ever happen. She knew the statistics for those who tried to break into the profession and those that actually succeeded at it. She had backup plans, and backups for those backups in case they fell through, but still she felt uncertain about her choice of profession.

Adrien tried to share everything he knew from his own experiences with the industry in hopes it could help her. He’d even taken every opportunity to bring her to any fashion event where he was required to bring a +1. Adrien chuckled to himself. They had certainly increased in number ever since he started approaching his 18th birthday. Nathalie had stopped asking who he’d be bringing with him and just forwarded the invitations to Marinette telling her the dates and when to be ready. A lot of the paparazzi had labeled her his long time girlfriend, but he had always insisted that she was just his good friend. They had started placing the title in quotes in front of her name in most of the magazines where he appeared. He shook his head. Couldn’t a guy just have a friend that was a girl?

Marinette was a great friend to everyone. There were so many mornings that she’d come racing into class, nearly late, but with treats for everyone including the teacher. There wasn’t anyone in any of her classes that she wouldn’t help if she saw they needed it. She would stand up to adults or bullies alike if she felt someone was being treated unfairly. Birthdays were special days as Marinette often presented the day’s special celebrant with a thoughtful and handmade gift. Holidays were even better in Adrien’s opinion as that usually meant Marinette would be spreading treats and presents to everyone. He was amazed that she found the time to do any of it.

Of course Adrien tried to be a good friend back to Marinette. One of his favorite things to do was to bring his friends warm drinks on a cold day. He was so proud of himself when he’d finally been able to get Marinette to say how she truly preferred her tea and then surprised her with it the next day. He’d made a special note of it so he could do it more often. There was also the time that he’d been at her place while she’d been working on a commission and looking at some sparkling notions to give it a particular flair, but had chosen not to get them as they were out of the range of what she considered reasonably priced. It had been his greatest delight to order them and have them overnighted to her. That particular stunt had gotten him both a hug and a kiss for his thoughtfulness. Adrien blushed in delight at the memory.

Of course there were ways that Marinette was a good friend to him personally. One of the things she often did was send him memes and pictures of cats while he was at a shoot. It was always so much easier to smile for the camera when she was on a meme sharing spree. It was a much harder challenge to keep a straight face at those times though. They often had texting chats in the evening as they’d go over homework or just catch up if he’d been gone. It always filled him with happiness to see her wishing him goodnight and sweet dreams at the end of those conversations. There were also all the times that Marinette invited him over to hang out at her house, knowing he didn’t particularly want to go back to his empty home. Her parents would almost always insist he stay for dinner and they would ask him the same things as they asked Marinette. Her being willing to share her parents and her family was one of the things he was most grateful to her for.

Adrien rewrote the beginning of that last sentence. “My very good friend, Marinette, likes to spoil her friends at every opportunity in meaningful ways.” It seemed like an inadequate summary of all that Marinette was, but he only had fifteen minutes left of class and there was no way he’d be able to sum up everything Marinette was in such a short amount of time.

At least he only had fifteen minutes left until he’d get to meet the others for lunch. They were supposed to be going to a new cafe that Alya had discovered, but chances were that she and Nino would ditch him and Marinette, only to show up five minutes before class was supposed to start in a state of slight disarray. He didn’t mind the chance to have lunch with Mari, but sometimes he did tease Nino that if he and Alya kept it up that they would be having their “little dude” show up much earlier than the ten years that Alya insisted had to intervene before she was ready to have children.

“No worries my dude,” Nino said one time, “Between Alya’s pills and my capotes our Little Dude won’t be making any early appearances.”

Adrien had nodded his head, but couldn’t help but think that he didn’t want to wait that long before having kids. Of course, he’d have to find someone that wanted to date him first, not just be seen with him or wanted to be with him for the fame or the money his family had. This someone would have to be a person that his father could approve of and that could stand his father, or at least tolerate him during gala functions. Adrien was well aware that his father could be an intimidating and standoffish person, anyone that dated him would be facing the dragon daily. And they would need to be willing to have kids with him. Adrien knew he wouldn’t ask them to put their career on hold while the kids were born and raised. He’d been working as a model since he was a baby and almost all of his income had been put in funds that would be his free and clear just about the right time for him start a family. He could stay home and his partner could work. If he needed to model, well it’s not like he’d ever forget how to stand in front of a camera. But was there anybody that would even want to have a family with him?

