#at least not in the headlines i didn’t comb through all the articles

[skywitchmaja]

oh my god. just saw a post that pissed me off SO MUCH. ugh. in short:

[speechlessxx]

I Can Keep A Secret. - 4 (Steve Rogers x Reader)

Chapter Summary: In a jealous rage, Steve accidentally says something he doesn’t mean as he discovers something personal about the reader. 

Warnings: no Clark in this chapter, slight fingering (18+ Minors DNI), nudity but not really, lots of cussing, angsty, make-out scene, shitty writing (it’s been a while i’m sorry!), AGE GAP (reader is stated to be 21 but age is just a number. call her wtv age you want). 

Word Count: ~2.7k 

again... i apologize this sucks. i haven’t written anything since like august. 

Buy me a Ko-Fi (not necessary but i’m broke, yo) 

<- Last Part -=+=- Next Part ->

Steve never considered himself a jealous man. When he was involved with Sharon Carter, he never paid any mind to the revolving door of “friends” she entertained. Truthfully, throughout the numerous relationships he’s had in his life, Steve Rogers had never been the one to be jealous.

How could he?

Steve didn’t think he was an egomaniac nor narcissistic – not in the way that Tony Stark was, at least. But he knew he was charming. He knew he was wealthy – the black cards in his Burberry wallet reminded him of that. He knew he was handsome. He knew his worth – hell, even Forbes did.

His thoughts had never been infiltrated by the ugly, green rage monster that filled his head with insecurities. That is… Until the headlines and photographs of (Y/N) Barnes’s dinner date with “America’s richest and handsomest” bachelor, Clark Kent, had made its rounds.

It was a form of self-torture as he scrolled furiously through the many posts about the two.

Dynasties Colliding!

Clark Kent off the Market?

Everything you need to know about (Y/N) Barnes, Clark Kent’s new girlfriend.

He clicked his tongue in disgust at that last article as he skimmed through it. It was obvious that the writer had a biased opinion – one so clearly against (Y/N) – as it pointed out her “college dropout” status and her “naivete” to be involved with a man ten years her senior.

He scoffed… If only they knew.

Though, Steve couldn’t help but compare himself to the younger man. Sure, Clark was richer than he was with a booming business and a company created generations before Steve was even born. His net worth pushed him much higher than Steve and Bucky on the Forbes’s listings. But surely, he didn’t have the same chemistry as he and (Y/N) did… Surely.

As if to mock him, a photo of Clark kissing her knuckles appeared on his monitor. He glared at it, fuming with hot jealousy. He hated that feeling bubbling inside as he stared at her flustered face digitally immortalized by paparazzi and fan photos.

His phone buzzed to life as the screen displayed her name… And he did what he had been doing for the past few days following the polo match, he sent it straight to voicemail, spiteful that she even entertained Clark’s request to go on a date.

Had he misread the signs? Had there been any signs to begin with? Had she played him? Was he just her happy distraction until she could find her bearings in New York?

A sharp knock interrupted him from his thoughts as Bucky’s broad shoulders filled his open office door. He had a wide smile on his face as he entered the room, closing the door.

“You read the gossip?” Bucky chuckled. A sly smirk on his face as he sat himself in the seat across Steve’s desk. Steve quickly clicked out of his tabs and raised his brows at Bucky. “With (Y/N) getting Clark interested, other investors are looking at us, too. It’s great.”

“So, you’re really using your daughter to lure business opportunities?” Steve snorted. Considering how enchanting she was, it wasn’t a terrible strategy. If Steve hadn’t gotten so attached so quickly, he’d even advise Bucky to have her stalk the airport terminals, too.

“It’s working, man. He’s interested in the company. He wants a tour. He’s talking big money. We can scrap any deals with Stark. He’s our top priority now.”

“Buck,” Steve laughed so dryly it became a scoff. “He’s not interested in the company. He’s clearly interested in her – and only her. As soon as you give the green light and she rips the cord with him, he’s gonna back out. He’s got the lawyers to make sure that any contract he signs will get voided, too.”

His tone had been hopeful although Bucky didn’t pick up on it. Bucky had just waved it off as Steve being cautious – not Steve hoping that his daughter would dump Clark and focus all her attention back on him.

“No, no.” Bucky shook his head, waving his hand, too. “She’s equally into him. Piqued her interest more than Peter did, for sure.” Steve stopped himself from rolling his eyes, knowing damn well that she was never interested in the Stark boy. “He dropped her off and she was blushing like crazy. Ran to her room and practically screamed her head off with that Wanda girl on the phone.”

Steve pressed his lips into a straight line. He didn’t trust himself enough to respond, knowing any sarcastic remark would land him in the hot seat, with Bucky asking questions he wasn’t ready to answer… or rather, didn’t have the answers to.

“Besides… y’know one contract that’s incredibly difficult to get out of?” Steve hummed. “A marriage.”

Steve choked. “Marriage? Buck, c’mon, she’s twenty-one.” Bucky nodded, taking his daughter’s age into consideration. “Marriages are definitely the easiest to get out of. Must I remind you the reason why you haven’t seen her since she was a baby?”

“Hey!”

“Besides, isn’t he too old for her?” Steve internally cringed. Suddenly, wishing he could take it back, afraid of what Bucky would say. Like you aren’t thirty-nine, dumbass?

“He’s thirty-three. She’s twenty-one. She can date whoever she wants. She’s an adult.”

“That’s dangerously permissive.” Stop talking.

“Why’re you acting like her father, Steve?” Bucky asked, raising his brows inquisitively.

“I’m just saying, Clark’s closer in age with us than with (Y/N).” Steve shrugged. “I’m just looking out for her.”

I just want her to myself.

“Well, since you’re oh-so invested in looking out for her, I’m gonna need a favor.”

»���———-　♡　————-««

Out of the many things to do on a Friday night in the big city, Steve found himself walking through the threshold of the Barnes’s penthouse. He silent cursed at Bucky, who asked him to look after his daughter for the weekend. The same daughter he had been avoiding for the past week, blowing off her calls and leaving her texts unread.

Steve found Bucky’s favor to be a direct contradiction to the statement he made prior. She’s twenty-one. She’s an adult. An adult who needed another adult’s supervision as it seemed.

However, Steve understood. She was relatively new to the city, only being here for a little over a month and a half, and known for her reckless behavior back in Los Angeles – the reason why she was in New York to begin with. Although Bucky didn’t quite keep her on a tight leash, he kept on a leash, nevertheless.

Bucky had already left that afternoon, leaving the penthouse somewhat quiet save for the music coming from the hallway that led into (Y/N)’s bedroom. He cracked a smile as he approached the hall. He could hear her obnoxiously singing along to the provocative lyrics of that one song – WAP, was it?

His hand absentmindedly found its way to her doorknob, twisting the metal and pushing the door open. She shrieked as her phone fell from her hands with a thud against the floor. She scrambled for her towel that lay haphazardly on her bed, messily wrapping it around her naked body.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” She screamed over the music. 

Steve stared at her with wide eyes like a deer in headlights. Her hair was still damp, knotting and begging to be combed out. Her chest heaved as she breathed heavily. The towel did little to hide her from his hungry eyes as he fought to keep his stare at her face and only her face. She called for the Alexa to stop playing the music before running a hand through her knotted hair. 

“Steve, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Your – your dad asked me to – uh – “he was losing the battle as his eyes gave her a look over, feeling the heat rise to his face. It was not the only thing that has risen. He tore his stare away from her, scanning the room instead. “He asked me to watch over you.” Steve explained, finally finding the words.

“Like a babysitter?” She scoffed. She had been itching to see Steve, hating him just a bit for ghosting her, but looking like that? She was willing to forgive.

“Yeah…” Steve nodded.

“Well,” she smirked playfully, “since you’re baby-sitting… Why don’t you let your baby sit on your lap, huh, daddy?” She batted her lashes at him, and he instantly melted, forgetting his jealousy and spite for just a second. She reached out for him and had him sit at the edge of her bed, straddling his thick thighs. “Excited to see me?”

His resolve and pent-up angst disappeared. “You’re damn right.” Steve muttered, hand fisting her knotted hair and smashing his lips onto hers. The kiss was every bit hungry and desperate as it was passionate – like two star crossed lovers finally catching a moment alone.

She moaned into his mouth as his free hand slipped beneath her towel, which was loosening as she grinded against his strained pants. His fingers explored her slit, fumbling as he tried to find her bundle of nerves.

“I missed you,” she gasped as he found it within seconds, rubbing tight circles around her clit.

His lips left a trail of kisses along her jaw and sucked the sensitive skin under her ear, eliciting long moan from her as he played with her, relishing in her responsiveness. He felt her juices coat his fingers as he teased her hole, but the moment suddenly cut short when her phone dinged.

Once. And then a second, then a third.

She looked over her shoulder and glanced down at the screen. Steve pinched her, causing her to gasp again. “Don’t.” He warned her, his voice a deep growl.

It dinged again. “I’m gonna silent it,” she promised, pecking his lips as she hopped off his lap. “Oh,” she frowned. She ran a hand through her knotted hair before glancing at him, then typing.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked her as he stood from her bed and walked over to her. He wrapped his arms around her waist as he pulled her into him.

“I… Uh… Clark wants to hang out again.” She told him.

Steve rolled his eyes though she didn’t see. “Blow him off.” He told her, leaving a trail of kisses on her shoulders, leading back up to that sweet spot beneath her ear. Her eyes rolled back before she pushed away from him. “We haven’t seen each other in days – “

“Because someone kept sending me to voicemail,” she rebutted. “I-I have to go see him, Steve. If my dad found out – “

“Then tell him you’re not into him.” Steve insisted. She remained silent as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. Steve frowned. “Wait, are you – are you into him?”

“I dunno…”

“You don’t know?” He asked her. “If you’re into him, the hell are you sitting on top of me naked for?”

“Steve – “

“God, it’s like you like making yourself easy to guys.” The envy – the green, little monster that tore at his ego and his heart – suddenly rose. No thoughts were running through his head – just angry words from his mouth.

“Excuse me?” An enraged look splayed across her face. Brows furrowed and arms crossed defensively.

“Well, considering you sold pictures of yourself to total strangers – “he stopped himself before the rest of the sentence. The self-control had finally resurfaced, but the damage had been done as fury in her features mellowed and turned into hurt.

“Is that… Is that what you think of me?” She asked him, willing her voice not to crack but the tears had already begun to form. She furiously blinked them away before huffing. “Well, it doesn’t matter what you think anyway ‘cause I’m not with you.”

“And what you’re with Clark Kent?” He seethed his name.

“At least he doesn’t call me easy.”

Steve chuckled, dryly. “Bar’s set low then, huh? Says the girl who sucked me off on the airplane when we knew each other less than two hours. Wonder the things you’d do for him.” It was spite. His words were pure spite and jealousy. They held no meaning but they sure had weight. 

“What’s your problem?” She snapped. “Damn it, Steve! I like you. I really do, genuinely, but y’know it fucking sucks when the guy you like suddenly ghosts you.”

“And it fucking sucks when the girl you’re actually interested in goes on a date with some hot shot, pretty, rich boy. Probably fucks him in the back of his limo, too.”

She stomped over to Steve, shoving him with one hand while the other kept her towel from slipping off. “Get. Out!”

“No, no,” Steve argued, grabbing her arm easily overpowering her to stop pushing him. “You’re gonna answer.” She raised her brows at him. “Are you fucking him in the back of his limo? Are you that easy?”

Her jaw dropped as she stared at him in disbelief. “You’re not my dad, so that’s none of your concern.” She began to push him towards her door, and he let her this time. “And…” Her fingers tapped against the wooden door as she stared back at him. 

“It’s none of your business, but for your information, I’m a virgin.” She clicked her tongue as a smirk splayed across her face. “Won’t be for long, though. ‘Cause Mr. Kent is inviting back to one of his many lavish, expensive homes in New York.”

And with that she slammed the door shut, locking it with the new lock her father had installed.

»————-　♡　————-««

“(Y/N)…” He called out to her, knocking on her door. “C’mon, sweetheart.” It had been half an hour since their fight, and she had yet to come out of her room.

“Go away!” She called out from the other side of the wooden pane as if she were a child.

“I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t mean it. I was just jealous – “

“I don’t care, Steve!”

He sighed. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s go out for dinner, yeah? Just me and you. Whatever you want. You wanna embarrass me by making me use chopsticks? Let’s go. You wanna hit me with a bottle of champagne? Take your pick. I’m down.”

“Fuck off, asshole!”

You deserve that. He agreed.

Steve suddenly heard a click of the lock before she pulled the door open, pushing past him and he let her. She had a duffle in one hand and her phone in the other, typing away. “Where are you going?”

“Away from you,” she spat. She didn’t even spare him a second look.

“You going with Clark?”

“None of your business, dick.”

He called her full name and she stopped in her tracks, spinning on her heel to look at him with her brows raised. Steve had his hands on his hips as he stared at the floor before looking down at her. “You are not leaving and that’s final.”

“Oh, yeah?” She challenged, taking a step towards him. Her heel clicking against the ground. She crossed her arms across her chest as she tilted her head. “And what? You’re gonna stop me?”

“Don’t make me, sweetheart.”

“Well,” she smirked. “Take it up with my dad… because unlike you, he actually approves of my blossoming relationship with Clark Kent. I swear he’s already planning the wedding … while I, on the other hand, all I care about is the honeymoon… And I think we’re gonna get a head start to it, actually.”

Steve took a step towards her as she took a step back. “Stop being a little brat and just – “

“No, Steve,” she corrected. “I’m being easy. And you’re completely right… Sometimes being easy is just fun.”

He grabbed her arm before she could turn around and pulled her towards him. She bit her lip as she stared up at him with faux innocence. Her lips glistened with whatever gloss it was she used to make her lips plump as she challenged every bit of authority Steve had.

He wanted nothing more than to kiss that bratty attitude right out of her. He leaned in as her eyes fluttered close and he knew he had her. Then, suddenly, the elevator doors dinged and opened, ruining the moment. Both their heads snapped towards the guest.

“What the hell?” 

[teamhappyme]

a series of promising events (2/5)

aaron hotchner x female!reader

word count: 10.6k (yeah i have a spacing problem)

a/n: part 2 of this series is here! some dialogue, cases, and themes taken directly from criminal minds (S03 EP20, S04 EP01, & S05 EP08). originally, i had it planned to be 3 parts, but after editing, and looking at the word count, it makes more sense to be 5 parts. i don’t want to inundate you lovely people with massive word counts (even though 10k is massive) so this is the finalized count. because i finally got my shit together and finished this out, part 3 will be up wednesday morning, part 4 will be up friday morning, and the final part 5 will be up sunday morning. thank you to everyone who showed some love for part one, and thank you to anyone else who stumbled across my crazy writing and read along!

at the end, I’ve tagged the peeps that interacted with part 1. if you don’t want to be tagged for the other parts, just let me know :)

ok enough of my rambling inner monologue, here we go friends!

link to part 1: here

****

May 2008

We were in New York, investigating what started out as five connected shootings in the city. After twelve hours, we were up to nine fatalities.

We delivered the profile at nine thirty, finally satisfied with the outcome after a day's worth of combing over crime scene photos and witness statements. Hotch didn’t want to waste another second, making sure the profile went out before the night shift went out to patrol.

“Now, our first theory is that we’re dealing with a team.” Derek started. “In the case of the D.C. snipers, there was actually one intended victim.”

“John Muhammad wanted to kill his ex wife, but he knew if he did, he’d be the prime suspect, so he created a spree in order to mask his primary motivation.” 

Spencer added before turning to SSA Joyner. “Muhammad and Malvo also left a death card at one of their scenes, just like this unsub.”

“We believe our unsubs have studied that case. They’re opening a line of communication.” 

There was an outpouring of judgement focused on us, since we were in charge of the D.C. snipers case as well. These unsubs know we’re here, and they’re trying to show they can outthink us.

“Yes, they are playing games. But what that tells us is at least one of them has some intelligence.” You tried to hold your ground, and not let their opinions get to you.

“And like I said,” Prentiss interrupted, ready to put these cops in their place. “They know these cases. He’s also studied the placement of the surveillance systems well enough to avoid detection.”

“We’ve asked officers to canvass their precincts, and look out for a father-son type of duo that fit the dominant-submissive profile.” Rossi had Reid hand out some gang related profiles, just in case the profile shifted. But we were pretty confident in our first go. 

“Talk to the people on your beats, look out for anything suspicious. And let's pray that this isn’t random.” The detective in charge finished and let his precinct disperse. 

“Hey y/n/n, we’re gonna head back in five if you want a spot in the fun suburban.” JJ teased and lightly shoved Spencer’s shoulder. 

You smiled and started packing up your backpack. “Okay. Just, leave the fragile doctor alone.” 

After packing up any files you wanted to review when you got back to the hotel room, you let Morgan and Rossi know the four of you were headed out. They weren’t much further behind with Prentiss and Garcia. 

You met Reid and JJ in the lobby, droopy eyes and mouths full of yawns adorning the three of you. It was a long day, and it was only going to be worse tomorrow. 

“Where’s Hotch?” You asked, ready to get your feet out of these narrow leather dress shoes. You were wearing your combat boots tomorrow. 

“He’s checking in with the lady friend.” JJ nodded her head toward Hotch, who was conversing with Joyner in her office. They were standing close, and you thought you caught a smile on his face. “Do you think they’re into each other?”

“She looks like she could be Haley’s twin,” Spencer added and you sighed. 

The moment the team arrived at HQ this morning, everybody noticed the resemblance to Hotch’s ex-wife. SSA Kate Joyner went pretty far back with our unit chief. They went through the academy together and had some assignments overlap over the years. If it were up to Morgan and Garcia, the two of them would be out on a date right now. But you and Rossi quickly quieted the rumors, not wanting to deal with the rage that was Aaron Hotchner if he knew we were discussing his love life. 

It had barely been six months since Haley left with Jack, and Hotch had just taken off his wedding band a few weeks ago. He didn’t tell any of you until you all witnessed him getting served in the office. It slapped you across the face, especially since you’d just met Haley and Jack for a quick lunch a month and a half before. I guess she wanted Hotch to tell you when he was ready. 