His thoughts traveled forward in time trying to guess what they would all be doing in ten years’ time. No doubt he would still be working for some branch of the Gabriel empire. Nino and Alya would undoubtedly be living together in a little flat somewhere. There would be Alya’s breaking articles framed on the wall next to the pictures of the happy couple every where and Nino would have music playing since he couldn’t stand to not have good music going. They would be inviting him and Marinette to spend every holiday with them. Knowing the girls they would both be too busy to do anything other than show up for dinner, but he and Nino would be able to hang out. Adrien sighed, Marinette would be out of university and probably just finished with an internship. She’d be the picture of a professional woman and probably have some model or other designer with her as her date. Adrien’s mind balked at the image and he came back to class seeing his teacher standing over him.

The teacher was collecting everyone’s work while excusing them and wishing them a happy holiday break. Adrien handed up his prepared paper and noticed that the woman seemed to be having difficulty keeping a straight face. It wasn’t until he looked down at his notebook that he could see why.

At the top of the paper she’d given him a 6/7 for his more detailed sentences. At the bottom of the paper she’d put a smile next to the doodle he’d last been working on. Adrien finally took a good look at that part of the page. Without saying goodbye to his teacher or anyone else, he grabbed his things and raced from the room. He needed to find Marinette. He needed to find her now.

There was a smile working its way from the center of his bones to light his whole face when he thought about what was written on that paper. He’d drawn a spiral of ladybugs and cat faces around the words “Adrien Dupain-Cheng.”

[rnr4ev]

Sweater Weather

Happy Holidays and a Happy New Year @daniemblem. I was your nagamas gifter and since I unfortunately have not played fe9 or fe10. I wrote a Yarne and Panne centric fic for you. I hope you enjoy it

Word count ~1k feat. Yarne's anxiety for his mother's well being, Panne's playfulness and Gerome and Cherche's sewing habit Also yes, the title is unoriginal, I know

AO3 Link

It starts simple and small, as many things do. Panne sneezes, nose scrunching up. It’s quick and relatively quiet but the panic that follows is anything but. Yarne has grown in many ways, he no longer dogs his father’s steps questioning his faithfulness and he no longer runs quite so frequently in the face of battle. But sometimes it’s the mundane, everyday things that are the least unexpected in times such as this.

It goes like this, Yarne and Panne are sitting near the outskirts of camp. His mother is showing him how to see the early signs of winter creeping into the environment. When she pauses, nose twitching, twitching then,

“Achoo”, she sniffles and then goes back to describing the scent of frost in the tips of the grass as if nothing had happened.

Whatever she says though, is lost to Yarne. Yarne, keeps himself in prime health, he has never gotten sick, he stays away from anyone with so much of a hint of a sniffle and always always washes his hands thank you very much. But Yarne also hasn’t had to live surrounded by the company of so many others for such an extended period of time either. Can taguels even get sick? Do taguels have the same diseases as humans? Are human diseases lethal to taguels? A near sea of never ending questions springs to his mind.

His mother must misinterpret his anxiety for restlessness because she lets out a soft sigh before shifting. He looks up at her thrown out of his musings for a second. Her eyes twinkle in the dusk, and she rumbles, "The first taguel back gets dibs on dinner" and starts running before Yarne can even shift. He catches up to her as she comes to the entrance of camp, skidding to a halt before a terrified looking Fredrick, who momentarily startled drops a surprising amount of pebbles and rocks from his hands. His mother takes that moment to shift back and slip into camp and Yarne has a sneaking suspicion that his mother or worse, Morgan, is going to make him do more agility training and drills in his future. He can run (away) just fine thank you very much.

Once in camp, Yarne seeks out the first and most knowledgeable person he can find. Unfortunately for both of them the first person that crosses his path is not Laurent or Morgan like he had hoped but instead Gerome, headed towards the grounds where both Wyverns are kept.

He grabs Gerome’s shoulder who looks at him in surprise, or annoyance, it’s hard to tell when his face is obscured behind that mask. Nevertheless, Gerome sighs and lets Yarne explain his worries as they approach the Wyvern enclosure together.

“What am I going to do? I was so worried that I’d stop existing if my parents weren’t together or if my father died but what if my mother gets sick. I don’t know how to care for a sick taguel, I don’t even-”

Gerome cuts him off, as he goes to unlatch the gate, "Maybe she just sneezed in reaction to the change in whether, why don’t you give her a scarf or something or ask if she’s allergic to anything?" He points out. Before Yarne can say another word, Gerome has slipped into the makeshift enclosure and is contentedly scratching Minerva under her chin.

By the time Yarne makes it to the dining tent, most everyone has already eaten. There’s a cup of Robin’s carrot stew left in his usual spot that he takes somewhat dejectedly. After Gerome, he’d talked to Laurent, who suggested documenting down all the observable habits of his mother and then testing different medicines out with her, he’d asked Morgan, who’d furrowed their brow before running off to go ask if Robin had any advice, Robin had given him a huge book full of treatments for common illnesses and the prevention of him, but the book only discussed humans, not taguels. He’d even sought out his father, who had simply told him that Panne had never gotten sick as long as he’d known her. None of their answers were particularly helpful, which meant that Yarne was stuck, waiting anxiously to see if any other signs of poor health reared their ugly heads.

As he finished his dinner and headed towards his tent he noticed Cherche sitting next to a big bucket of fabric. Unbidden, Gerome’s advice came to mind.

“Hey, Cherche?” He asked, approaching her. “Hmm, she looked up from the blue fabric she seemed to be measuring”. “You know how to sew right? Is it possible you could teach me?” Yarne asked Cherche covered her mouth and let out a small laugh. Yarne’s ears drooped and he started to walk away, rejected. “Wait dear, I only laughed because you reminded me of something funny from earlier today. I’m not sure I have quite enough time to help you out but my son may be able to help you. Don’t tell him I told you this, but he seems to have my fondness for sewing.” Yarne nodded, and then almost collapsed under the massive pile of fabric she handed over to him. "Here’s some fabric and some extras in case you need it." she bid him good night.

Sewing was hard, or at least it was with Gerome as a teacher. Half the time he ended up grabbing the fabric out of Yarne’s hands to redo a stitch or to fix some minute detail. But finally, two weeks later, the final product didn’t look all that terrible.

Lazy snowflakes were falling from the sky as Yarne approached his mother. She was sorting out herbs, some of which Yarne recognized but others he did not. She turned to face him as he approached.

“Good, your here, I have something for you, just give me a moment.” She turned back to her herbs and Yarne took a tentative seat. Morgan had insisted that he wrap his present for his mother so he took the package out and put it to the side.

Finally his mother finished and pulled out a dark blue sweater. Yarne stared at it, confused.

“You seemed really anxious the other day and some of the man-spawn in camp told me that sweaters can feel comforting, especially in the colder months. I know our fur helps with the cold but maybe just the cloth itself is what’s soothing.”

Yarne picked up the sweater, feeling the soft but heavy weight of it in his hands. He thought of Cherche’s laugh.

“Did Cherche help you?” He asked tentatively testing the arms of the sweater. “She lent the fabric and showed me how to cut the longer sleeves, yes.” “Do you not like it?” Panne asked, concern briefly flickering across her face.

“No mother, it’s perfect.” Yarne replied, delicately pulling the sweater over his ears, he noticed that the neck hole was wide enough to comfortably stretch over his head without catching on his ears or hair like some garments did.

“I have something for you as well”, Yarne after he put the sweater on fully, gesturing to the package he brought. His mother sniffed the package somewhat warily, “You did not need to wrap it” She replied, but nonetheless, Panne seemed to relish tearing away the outer layers of paper until she was holding a matching purple sweater.

“I was worried that you would get sick from the cold, which in hindsight is silly because you know, the fur and everything but yeah”. Yarne trailed off as his mother carefully examined the sweater before throwing it on and blinking back tears.

“I’ll treasure it, thank you.” In a rare show of affection she hugged him tight. When she pulled away any sign of wetness in her eyes was gone, misplaced by delight and mischievousness.

"Well now, since neither of us has the cold to worry about anymore, I suppose we might as well practice some drills in the snow, since you lost so pitifully during our race the other night." She replied, staring Yarne down before laughing at his sputtering indignant protests. "Heh, got you" She smiled.

[boothunters]

BootHunter talks with founder of Mark Albert Boots, Mark Barbera, here is some of the story behind this growing American footwear company.

BH – What would you say were the greatest benefits of Launching through Kickstarter? 

MB – Kickstarter allowed me to start Mark Albert on a true shoestring budget. I had worked as a landscaper for a couple of summers, and I used $300 of money I had saved to hire my buddy to make the video. The reason behind the Kickstarter itself was to fund the first run of Chelsea boots because the factory had set an initial order minimum that was about $10,000 which I clearly did not have as a 19 year old college student – so Kickstarter was really my only option.

BH – You were inspired at a young age (6th grade) to customize shoes and it was your great grandfather who inspired you. How would you finish the statement, “A fine handcrafted pair of leather boots represents..?“ 

MB – Not only creativity, but also incredible craftsmanship that cannot be learned overnight. Making a pair of shoes from the ground up requires the know-how to expertly operate machines in over 150 steps from the cutting of the leather to the finishing of a pair. 

BH – As with the growth in popularity and completion in the denim market, boots are having a renaissance of sorts. Why do you think this is the case? 