As much as you valued your three year friendship with Aaron Hotchner, you knew Haley deserved better. Hotch adored his wife and son, and would fight heaven and earth to keep them safe. Unfortunately, he was too busy fighting the demons from hell to be a present father and husband. Everyone had their breaking point, and Haley had hit hers. From what Hotch has told you, they’re still amicable, and are trying to be friends again. After all, it wasn’t a lack of love that ended their marriage. It was a lack of prioritizing his family. 

“Knock it off. He’s on his way over.” The three of you turned to one another, pretending to hold an intriguing conversation about one of Spencer’s magic tricks. Truthfully, you were always intrigued in his magic tricks; you never understood how he could pull endless quarters out of your ear. But that conversation would have to wait for another day. 

“Ready to go?” Hotch pulled the keys out of his pant pocket, and the three of you nodded as Spencer called shotgun. A smile crossed your lips, never getting over the jovial things Spencer loved to claim when his intellect wasn’t needed to solve a case.

The fifteen minute ride to the hotel downtown was silent. You were all exhausted, emotionally and physically, sick of having to watch people die over and over again. 

The four of you made it into the lobby, tomorrow morning’s papers already spread across the table. “The late edition didn’t miss a beat.” You said and picked up one of the papers, the headline reading ‘Execution Style’ with a still from one of the murders. You showed it to Hotch and he shook his head. 

“I’m glad I never stooped to this level when I was publishing.” You murmured, reading the first paragraph of the article. 

“JJ,” Spencer started and pointed across the lobby, causing all of us to turn. It was Detective Will LaMontagne Jr., JJ’s adorably chivalrous Louisiana boyfriend. 

“Will.” You could practically hear the smile on her face as she led the walk over to him.

He was supposed to fly into D.C. to visit JJ for the weekend, but came to surprise her in New York when he heard the news. Spencer and I shared a look as Hotch extended a hand to him. 

“Detective.”

“I’m sorry for showing up like this, I know you’re working. But, um. I can’t stand you being on this case. And me not being here, not with what’s going on.”

JJ shook her head in the slightest, and you started to get nervous.

“Is there a problem?” Hotch asked, concern completely taking over his voice at the thought of any harm happening to his team. The couple shared a knowing look, and your patience was starting to run thin with the information being withheld. JJ meant the world to you, and you wanted to make sure she was okay.

Reluctantly, she turned to face you all, a shy smile covering her face. “I’m pregnant.” 

Spencer looked over at you, not knowing how to react to the news. But you couldn’t help the smile widening on your face. 

“Oh my god, JJ! Congratulations!” You wrapped your arms around her and she laughed, most likely out of relief. This was a secret she kept for a long time.

“I’ve asked JJ to marry me,” 

“Will.” She cut him off as Hotch gave him a congratulatory handshake. 

“We’re working out some kinks.” He added as Spencer was next to hug your blonde friend. A baby, in the BAU. You might have been more excited than JJ.

“We’ll, uh, give you both some privacy.” Hotch started towards the elevator, and JJ was quick to follow. 

“Hotch,” She didn’t continue, you knew this wasn’t the exact situation she wanted to tell everyone she was having a baby. 

“JJ, you could have told me.”  

The tenderness in his voice could have broken your heart in two right then and there, but add on the fact that you swore you could see Hotch’s eyes tear in the slightest, you were done. You didn’t want to mention it in front of Reid, but you knew this had to do with Haley. You’d be an idiot not to notice.

The three of you filed into the elevator, leaving JJ and Will to talk in private. You all got off on the fourth floor, Reid’s room the first to come up in the hallway. 

“Night Spencer.” 

“Goodnight. Seven a.m.,” He reminded you as he opened the door with his keycard.

You and Hotch walked down another ten feet before he found his room. 

“Goodnight,” He mumbled out and reached for his key. 

“Hotch,” He closed his eyes, nodding his head in the slightest. 

“I’m tired, y/n.” You could’ve pushed harder. You could have gotten him to crack if you started nagging enough. You’d earned the title as baby sister from the team since you could whine and nag them into doing anything. But tonight didn’t seem like a good time for your skills. 

You nodded, understanding this conversation wasn’t going to happen. 

“Goodnight. Get some sleep.”

Despite your best efforts, you didn’t sleep a wink. Hotch had gone over his files and called for Kate to meet him in the lobby. But then there was an explosion, and you had to watch from your window as Hotch sat by Joyner, waiting for her to die.

Once the team had caught the second unsub and wrapped everything up at the precinct, you headed to the hospital to check on Hotch. And unsurprisingly, he was refusing any further treatment for the ringing in his ears he tried to deny. You saw him kick Rossi out of the room, the third member that couldn’t get through to him. 

“Bobo, why don’t you give it a try. Can’t yell at the baby with a broken arm.” You were the one to tackle the unsub, and landed pretty hard on the pavement downtown. Nothing a black cast covered in smiley faces from Spencer and Garcia couldn’t fix. 

“I know you can’t tell, but I’m flipping you off right now.” You responded to Morgan as you raised your casted hand toward him.

You headed to Hotch’s room, knocking on the window before you walked in. 

“I swear to god if you try to put me in another MRI,” He started to raise his voice when you interrupted him.

“Shit, I should go tell Morgan he was wrong. Boss is willing to yell at the baby with a broken arm.”

He turned around to face you, the lines on his forehead disappearing once he saw it was you and not Rossi. 

“What happened to your arm?” You smiled and glanced down at the cast. “Just another day on the job. Tackled the unsub, the pavement was not very kind to me.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, trying to put his tie back around his neck. You scoffed, stepping over to him. 

“Why the hell would you want to put that back on?” 

“Because it’s part of my suit.” 

You knew better than to pull it out of his hands. He was holding on to any semblance of control, and his outfit was all that he had left. Instead you took a seat in the stiff chair across from him, watching as he grimaced every time he lifted his arms too high. 

“If your goal is to get me to stay another minute here under observation, you’re not gonna win.” 

You shook your head. “That’s not my goal.”

He sighed, giving up on putting his tie on. He moved to finish his top button, he was at least going to be covered. 

“You should be excited for JJ.” You started, testing the water on this subject. 

“Did I suggest otherwise?” He asked and you shook your head. 

“When was the last time you saw Jack?” His eyes widened the slightest, and you regretted asking the question. You gripped the arms of the chair, ready to be ripped a new one. 

Instead, Hotch let out a sigh, and you snapped your head up. “Two weeks. Haley went to visit her mother for a week, and then we went from Florida to New York in three days.”

He was already away from Jack half the week when they were still living under the same roof. Now he was lucky if he got to say goodnight on a weekend. 

“Why don’t you take some time off? I’m sure you have weeks saved up. I’ve been here three years and have never seen a tan on you.” 

He shook his head. “Strauss would never approve of it.”

“Hotch,” 

“Y/n, I really want to get out of this hospital room and call my son.” You shook your head, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Fine. But you’re not flying home. You have a choice between Morgan and Rossi to drive you home. My recommendation would be Morgan, you don’t want to sit through four hours of Opera music.” 

You stood up, refusing to meet his eye. You were sick of dealing with stubborn men. 

“I’ll see if they can fax your records to D.C. before we leave.” 

He muttered out a thank you as you left the room, shaking your head at the rest of the team.

“Nothing?” Morgan asked as you returned to them. 

“Nothing. Even the baby gets yelled at.” Spencer spared you a glance and you gave him a small smile. You would be fine. “And Derek, you’re driving him back.”

***

January 2010

You didn’t think it could get worse than seeing Hotch with nine stab wounds at the hands of Foyet. You desperately wanted to believe that it couldn’t be worse than that. But you were naive to think that he would let Aaron survive and not make him suffer.

None of you would be able to erase the image of Haley’s bloody body lying in the home where she and Aaron created their family. You wouldn’t forget the sight of Hotch beating into Foyet’s face, or the sobs that raked through his body once Derek had shaken him off. This was a tragedy that shaped the entire team.

After Haley’s death, the seven of you took turns checking in on Hotch, Jack, and Haley’s sister Jessica. She stayed close by when Hotch was on leave, helping him with Jack’s routine, and how to explain to the four year old where his mommy went. She moved back into her apartment a few blocks away before Aaron returned to work. He wanted to prove to her that he could do this on his own, that he could be the strong father that Jack deserved, and that Haley would be proud of.

While the three of them were together, the team would try and make it over every Saturday for dinner. Hotch needed to be around friends, and Jessica needed a guilt free night to spend with the people that made her feel good. He was reluctant at first, not wanting us over the apartment, complaining that it was a mess, and it was too small to fit everyone. But it was impeccably neat, the result of a widow not being able to sleep. Once he became comfortable with us coming around on Saturday’s, we’d pick two weeknights to stop by with a dinner, movie, or game to help take their minds off of the pain. Although you and JJ stopped by every friday regardless of whose week it was, Hotch really appreciated the extra company, and so did Jack.

Despite his attempts at being independent, there were one too many distressed calls being made to you or JJ if he couldn’t get a hold of Jess, or if he didn’t want to burden her with the responsibility. 

Your feelings about Jack Hotchner hadn’t changed in the four years since you met him. You would still do anything to see the adorable little boy smile. So, it was easy to say that you didn’t mind the late night phone calls worrying about Jack’s stuffy nose or when he should take the chicken out of the freezer without it going bad. Because the more he reached out to any one of you, the closer he was to finding a new normal. 

However, all of you were surprised to see SSA Aaron Hotchner in his office only a month and a half after the event. Sure, he made remarkable progress, but you all assumed he would take a little more time, maybe take Jack on a well deserved vacation. Instead, you walked into the office on a monday morning, Hotch the first one in attendance. 

That was two weeks ago. 

The readjustment period had worn off, and Hotch was back to being a drill sergeant. Even more aggressive than he was before. 

The case we were working was local, saving us the discomfort of sleeping in a hotel bed. We were in Virginia, investigating two murdered families, similar to ‘The Fox’.

“Who?” You asked, not familiar with the creepy nickname.

“Four years ago Karl Arnold, aka the fox, killed eight families.” Derek informed you. It must have been just before you started at the BAU. 

“Similar to this case he took the father’s wedding rings, except in his case he took them as trophies.” Spencer finished.

“Hotch, you gave evidence at Arnold’s trial. I think you should go see him.” Derek was acting unit chief since before Haley’s death, and continued his position even with Hotch’s return. Strauss was weary now more than ever to give Aaron the title back so quick.

“I’d like to take l/n with me.” You looked over to Hotch, his eyes resting on yours, waiting for your approval. 

You gave a small nod, placing your sunglasses over your eyes. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Hotch got the keys to a suburban and before you could meet him at the car, Prentiss pulled you back. 

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay with this?” She was always looking out for you, heck she was the one that made you pack extra barf bags for crime scenes. She knew meeting face to face with a family killer would do a number on you. But Hotch can’t face this guy on his own. Not after what happened.

“I’m good. Not the first time I've interrogated a psychopath.” She reluctantly nodded. 

“Okay. Just, let Hotch take the lead.” 

You gave her arm a squeeze. “I will. Let’s find this guy.”

The ride to Red Onion Supermax was a short and quiet one. Hotch filled you in on the particulars of Arnold’s case, making sure you knew it inside and out. This was a team effort after all. 

You couldn’t get a clean read on Hotch, however, on the ride over. He’d yet to crack a true smile or laugh in the weeks he’d been back, which normally wouldn’t be so out of character for him. But Reid had been trying to get him to crack with every magic trick he knew, even agreeing to let Derek joke about his lack of childhood and understanding of pop culture. But nothing worked. 

It worried you to see the regression he’s made since coming back. You knew how happy he was at home with Jack, that a smile crossed his face most of the day when he was playing legos with his son. You hoped he was here because he wanted to be, not because he felt like he had an obligation to the team or the Bureau. 

“Karl has a big ego. He’s going to answer every question with a question. He’ll try to gain the advantage with me by asking why I’m not wearing my wedding ring.” You looked down at his left hand, the gold band that you noticed on your first day, now gone, along with the woman he loved. “And then he will turn his attention to you.”

“So that’s why you brought me along.”

“Your presence will throw him off guard. And he’s going to want to describe to you in graphic detail every sexual act he committed with the families.”

“To freak me out?” Because you haven’t even met this sick bastard and you were certainly already freaked out. 

Hotch met your eye, and you knew this was only going to get worse. “To pull you into his fantasy.”

The guard radioed for the gate to open, and you tried to contain the tremors in your hands. This was a wing of psychotic sexual sadists, they would pick up on your nervous ticks.

You looked to Hotch once the gate opened, and he nodded for you to go in. 

“Go ahead.” You followed the guard in, surprised at the lack of noise you were welcomed with. “Keep your eyes forward. More than anything he’s going to want to see images of the children.”

“We can’t give him that.” You argued, as you started to hear the men from their cells. 

“We have to give him something or we’ll get nothing from him.” 

You’d kept your breathing under control the entire walk down the hallway, until a man crashed against the glass, causing you to flinch and spare a glance.

“Isn’t that, uh,-” 

“Derek Payne.” He finished for you, his eyes still straight ahead. 

“It’s reinforced glass.” You scoffed. Of course he wasn’t worried about another man ripping him apart.

“Easy for you to say, he tore apart fourteen women.”

The door opened to the interrogation room, and this time Hotch entered first. You were met with Karl Arnold, red bushy hair and a beard to match. He was average height, and a little stocky, not what you pictured him to look like.

“Hello Karl,” Hotch greeted him as we settled in on the other side of the table.

“Agent Hotchner,” He stood. “I wasn’t informed you were bringing a, uh,” He glanced at you, looking you up and down before turning back to Hotch. You really regretted wearing a white silk top with your dress pants today. “They just said two agents.”

“This is Agent-” 

“Y/n, l/n.” You tried to control the dilation of your eyes as he looked right through you. “I know all about you.”

Now you understood why Emily asked you if you were sure about this. He kept his eyes on Hotch as he started the interrogation, never looking you in the eyes longer than a second. Even if you directed a question toward him, he would only answer to Hotch. He was a misogynist. You don’t know why you’re so surprised at this discovery, he tortured wives and families.

When he offered up his book of dialogue between him and his fans, he smelled your perfume as you reached across the table to grab it. Hotch quickly took it for you, letting you sit back down in your seat. Your gut was no longer in your stomach, it was lodged in your throat. 

“How’d you lose your ring, Agent Hotchner?” It was beyond your level of profiling to understand how Hotch could just sit there and take the assault on his personal life from a man who ruined families, especially with what he’d just been through. You’d never mastered the art of compartmentalization quite like Hotch. But right now, you were thankful for your uncontrollable emotions.

“I can look past your refusal to answer my question, if you let me see the children. It’s the only way I can truly help you.” You gripped the files harder at the mention of the victims and looked at Hotch. 

“Can I speak with you for a second?” He nodded and the two of you stood. 

“Is there something wrong, y/n?” You bit back the sarcasm that was threatening to fall from your mouth. 

“Nothing’s wrong, Karl.”

You exited the interrogation room, still clutching the files close to your chest. 

“We cannot show him these.”

 He looked at Arnold, who seemed to find your eyes, even through the reflective mirror. “These images will be his undoing and will lead us to the killer.”

“These are not just images.” 

“That’s exactly what they are.” 

“Hotch, I am not about to parade a dead twelve year old girl in a bathing suit in front of a serial killer who gets off on it.” You raised your voice, not willing to compromise any respect you had left for these victims. 

“Then show him the others. It’ll gain his trust and get him talking. He won’t talk to me, he knows I know everything that gets him off. But he’ll want to tell you just what he would do to them. I told you, he wants to pull you in.”

You shook your head. “These are children! Helpless children whose fathers have to live with what this animal did to their families! These strangers do not get to see the torture and humiliation that they went through.”

“If you can’t stomach showing him what he desires, then I’ll do it. Because we’re not leaving until we get a name out of him. You’re either with the team or you’re not.” 

You scoffed. “You’re not the unit chief anymore. I do what Morgan says if we can’t come to an agreement.”

It was bold of you to remind him of his subordinate place. But you were equals now, despite the decade between you two. You didn’t have to listen to his orders if you felt they were wrong. 

He reached for the files, but you turned away from him. “I’m going in there. Not you. But I’m going to run the interrogation my way, not exposing these children. If you have a problem with that, you can call Morgan.”

You motioned for the guard to let you back in. You took your seat across from Karl, a smirk still evident on his face. 

“What, no Agent Hotchner?”

“You know, yours was one of the first cases I studied,” You started, trying to loosen up the muscles in your face. Going against every natural instinct in your body was making it hard to relax. “I’ve been fascinated ever since. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I was embarrassed with him in the room.”

“You’re embarrassed because you want to know what I did, don’t you.” You pushed out a smile, a little giggle behind it to entice him.

And of course it did. “Yes.”

“I can show you exactly what I did to them.” 

“Tell me.” You tilted your head to the side, pushing some hair behind your ear. You were fighting the bile rising in your throat with every word you exchanged with him.

“Children are so precious, so clean. But they need guidance, especially the girls.” 

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

“Girls have much more to lose than boys. It’s a fact, the female body can handle pain much better.” If this wasn’t a serial killer across from you, you’d agree with him and make some jokes about the female anatomy. But he was enjoying this, just like Hotch said. He was pulling you in.

“What did you do to them?” 

He smiled. “I showed them, what men, their fathers, and brothers, are capable of.” 

“And what is that?”

“Once I killed the children, It always amazed me how little the father fought the inevitable, the dying.”

“I never thought I would get these answers, let alone from the man himself.” You pushed out another smile, because you knew he was holding back. He was almost willing to trust you, he just needed to be groomed a little more.

“It takes a good woman, to make an honest man. And you’re prettier than Agent Hotchner.” 

He was dancing around the information now, knowing that he had your time and attention. “Karl, do you know why you killed all those families?” 

“I already told you why.”

You dropped the sweet tone, and pushed up on your elbows. “No, you told me how. And your motivations were all driven by sex, motivations you learned from your father.”

You saw him flinch, and you knew you were getting somewhere. 