MB – It’s interesting because when I got into this industry, I was not a boot guy. I had no idea what the difference was between Goodyear Welt or Blake Rapid, etc. I think that today because of Instagram and platforms like Reddit, many consumers are more informed than ever before about boots and those who appreciate any craft can really become enthusiasts once they realize just how much of an art form boot making is. However, today, a lot of brands are popping up left and right following the likes of Taft. To be completely honest, anyone can fly to Portugal or Spain, choose a stock pattern from a factory, pick some stock leathers and call themselves “designers.” Conversely, the barrier to entry in the domestic footwear industry is much much higher – many of the remaining factories do not have the resources to accommodate small private label brands, and I literally am only in the position I am because I live 5 minutes away from the factory where I design, prototype and assemble each pair in real-time, rather than just waiting a couple weeks for samples to arrive. 

BH – You focus more than anyone we know on the workers who craft your boots, what influenced you in your desire to integrate their story in your brand and products? 

MB – The factory I work with is such a hidden gem, in that most people in our small town (population 8,000) do not even know it exists. This is completely intentional. The owners and workers have been doing it the old school way for so long that it is truly like a family, and it takes time for an outsider to come in and feel comfortable with everyone. To me, it is completely genuine and natural to highlight these fine men and women because I spend each day, 7-4:30 with them as I also work full-time running design and sales for the factory’s in-house brands. I feel that it is so important to tell their story mainly because they do not realize how incredibly badass and skilled they actually are – for example, I am pretty handy and the first time I tried running some machines, I completely butchered the boots I was working on. I just think its so cool what they do day-in and day-out and they deserve to be recognized as artisans, not just factory workers. 

BH – You work with influencers such as BootHunter, how important and why do you consider these types of relationships in your growing your brand awareness and sales? 

MB – Much like the factory, the “boot community” if you will, is a lot like a family. Today, the value that engaged followings on social networks like Instagram and Facebook brings to a business is unparalleled. Having real relationships with influencers is worth its weight in gold and it also should be genuine – a lot of brands just assume that sending random products to influencers will make them get behind your products, but its cool because consumers can totally tell when influencers actually support a brand or are just being paid to advertise. Those influencers who I work with are genuine dudes who appreciate quality, so I appreciate their expert feedback alone without the added value of the advertising they do on their profiles. I think that with how quickly retail is changing; brands that grow these types of relationships will have far more staying power than those brands who neglect leveraging influencer networks. 

BH – I see that you were inspired to develop your first boot, a Chelsea, by your own search for an affordable and well-crafted example on the market. How do you develop your design ideas such as the Outrider Boot? 

MB – Almost all of my newer designs are inspired by the past. I have piles of catalogs from our factory dating back to the 1980s, so I usually find a boot silhouette I like, scour the factory for the paper patterns or the cutting dies, cut my own pieces then meet with our head seamstress. She has worked in the factory for literally 53 years – she is the only one who remembers most of these heritage patterns and how to sew them. Once the framework is in place, I will run a sample pair to work out any kinks. Once the first sample is done, it’s usually a matter of me making the boot modernized with leathers, hardware and outsoles. It’s a truly hands-on design and development process from start to finish. As a designer, having this knowledge of the actual process gives me a huge advantage because I can tell which styles / components will work or give us trouble before starting which saves a lot of time and money. 

BH – How would you describe American heritage?

MB – Growing up, I was a history buff. I used to watch the History Channel for hours, particularly programs about WWII and what I consider to be the Golden generation. My grandfather is an example of this type of grit. Folks back then were just darn tough. They worked for what they had and things seemed to be very cut and dry. My grandfather on my Mother’s side was a butcher and immigrant from Hungary. He took pride in his work. In speaking with our older seamstresses at the factory, many of their mother’s were seamstresses as well; they were raised to take incredible pride in their work. Products back then were made to last because they were consciously crafted by folks who brought that pride into what they produced. I feel that this pride is true American heritage and I hope that my products can reflect the pride of the men and women who make them. 

BH – What makes an American Boot uniquely desirable? 

MB – Mainly, the construction methods and to men, the women and me who are making them. I do not feel that every aspect of foreign-made footwear is inferior. For example, I have seen Indian-made boots with almost perfect upper stitching – probably cleaner than some of my products. Most foreign factories actually have superior and newer machines than most domestic factories. However, it’s a shame because they take that upper and glue the sole on- which immediately makes that product inferior because it will fall apart. Most American-made factories still use the same techniques that were used in that Golden era, like the Goodyear Welt, which makes for products that truly last. This combined with the simple fact that domestic-tanned leather is usually better quality because of the selection of domestic hides being heavier weight creates products that are built to last. 

BH – Where do you see your brand and those who make them in the next two to three years? 