“You assert your dominance by making the father, the head of the household, watch you torture, assault, and take anything you wanted from the people he’s supposed to protect. Now your admirer, they don’t have the same ambitions as you do. And normally, that would bother a man like you. You want to be adored for every single part of your mess. But like you said, they’re an admirer, not a fan. So I’m guessing it’s a woman, who you’ve really come to care for.”

He tugged on his shackled wrists, you clearly got what you were looking for.

 “Those women, those girls, they needed to be taught a lesson. How to obey who’s in charge. And you,” he laughed as he inched as far across the table as he could. “The things I would do to you if I weren’t nailed to this table. You’d be done before I could call your name.”

Before you could respond, Hotch came into the room, demanding a name. You stood up, no longer needing to play a role. 

“It must be distracting, working with such a beautiful woman everyday.” You didn’t spare him another glance as you heard him mumble out a name to Hotch, finally getting what he wanted: power over you.

“Morgan, we’ve got a name. It’s a female guard in intake. Get everybody here ASAP.” The guard led you and Hotch back down the hallway, through the lion's den, and back to the elevator. Once inside, you let out a breath. Hotch turned to look at you, but you spoke up before he had the chance. 

“Don’t ask me to do that ever again.”

You would’ve yelled at him, tore him to pieces in the elevator ride from the fourth floor to the exit, but there was a guard escorting you out. You didn’t want him to have the privilege of watching two FBI agents battle it out. And honestly, you weren’t sure if you had the heart to yell at him after all he’d been through.

But once you were escorted through the exterior gates, your team in sight, you regained the nerve to give Hotch a piece of your mind.

Not before he spoke first though. 

“You did exactly what needed to be done. I didn’t ask you to act that way toward him, and I’m sorry you feel that that was your only way in. But I’m not going to apologize for getting the name of the killer.”

“So you would have acted in the same degrading way if the roles were reversed?”

He scoffed. “Yes, I would have. Because unlike you, my feelings don’t impair my judgement or ability to do this job. You’re an asset to this team, you need to find a way to get your emotions in check.”

You stopped walking, turning around to face him. You were in the middle of the driveway now, SWAT and BAU canvassing the scene. But you were going to do this here and now.

“The only reason you brought me here was to appeal to that sick son of a bitch. The only thing that makes me an asset to you is the fact that I have a vagina and you don’t. You turned me from a Supervisory Special Agent into a fighting fuck toy! You watched as I drained every ounce of respect I had for myself to turn into what that psychopath desired, all because I wouldn’t show him pictures of innocent children.” He looked over your shoulder to the team, embarrassed that they were hearing this. “At least have the respect to look at me while I’m talking to you!”

Hotch had never heard you yell like this. You were the calm one, the baby, as Derek called you. No one ever pushed you so far over the edge to get a reaction out of you. At least, not until he did. 

“The next time you ask me, JJ, Prentiss, or Garcia to flirt our way into a serial killer's mind, to expect us to degrade ourselves in order to save another woman, I will not hesitate to report you to Strauss.” You could hear footsteps behind you, but you continued on as tears started to form in your eyes. “You used to say that my empathy was what made me an amazing agent. That my ability to connect with victims and families was the reason I’m here. So do not try and make me feel worthless for possessing something that you wish you could have. Because the way you act, with no capability for empathy, is a depressing way to live.” 

“Y/n,” Spencer rested a hand on your shoulder, but you shook it off.

“Figure out the man you want to be.”

Before you could say anything else, Spencer dragged you away from Hotch and towards the cars. You could feel the tears freely falling down your cheeks, but you made no effort to remove them. You ignored the stares from the rest of your team, not giving them the satisfaction of knowing what went down in that interrogation room. Instead, you got into the passenger seat of the suburban, and Spencer started the drive back to the office. 

Rationally, you knew you went off too hard at him. He never deliberately asked you to flirt with Arnold. He asked you to show him the pictures of Lucy, to get him to crack under the fantasy. But you refused. You would rather make yourself go through that pain than any young child. It’s what you’d always done.

Spencer tried to convince you they hadn’t heard the conversation. That they were all too focused on SWAT’s apprehending of the guard to pay attention.

“Spence,” You started and looked over at him. “We all had our earpieces in. You heard every word.”

And he was silent the rest of the ride back. You were exhausted, and you wanted nothing more than to go home and fall asleep on your couch with reruns playing in the background. But you had a mountain of paperwork to finish, and still needed to debrief when the team got back.

Halfway through your stack, the team came back to the bullpen. Prentiss gave your shoulder a comforting squeeze as she passed by, heading for her desk. Derek had agreed to let everyone go home without debriefing. This was the earliest we’d been done with a case so close to home. We needed to capitalize on our rest. 

JJ was the first to go home, excited to be home in time for dinner with Will and Henry. Prentiss and Rossi followed shortly after, going to celebrate the win of this case at an expensive restaurant, at Dave’s expense. 

“Come on you two, don’t make me drag you out of here kicking and screaming.” Derek addressed you and Reid as he pulled his coat on. 

“We’re right behind you boss man.” Spencer said and turned his desk light off, grabbing his cane. He should be able to ditch all mobility aids soon.

You swung your backpack over a shoulder and turned off your own light. You didn’t even make it out of your four foot space before Hotch called out to you.

“Y/n, could I see you before you leave?” He was standing in front of his office, on higher ground than the rest of us. Power move, you thought to yourself. But he wouldn’t be that petty.

You looked back to Reid and Moran, the former nodding to you before seeing himself to the elevator. Now it was just Spencer, his eyes begging for you to leave. 

“I don’t need to remind you how deeply you care for all of us. But if you keep putting yourself out there to comfort him, you’re going to get destroyed.” This was the first time Spencer had mentioned this to you. Sure, you’d been helping Hotch out at home, a little more than normal, but everybody was pitching in. His wife died for god's sake. 

“Spence, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He let out a sigh and fidgeted with his cane. You found it at a consignment shop on one of your weekends off, and bought it for him without hesitation. It had an eagle engraved in it’s clutch, something regal, medieval, and screamed Spencer Reid. You ignored the price, a forty dollars more than you would’ve liked to spend on a walking stick, but the look on his face when you gave it to him was priceless.

“You need to stand up for yourself. Nothing excuses the way he treated you today. Regardless of your decision to play a character.” 

God, could he read you. 

“No pair of rose colored glasses could cloud that. Not even yours.” He gave you one last shadow of a smile before limping his way to the elevator.

Once you regained your composure, you turned to make your way up to Hotch’s office. He was sitting in his chair, staring at the paperwork waiting to be filled out before him. You knocked on the open door, and he stood up without even looking at you. You were going to take Spencer’s advice and stick up for yourself, so you had to set the pace.

“Can this be quick? I wanted to get home before traffic started up.” He rounded the front of his desk, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he leaned against it. 

“I’m sorry for the way I treated you back at the prison.” You nodded, not wanting to verbally accept the apology that was due to you hours ago. “I was out of line and completely blinded by the case. I should’ve listened to you and taken your reservations into consideration. It was narcissistic of me to think I was the only one capable of making the right decision.”

“Thank you.” You stuttered out, still absorbing the tone of his voice. His word choice was self deprecating, a cry for help if you didn’t know any better. 

“Y/n,” He started but was interrupted by a shaky breath. “I hate that I made you feel like all you’re good for is to romance your way into their heads. You deserve to be treated with respect, to be valued because of your empathy and your psychological understanding of victims and their families. If I’ve ever made you feel like you were worthless before this afternoon, please tell me.”

“No, you’ve never made me feel that way.” 

He nodded before turning to grab a piece of paper from his desk. 

“Good. Because I’ve written up a complaint for Strauss, describing my behavior and language directed toward you today. You shouldn’t have to wait for a next time to file it.”

He extended the paper to you, and you walked until you were standing in front of him, accepting the complaint into your hands. But you didn’t even read it before tearing it in two. 

“What are you doing?”

“Hotch, I’m not filing a complaint against you. Everything that I did today was my choice. You didn’t force me into anything.” 

He ran a hand through his hair, the first time you’ve seen it tousled in the office.  

“I was uncomfortable showing Arnold those pictures. So I made the choice to play a character, to appeal to his fantasy. You weren’t in the room, and you didn’t suggest that. If anything, you tried more than anything to get me to stick to the script. Did you have some choice words for me that weren’t necessarily appropriate? Yes. But we all have our moments. After we got out of there, I felt sick that I had to do that to get a name out of him. It wasn’t the first time I’ve camouflaged myself for the greater good, and it won’t be the last. I took out the self hatred I had on you, because you were there. Because if I did it your way, I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror again without feeling ashamed. But you didn’t deserve it.”

“Yes, I do. I deserve to be ridiculed for telling you that your empathy is a weakness. I deserve to be ridiculed for yelling at Garcia for missing something on a search. I deserve,” 

His voice broke, and you froze in place. You were about to see Aaron Hotchner cry for the first time in four years. “I deserve to be punished for Haley’s death.”

Your own eyes started to water as you saw a single tear roll down his cheek. Without thinking, you reached forward and held his hands in your own. They were shaking, and he tried to pull them away from you. But you held on tight, you weren’t going anywhere.

“Hotch, look at me.” He kept his gaze on the windows, looking out onto the concrete roof. 

“Hotch, please.” You were quieter the second time, and that’s what got him to meet your eyes. 

“I’m not going to sit here and tell you that you could’ve prevented Haley’s death if you did one thing instead of the other. Because no matter what you did, Foyet would’ve found her, and done this all over again.” He tried to look away from you, but you tugged on his hands, begging him to stay. “But what you did prevent, was Foyet taking away the greatest thing you and Haley ever made. You saved your son, Hotch. And you ended Foyet’s reign of terror. You get to spend every day reminding Jack how amazing his mother was. How strong, resilient, and fierce she was. How she looked death in the eye and didn’t even flinch. You get to live the rest of your life for your son.”

He nodded and closed his eyes, letting the few remaining tears fall down his face. You let your own fall with the reprieve of no longer being under his stare, not wanting to fall apart when he needed you.

“I love her. I never stopped loving her. The divorce, it wasn’t because of that. It was because of this job.” 

You squeezed his hands before letting them go, letting him wipe off his face. 

“I know. And I know she never stopped loving you.”

You never thought you would get to this moment when you first met Haley. You let out a small laugh while remembering your first encounter, how pregnant and angry she was at Hotch.

“What?” You smiled and shook your head. 

“I’m just remembering the first time I met her. She was pregnant, she called you a robot, and was cracking jokes left and right to try and get you to crack.”

That got him to smile. “I could always make her laugh when we were younger. She had the funniest, most embarrassing laugh. But it was Haley. And it was addicting.” 

You wanted him to remember her like this, with a smile on her face and the loving soul she was. 

“I truly am sorry for what I said to you, but you have to know I didn’t mean it.”

You nodded. “I know you didn’t. Just apologize to Garcia in the morning, and get home to Jack. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He gave you a small smile as you picked up your backpack.

Spencer’s words stung in your ears while you were holding Hotch’s hands. You loved everyone on this team as your family. And Hotch needed you to be there for him a lot more over the last two months. Sure, you’d brushed off some harsh conversations with him considering the circumstances, but you knew when it went too far, like today.

“Y/n,” His voice pulled you from your thoughts, stopping you at the door. “Thank you.”

You nodded. “Of course.” 

Maybe you did care too much for people. But if it helped them get back to normal, you’ll continue wearing those rose colored glasses a little while longer.

***

March 2010

“I’m grocery shopping. Because I have no food in my apartment and I never thought I’d say this, but I’m sick of eating pizza.” You threw a box of cheerios in your cart, careful not to hit the eggs on their way in. 

“That’s how you’re spending your saturday? Our first saturday off in a month?” 

“Well, unless I want to spend another twenty bucks on one meal, I’ve gotta do my grown up chores.” “You need to get your butt back home so we can go out and drink.”

Emily was relentless, to say the least. Every single weekend you had off, her number popped up on your phone the minute you got home. She hated resting in her own solitude, and tried to drag you along for any activity she could think of. Shopping, drinking, walking around the national mall, and, in desperate cases, running. But her record wasn’t stellar in getting you to attend.

“I’m spending the afternoon with my couch, a book that has taken me too long to read, and probably eat an entire bag of smartfood.” You chucked a box of granola bars in your cart too when you heard a kid cry. You turned to the end of the aisle, but the parent was blocking the child. “Besides, it’s dinner tonight at Hotch’s.”

“He canceled this morning. Rossi was supposed to call and let you know.” You rolled your eyes. Of course Dave forgot. 

“Daddy! I want the poptarts!” You heard the kid yell out again. But you knew that voice, and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face.

“Em, I’ll see you on Monday. Have a shot for me.” 

“I’ll have two.”

You laughed as you hung up the phone, pushing the cart over to your favorite little boy on the planet. You didn’t think to give the father another glance when you didn’t recognize him, but that’s because Aaron Hotchner is never without a suit at the office. He was dressed in jeans now and a quarter zip, looking like a normal dad.

When you approached the two boys, Jack was leaning against the shelf, tears streaming down his cheeks as he kicked his feet against the ground. 

“It looks like SSA Hotchner could use some help profiling his son.”

Hotch was quick to stand up, meeting your eye. You only smiled while crouching down to Jack’s level. 

“Hey little man, what’s the problem here?” He wiped the tears from his cheeks, and your heart broke at the redness in his eyes.

“Daddy won’t let me get any pop tarts.” 

“That’s because you ate the whole box in one day without my permission.” Aaron argued back. 

You hid your laugh in your shoulder, not wanting to upset Jack any more. But Hotch had already caused him to spiral into a meltdown again. 

“Jack, have you ever had ants on a log?” He shook his head, tears continuing down his chubby cheeks. “Well, they were my favorite snack when I was little. It’s celery, peanut butter, and raisins all set up on a plate. And the best part is, you get to make it yourself! Now, I know how much you love peanut butter, and I bet if you ate this snack, Daddy will let you get poptarts the next time you go grocery shopping.”

“Okay.” He said and nodded his little head. “But I’m sick of grocery shopping.”

“Me too buddy.” I sat down next to him. “I do not like having to walk up and down these aisles searching for food. So, why don’t we sit here while daddy finishes his list?”

You spared a glance at Hotch and his practically full basket. You knew he would be done in ten minutes if you stayed here with Jack. 

“Are you sure?” Aaron asked and you nodded. 

“‘Course. I don’t need food that bad anyway.” He sighed and made his way back to his carriage.

You pulled a piece of paper and a pen out of your purse and handed it to Jack. 

“Aunt Jessica told me that you know how to write your name now. Can you show me?”

He sat up straight, laying the paper down on the floor. You watched as he made a loopy uppercase J, followed with big and small letters to spell out the rest of his name. 

“That’s awesome buddy. What about your last name?” 

“Hotchner!” He yelled out and you laughed. 

“Yeah, let me spell it out for you.” You wrote it out on the paper and it took him a few minutes to copy down.

“You’re turn now, y/n.” He handed you the pen and you wrote your name down, saying the letters as you wrote them. Jack repeated you, and it made you laugh. You forgot that kids were such sponges. 

By the time you finished writing Aaron and Haley’s names for Jack, Hotch was back with his cart. “Alright buddy, it’s time for us to go. We gotta let y/n finish her grocery shopping.” 

“No! I want y/n to come home with us for dinner. She was helping me spell everyone's names!”

You smiled as you stood up, giving Jack a hand. “Maybe next time buddy. But you gotta get home to try those ants on a log.”

“Actually, we’re making pizzas for dinner, Jack’s saturday choice. You can come over, if you don’t have any plans already.” You’d never heard Hotch this nervous before. It made you laugh a little. 

“I’d love to. Only if I get to put extra cheese on my pizza though.” 

“Of course!” Jack exclaimed and you matched his smile. 

“Awesome! I’ll let you two pay for all this food and I’ll meet you at your house okay?” Jack nodded before running to the front of the cart.

“You sure you don’t have any plans? I don’t want you to give up another saturday night at my expense,” 

“Hotch there is nothing more exciting than spending my weekends with the cutest four year old on the planet.” He smiled, but you knew he still wasn’t convinced. “Besides, every other twenty-nine year old I know is in a stuffy club in uncomfortable clothes. This is much more my pace.”

He nodded, a small smile on his face. “Okay. We’ll meet you at the apartment in a half an hour.” 

“Sounds good. See you soon Jack!” You waved to the little boy and quickly tried to finish buying the staples that could get you through a few days at home. 

You got home and quickly put your food away, making sure everything that needed to be refrigerated was chilled. You switched your t-shirt for a long sleeve tee, opting for sneakers instead of boots. Comfort was the utmost importance on days off.

It took you twenty minutes to get to Hotch’s apartment from yours, arriving at five on the dot. You were known for, and proud of your punctuality. Hotch answered the door after two knocks, and you couldn’t help but focus on the noise of three different locks unlocking. 

He greeted you with a slight nod of the head, button down replacing his quarter zip. 

“Do you even own comfortable clothes?” “This is comfortable.” You rolled your eyes, as he took the poptarts from your hands, raising his eyebrow at you.

“Didn’t I just have this fight with my four year old son about not buying these?” He asked as he let you in the house. 

“Yes, but I’m the fun dinner guest. I bring the treats for the children.” 

He tried to hide the small huff of a laugh that escaped his lips, but you still caught it. “You will be the death of me.”

You let out a laugh as he led you into the kitchen, putting them away on the top cabinet. I reached for my hip and pulled my holster off, putting it on the counter. 

“Do you have somewhere I can put this? Last thing I need is to drop it while I throw up my pizza dough.” He unlocked the drawer in his desk, placing it in there before locking it back up.

You heard tiny footsteps running down the hall. “Y/n! It’s pizza time!” 

You smiled as he tugged at your legs. “I know! I’m so excited!”

“Alright buddy, you’re up first. Show y/n how we properly throw our pizza dough in the air.” Hotch pushed a step stool over to the counter, waiting for Jack to step up. The grin on the little boy's face was ginormous as he powdered his hands with flour, taking the small ball of dough Hotch separated for him.

The two of you were on either side of Jack, each ready to follow his lead in the process. “Ok, on the count of three. One, two, three!” 