MB – I hope to be an owner of the factory in the next couple years and continue to push the limits of my creativity to create products that will continue to provide for my amazing family of workers at the factory. 

BH – What’s your definition of business success? 

MB – I have a lot of successful siblings and family members, and the most important lesson I have learned by watching them is that money does not equate to happiness. Sure, in order to be a business as a going-concern, you must be conscious of margins but I can almost guarantee that if you are solely profit-driven, you will not find happiness or meaning in your work. I am so lucky to be in a situation where I truly love what I do, I love the challenges, and I am used to the uncertainty by now. I suppose my definition of business success is pretty cliché but true, do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life. 

THANK YOU MARK! … BOOTHUNTER

To Check Out Mark Albert Boots For Yourself, Click Here…

Leather Runs In The Family… Mark Albert Boots

BootHunter talks with founder of Mark Albert Boots, Mark Barbera, here is some of the story behind this growing American footwear company.

Leather Runs In The Family… Mark Albert Boots BootHunter talks with founder of Mark Albert Boots, Mark Barbera, here is some of the story behind this growing American footwear company.

[stylexplorers]

BootHunter talks with founder of Mark Albert Boots, Mark Barbera, here is some of the story behind this growing American footwear company.

BH – What would you say were the greatest benefits of Launching through Kickstarter? 

MB – Kickstarter allowed me to start Mark Albert on a true shoestring budget. I had worked as a landscaper for a couple of summers, and I used $300 of money I had saved to hire my buddy to make the video. The reason behind the Kickstarter itself was to fund the first run of Chelsea boots because the factory had set an initial order minimum that was about $10,000 which I clearly did not have as a 19 year old college student – so Kickstarter was really my only option.

BH – You were inspired at a young age (6th grade) to customize shoes and it was your great grandfather who inspired you. How would you finish the statement, “A fine handcrafted pair of leather boots represents..?“ 

MB – Not only creativity, but also incredible craftsmanship that cannot be learned overnight. Making a pair of shoes from the ground up requires the know-how to expertly operate machines in over 150 steps from the cutting of the leather to the finishing of a pair. 

BH – As with the growth in popularity and completion in the denim market, boots are having a renaissance of sorts. Why do you think this is the case? 

MB – It’s interesting because when I got into this industry, I was not a boot guy. I had no idea what the difference was between Goodyear Welt or Blake Rapid, etc. I think that today because of Instagram and platforms like Reddit, many consumers are more informed than ever before about boots and those who appreciate any craft can really become enthusiasts once they realize just how much of an art form boot making is. However, today, a lot of brands are popping up left and right following the likes of Taft. To be completely honest, anyone can fly to Portugal or Spain, choose a stock pattern from a factory, pick some stock leathers and call themselves “designers.” Conversely, the barrier to entry in the domestic footwear industry is much much higher – many of the remaining factories do not have the resources to accommodate small private label brands, and I literally am only in the position I am because I live 5 minutes away from the factory where I design, prototype and assemble each pair in real-time, rather than just waiting a couple weeks for samples to arrive. 

BH – You focus more than anyone we know on the workers who craft your boots, what influenced you in your desire to integrate their story in your brand and products? 

MB – The factory I work with is such a hidden gem, in that most people in our small town (population 8,000) do not even know it exists. This is completely intentional. The owners and workers have been doing it the old school way for so long that it is truly like a family, and it takes time for an outsider to come in and feel comfortable with everyone. To me, it is completely genuine and natural to highlight these fine men and women because I spend each day, 7-4:30 with them as I also work full-time running design and sales for the factory’s in-house brands. I feel that it is so important to tell their story mainly because they do not realize how incredibly badass and skilled they actually are – for example, I am pretty handy and the first time I tried running some machines, I completely butchered the boots I was working on. I just think its so cool what they do day-in and day-out and they deserve to be recognized as artisans, not just factory workers. 

BH – You work with influencers such as BootHunter, how important and why do you consider these types of relationships in your growing your brand awareness and sales? 

MB – Much like the factory, the “boot community” if you will, is a lot like a family. Today, the value that engaged followings on social networks like Instagram and Facebook brings to a business is unparalleled. Having real relationships with influencers is worth its weight in gold and it also should be genuine – a lot of brands just assume that sending random products to influencers will make them get behind your products, but its cool because consumers can totally tell when influencers actually support a brand or are just being paid to advertise. Those influencers who I work with are genuine dudes who appreciate quality, so I appreciate their expert feedback alone without the added value of the advertising they do on their profiles. I think that with how quickly retail is changing; brands that grow these types of relationships will have far more staying power than those brands who neglect leveraging influencer networks. 

BH – I see that you were inspired to develop your first boot, a Chelsea, by your own search for an affordable and well-crafted example on the market. How do you develop your design ideas such as the Outrider Boot? 

MB – Almost all of my newer designs are inspired by the past. I have piles of catalogs from our factory dating back to the 1980s, so I usually find a boot silhouette I like, scour the factory for the paper patterns or the cutting dies, cut my own pieces then meet with our head seamstress. She has worked in the factory for literally 53 years – she is the only one who remembers most of these heritage patterns and how to sew them. Once the framework is in place, I will run a sample pair to work out any kinks. Once the first sample is done, it’s usually a matter of me making the boot modernized with leathers, hardware and outsoles. It’s a truly hands-on design and development process from start to finish. As a designer, having this knowledge of the actual process gives me a huge advantage because I can tell which styles / components will work or give us trouble before starting which saves a lot of time and money. 

BH – How would you describe American heritage?

MB – Growing up, I was a history buff. I used to watch the History Channel for hours, particularly programs about WWII and what I consider to be the Golden generation. My grandfather is an example of this type of grit. Folks back then were just darn tough. They worked for what they had and things seemed to be very cut and dry. My grandfather on my Mother’s side was a butcher and immigrant from Hungary. He took pride in his work. In speaking with our older seamstresses at the factory, many of their mother’s were seamstresses as well; they were raised to take incredible pride in their work. Products back then were made to last because they were consciously crafted by folks who brought that pride into what they produced. I feel that this pride is true American heritage and I hope that my products can reflect the pride of the men and women who make them. 

BH – What makes an American Boot uniquely desirable? 

MB – Mainly, the construction methods and to men, the women and me who are making them. I do not feel that every aspect of foreign-made footwear is inferior. For example, I have seen Indian-made boots with almost perfect upper stitching – probably cleaner than some of my products. Most foreign factories actually have superior and newer machines than most domestic factories. However, it’s a shame because they take that upper and glue the sole on- which immediately makes that product inferior because it will fall apart. Most American-made factories still use the same techniques that were used in that Golden era, like the Goodyear Welt, which makes for products that truly last. This combined with the simple fact that domestic-tanned leather is usually better quality because of the selection of domestic hides being heavier weight creates products that are built to last. 

BH – Where do you see your brand and those who make them in the next two to three years? 

MB – I hope to be an owner of the factory in the next couple years and continue to push the limits of my creativity to create products that will continue to provide for my amazing family of workers at the factory. 

BH – What’s your definition of business success? 

MB – I have a lot of successful siblings and family members, and the most important lesson I have learned by watching them is that money does not equate to happiness. Sure, in order to be a business as a going-concern, you must be conscious of margins but I can almost guarantee that if you are solely profit-driven, you will not find happiness or meaning in your work. I am so lucky to be in a situation where I truly love what I do, I love the challenges, and I am used to the uncertainty by now. I suppose my definition of business success is pretty cliché but true, do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life. 

THANK YOU MARK! … BOOTHUNTER

To Check Out Mark Albert Boots For Yourself, Click Here…

Leather Runs In The Family… Mark Albert Boots BootHunter talks with founder of Mark Albert Boots, Mark Barbera, here is some of the story behind this growing American footwear company.

[a-love-poet-at-heart]

5 Things About Me

tagged by @janylate​

I was tagged like 2+ weeks ago. Sorry. The depression flared up for like a week and then I forgot till today.

5 things you’ll find in my bag

headphones

ipod classic filled with bad musical theatre songs.

my phone with a little Russian!PotO pocket calendar from last year in between the phone and clear case. I actually got the calendar when I bought the Russian PotO CD.

my knitting. I’ve been making a red shawl on-and-off for the last 2 years

my wallet with no picture ID since I’m online homeschooled and I’ve been putting off getting a license since I have some anxiety around driving.

5 things you’ll find in my bedroom

way too many blankets

way too many books

way too many pictures of my favorite singer, Ian Patrick Gibb. 1/3 of a wall filled with them. I won a contest at his concert a few years ago and the prize included a bunch of signed pictures.

way too many knick-knacks randomly placed around my room

way too many posters of musicals hung above my bed

5 things I’ve wanted to do in life/on my to do list

get better at my hobbies, like sewing and drawing

see some of my fav musicals live, like Tanz der Vampire or Elisabeth. 

see more productions of Phantom of the Opera. I’ve already seen the bway one a few years back. I would love to see others from different countries. 

learn German and Russian. Also maybe Hungarian

Travel around ‘merica and Europe.