You spun the dough in your hands before throwing it in the air, watching it separate the slightest bit. Jack’s giggles filled the apartment as he let his dough fall onto the counter. Aaron shook his head, you could tell this part of the meal was always a struggle for the little boy.

You watched as Jack spread out the miniscule amount of sauce he wanted along his crust, topping it off with a mountain of cheese. You taught him the more cheese, the better, and he clearly still believed you. You added some pepperoni to your own oval shaped pie, unsuccessful in making a perfect circle crust. But, not everyone could be the perfect Italian chef like David Rossi.

While the pizza’s were in the oven, the three of you sat down to play a few rounds of Candyland. You hadn’t played since your time at DCFS, and you forgot how there was no real objective to the game. It certainly wasn’t your game of choice, but Jack was still a little young to be able to contend with you in a game of monopoly. A few more years, you thought.

Once the pizza’s were done, Jack helped you set the table as Hotch cut the pies. You felt a little out of place, crossing some very important boundaries by having dinner with just the two Hotchner boys. This saturday was much different than the ones you spent when the whole team was over, Henry and Jack putting on dance parties for the guests. 

You started to become more aware of your actions around the apartment; how you knew where the placemats were kept, that Jack used his purple cup for milk at dinner, and the strict no electronics rule at the table. However, that had been established by Haley years ago. The thought of her had a shot of guilt running through your stomach, sitting down with her family for dinner, just three and a half months after she’d passed. 

You’d been thinking a lot about what Spencer had said that night at the BAU. He was vague, too vague for the doctor that could tell you how long he’d been alive down to the second. After a few sleepless nights, you called the doctor in question and demanded he explain himself. But after his admission, you quickly regretted having all the information.

Spencer Reid has known you for almost five years now, and has seen you through the moments that have shaped your adult life. Killing Stephanie Moore, testifying in the fisher king case, being your excusing phone call from multiple dates, and holding your hand as you took in one of your former foster siblings from a bad relationship. There was absolutely nothing in your life that could be hidden from him.

So when he told you he noticed your feelings for Hotch ‘about two years ago’, you nearly stopped dead in your pacing tracks. Not because you didn’t know your own feelings for the man, but because you didn’t realize it had been that long. That he had been married to Haley, albeit only for a month longer, that you started to notice how handsome your boss was. Upon hearing the truth out loud, and from another person, you ran to the bathroom and threw up a few times. 

You were so embarrassed, so ashamed of caring for someone that couldn’t be yours. For caring for someone who’s wife you truly adored. After the third round of puking, Spencer reassured you through the phone that it wasn’t your fault. We can’t control who we love. And yes, he said love.

“Are you okay y/n?” Jack’s little voice pulled you from your thoughts. You smiled at his sauce covered face and nodded. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. How’s your pizza, Jack?”

“Awesome! Daddy is the best pizza cooker ever!”

“You sure you’re okay? You look a little pale,” Aaron commented and referenced your plate. You hadn’t taken a bite. 

“I’m good, really. Just thinking about how I’m going to make a bigger lego tower than Jack after dinner.”

That got the little boy to laugh, successfully switching the conversation to Jack’s favorite toys. But you noticed the glaces Hotch snuck your way, not believing you for a second. You were an awful liar. 

The longer the three of you sat at the table, the larger your smile grew around these boys. Seeing Hotch being able to relax and really enjoy his time with Jack always brought a smile to your face. He was a natural father, sliding into the role of playmate and swaddler, cuddler and soother. You even remember him helping JJ out with Henry’s swaddle at work one day.

But you knew he felt guilty, not being able to be present in his son’s life everyday. You saw it in the hundred’s of views of the video of Jack’s first steps, the late night phone calls while away on a case just to say goodnight to his little boy. He missed out on a lot of the baby years, and he would be making it up to Jack for the rest of his life, with nights like these. With the whole weekend devoted to Jack Hotchner’s favorite things, minus the sugary pop tarts. Hotch had mastered the duality of being a Supervisory Special Agent for the FBI, and the loving father to Jack Hotchner. It was one of the reasons why you started caring so much for him. 

“Alright Jack, you can build one tower with y/n, then it’s bath time and off to bed.” You saw the pout on Jack’s face as Hotch cleared our plates, and you helped him off the chair. 

“Come on, maybe if we’re quick enough we can make two.”

He giggled as he led you to his room, stuffed animals and toys galore. This boy won’t want for a thing.

“Okay, you make a big blue one, I’ll do purple.” 

You finished much quicker than the four year old, but under no circumstances would he let you sit and watch him make his masterpiece. Instead, since you had nearly two and a half feet on him, you stacked your tower on top of his and continued adding pieces to make it bigger. He cheered you on as it started to reach your head, and you were getting excited yourself. Until, it came to a crashing fall with the last green piece on top. 

“Noo!” Jack yelled out, trying to catch the falling pieces. 

“It’s okay Buddy, you can always make another one.” Aaron’s voice trying to soothe his son caught both you and the little guy’s attention.

The two of you turned to see Hotch leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. You wondered how long he’d been standing there. 

“And maybe next time, we can make one as big as daddy.”

 Hotch let out a laugh as Jack smiled at you in amazement. He liked how your brain worked. 

“Bath time, bud. We gotta get your face cleaned up from all that pizza sauce, and ship you off to bed.” 

“But y/n’s here,” He whined, not wanting the lego fun to end.

“Well I have to get home and take a shower too, bud. Don’t worry, there’s plenty more playdates in your future.” You said and stood up, giving the little boy a high five. 

“Go wait for me in the bathroom okay, I’m gonna walk y/n out.” 

“Okay. Bye bobo.” He said and ran off to the bathroom, leaving you speechless in his bedroom. 

“You let him be around Derek Morgan way too much.”

“Probably. But you can’t compete with the guy who brings over a new lego set every weekend.” Hotch got your gun for you, walking you back to the front door. 

“Are you kidding? You’re his hero, Hotch. He asked me last week if I was a superhero like daddy.” He cracked a smile, but his eyes were glued to the floor, unable to meet your own.

“Why did you cancel dinner tonight?” He sighed and lifted his head. You’d been wanting to ask him since you were at the grocery store. The team had been coming over for three months now, and it was something we all started to look forward to.

“I was sick of feeling like a burden to you all. I mean, asking you all to give up your Saturday nights, sometimes our only free night of the week to spend in my depressing apartment, it had been enough.” If only you could show this man how much the team cared for him through your eyes, he would never doubt his worth another day in his life. 

“Hotch, the highlight of my week is coming here to be with you all. My family. Watching Henry and Jack play with each other, listening to Spencer and Penelope fight over who the true godparent is, and getting to be on the receiving end of Rossi’s awesome cooking?” 

He nodded, mumbling an ‘I know’ a few times under his breath. But he needed to know that as much as you all come here for Jack, you guys care for Aaron and his well being just as much. 

“I come here every saturday to make sure that Aaron Hotchner has not dressed in a suit for the sixth day in a row, and to make sure he knows that he’s doing such an amazing job with Jack. That he is being the best father, friend, and boss, that he can be.”

This time, his eyes were locked on yours as you got a real Aaron Hotchner smile out of him, dimples and all. You couldn’t help but make a check mark in the air, the team tally still going strong. He playfully rolled his eyes as you swung your bag across your shoulder. 

“So who’s in the lead now?” 

“Me, for the last six months. I can’t be dethroned.” You felt your cheeks grow warm, hoping he wouldn’t think too much into your stat keeping. 

“Well, that seems like a pretty accurate tally.”

You made sure it was. And selfishly, you hoped no one else could get that beautiful smile to cross his face like you could. 

“Thank you for coming over. We both had a lot of fun.” 

“I did too. I’m around anytime, my tower building skills are not occupied for many other people.” He let out a laugh as he opened the door for you.

“Goodnight y/n. Let me know when you get home.” 

“I will. Night, Hotch.”

You got home in twenty minutes, texting Aaron as you walked through your door. Quickly changing into pajamas and throwing Legally Blonde into the DVD player, your phone dinged at a new message.

It was from Hotch, a picture attached to the message. It was of Jack, towel wrapped around his head, eyes shut from grinning so wide. ‘He wanted me to send this to you. He said, ‘this is how happy I am that y/n was here tonight.’ Thanks again for everything. Goodnight.”

You couldn’t help the tears that pooled in your eyes at the sweet little boy in the picture, and his amazing dad behind the camera.

****

tags: @simplyprentiss @michaelahah @ssahotchner99 @svrgicalhands @hotchtopic @unionjackpillow @philcoolson @tommhollandzxhaz @kathleenjasmine @canimarrypizzaornah @reaperwalking @inlovewithaaronhotchner @shelbymm11 @mrshotchner23 @tropicalwrites

[hdgaywriting]

Eighth Year - Drarry Fic

Part One:

           Harry woke up to the smell of bacon and the soft coos of Pigwidgeon. It had been months now that he could wake up relaxed, easing into the routine of the Weasleys. After all he'd been through, the consistency felt nice. He stretched his arms and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes before putting on his glasses and blinking the world into a sharp image. Glancing around the room, he noticed that Ron was already awake, given his bed was an empty lump of sheets. This was the first time all summer that Ron had gotten up before Harry, and he suspected it was due to the occasion – their return to Hogwarts.

Harry and his best friends had honestly not been anticipating living through the war, but eventually they stopped being able to dodge the question of what comes next. Harry had immediately been offered a job as an auror following Voldemort's downfall, and Ron thought he was going to land some job at the Ministry. It was Hermione that proposed the trio go back to schooling.

"If you think about it, we've only completed six years," she'd said. The two boys, her boys, were still in a post-war stupor then, not willing to dwell on their days at Hogwarts quite yet.

"Hermione," Ron said, through a mouthful of lunch, "we're 18 now. We're too old for Hogwarts. Besides, what can they teach us that we don't already know?"

"Lots of things, Ronald," Hermione said with a stubborn edge in her voice. "After all the insanity that happened, we deserve a chance to be normal students." She looked at Harry for defense, but he was too stunned with the flood of emotion to say anything, so she continued. "Refinement. New spells. New potions. You're never too old to learn. Besides, after Voldemort's downfall, they're bound to teach students differently. The whole curriculum will be different and I don't want to miss out!"

Harry's breath hitched imperceptibly when Hermione said Voldemort's name. Not because he was scared – he hadn't been scared of saying Voldemort's name in years – but because Hermione said it so boldly. In a way, it was comforting. It served as another reminder that he really was gone.

When he looked up, he caught Hermione's gaze. She had a sparkle in her eye talking about Hogwarts and the idea of going back. He mulled over the thought of an eighth year, and after a bit of a back and forth with Ron, they eventually had decided to enroll at Hogwarts one last time.

He walked into the bright kitchen as he did every morning. Ginny walked over to Harry and pecked him on the cheek. "Morning sweetheart," she sang. Ginny was offended when Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had asked her if she'd be returning. She practically yelled that obviously she was, then insisted the conversation end there. That was something that always impressed Harry about his fiery girlfriend – her unabashed way of standing up for herself. It was a skill she grew into over the past few years, and it made Harry's heart skip a beat every time she'd stride over to him and grab him boldly by the shoulders to plant a kiss on his mouth.

Ron was sitting on the counter, leaning his chin onto Hermione's head, who was standing between his legs. His hands carelessly rested at her hip. When Hermione lifted her gaze from the morning's issue of The Daily Prophet, she gave Harry a soft smile.

"Oy, Harry!" Ron exclaimed with a bit of devilish excitement. "We made the paper!"

Harry looked surprise, and grabbed it from Hermione's hands.

"Hey!" she quipped.

"Sorry," Harry muttered as he thumbed through the black and white pages and moving pictures. He came across the article Ron was talking about. Golden Trio Start Final Term at Hogwarts – Again! the paper read. Harry rolled his eyes. He shoved the paper back at Hermione and sat down, not wanting to read what it said. He had hoped that defeating Voldemort would be the end to his fame. He thought he'd be able to settle down with Ginny and live a nice life in peace.

"The Golden Trio," Harry said, "I mean, c'mon." The nickname referred to him, Hermione, and Ron, and was becoming a popular phrase around Britain.

"At least they're finally getting recognition," he heard Ginny lament. And he knew she was right. For so long it had been Harry vs. the world, so some solidarity felt nice.

"It's just cheesy," he said as he chomped on a piece of bacon.

Harry watched different Weasleys float in and out of the kitchen as the morning progressed. He was definitely going to miss it here. The Weasleys were the family he never had but always wanted. The way they absorbed and protected people like him and Hermione was what made them some of his favorite people. All summer he'd gotten to know the eldest Weasley children, too. Bill, and his wife Fleur decided to travel around the world for a while after the Battle of Hogwarts, and in-between each trip they'd spend a couple weeks with their family. Charlie moved back home for a while too, before agreeing (or being bullied into) getting a flat with Percy. But Percy had proved to be so insufferable, that Charlie visited enough to make it seem as if he'd never left. He'd come in, flopping onto the couch and complaining about "our tight-ass prat of a brother, lecturing me about chores and informing me about the inner-workings of the Ministry."

It was hard for Charlie to walk back into life at the Weasleys because he'd been in Romania so long. Charlie was an independent. He refused to be reined in. He wore all black all the time, painted his nails, and sometimes sported a dangly earring. He'd even had a secret tattoo on his back of a dragon breathing fire. It was charmed so that the dragon flew around between his shoulder blades.

But besides the commentary on his style choices, Charlie struggled with Percy's betrayal and Fred's death. They all did, of course, but besides George and Mrs. Weasley, Charlie seemed to have the most grief. He wished he had never gone to Romania, he confessed to Harry one night when he was wine drunk. Harry told him he didn't mean it, but Charlie insisted and tears welled in his eyes. That was the first time Harry had ever thought any boy was pretty. The way the grief bubbled up into his face like a delicate thing Charlie wasn't used to after having spent so long with gritty dragons stood out.

It was with Charlie that Harry opened up to about his nerves returning to Hogwarts. About how sad it made him, in a way. It wasn't the Hogwarts he fell in love with at age 11. This was a post-war Hogwarts, where Dumbledore and Snape and Lupin and Fred would never step foot in again. It's where he faced Voldemort for the last time, and where so many people had died. He wanted so desperately to relive the magic of boating across the lake and McGonagall smiling at him when he'd been sorted Gryffindor. He wanted the stupid late-night adventures with Ron and Hermione. He wanted the Hogwarts that didn't put him in peril.

McGonagall was now the headmaster, and it was she who permitted the Golden Trio to return for a final year. She said it was her duty as an educator to allow them the full extent of a Hogwarts Education, but Harry suspected she'd had a soft spot for them. When Hermione sent her an owl, she'd told McGonagall that the three of them needed accommodations of sorts, since they would not be the typical students. McGonagall's reply came the next day. She was in agreement that matriculation would be different, and that they could expect any resources for maintaining optimal mental health, first pick of class schedule, access to a special dormitory that was being built for eighth year students, and the promise to negotiate any other contingencies. She also offered them enrollment in a new class taught by an incoming professor for those with advanced skill in combative magic and magical defense. She included that what they should NOT expect was leniency in grading, pity, special privileges, or any other pish posh of the sort.

Ron and Harry were immediately thrilled, but Hermione pouted.

"I'm writing back," she had said.

"Why?" Harry questioned as she furiously scribbled with a fresh quill.

"Because I want to be re-instated as Head Girl," Hermione said, "and I want access to the restricted section of the library."

Ron laughed warmly from his chest. "Tell her, love." In the end, Hermione (mostly) got her way. McGonagall said that she could co-Head Girl, but giving her the sole title would be unfair to the incoming student. Additionally, the restricted section of the library would soon be rid of all dangerous dark magic books and then open to all students with approval from the librarian.

It seemed so soon after Harry's discovery of the headline of the news that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley came bustling into the room saying that it was time for them to get going to King's Cross. The lot of them set off in just as much of a messy haste as ever.

Walking into King's Cross was surreal. Arthur and Molly were the first to press through the brick wall to get to Platform 9 and three quarters. Following them was Charlie, followed closely by Percy, then Ron and Hermione. Harry stood with Ginny's hand wrapped in his. He absentmindedly rubbed his thumb against her fingers.

"Ready for the Hogwarts Express?" Ginny said, eyes twinkling. Harry raised her hand to his lips and kissed it before saying of course. Ginny rushed through with zero fear. She disappeared in a flash of red hair.

After Harry dipped through he found the platform to be more familiar than he thought it would be. The dozens of families wrapping their kids in their arms made him smile almost as much as the youngins waving with their heads poking out through the windows. In a way he felt too old to be going back to school, but in a different, more prominent way, he felt the excitement and potential of Hogwarts filling him.

The train was smooth as it started speeding down the tracks. Ginny was waving goodbye to her brothers and parents, and Ron and Hermione were talking in quiet voices. Harry didn't want to interrupt, so he decided after a while to go explore the cabins and search for some familiar faces. Now that he thought about it, he realized all summer he'd just assumed he and his best friends were the only eighth years returning to Hogwarts, but he didn't actually know.

Before long he had traipsed up and down several cabins, seeing nobody from his original class. He was about to give up when a long shimmer of blonde, wavy hair caught his attention. He rushed up to the girl and plopped down in front of her.

"Oh, hello, Harry," Luna said in a sweet voice. "How are you?" She spoke softly just as she always had, like nothing changed.

"I'm fine, Luna, and you?" He paused for a moment before continuing. "It is so good to see you. Hermione and Ron are here as well."

She smiled widely. "That's lovely!" she said. "Are you lot staying in the new dormitory? It's a small one near where the bridge used to be. You know, the one Seamus blew up?" her wide eyes bore into him. Harry had a painful jolt when she talked about the destruction from the Battle of Hogwarts, but nodded and smiled through it.

"Oy, is Neville here?" he said.

"No," Luna said nonchalantly. "He's been given a job at a magical plant greenhouse. He really loves it. He brings my dad and me organic dirigible fruit and all sorts of magical plants to snack on. He says the mulch helps his head stay clear." The way Luna talked was as if she was reporting information. Which made sense, Harry thought, consider her dad was a journalist with his own magazine. "Harry," Luna said, snapping him out of his thoughts, "remember to sweep for nargles. They've really been prominent this year." She flipped her pink and blue glasses down from her forehead and gave him another wide smile.