5 things that make me happy

listening to music/musical theatre. Honestly the only music I listen to is from musicals I like.

historical fashion. Especially stuff from mid 1600s to 1920s

cats

mmmmmmmmm listening to singers I like??? kinda covered in 1st but whatever

dicking around on the internet/memes

5 things I’m currently into

my favorite good musical; Elisabeth das Musical, Tanz der Vampire, and  Phantom of the Opera

German musical theatre

Russian musical theatre (honerable mention to Hungarian musical theatre)

Hunchback of Notre Dame/Notre Dame de Paris (book, ‘99 german musical, redone musical, french musical)

Dracula (book and Wildhorn musical)

5 things people may not know about me

I created a wikipedia account just to edit the Hunchback of Notre Dame musical page to add Lt. Charlus (role played by Ian P. Gibb) to the principal cast list.

As stated before IPG is my favorite singer, so the handle on my twitter (that I never use anymore) is IanPGibbshair.

I don’t really have a cartoon art style or even a “chibi”ish art style. I really hate this. I’m really good at super realistic art, thou.

I’m a bit of a jack of all trades kniting, crocheting, drawing, sewing, baking

Okay, I’m gonna rant about I thing that I’m still super salty about. So, this is kinda part of my Tragic™ backstory. So, I was 9th grade and I got a lot of anxiety from the people and depression that I started to go on meds for. So, I got my mom to enroll me in online private school. It’s all online and I can do it whenever I want. Cambridge Academy is the name of the school. Fuck them. I hate them with a passion. They did not teach me. The weeks were just a bunch of text and nothing else. I had to cheat and go back through lessons and google the answer to get by. I was an straight A student and getting anything less than a high B devastated me. I got more mental issues from this shite school than normal public school. Their Math and German were the biggest scams. They did not teach me more complicated math. Like in a lesson they would talk about the easiliest ways to do whatever the thing is and never about how fractions and exponents would work into it. I used the online calculator Mathway on all my tests since the questions were so hard and I honestly did not know how to do it. German was worse. In German all nouns are either Male, Female, or Neuter. With different “The”s to use with each, Der, Die, and Das respectively. So they were teaching thes with words and they didn’t teach me the words, but groups that sometimes or always were a the. Like drinks are sometimes neuter but not always. THis is a horrible way to teach. Normally you teach the thes with the words. Like Der Tee and Das Wasser. I studied real hard with Flash cards. on the test they started with a words like Stuhl or somthing. I’m like “wtf is a Stuhl” google translate says Chair. “Okay what the fuck is the gender of a chair”.  I look through the cards, nothing. Fuck. I guess or something and I tank the test. They even had words with the English translation next to it, like the german words for speed limit!! I have multiple mental breakdowns™ from the disappointment of going from straight As to a D (i rasied the grade to a low B I think by the end of the year, still devastating for me) in a subject I love (as I really like the German language) Anyway I manage for 2 and  1/2 years, say Fuck this and decide to go to anyother better online school. American Academy, a GOOD online school, is the answer. They actually just started online courses as they normally do just paper packets sent to the kids and they send them back to the school for grades. Turns out Shite school’s accreditation are bunk. They are Fake News™. I wasted 2 years of my like on them. I have to start all over. They let me test out of freshman year. and I finished sophomore in like 6 months and I’m not on the end of Junior year now I just have like 3 essays to do and I’m done with Junior. I’m 18. Everyone I was once students with are graduated next week. But this school is pretty good. overall. I was hoping to finish Junior year months ago (I started it in September and hoped to be finished in February.) I’m just fucked and super depressed about all this. And super depressed about the essays and don’t want to start them.

5 people I want to tag: I don’t really want to tag anyone. I don’t really have anyone on here that I talk to and are like “friend friend”s with. Most I’ve talked to someone on here was the one who tagged me! Also I don’t really like the whole ponzi schemeish thing. Like main person starts this, tags people, they do it and tag people, ect, ect.

[naivariasunspell]

April 20

So much has happened since I last earnestly wrote my thoughts in this book that I cringe just wondering where to begin.  Truly, I ought to have done this more often between last month and today.  I suppose I ought to do this in chronological order, then.

I met a man named Zanteron; who at first I thought by his bearing a man of high status, only to find that his ear was much more attuned to a rougher kind of mercenary folk.  Not well spoken at all, that man—but then, I got the sense that in many and more cases, eloquent speech did not serve him well enough out in the world.  We came upon the subject of reading, and when I suggested that a man of his profession likely had little time to read atop his other endeavors… well, he took it to mean that I thought him illiterate and walked away from me in the Square right then and there.  That was not the case.  Several days later he came to me while I was speaking to someone else and gave me the very same book that I was reading at the time.  He told me that until I read that book, he had nothing to say to me. It all seemed very odd at the time, but when I returned home that evening I opened the front cover to find writing inside—it was small and cramped, but readable, and I started flipping pages to find that every margin had a note in it.  I could not read it right then—and, truly, I was not done reading the book itself—so I tucked it away next to my bed until I at least finished the story. I have since started in on the annotated version, and I must say that the notes are almost as interesting as the story itself.  Once I have finished with this I will seek him out to return his book, and perhaps finally have a pleasant conversation with the man.  I’ve many questions, after all, for a man who has seen the world.