"Sure thing, Luna" Harry said as he stood up. "We'll get lunch sometime." His mind was still with Luna when he ran into the last person he wanted to see.

Draco Malfoy was staring Harry down.

[papermoonloveslucy]

HUMILIATED & UNHAPPY

July 16, 1960

TV Guide ~ July 16-22, 1960 (Vol.8, No.29 & Issue #381) Cover photo by Sherm Weisberg, Fashions by Sacks Fifth Avenue

This was Lucille Ball’s tenth (of 39) TV Guide covers. 

“A VISIT WITH LUCILLE BALL” by Dan Jenkins

On January 19, 1953, Desi Arnaz rushed exultantly into the Hollywood Brown Derby, grinning that wide, idiotic grin common to new fathers for the past several eons. Striding down a side isle, he threw his arms excitedly in the air and shouted, "Now we got everythin'!" By "everythin'," Arnaz was encompassing quite a bit of territory - an eight-pound son born that morning, the birth of the Ricardo son on ‘I Love Lucy’ that same night and a gold-plated peak of popularity for a television series which, in all probability, will never again be approached. On May 4, 1960, just seven years later, Desi Arnaz and Lucille Ball, quite possibly the most widely known couple in show-business history, were divorced. She had sued for divorce once before (she didn't complete the proceedings), but that was back in 1944 when Desi was a corporal in the Army, Lucy was a star at MGM and World War II was getting all the headlines. By 1960, the Lucy-Desi combine had made so many headlines that no one even bothered to look at the press-clipping scrapbooks any more, or the countless awards that had rolled in on them from all over the country. On an overcast spring afternoon, just 10 days after the divorce, Lucille Ball was sitting in her small but tastefully decorated dressing room on the Desilu lot. That morning, during a short drive over to the neighboring Paramount lot to confer with the producers of her upcoming picture with Bob Hope, she had stuck her head out the window of her chauffeur-driven car and shouted to a friend, "Hi! Remember me? I used to work at Desilu." The remark was not only typical of Lucy Ball but an unwitting reflection of her character and a classic off-the-cuff example of the laugh-clown-laugh tradition. Like most true clowns, Lucy is not a jovial, outgoing person. Her devastating sense of humor, often with a cutting edge, is reserved for her friends. In her dealings with the press she is precise, truthful - and sparing with words. A newsman asked her recently if she had plans to marry again. Lucy stared at him for a few seconds and said simply, "No." (1) The newsman felt that Lucy had missed her calling and should be rushed into the negotiations with Khrushchev forthwith. Relaxing (which is to say, at least sitting down for a few minutes) with an old friend in her dressing room that spring afternoon, Lucy alternated between abrupt sentences and spilled-over paragraphs. On the subject of her immediate plans, she talked almost as though by rote. "I start rehearsals this week for a picture with Bob Hope. It's called 'The Facts of Life.' [She did not wince at the title.] I liked it the minute I read the script and said I'd do it if Bob would. It's written and produced by Norman Panama and Melvin Frank. We have a 10-week shooting schedule. "Then I go to New York with the two children, my mother and two maids. We have a seven-room apartment on 69th Street at Lexington. I'll start rehearsals right away for a Broadway show, 'Wildcat.' It's a comedy with music, not a musical comedy, but the music is important. I play a girl wildcatter in the Southwestern oil fields around the turn of the century. It was written by N. Richard Nash, who wrote 'The Rainmaker.' He is co-producer with Michael Kidd, the director. We're still looking for a leading man. I want an unknown. He has to be big, husky, around 40. He has to be able to throw me around, and I'm a pretty big girl. He has to be able to sing, at least a little. (2) I have to sing, too. It's pretty bad. When I practice, I hold my hands over my ears. We open out of town - I don't know where - and come to New York in December. [Ed. Note: ‘Wildcat’ is now scheduled to make its debut in Philadelphia in November.] (3) "I'm terrified. I've never been on the stage before, except in 'Dream Girl' years ago. But we always filmed ‘I Love Lucy’ before a live audience. I knew a long time ago that I was eventually going to go to Broadway and that's one reason why we shot Lucy that way. But I'm still terrified. The contract for the play runs 18 months. Maybe it will last that long. Maybe longer. And maybe it will last three days." (4) The phone rang. A man's voice, the resonant kind which a telephone seems to make louder, wanted to know if Lucy would like to go out that night. Lucy's expression indicated that the whole idea was a bore but the man prattled on. He apparently had a commitment to attend a young night-club singer's act. "I've seen him twice already," Lucy said into the phone, "and his press agent is now saying I've been there eight times. If I go again the kid will be saying I'm in love with him. He's 2-feet-6 and nine years old. I don't want any part of it." The voice on the phone turned to a tone of urgent pleading. Lucy held the phone away from her at arms length and looked to the ceiling for advice and guidance. She finally hung up. "I go out because people ask me to," she said. "I have no love for night clubs, unless there's an act I especially want to see. And I don't especially want to see this kid's again." She lit another cigarette. "Nervous habit," she said. "I don't inhale, never did. Just nerves.” "I get tired too easily. The reaction is beginning to set in. I've had pneumonia twice in a year. That's not good." There was a long silence. Even for old friends, Lucy is not an easy person to talk to. "I filed for the divorce the day after I finished my last piece of film under the Westinghouse contract," she said suddenly. "I should have done it long ago." Would there ever be any more Lucy-Desi specials like those Westinghouse had sponsored? (5) She stared. "No," she said abruptly. She paused. "Even if everything were alright, we'd never work together again. We had six years of a pretty successful series and two years of specials. Why try to top it? That would be foolish. We always knew that when the time came to quit, we'd quit. We were lucky. We quit while we were still ahead." Was she happy?

Another stare. "Am I happy? No. Not yet. I will be. I've been humiliated. That's not easy for a woman." She started to talk about the recent years with Desi. She talked in a quiet, factual monotone, a voice that had been all through bitterness and was now beyond it. She talked with an implicit faith that what she was saying was off the record. It was. Some day, it was suggested to her, somebody was going to write the story. She stared. "Who would want to?" (6) She looked over at the framed picture of Desi that stood on a small table. "Look at him," she said. "That's the way he looked 10 years ago. He doesn't look like that now. He'll never look like that again." The door was opened and a spring breeze began drawing some of the heavy cigarette smoke out of the room. Lucy smiled a little and turned to her desk. "Try to write," she said finally, "more than I said but not as much as I said." 

FOOTNOTES

(1) Lucille Ball did indeed marry again - to Gary Morton (born Morton Goldaper) on November 21, 1961.  They remained married until her death. 

(2) Gordon MacRae, Jock Mahoney, and Gene Barry were considered before Lucille selected Keith Andes to play the role of Joe Dynamite. He was indeed 40 years old at the time of casting. He committed suicide in 2005. 

(3) 'Wildcat’s’ Philadelphia tryout opened on October 29, 1960. The Broadway opening had to be postponed when trucks hauling the sets and costumes to New York were stranded on the New Jersey Turnpike by a major blizzard. After two previews, the show opened on December 16th at Broadway’s Alvin (now Neil Simon) Theatre.

(4) ‘Wildcat’ ran for 171 regular performances. The show was on hiatus from February 5, 1961 through February 9, 1961 during Lucille Ball's illness. The production was to take a 9-week hiatus after June 3rd, 1961 and re-open August 7, 1961, to complete Ball’s contract, but the show closed and did not return due to Ball’s physical exhaustion. 

(5) Jenkins is referring to the 13 “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hours” which were part of the “Westinghouse-Desilu Playhouse” which continued the adventures of the Ricardos and the Mertzes, including guest stars, musical numbers, and travel-themed episodes. 

(6) Lucy and Desi’s tempestuous marriage has been the subject of several books, two television movies, an award-winning documentary, and at least one stage musical! 

TV Guide columnist Dan Jenkins had his name used by “I Love Lucy” in “Redecorating” (ILL S2;E8) in 1952 for the used furniture salesman played by Hans Conried.  His name was also mentioned in “Lucy and Ethel Buy The Same Dress” (S3;E3) as a possible emcee for their television show.  His qualifications? He plays tissue paper and comb! 

In 1953, when Lucille Ball was accused of being a Communist, the real Dan Jenkins stood up at a press conference and said “Well, I think we all owe Lucy a vote of thanks, and I think a lot of us owe her an apology.” Lucy and Desi walked over to where Jenkins was standing and gave him a huge hug. Jenkins later said, “From that time on, we were very good friends.”  His last interview with Lucy was in 1986 during “Life with Lucy.” 

OTHER ARTICLES

“Shari Lewis and her Puppets” - Lewis was a ventriloquist who’s main character was the sock puppet Lambchop.  In 1960, after years of guest-starring on television, Lewis got her own show, which lasted three years on NBC. 

“Ty Hardin’s Whirlwind Career” - Ty Hardin and his western show “Bronco” (1958-63) was ABC TV’s answer to Clint Walker’s “Cheyenne”.  

“From the Mouth’s of Babes Comes Happy’s Gimmick” - “Happy” (1960-61) was the nickname of a baby, who’s thoughts could be heard by the viewers in this one-season sitcom.  It was filmed at Desilu Studios. 

“The Untouchables - Fact and Fiction: Part 2″ - “The Untouchables” (1959-63) was a series that began on “The Westinghouse-Desilu Playhouse” and turned into a hit weekly show by Desilu. 

PHOTO FEATURES

“Linkletter’s Packing Tips” - Art Linkletter was one of television’s most popular hosts and presenters. Lucille Ball appeared on his show “House Party” in 1965 as well as a 1966 episode of “The Lucy Show” and a 1970 episode of “Here’s Lucy,” both times playing himself. 

“Connie Stevens’ Calorie Counter” - Connie Stevens was a singer and actress then playing Cricket Blake on “Hawaiian Eye” (1959-63). 

REVIEW

“Mystery Show” - was a mystery anthology series broadcast on NBC from May 1960 to September 1960 as a summer replacement for “The Dinah Shore Chevy Show” with Walter Slezak as host, except for the last three episodes, which had Vincent Price as host.

At the time Evelyn Bigsby was the Associate Managing Editor for Women’s Features at TV Guide’s Hollywood Bureau. Her name was given to the new mother (played by Mary Jane Croft) who sits next to Lucy on the plane in “Return Home From Europe” (ILL S5;E26) in 1956. 

Depending on the time zone, “I Love Lucy” was re-run every morning at 10 or 11am. Here it competed with “The Price Is Right” which was broadcast in color!  NBC (RCA) was the leader in color television and staked its claim far soon than CBS. “The Lucy Show” didn’t air in color until the fall of 1965. 

In another market, “I Love Lucy” ran weekdays at 10am. This edition (same cover and feature articles, different listings) included “Lucy” episode descriptions, while others did not. Notice that an hour earlier the same channel re-ran Desilu’s series “December Bride”. On Monday, July 18, 1960, the re-run was “Second Honeymoon” (ILL S5;E14).  From this we can logically assume that this week, in this particular TV market, channel 2 and 8 presented:

TUESDAY, JULY 19, 1960 - “Lucy Meets the Queen (ILL S5;E15)

WEDNESDAY, JULY 20, 1960 - “The Fox Hunt” (ILL S5;E16)

THURSDAY, JULY 21, 1960 -  “Lucy Goes To Scotland” (ILL S5;E17)

FRIDAY, JULY 22, 1960 - “Paris at Last” (ILL S5;E18)

On Tuesday, July 19, 1960, at 8:30pm, CBS aired the unsold pilot for "Head of the Family". The pilot had Carl Reiner as TV writer Rob Petrie, Barbara Britton as Rob's wife Laura, Sylvia Miles as Sally Rogers, and Morty Gunty as Buddy Sorrell. In 1961, CBS would score a hit with a new name and a new cast of Dick Van Dyke, Mary Tyler Moore, Rose Marie, and Morey Amsterdam, filmed at Desilu Studios. 

For American TV viewers, this was the week between the Democratic National Convention (July 11-15) and the Republican National Convention (July 25-28).  Both parties affirmed their November presidential candidates: John F. Kennedy (D) and Richard M. Nixon (R). Kennedy would prove the victor on Election Day. 

Eight years earlier, in July 1952, an estimated 70 million voters watched the broadcasts, which ended with the nominations of Adlai Stevenson II and Dwight D. Eisenhower.  Although the conventions were also televised in 1948, few Americans owned a TV set to watch them. There was a popular myth that Stevenson lost the election because of backlash from interrupting airings of “I Love Lucy” with hour-long campaign ads. Another story has Stevenson receiving a telegram from a Lucy fan that read: “I love Lucy, but I hate you.”  The situation was paralleled on “I Love Lucy” in “The Club Election” (ILL S2;E19).  By 1956, the conventions were less a novelty on television, and drew smaller ratings and less attention. In the summer of 1956, Lucy and Desi were preparing their sixth and final season of “I Love Lucy” and storylines had to revolve around big name guest stars (Orson Welles and Bob Hope) and the move to Connecticut. 

Lucille Ball’s last appearance as Lucy Ricardo was on April 1, 1960, just four and a half months before this issue of TV Guide hit the stands. She wouldn’t return to series television until September 1962, by which time Lucille will be back on the cover of TV Guide once again.  She remained a yearly fixture on the Guide cover until 1974 and then made only one more original appearance to mark her return with “Life With Lucy.” 

After this article comes out, the next time TV viewers see Lucille Ball on their home screens is to promote her film with Bob Hope, The Facts of Life, on “The Garry Moore Show” on September 27, 1960. The film opened in November 1960. 

For more about TV Guide and “I Love Lucy” click here!  

[fleurdeliszt]

this is ALL @abunnycotton ‘s fault. Pls direct all ur anon hate at her 

For those confused, it’a sequel to this https://kimcottonbear.tumblr.com/post/183332179653/so-this-is-all-abunnycotton-s-fault-she-wanted

Also it should go without saying that this is a work of fiction. There's a a lot of bad stuff in here and if you ever meet a guy like this irl, run.

Warnings : emotional manipulation, abuse

//

“Don't you think that idol from XX company is creepy?” (+34, -1560)

“ㅋㅋㅋㅋ you mean the leader of the new boy group yeah he has serial killer vibes” (+20, -1005)

“YALL MUST be kidding bc that is an actual angel??” (+2070, -12)

“What do i-fans know of Koreans? ㅋㅋ go back to your country instead of leaving comments on Naver” (+17, -172)

“His eyes are so cold it's like he has no soul” (+23, -78)

“that's kind of my type tbh” (+268, -89)

“Aren't those all XX idols? Their company idols are all robots” (+134, -76)

//

There are downsides to letting you debut. For one thing you're very much in the public eye and it makes it very difficult for him to reach you.

For another it has encouraged unsavory individuals delusional fantasies about how you belong to them.

//

“they say if you stalk XX gg you will die” (+451, -170)

“lol wtf” (+781, -53)

“you shouldn't be stalking anyone in the first place (+1704, -5)

“No but really, it's just one member.” (+561, -351)

“this is ridiculous you're all idiots, stop stalking celebs and get a life” (+2718, -198)

//

“Hyung.”

He turns around.

The same boy who 5 years ago grinned at him carefree and happy now has an odd expression on his face.

He smiles, settling down on the sofa and beckoning the younger boy closer.

To his amusement, the boy merely flinches.

“Is there something wrong?” His tone is gentle, and the wounded expression on the boy's face grows.

“It's nothing hyung.”

//

Recently he's found it difficult to focus. It might have to do with the numerous articles being released about you.

It might have to do with your rising popularity. Or your recent dating scandal.

Or the fact that you were no longer under his control.

His and your schedules barely ever overlapped and he found it increasingly irritating that you had a world tour coming up in the next few weeks.

He himself had his musicals and various other projects and was just plainly too busy to bother with you, but--

But.

It was infuriating and agitating for things to not go his way.

He would clench his teeth and bear it for a while. But not for too long.

//

There is another award show tonight.

He's sick of them.

Yet, he smiles at the cameras as he always does and locks eyes with you for a beat longer than necessary.

Lights blink and flash wildly around the both of you as you bashfully duck your face and turn away. He lets a smile touch his lips.

//

A magazine falls in front of him.

‘Netizens suspect popular boy group member A to be dating labelmate,’ the headline seems to jump out at him. He hides his smile behind his mug of coffee.

“Oh?” He raises his eyebrow at his group member, “What's this?”

“Trashy rumors,” his fellow member sniggers, “But manager still wants to talk you. Don't get into trouble hyung.”

A pause and then,

“It's not real, is it?”

He stands up and walks to the door to meet his manager without answering the question.

//

You sit there, tears overflowing onto your cheeks.

You have never looked more beautiful to him. He wants to wipe away the tears and kiss the tear tracks, all the way up to your lips. However, there are other important matters to attend to.

Like the disappointed looks your managers are aiming at you both.

“Why are you harassing her over some netizen comments?” His voice is cold.

“You know it's not like that,” his manager hastily assures him, “It'd be fine if it's just random comments. But somebody's been leaking pics of both of you. It looks bad.”

Of course it did. He leaked them himself.

The crying by his side gets louder.

“This is such a bad time to be in a scandal,” your manager sighs,”Couldn't you have been a little more careful?”

“We aren't dating!” You exclaim, “Please explain to them,” you beseech him and he sighs.

“We aren't dating,” he repeats and both the managers give you incredulous looks.

“You're kissing her forehead here,” he points it out at you, and you turn crimson.

“We're friends.” Your denial irritates him to no extent, but it doesn't matter. At least, not now.

“You can release a statement saying as such. That we're really close or something.”

Your manager sighs. “So much trouble over nothing. Nobody will believe this we're just friends excuse. At this point I wish you were dating. It'd be easier to explain.”

“We'll discuss it with the CEO. You'll probably be called soon as well.”

He ducks his head in apology even though he can't stop the smile stretching his lips.

//

To his irritation, his company just chooses not to acknowledge the issue.

It blows over after a while, like everything always does in the entertainment industry.

It does have added unwanted effect of making your popularity skyrocket.

You're casted on more shows, more collaborations. Your talent is finally recognized, as countless people comb through your fancams to find flaws and instead find an honestly endearing girl.

The nation is smitten.

Fantastic, he thinks bitterly, sipping his coffee.

//

“Do you think hyung is dating her?”

“They seem close.”

“Do they really though? They barely ever hang out after that news release of him and her.”

“Should I ask her out then?”

“Are you insane? What if hyung knows?”

“What does it matter to him? It's not like they're dating.”

His fingers dig into his palms so hard he can see indents.

//

It's time for drastic measures.

//

He didn't want to do it. Not really. He liked maintaining status quo.

You forced his hand though. Quite impudent of you, but that's why he liked you.

//

Your world tour is next week.

He's at your place, not the dorms, your actual house, where you lived with your parents.

“I didn't know you needed that music file so urgently!” You look bashful,”I thought I could take the demo home and practice a bit.”

“Yes well, it's the only copy so we need it.” It's the only copy because he has deleted other copies but you didn't need to know that.

“Please wait a minute,” your entire face is crimson and he likes it. A lot.

You hand over the USB to him, hesitating. He knows you like him. He knows you want him to spend a little longer at your place. He knows and yet he waits for you to speak.

“Uh- do you want to eat or drink something?”

Perfect. He smiles politely at you, nodding as you disappear into the kitchen.

It's time.

//

Your scream sounds like music to him and as it's abruptly cut off he sighs. Oh well.

Arranging his face into concern and fear, he moves quickly to spot you lying at the bottom of the stairs, your leg sprawled at an unnatural angle.

He had to actively stop his smile because this had gone exactly, if not better than his plans.

//

He rushes you to the hospital.

//

“He was at her place lol how much more proof do we need” (+5647, -234)

“I'm so worried for her, it looks like she really will have to take a break, her leg looks bad” (+1236, -367)

“what a bitch lol inviting guys to her place. Bet he's not the first one” (+657, -200)

“will her concert schedules be okay, I got the tickets after so long now I can't see her” (+749, -137)

//

He refuses to leave the hospital.

Even though it's him that's the reason for all of this, he feels an unfamiliar niggling in his heart.

Guilt.

It's for your own good, he tells himself sternly.

He's just not sure he believes it anymore.

//

“He stayed here all night.”

“What?” You almost sit up, but the pain that shoots through your broken leg makes you whimper.

“Don't push yourself,” your leader smiles, “He must really like you, though.”

“He's just guilty probably,” you sigh. “That's just like him though, to feel guilty over things that are out of his control.”

“Do you want to see him?”

“Am I allowed to?” You pout, “They probably won't let him in because it'd cause a bigger issue.”

“Leave that to your unnie,” she grins at you, and you grin back, feeling lucky to be so loved.

//

“Hi,” he waves at you, a bit awkward, and so very handsome that you blush.

“Hi,” you smile back, feeling like a 14 year old once again.

“Is that… Are you feeling okay?”

“I am,” you smile, “I'm glad I hadn't broken my neck. The doctor said it's a very real possibility.”

He looks alarmed.

“It didn't happen!” You wave your arms at him, laughing, “I'm fine now.”

“But you would have...died.” The last word is a quiet whisper.

You shrug, trying to make light of it despite your fingers trembling against your sheets. “It didn't happen so, don't worry about it.”

He looks at your a moment, and pulls you into a sudden embrace.

“I couldn't bear to lose you.”

Your heart pitter-patters in your chest. He's so close to you, you can feel his warm breath washing across your neck, his large hands that grasp your waist, the lingering scent of last night's cologne mixed with something more him.

“I really wouldn't survive losing you,” he whispers, and your head spins with the implications of his words.

He pulls back, his eyes bright with intensity. “I love you.”

//

“So they were dating.”

“I'm glad I didn't ask her out, hyung would have murdered me.”

//

IS this over? Idk.. Did he change in those last few minutes of the story? Uh no.. He’still crazy, hes probably always going to be that way lol unless he gets help. I was really really really inspired by Toma from amnesia (if any of u have played that pls feel free to hit me up!!! Absolutely in love with Shin and uhh Toma sgdjdk pls don’t judge) I haven't had this urge to write in so longgg omg 

[sassycassie-s-series]

All My Fault 7

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): DC, BatFam - Damian Wayne/Batman

Rating: PG

Notes: (Masterlist) Ooh now the internet’s getting involved. Everything isn’t quite going to Jason’s original plan, but the modifications make it better XD It was kinda fun coming up with everyone’s handles. Fun fact, this is the first time Cloudy’s first name is used/revealed!

Tag List (Open): @batboys-and-other-messes​ @welovegroot @nanna-the-batmum @probsjosh

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6

^^^^^

Knock-knock!

I glanced up from where I was bandaging my bleeding knuckles after the first patrol I’d been on since I arrived in the future. “Who is it?” I called.

“Damian,” Damian’s voice replied.

“Come in,” I said.

The door to my bedroom creaked open. “You’re trending,” he said, stepping in.

“Huh?”

“The Instagram photo you shared to your Cloudburst account at the beginning of the night has gone absolutely viral.” Damian approached me. “Here. Let me wrap your right hand.” He took the bandages from me with one hand, and my right hand in his other one. Gently, he began to wrap the bandage around my bleeding knuckles that had split open again when I showered.

I grinned. I’d taken a photo of my boots standing on the edge of a skyscraper and captioned it, “It’s good to be home. #CloudburstsBack” and put it on my old verified @CloudburstofGotham Instagram account, also sharing it to my vigilante Twitter. “Thanks,” I said to Damian while I picked up my phone and opened Instagram—then Twitter. The hashtag #CloudburstsBack was trending on both platforms.

Every single vigilante and hero who knew me and had social media accounts for their hero personas had liked and commented on it. One was Clark Kent, though, on his personal account that he used for journalism. Asking if he could get an exclusive interview for the Daily Planet. Vicki Vale was asking the same, but for the Gotham Gazette. Part of me wanted to keep my city pride and accept Vale’s invitation over Clark’s, but the other that really didn’t like Vicki—she just rubbed me the wrong way—wanted to accept Clark’s. Also because he was a friend.

“Well, this is going to be interesting,” I said, setting my phone down. Damian tied off the bandages. “Thank you. If I’d done that on my own they’d be a mess. My left hand is so useless at refined motor control.”

He nodded in acknowledgment. “Did you… enjoy patrol?”

“Heck yeah. Two days in a future I don’t know but patrol is a constant. Felt almost like old times. You’re a lot taller to fight next to now, though,” I said. “I used to be able to throw stuff over your head. But I guess now it’s my turn to get stuff thrown over my head.”

Damian gave a little, “Hmm,” that sounded more like a laugh than a grunt. “I suppose it is,” he said. He set his hands on my shoulders. “It is unfamiliar to have you be so much smaller than I am.”

“We should spar tomorrow. Get used to the difference,” I suggested, sitting down on my bed with my hairbrush and combing through my wet hair. “Do a partner-up where we go against Jay, Dick, and Tim. I missed a lot and you and Tim growing taller is one of those things.”

“Drake only grew three extra inches,” Damian remarked, sitting in my desk chair on a gesture from me.

“Well yeah but five-eight to five-eleven is still significant,” I remarked. “Especially when you being six-three means Dick is now shorter than all of his younger brothers.”

Damian grunted and crossed one leg over the other. “Have you made a decision on the charity ball? Regarding your escort?”

“Not yet. Figure I can wait till at least after I as a civilian am discovered,” I said.

“If it would help your decision, I would like to accompany you. I remember you always insisted I dance with you at least once per event, despite how small I was compared to you and how reluctant I was to dance.”

“I said it was good for you,” I recalled with a smile. “Told you that dancing would help you loosen up.”

“‘I am as loose as I am required to be,’ I believe is what I said in response.”

“Yeah.” I chuckled. “Okay. I’ll go. But you have to promise to dance with me.”

“I have improved since the last gala you attended,” he said.

“I'm sure you have,” I agreed.

He contemplated me for a moment. “I am not usually in the business of making promises, but this one I can fulfill. I promise to dance with you.”

I grinned widely. “Great! I look forward to it.”

“As do I.” Damian got up and moved to leave.

“Damian!” I said, reaching out and then letting my hand drop, not sure why I was reaching. Damian turned, eyebrows raised expectantly. I glanced down at the gentle-but-firmly wrapped bandages on my right hand. “Thanks for this.” I showed him the bandages as an indication of what I meant.

He ducked his head in a nod. “Of course, McCloud. Get some rest,” he said before leaving my room.

I sighed as he shut the door and flopped backward, my head hitting the pile of pillows.

Staring at the ceiling in the dark, I scrunched my eyebrows. Why was I feeling so…conflicted? Like, I wanted to go to the charity ball and I wouldn’t mind going with Damian, but I felt a certain reservation about the whole idea that I couldn’t pinpoint.

Was it the media attention I knew we’d get? I could already see the trashy tabloid headline in all caps and yellow letters: BRUCE WAYNE’S SON DATING BRUCE WAYNE’S WARD?! And sixteen clickbait Buzzfeed articles coming across my social media feeds. Was that it? Was I worried about dealing with that or putting Damian in that position? Much as I hated to admit it, Jason was right: the paparazzi and media had always loved me.

But that didn’t feel like the source of my internal struggle. If Damian didn’t want the media attention he wouldn’t have said he wanted to go with me. He would have told me to let Jason escort me—under an alias since he was technically still dead.

I crawled under the covers. I’d figure it out in the morning. Maybe I was just confused and conflicted because I was tired after a long and difficult patrol.

Burrowing into my bed on my side, I rubbed my right-hand knuckles with my left palm, still feeling Damian’s warm, callused hand holding mine as he gently bandaged my bleeding knuckles. His touch was kinder, softer, and gentler than I’d ever felt it. Damian had never really had the word “soft” in his behavioral vocabulary when I knew him as a thirteen-year-old.

I liked it. Damian as an adult had loosened up a little and unwound. It was nice. Especially when I was eight years ahead of where I should have been and a heck-of-a-lot more scared than I was willing to admit out loud. Almost a decade was plenty enough time for things to change—for the better, for the worst, for the crazier—and I was thrown in the deep end. I didn’t even know who the president was anymore. Having Damian show me a little bit more heart when I was doing my best to hide how freaked out I felt was comforting.

I drifted off to sleep.

^^^^^

@RealSuperman: “Welcome back, @CloudburstofGotham! Good to see you’re back! You were sorely missed! #CloudburstsBack”

@WonderWomanOfficial: “The world welcomes the return of the great hero of Gotham, Cloudburst. #CloudburstsBack @CloudburstofGotham”

@RealArsenal: “Yo! Cloudburst! You’re back! Stop by Star City sometime and catch up, yeah? @CloudburstofGotham #CloudburstsBack”

@OfficialOutlawHood: “Huge welcome home to my favorite member of the Bat-family! @CloudburstofGotham has returned! #CloudburstsBack !”

@NightwingOFCL: “#CloudburstsBack! We missed you so much, @CloudburstofGotham! So happy you’re home! Love you, sister!”

@OfficialNewBatman: “@CloudburstofGotham, Warm salutations.”

@OfficialOutlawHood, replying to @OfficialNewBatman: “Dude, seriously? That’s the best you can do?”

@OfficialNewBatman, replying to @OfficialOutlawHood: “I have welcomed Cloudburst in person. I am acknowledging her return online for the sake of expectations.”

@OriginalBatman, replying to @OfficialNewBatman, @OfficialOutlawHood: “Boys, behave.”

@RedRobinVigilante: “ICYMI: #CloudburstsBack! My ‘sister’ has recently returned after having been missing for 8 years! Super excited! I missed you so much, @CloudburstofGotham!”

@ClarkKentDP: “@CloudburstofGotham would you like to do an exclusive interview for the Daily Planet? Tell everyone where you were and why you’re back? DM me if you’re interested! #CloudburstsBack”

@GGVickiVale: “@CloudburstofGotham How about an interview with the Gotham Gazette now that #CloudburstsBack?”

Damian scrolled through the top hits in the #CloudburstsBack trend over breakfast, sipping his breakfast tea and munching on an apple for starters. He was grateful for the attention being on Cloudburst because, in five days, Nora McCloud would return from being lost in the time stream. She’d be bruised and exhausted in torn clothing. McCloud had already agreed to get no sleep for a night or two beforehand and let her bruises from patrol show without bothering to hide them before turning up at the Gotham PD station.

And as long as Cloudburst had been established as being back first, no one would have to know that she and McCloud were the same person. Damian took another sip of his tea thoughtfully, scrolling down. He came across another Tweet that he hadn’t seen before.

It was Cloudburst’s own. A photo of she and Damian jumping off the edge of the building, Damian’s coat flaring out around him and her hair doing the same, and another one of the moment before, when they were both standing on the edge of the building, showing off how much taller than Cloudburst Damian had grown. In both pictures, their backs were to the camera.

The caption read, “Last time I saw Batman he was still Robin and more than half a foot shorter than me! What else did I miss? XD #CloudburstsBack @OfficialNewBatman” and a second Tweet that said, “Photo creds to @RedRobinVigilante! I missed you too, brother!”

Damian “liked” and “retweeted” it saying, “We will catch you up.” On his official Batman account.

Tim stumbled into the kitchen, tablet in his hand playing the local news’ livestream.

“—top story this morning is the return of the Gotham vigilante known as Cloudburst. The vigilante was last seen eight years ago when the android fleet known as the Time Bombs attacked for the first time. Since then there has been no trace of her until last night when she posted this image to Instagram and Twitter with the caption, ‘It’s good to be home. Hashtag-Cloudburst’s Back.’ The post quickly went viral and several citizens of Gotham Tweeted about sightings of her with the other members of the team of Gotham protectors commonly nicknamed the Bat-Family. She was seen with the younger Batman for most of the night, according to most sightings. She has yet to release an official statement about where she’s been, but we’re grateful to have a familiar pair of eyes watching our streets,” the lady was saying.

Tim sat at the breakfast bar and started to munch distractedly on a bagel, not even realizing it. Damian could have put a rotten tomato in its place and Tim probably wouldn’t even notice. He was too focused on his tablet. “They’re wrong,” he muttered. “The Time Bombs didn’t attack for the first time back then. It just seemed like that since they jumped back in time. Their first attack was now because they were made now…”

Damian didn’t say anything, just continued to eat his apple and look through the social media feed.

Next

[the-energon-hole]

Hello, hello!! Would it be alright to make a request? Headcanons for the rescue bots (Heatwave, Chase, Boulder, Blades) being reunited with their cybertronian s/o (sparkmate? I don’t really know the right vocabulary- sorry!!) from waaay back in the day?

((A/N Ok this was actually a lot of fun to write and I got very carried away with the idea, I had to stop myself from writing 4 seraperate fics for this idea lol.

I’m adding this ask to my favorites on my Masterlist Page, because I might revisit this idea later if I am feeling inspired to write about Rescue Bots))

Heatwave

-Once he had his new assignment on Earth, he was so preoccupied with his research and work here on Griffin Rock that he never really thought of you all that much. It wasn’t out of malice or discontent, things were just moving so very fast since emerging from stasis that the never really had time anymore time to really think about the past. It wasn’t until you appeared in his normally quiet and empty recharge thoughts that he felt that pang of emptiness inside of his chest, his spark was aching with how much he realised he missed you. Primus, it has been so long since he saw you, it was even cycles before they went into space on the Sigma that he last saw your sparkling and soft faceplate smiling up at him before he left to start his shift rotation around the colonies near Cybertron. How long had it really been? He hasn’t calculated the day and night cycle, mixed in with the time it took to get here, plus the extra time they were into forced sleep mode- were you ok? He had read some reports when he had the time after his realization that it said some bots were drafted to fight in the war against the Decepticons- oh Primus, what if you were drafted?! You didn’t know how to fight all that well! You weren’t trained for it… Were you still even alive? His fuel tanks twisted as he felt his early morning energon try to come back up as bile from the pit of his abdomen.

-After everyone in the family noticed how sloppy and skittish Heatwave was, and it wasn’t because Kade has said or done something to him, that everyone decided to pry into his life to see what was wrong with their normally ever so confident leader. After Heatwave felt like he was attacked enough from this mock intervention, he spilled about how his absent sparkmate was starting to affect him more than he was willing to admit. The rest of the bots understood with sympathetic looks and words, but the Burns family didn’t understand the gravity of how he was being affected- he had them at least, wasn’t that enough to make him feel whole again? It took a lot of explaining on the bot’s part to let the relatively small family know that it was different than the simple human tradition of marriage- you are literally bonded with the other bot, they have a part of your spark and you have a part of them. They justified that Heatwave had a reason to feel this way, and they too were concerned when he sighed and rubbed at his chest confessing that he couldn’t tell if you were even alive or not, it had been so long since the two of you bonded that the signal was incredibly weak, almost nonexistent- and it hurt him so much to admit that.

-He tried to work past the pain and emptiness he felt, but it was slowly interfering with his work to the point he was to afraid to do anything- he didn’t want to endanger other people’s lives just because he was feeling bad. It was months that he was down for the count until a  surprise visit from Optimus just reminded him of how low he had actually sunk- he was probably going to get sent away because he isn’t competent enough to do his job and lead his team to victory. He heard a small voice that made his energon run cold in his cables, and as you walked into the room still just as stunning as he remembered, he almost cried as you began to become emotional as well- you were always the kind of bot ot wear your spark out in the open. You basically tackled him as he embraced you with an extra tight squeeze- you were real! You were alive! Primus had mercy on his spark, as all of that empty loneliness just melted away into nothing as feelings of warmth and passion replaced his once aching crackling spark. Oh, there was plenty of time to bond later, for now he had so much to show you- there was so much catching up to do! You bet that he refused to let you go anywhere without him for awhile, he was never leaving your side ever again- he will take you on missions now even if he has to!