Speaking more upon men, I met a man who I quickly learned is a man of high status.  His name is Lord Bladerunner.  I believe that he told me his first name, but upon his introduction I must have forgotten it, for I cannot remember   Lord Arandael Bladerunner.  That is his name.  He approached me while I was looking for a pencil—admittedly, so that I could write another thought-piece about a man I had seen lingering around the exchange—and he offered me his.  And while this may sound silly and superstitious, I want to keep his pencil forever as a reminder of how my life turned that day.  For when he learned that I dream of starting a boutique—though I do not think he really knows the reasons why I want to do so beyond my love for sewing and fashion—he began asking all manner of questions pertaining to my plans, and once he had exhausted those, asked that I bring samples of my work to him.

I should have spoken to Rennalyss first, I really should have, but I decided then to seize the moment and gathered up the best examples of my work to show him (including one that I made using one of the sheer drapes from the inside of one of the public buildings which I am certain Renna did not come across innocently; I hope he did not note that one’s source but I was so proud of it that I couldn’t not show it).  That night he offered me a ludicrous amount of money and a paper with his seal on it to show that he was my patron before he sent me on my way to draft a portfolio and a list of materials I might need to outfit a shop. I cannot describe the feeling that one gets when they realize that suddenly their dream is within reach, but it is one that warmed me that day.  This man swept into my life and changed it forever.  He later inquired as to my living conditions, and upon seeing them for himself offered to pay a small stipend for my sister and I to improve them.  Renna refused, and… she is right.  It is not a matter of stubbornness, but pride.  That we have come from living on the streets to an apartment in the Exchange is a feat that I, for one, hold in high regard.  We have money problems, sure, but we make things work, and were it not for our struggles would any of this be worthwhile?

The shop, too; my motivation is not the money.  That is something that I have seen precious little of in my time, and I am a firm believer that money corrupts and warps.  A person with immense wealth is a person of comfort.  No; my motivation lies in the touching of lives.  From the time I was a little girl, wandering around my mother’s tailoring shop and watching her interact with her clients, I realized that the art of fashion is not one that simply puts an attractive piece of cloth upon a person’s body; it is something that puts an attractive piece of confidence in a person’s mind. A woman or a man who is dressed nicely automatically stands straighter, holds their chin higher.  For me to touch the life of anyone like that does not require me to own a shop as my mother did, but to pay her the homage that she deserves as someone who did touch the lives of so many is something that I have always wanted to do.  I know that she would not fault me for taking money to start a shop so long as I make it successful, but I do think she would frown upon my taking charity from anyone at all.  I am a woman of means.  I must earn every success in my life; not just so that it is an accomplishment made worthwhile from the time and effort afforded it, but so that when I have made myself into someone respectable that respect is a direct reflection of what I have given to others.

I have met a lady as well; a friend of Lord Bladrunner’s.  Lady Starsong was a bit different; somehow more gentle and welcoming than the lord, though I think it mostly because he is a man and she seems to know a fair bit more about fashion than he (no offense to men, but many of them must be dressed by women to be dressed properly).  It could also be the fact that she was not wearing armor, and thus simply looked less imposing.  She and I spoke of a commission for Lord Bladerunner’s Gala—I will be making a gown for her, and once the cloth has arrived I will begin in earnest.  It is four days away, now.  The mock-up is done, and I’ve her measurements.  I do hope that she falls in love with the dress I’ve envisioned for her.  I do hope that I can get it done in time.  I’ve quite a bit of sewing to do if I am to have a fitting with her in two days, and have the finished product for her either the day after or the morning of the gala.  Honestly, though; what else is there for me to do with my time?  I will work my fingers off if it means creating something beautiful for someone who is also beautiful.

Renna told me that she spoke with a physician and managed to procure some medicine for me last night after Lord Bladerunner took his leave.  It is different than the last; the tincture tastes awful and it was less effective than the other elixir that she managed a few months ago, but it afforded me at least one night’s peaceful rest and I woke today feeling hungry for once before the pain set in again.  I will only take it at night so that I can sleep.  I will need that rest to fuel me during the days to come.