Chase

-It was just another normal day for Chase, he was going through old public records and taking notes in order to keep both himself and his team mates up to speed with what was going on in Cybertronian news. He has read about the war, the fall of the council, and the destruction of their homeworld. He was just browsing through public record when he came across a name that he had not seen in such a long time that it made his hands shake a little in fear. That headline read “Newest Recruit Single Handedly Takes out Decepticon Strike Team”- you were that recruit in the holo/photo, that was definitely you. He would recognize that silly little lopsided grin anywhere. This article was old, cycles old from the beginning of this war, and he couldn’t help but frantically search your name in the computers to see if anything else would pop up about you. A few things turned up “Recruit Promoted to Scout”, “Scout Promoted to Warrior”, and “Warrior Promoted to Commander”. You were busy it would seem, and he beamed as he noticed that you were busy fighting the good fight against the forces of evil who wished to do harm to the innocent civilians who just wanted to live simple and free lives.

-True, the two of you never officially bonded, but it got really close to iot. You both were very goal oriented, and both of you were trying very hard to raise in the ranks of your chosen fields. The time you two spent together was wonderful, full of enlightening and education conversations about old philosophies and new laws. You were always so smart and charming, it was easy to fall for how witty you were- and just knowing you were a successful Commander in the Autobot forces, it just gave his spark all kinds of gushy mushy feelings he didn’t know how to describe. He became a little frantic once he realized your last login date was quite a few cycles ago, and you were not the type of bot to make any kind of clerical mistakes, so he sent word out to other survivors and colonies to keep an eye out for you- maybe you were undercover or maybe you didn’t survive the last raid the Decepticons threw at you and your squad. He just had to know, and until he did, he was afraid he was going to be driven mad with curiosity and another feeling that managed to squirm its way into his spark- revitalized love.

-He never let his work slip, he wasn’t that kind of mech to make other suffer because he was plagued by a surprisingly painful and lonely spark. He never thought of himself to be a passionate and loving mech, so much as he thought of himself to be more of a level headed and interesting lover, but really you were the only one that could tell him that. He continued his normal combing through the archives as he always does, making sure to keep up to date with all the public data files that he could- when he noticed a small ping from a personal channel he didn’t recognize. It was a simple message, but one he knew came from you- Breaker, breaker, I’ve gone in for a service and will report in later. It was a saying you two would joke about because of how often he got himself hurt in his line of work- he was always having to go in for service on his frame. His spark finally let him relax as he knew you would contact him again when you got the chance, you were obviously busy doing all you can do dole out justice to the ne'er do wells who would do anything for a sick thrill. You were so perfect that he can feel his spark swell with pride and love- maybe you two can finally bond once all of your important work was complete.

Boulder

-He never stopped thinking about you- not when he was ushered into forced stasis, not when he was assigned to be Graham’s partner here on Earth, and not when he was learning and growing as his own bot away from you. He was worried immensely about you, but he could still feel you resonating within him even after all of these cycles apart, your bond never broke and it never wavered. You both have been friends since you were younglings in the youth sector, and your friendship only grew stronger when you two were training to be become a rescue bot at the academy. You two had bonded in secret, as it was easier than making a big deal out of it with a ceremony and a grand profession of love, you both were not into the whole fuss of sharing your love with the world thing. You loved each other, and that was enough to solidify your relationship so strongly that you can feel what Boulder feels, and you were glad that he was happy with his new assignment on Earth. He can feel your happiness as well, and you couldn’t help but let a little loneliness and longing seep through the bond as well. You felt his amusement and also let you know he was feeling the distance as well, but the work each of you were doing was very important and that both of you had others relying on you to stay sharp and ready to work.

-Your love life was always a private affair, and even now, you can feel how much he loves you even though you were galaxies away. You have been criticized for not flaunting your bond as others around you do, and they are beginning to mistake your silent passion for pretentious secrecy, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth, you just simply were not comfortable blaring your happiness for other to be envious of, as you had more sympathy for those who have lost their bonds because of this disgusting war that it almost felt insulting to boast about how your sparkmate was and that he was alive and serving a cushy job on Earth while the rest of you had to suffer in small colonies that lacked resources and housing. Once this conflict is over, maybe the luck of the Cybertronians will turn around, but until then you and Boulder were perfectly content silently loving one another from afar- because as long as you brother were happy, no one else’s opinions really mattered.-You were lucky enough to be given the opportunity to test out the new space bridge program that was meant to reconnect the remote colonies, the main hub on Cybertron, and the new smaller settlement on the planet Earth. It was a step in the right direction, as a lot of people here in the colonies were suffering from lack of energon and lack of proper medical care, and as a member of the few remaining Rescue Bots, it was your duty to make sure everything would go off without a hitch.The space bridge test went off without any kind of problems, ands you were once again reunited with Bouler for the first time in so many cycles. Nothing Happened beyond a little hugging and raving about how lovely it was to see each other again in a physical way rather than just convey feelings through your warm bond, and that you couldn’t wait to just sit and talk under the warm Earth sun surrounded by such lush and green plant life- it was the perfect way to reminisce about the old times while talking about all the new things you have learned from your time apart. A wonderfully romantic idea that made you both swell with romantic affection that left you both cuddling and laughing the way you used to before he went off on that mission all those years ago.

Blades

-He began to break down once all of the fuss of being reassigned by Optimus Prime was settled and he was secluded away with the other bots as the humans slept in the house above their new base of operations. That empty feeling inside of his very soul, he didn’t know what to do! You would know what to do! You always knew what to do, you were always there to pick him up and help him compose back together whenever he would fall apart from all the stress in his life. You were the only bot in the world that understood him, and he was a confused and anxious mess without you there to guide the way for him. He was being forced into being an aircraft, a helicopter, he hated flying! His spark pulsed in sadness as he couldn’t find any remnants of your bond that he could cling to- it’s been so long since you bonded last… What if you’ve moved on to someone better than him?? It was almost impossible to do that, but you were so amazing and cool under pressure that he as sure you could do anything you set your processor to. He was a weeping mess when Boulder found him, and the gentlest of the Rescue Bots offered his comfort but he couldn’t offer any kind of relief for his anxious spark, as Blades insisted the thing was going to jump out of his chest and steal the space ship so it can find it’s one true match wherever you were in the vast emptiness of space. It took a lot of talking and venting and ideas slinging to get Blades to become coherent enough for him to tell the others who he was looking for so they can put word out in case you were still floating around somewhere.

-You were a beat cop on Cybertron, and  you were so good at taking down bad guys that he wouldn’t be surprised that you might have ended up a soldier in the war that ravaged their homeworld. Oh, he could talk about you all day and night if he was given the chance- he worshiped you for who you were, and he always felt so blessed that he was bonded with someone who was so intimidating and tough but also soft and kind enough to never make him feel like you were any less than him. A lot of other bots would pick on him for being weak and small, but you were always there to stand up for him and comfort him whenever someone crossed a line in his book. There wasn’t any word on your wearabouts yet, but everyone was making sure to fill Blade’s time as much as they could to keep him distracted from the painful pulsing that is going on in his chest- they were all sympathetic to the young and fragile bot. He was happy they all cared about him enough to fill his time so he isn’t to anxious and turn into a blubbering sobbing mess, but he can’t help but get a little achy anytime Dani suggest they watch some kind of romance movie, as all of the characters jute reminded him of how much he ached for you. He missed how you would cradle him against you as you would just make all of his insecurities and fears go away- he has been having to face so many scary things, he was proud of himself, but he craved the comforting and validating touch you offered to him whenever he needed it. Oh Primus, did he ever need it.

-You landed in the middle of an uninhabited island in the middle of what seemed like a planet full of nothing but endless amounts of water. Your ship was damaged while you were pursuing a run away Decepticon criminal in this remote section of the galaxy, and you turned on your encrypted Autobot distress signal, you can’t help but feel like you were closer than ever to someone whom you have been searching for since he disappeared so long ago. You had to put your search on hold when some of the reaming resistance groups needed help keeping peace in their small villages and colonies- which was another reason you were out so far away from everyone. YOu need energon, you need to catch the bad guy, and you needed repairs to your small ship- but that had to wait, you could hear footsteps coming in your direction so yu hid in the shadows of the thick trees to await who was answering your signal. It wasn’t a trap, but it was a group of bots you didn’t recognize, so it was safe to assume they were hostile. You emerged with blasters pointing at them while they surrendered by throwing their arms up in the air, but that was when you were thrown to the ground by someone you never thought you would see again. Blades clung to you as you sat up from where he tackled you to the ground, he was crying and whining out your name as he nearly broke you in half in his tight grip, you just laughed and shushed him while stroking his back a little. That fugitive can wait, you had someone more important that needed your immediate attention, and by the looks of his emotional state he really did need someone to hold him for awhile.

(04/29/18)

[thethespacecoyote]

6 or 10 for rhack! (Or a pairing of your choice you think fits the prompt more)

I’ll still do 10 but for now I really wanted to do 6!

omegaverse and fluff mostly

the return of the reading room in Jack’s office is dedicated to @starfruitspice :p

Rhys had mixed feelings about the little reading alcove set up in Jack’s office. At first, he’d been happy to see its return from the unsightly—and, gruesomely—seldom cleaned airlock bay. As much fun as Jack had jettisoning those who crossed him out into the void to watch them float amongst the space debris, a well-placed bullet did the trick most of the time, and even someone as bombastic as Jack sometimes grew tired of the fanfare and preferred quicker kills.

So the small nook in the corner of Jack’s office had returned, and though most of the books lining the shelves were fake or contained nothing but blank pages, Rhys often found himself curled up on one of the soft chairs in lieu of his desk, doing work of his own or taking a nap or browsing the ECHOnet.

It was relaxing and a nice place to zone out when he needed it—at least until Jack decided to use it as an impromptu meeting spot where Rhys could be easily cornered.

Today had been fairly mundane. Enough so that Rhys felt more than comfortable to cut his workload a little early and hunker down in his favorite of the plush chairs clustered around the little coffee table. In fact, he ended up so relaxed, spacing out as he browsed aimless lifestyle articles on his ECHOeye, that he didn’t notice the footsteps behind him until Jack’s hands slid over the back of the chairs and came to rest on both sides of his neck.

Rhys tensed in surprise, but Jack’s touch on his shoulders felt nice. He could hear the alpha breathing behind him as his fingers rubbed down to Rhys’ upper arms and back up. Rhys knew it was coming as he heard Jack exhale in a deep sigh, but enjoyed the momentary massage before he spoke up.

“So. I wanted to talk about something.”

“Oh?” Rhys tilted his chin back, nearly coming nose to nose with Jack, who’d arched over the back of the chair like a sneaking predator. His brows knitted together as Jack brushed his lips between them, before circling around to take the seat besides the omega. He scooted closer, chair legs scraping against the steel floor and rucking up the edge of the heavy carpet as he placed a solid hand on Rhys’ knee. The omega sighed, shutting off his ECHOeye and giving Jack his full attention.

“Lay it on me, though you know my attention kind of goes out the window once I hole up in here.”

“Ah, but it makes you a little more agreeable.” Jack rubbed his hand up Rhys’ thigh and back down to his knee, just slow enough to get Rhys wondering whether Jack just wanted to get a little frisky before they broke for the evening. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been fucked in Jack’s office. Actually that’s where they usually did the deed—Jack hardly ever took him up to the penthouse, and straight-up refused to hunker down in the little apartment the omega shared with Vaughn.

“So?” Rhys pulled his knees up to his chest, casually balling up atop the chair and ignoring Jack’s slight whine at the loss of contact. “What do you want me to agree to?”

Rhys had come to expect a lot of strange things from Jack. One didn’t get to be the CEO of Hyperion without picking up a couple eccentricities along the way, and Jack had those in violent spades. He thought himself well versed in the alpha’s nature.

But the very last thing he’d expected Jack to do was slide down to one knee and take his hand in his own with a shockingly earnest look on his face that had Rhys’ heart suddenly leaping out of his chest.

“You ever thought about getting married, sugar?”

And honestly—yeah, Rhys had thought about the idea a couple of times. Their relationship could hardly be classified as purely professional to anyone but the densest Claptraps in the station. It was an open secret amongst the rank and file that he and Jack were bumping uglies, a fact that put him in danger as many times as it’d earned him a free drink or a congratulatory smack on the shoulder and suggestive eye waggle. But he was the one still here, wasn’t he? The one still getting fucked by Jack while the bodies of everyone that’d tried to mess with him littered the cosmic landfill.

However, though Rhys had thought about it and even broached the subject once, Jack had never seemed all that receptive. That one time he’d brought it up Jack had treated Rhys more like he’d said something funny than anything with a shred of weight to it. And Rhys had nervously laughed it off as such at the time, but now that Jack was here, flagrantly asking if he wanted to not even bother with keeping their open-secret a secret anymore, he felt put on the spot, caught up in his thoughts as he tried to respond.

“You’re…you’re serious. You want to get married?”

“Well, yes and no.” Jack kept Rhys’ hand sandwiched between his hand, gracefully petting his knuckles. “You know me. Kind of burnt out on the whole getting tied down thing. But a solid power couple is good for business. News of Handsome Jack’s engagement and wedding will make headlines all around the galaxy and boost the hell out of Hyperion’s stock.”

“I see. So you’re taking relationship advice from your board of directors, now?”

“I don’t need any advice, kiddo, I already know how to get people talking about your brand.”

“With a wedding?”

“Come on, I know you. You won’t wanna give up a chance at a fancy party.” Jack lifted his knuckles to his lips, breathing over them a moment before placing a kiss. “Remember the last fiscal-year-end gala?”

Rhys didn’t, thanks to the copious amount of celebratory cocktails he’d drunk in celebration of the somewhat stressful final quarter. All the hard work spent managing Jack’s moods as well as the mechanics of a multi-billion dollars company had paid off with record growth, and Rhys had taken the moment to properly indulge and make up for all the times he’d had to turn down Vaughn and Yvette’s invitations out. So little had remained in the cache of his memory aside from endless sparkly gold alcohol and the sour cough of his liver begging him to stop, capped up with the fuzzy sensation of Jack’s hands and dick inevitably rubbing against him.

Not that his lack of memory made Jack wrong. Rhys did like parties. The thought of enjoying a fancy wedding full of food and alcohol and elegant outfits warmed him up to the idea a little more and caused the shock to fade.

“Okay, but…didn’t you just say you weren’t the kind of guy who got tied down. Not anymore, right?”

“And that’s still all true, kiddo, ‘cause like I also just said, this is mostly for show.”

“For show,” Rhys repeated, nestling his chin between his tucked knees.

“Yep. Nothing has to change between us if you don’t want it to, sugar. I know you’re pretty partial to our current arrangement.”

Their current arrangement being a fairly standard working relationship punctuated by snark and sexual trysts that only truly blossomed once business hours ended. And yes, Rhys did like it—it was the ultimate synergy between the personal and professional and with ambitions like his, fucking one’s boss was the definition of killing two skags with one bullet and making them into a pair of designer boots.

“So is this going to go all the way?” He pressed, eyed tilting down to where Jack still remained in proposing position. “Do I get a ring and a wedding? A brand new suit to match my pretend husband’s?”

“Oh sure” Jack patted the tip of Rhys’ boot in assurance. “We can go all out, sugar. If we really wanna impress public and public stock traders alike it’s gotta be big and expensive.”

“So, I wonder.” Rhys lips curled mischievously. “Where the ‘for show’ part might come in.”

Jack tilted his head to the side and tapped his neck.

“Well, you won’t have to bond me, for one. We can fake that stuff pretty easy with makeup or a tat if someone starts spreading rumors and causing a fuss. Dunno if I could let my fiancé stay in his crappy little apartment, though. People might get suspicious. Might think you’re cheating on me with the little muscle friend of yours.”

As much as Vaughn disliked Jack—though, like most smart people, he kept that a secret—he’d always been supportive of Rhys’ bid for power and influence and even he couldn’t deny that Jack provided both. It might be a bit of an adjustment to leave his old apartment and shack up in Jack’s penthouse, but well—Vaughn could always visit and secondhand reap the rewards of Rhys’ fake marriage.

Though Rhys wasn’t entirely convinced of how “fake” a marriage could really be between two people who were already actively sleeping together. But if Jack really wanted to keep feelings hands-off, for now, then Rhys could deal with it.

He’d always figured he might have to play the long-game eventually.

“So what say you, pumpkin? You ready to be Mr. Handsome Jack?”

Rhys stretched his legs back out, heels clicking against the floor. Jack instantly leaned forward and folded his hands over Rhys’ thighs, resting his chin atop his tented knuckles. Rhys heard Jack’s joints pop as he switched out of the proposing knee to a more comfortable position.

“Mmm. I’ve gotta warn you, I’m not the best actor. I might just really have to get myself into character to make this work.”

Jack grinned as Rhys’ fingers combed affectionately through his hair.

“I don’t mind helping you refine your talents, sugar.”

“I’m not so sure I’m the one who needs refinement.”

Jack snorted.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You’re right. As my new fiancé that’s your job.”

“So is that a yes?”

Rhys tapped Jack on the nose, smirking as his nostrils flared at the contact.

“Take me home with you tonight, and you’ll get your answer.”

[gaiatheorist]

Pretty vacant.

Monday, 3am. I ‘should’ be typing up the four pages of carefully categorised and expanded notes for the PIP tribunal, but the ‘limbo’ of DWP instructing the tribunal panel to decline my request for a hearing, and the demonstrable unreliability of the Welfare Rights Advocate are impeding my motivation. I know, I’ll have a look at the news, I don’t have to check in at the Job Centre until mid-morning. (Which, with my completely knackered sleep-pattern will feel like evening, I hope I’m not too ‘verbally disinhibited.’)

I’ve just deleted a long, waffly, part-finished blog I started yesterday, reflecting on the similarities and differences between ‘my’ experience as an adolescent, and the furore whipped up by Jamie Oliver’s terminology about his daughter’s Instagram use. ‘Backlash ensues’ keeps popping up occasionally on my Twitter ‘trending’ panel, which makes me either nose-snort, or shake my head. Backlash does indeed ensue, The Internet, and I’m now over-expanding that line of thought, due to the increasing number of news articles I see that are essentially words sandwiched around quotes from Twitter or Facebook.

My assessment of the Oliver/Instagram thing? Some adolescents crave attention and affirmation, some don’t. Some of the ones who do count ‘likes’ will post photographs which are deliberately provocative, some won’t understand why they’re copying a particular ‘look’, and end up imitating an unlikely duck/dachshund hybrid that’s accidentally become wedged in a plumbing fitting. I have nieces aged about 9 and 12, I daren’t look on their Facebook pages, because I’d feel compelled to ask their Mother or Father to monitor them more closely. (They shouldn’t even BE on Facebook at that age!) Jamie Oliver’s terminology was awful, but impactive. He’s a celebrity chef, not a Designated Safeguarding Lead, he’ll no more know the correct legal-compliant phrases than I’d know how to make a perfect souffle. (Yes, it did take me ages to think of something I’ve never tried to cook.) 

I thought I’d finished being moderately grumpy about the aesthetic-approval angle, wedged in this weird world where women want to be ‘pretty’, but not so pretty that builders can’t help wolf-whistling. Nope, a quick flick through Facebook this morning, and I have a few fully-grown women ‘friends’ who only EVER upload new profile and background photos. If I see another ‘Swit swoo’ comment, I will frisbee this knackered Chromebook out of the window. We’re 40-ish, not 14. “Frogmella Biscuit-Tin updated their profile picture” in the activity bar thing. I don’t care, but, at least if they’re doing that, they’re not doing the ‘Like and share to win a year’s supply of goats!’ data-mining nonsense. I think I last changed my profile picture in 2013, and I haven’t used a photo of myself for years. I ought to stop looking at Fakebook, but I’m still obsessively checking my ‘on this day’, to remind myself how far I’ve come. (Bin-reminders, and the lurgy on three different years ‘on this day’ today, oh, and the ex’s band, I ought to have invoiced him for the publicity.) 

I’ll get my personal whinge out of the way, I don’t like-whore NOT because I’m not conventionally attractive, and worry I might not clock up as many ‘likes’ as Frogmella. I choose not to fish for compliments because I am more than the sum of my parts, I have two eyes, a mouth, a nose, and some hair, most people do, it’s just meat no-one eats. (Ew, that unpleasant sensation when you realise you have a hair in your mouth, and have to NOT start maniacally licking your own jumper and such, like a bad cat.) 

My stompy-rage wasn’t quite triggered by the ‘swit swoo’ Facebook-nonsense, so I didn’t throw one of my mega-tantrums about the type of woman who sulks if you don’t notice their hair-do, or that they’ve started using a face-crayon a hemi-demi-semi fraction of a shade darker than the one they were using last week. I flicked through the BBC headlines, and then looked at The Guardian, it’s what I do at 3am, rather than bother insomniac/different time-zone Twitter. Dear Gods, the Mariella Frostrup advice column. “My husband has sex with me, but never says I look nice.” Where to even begin with that? Well, the letter writer begins with a list of her husband’s positive attributes, NONE of which are in any way, shape, or form descriptive of his physical attractiveness to her. A grown woman, complaining that her life-partner is perfect in many ways, but doesn’t say she looks ‘nice.’ (Maybe she doesn’t look ‘nice’, maybe she’s a moose?) Mariella points out that him still doing the sex to her is an indication that he still finds her attractive, I’m not even going into the comments-section, because I’ll be tempted to type “GROW UP, YOU’RE NOT 14!”

Why, some-women? WHY must some-women insist on being ‘told’ that they’re attractive? It’s ‘pics, or it never happened’, but on a massively worrying emotional level. These needy-women are Part Of The Problem, getting up at the crack of dawn to iron their hair, and colour in their faces, I know I’m the oddball here, I don’t even iron my clothes, and I deliberately avoid social interaction where-ever I’m able, because I am SHIT at compliments. In part, that’s the trained-British thing, “Smashing blouse!”, “Oh, this old thing, I’ve had it ages, I LOVE your cardigan!” ad infinitum, until it’s time to go home, and you’ve done no work at all because you were busy back-and-forth-ing with how you ADORE what they’ve done with that paperclip. In part, it’s the “What do you want?” element from my dysfunctional development. Part of it is my warped sense of humour. “Have you done something different with your hair?” usually generates the response of “Yes, I’ve combed it.”, and “You look nice today!” means I have to bite-back “Did I look like I’d crawled out of a bin yesterday?”, and switch-substitute “You ALWAYS look nice.”, which is probably just as bad. 

I wash every day, and I dress for practicality not provocation. I do have sexual desires, but I don’t feel the need to display my wares to all and sundry for validation. The children that Jamie Oliver was wittering on about, with their ‘luscious’ and ‘porno’ aesthetics didn’t pull that ‘look’ out of thin air, they were influenced by others that ‘that’ was desirable. I’m going to go out on a limb here, and speculate that those women-children might well have mothers who do the filtered-pout-with-shopped-on-doggy-ears on social media, these ‘looks’ don’t spring out of a vacuum. That shit, along with the “Who’s sexy?” nonsense-babble that some women are STILL sausage-roll-crumb-blethering at their pram-contents on public transport is Part Of The Problem. I KNOW that construction site workers have free will, and independent thought, but they also have social conditioning, and, if you’re going to wiggle past them in leggings and a crop-top, with 3 inches of make-up on in the day-time, you’re Part Of The Problem. They choose whether to wolf-whistle, but YOU choose whether to display yourself as ‘available.’

I have very little influence in this sphere. I deliberately don’t compliment people on aesthetics, with the exception of a very specific set of circumstances, if I tell you that you’re beautiful, that’s because you’re SO awesomely attractive that you’ve captivated me, deal with it. I’m not ‘pretty’, I’ve had various conversations recently where people have said that, decades ago, I was ‘stunning’, ‘mesmerising’, and very much in the ‘would’ category. Much good that does me now, gravity has not been kind, and my physical body isn’t so much a temple as a ruin now. Decades ago, I had ‘all the gear, and no idea’, now, the gear has slipped somewhat, but I know how to work it. More-so, I know how my mind works, so I’m not returning the obvious play of “You fancied me then, what am I now, chopped liver?” I’m not ‘pretty’, and I accept that, what I accept more is that I’m not vacuous-vacant enough to need validation. 

[lodelss]

Danielle A. Jackson | Longreads | September 2019 | 16 minutes (4,184 words)

The late summer night Tupac died, I listened to All Eyez on Me at a record store in an East Memphis strip mall. The evening felt eerie and laden with meaning. It was early in the school year, 1996, and through the end of the decade, Adrienne, Jessica, Karida and I were a crew of girlfriends at our high school. We spent that night, and many weekend nights, at Adrienne’s house.

Our public school had been all white until a trickle of black students enrolled during the 1966–67 school year. That was 12 years after Brown v. Board of Education and six years after the local NAACP sued the school board for maintaining dual systems in spite of the ruling. In 1972, a federal district court ordered busing; more than 40,000 white students abandoned the school system by 1980. The board created specialized and accelerated courses in some of its schools, an “optional program,” in response. Students could enter the programs regardless of district lines if they met certain academic requirements. This kind of competition helped retain some white students, but also created two separate tracks within those institutions — a tenuous, half-won integration. It meant for me, two decades later, a “high-performing school” with a world of resources I knew to be grateful for, but at a cost. There were few black teachers. Black students in the accelerated program were scattered about, small groups of “onlies” in all their classes. Black students who weren’t in the accelerated program got rougher treatment from teachers and administrators. An acrid grimness hung in the air. It felt like being tolerated rather than embraced. 

My friends and I did share a lunch period. At our table, we traded CDs we’d gotten in the mail: Digable Planets’s Blowout Comb, D’Angelo’s Brown Sugar, the Fugees’ The Score. An era of highly visible black innovation was happening alongside a growing awareness of my own social position. I didn’t have those words then, but I had my enthusiasms. At Maxwell’s concert one sweaty night on the Mississippi, we saw how ecstasy, freedom, and black music commingle and coalesce into a balm. We watched the films of the ’90s wave together, and while most had constraining gender politics, Love Jones, the Theodore Witcher–directed feature about a group of brainy young artists in Chicago, made us wish for a utopic city that could make room for all we would become. 

Kickstart your weekend reading by getting the week’s best Longreads delivered to your inbox every Friday afternoon.

Sign up

We also loved to read the glossies — what ’90s girl didn’t? We especially salivated over every cover of Vibe. Adrienne and I were fledgling writers who experimented a lot and adored English class. In the ’90s, the canon was freshly expanding: We read T.S. Eliot alongside Kate Chopin and Chinua Achebe. Something similar was happening in magazines. Vibe’s mastheads and ad pages were full of black and brown people living, working, and loving together and out front — a multicultural ideal hip-hop had made possible. Its “new black aesthetic” meant articles were fresh and insightful but also hyper-literary art historical objects in their own rights. Writers were fluent in Toni Morrison and Ralph Ellison as well as Biggie Smalls. By the time Tupac died, Kevin Powell had spent years contextualizing his life within the global struggle for black freedom. “There is a direct line from Tupac in a straitjacket [on the popular February 1994 cover] to ‘It’s Obama Time’ [the September 2007 cover, one of the then senator’s earliest],” former editor Rob Kenner told Billboard in a Vibe oral history. He’s saying Vibe helped create Obama’s “coalition of the ascendent” — the black, Latinx, and young white voters who gave the Hawaii native two terms. For me, the pages reclaimed and retold the American story with fewer redactions than my history books. They created a vision of what a multiethnic nation could be.

* * *

“There was a time when journalism was flush,” Danyel Smith told me on a phone call from a summer retreat in Massachusetts. She became music editor at Vibe in 1994, and was editor in chief during the late ’90s and again from 2006 to 2008. The magazine, founded by Quincy Jones and Time, Inc. executives in 1992, was the “first true home of the culture we inhabit today,” according to Billboard. During Smith’s first stint as editor in chief, its circulation more than doubled. She wrote the story revealing R. Kelly’s marriage to then 15-year-old Aaliyah, as well as cover features on Janet Jackson, Wesley Snipes, and Whitney Houston. Smith was at the helm when the magazine debuted its Obama covers in 2007 — Vibe was the first major publication to endorse the freshman senator. When she described journalism as “flush,” Smith was talking about the late ’80s, when she started out in the San Francisco Bay. “Large cities could support with advertising two, sometimes three, alternative news weeklies and dailies,” she said.

‘There is a direct line from Tupac in a straitjacket [on the popular February 1994 cover] to ‘It’s Obama Time’ [the September 2007 cover, one of the then senator’s earliest].’

The industry has collapsed and remade itself many times since then. Pew reports that between 2008 and 2018, journalism jobs declined 25 percent, a net loss of about 28,000 positions. Business Insider reports losses at 3,200 jobs this year alone. Most reductions have been in newspapers. A swell in digital journalism has not offset the losses in print, and it’s also been volatile, with layoffs several times over the past few years, as outlets “pivot to video” or fail to sustain venture-backed growth. Many remaining outlets have contracted, converting staff positions into precarious freelance or “permalance” roles. In a May piece for The New Republic, Jacob Silverman wrote about the “yawning earnings gap between the top and bottom echelons” of journalism reflected in the stops and starts of his own career. After a decade of prestigious headlines and publishing a book, Silverman called his private education a “sunken cost” because he hadn’t yet won a coveted staff role. If he couldn’t make it with his advantageous beginnings, he seemed to say, the industry must be truly troubled. The prospect of “selling out” — of taking a corporate job or work in branded content — seemed more concerning to him than a loss of the ability to survive at all. For the freelance collective Study Hall, Kaila Philo wrote how the instability in journalism has made it particularly difficult for black women to break into the industry, or to continue working and developing if they do. The overall unemployment rate for African Americans has been twice that of whites since at least 1972, when the government started collecting the data by race. According to Pew, newsroom employees are more likely to be white and male than U.S. workers overall. Philo’s report mentions the Women’s Media Center’s 2018 survey on women of color in U.S. news, which states that just 2.62 percent of all journalists are black women. In a write-up of the data, the WMC noted that fewer than half of newspapers and online-only newsrooms had even responded to the original questionnaire. 

* * *

According to the WMC, about 2.16 percent of newsroom leaders are black women. If writers are instrumental in cultivating our collective conceptions of history, editors are arguably more so. Their sensibilities influence which stories are accepted and produced. They shape and nurture the voices and careers of writers they work with. It means who isn’t there is noteworthy. “I think it’s part of the reason why journalism is dying,” Smith said. “It’s not serving the actual communities that exist.” In a July piece for The New Republic, Clio Chang called the push for organized labor among freelancers and staff writers at digital outlets like Vox and Buzzfeed, as well as at legacy print publications like The New Yorker, a sign of hope for the industry.  “In the most basic sense, that’s the first norm that organizing shatters — the isolation of workers from one another,” Chang wrote. Notably, Vox’s union negotiated a diversity initiative in their bargaining agreement, mandating 40 to 50 percent of applicants interviewed come from underrepresented backgrounds.

“Journalism is very busy trying to serve a monolithic imaginary white audience. And that just doesn’t exist anymore,” Smith told me. U.S. audiences haven’t ever been truly homogeneous. But the media institutions that serve us, like most facets of American life, have been deliberately segregated and reluctant to change. In this reality, alternatives sprouted. Before Vibe’s launch, Time, Inc. executives wondered whether a magazine focused on black and brown youth culture would have any audience at all. Greg Sandow, an editor at Entertainment Weekly at the time, told Billboard, “I’m summoned to this meeting on the 34th floor [at the Time, Inc. executive offices]. And here came some serious concerns. This dapper guy in a suit and beautifully polished shoes says, ‘We’re publishing this. Does that mean we have to put black people on the cover?’” Throughout the next two decades, many publications serving nonwhite audiences thrived. Vibe spun off, creating Vibe Vixen in 2004. The circulations of Ebony, JET, and Essence, legacy institutions founded in 1945, 1951, and 1970, remained robust — the New York Times reported in 2000 that the number of Essence subscribers “sits just below Vogue magazine’s 1.1 million and well above the 750,000 of Harper’s Bazaar.” One World and Giant Robot launched in 1994, Latina and TRACE in 1996. Honey’s preview issue, with Lauryn Hill on the cover, hit newsstands in 1999. Essence spun off to create Suede, a fashion and culture magazine aimed at a “polyglot audience,” in 2004. A Magazine ran from 1989 to 2001; Hyphen launched with two young reporters at the helm the following year. In a piece for Columbia Journalism Review, Camille Bromley called Hyphen a celebration of “Asian culture without cheerleading” invested in humor, complication, and complexity, destroying the model minority myth. Between 1956 and 2008, the Chicago Defender, founded in 1905 and a noted, major catalyst for the Great Migration, published a daily print edition. During its flush years, the Baltimore Afro-American, founded in 1892, published separate editions in Philadelphia, Richmond, and Newark.

Before Vibe’s launch, Time, Inc. executives wondered whether a magazine focused on black and brown youth culture would have any audience at all.

The recent instability in journalism has been devastating for the black press. The Chicago Defender discontinued its print editions in July. Johnson Publications, Ebony and JET’s parent company, filed bankruptcy earlier this year after selling the magazines to a private equity firm in 2016. Then it put up for sale its photo archive — more than 4 million prints and negatives. Its record of black life throughout the 20th century includes images of Emmett Till’s funeral, in which the 14-year-old’s mutilated body lay in state, and Moneta Sleet Jr.’s Pulitzer Prize–winning image of Coretta Scott King mourning with her daughter, Bernice King. It includes casually elegant images of black celebrities at home and shots of everyday street scenes and citizens — the dentists and mid-level diplomats who made up the rank and file of the ascendant. John H. Johnson based Ebony and JET on LIFE, a large glossy heavy on photojournalism with a white, Norman Rockwell aesthetic and occasional dehumanizing renderings of black people. Johnson’s publications, like the elegantly attired stars of Motown, were meant as proof of black dignity and humanity. In late July, four large foundations formed an historic collective to buy the archive, shepherd its preservation, and make it available for public access.

The publications’ written stories are also important. Celebrity profiles offered candid, intimate views of famous, influential black figures and detailed accounts of everyday black accomplishment. Scores of skilled professionals ushered these pieces into being: Era Bell Thompson started out at the Chicago Defender and spent most of her career in Ebony’s editorial leadership. Tennessee native Lynn Norment worked for three decades as a writer and editor at the publication. André Leon Talley and Elaine Welteroth passed through Ebony for other jobs in the industry. Taken together, their labor was a massive scholarly project, a written history of a people deemed outside of it.

Black, Latinx, and Asian American media are not included in the counts on race and gender WMC reports. They get their data from the American Society of News Editors (ASNE), and Cristal Williams Chancellor, WMC’s director of communications, told me she hopes news organizations will be more “aggressive” in helping them “accurately indicate where women are in the newsroom.” While men dominate leadership roles in mainstream newsrooms, news wires, TV, and audio journalism, publications targeting multicultural audiences have also had a reputation for gender trouble, with a preponderance of male cover subjects, editorial leaders, and features writers. Kim Osorio, the first woman editor in chief at The Source, was fired from the magazine after filing a complaint about sexual harassment. Osorio won a settlement for wrongful termination in 2006 and went on to help launch BET.com and write a memoir before returning to The Source in 2012. Since then, she’s made a career writing for TV.  

* * *

This past June, Nieman Lab published an interview with Jeffrey Goldberg, editor in chief of The Atlantic since 2016, and Adrienne LaFrance, the magazine’s executive editor. The venerable American magazine was founded in Boston in 1857. Among its early supporters were Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Herman Melville, and Harriet Beecher Stowe. It sought to promote an “American ideal,” a unified yet pluralistic theory of American aesthetics and politics. After more than a century and a half of existence, women writers are not yet published in proportion to women’s share of the country’s population. The Nieman piece focused on progress the magazine has made in recent years toward equitable hiring and promoting: “In 2016, women made up just 17 percent of editorial leadership at The Atlantic. Today, women account for 63 percent of newsroom leaders.” A few days after the piece’s publication, a Twitter user screen-capped a portion of the interview where Goldberg was candid about areas in which the magazine continues to struggle:

  GOLDBERG: We continue to have a problem with the print magazine cover stories — with the gender and race issues when it comes to cover story writing. [Of the 15 print issues The Atlantic has published since January 2018, 11 had cover stories written by men. — Ed.]

 It’s really, really hard to write a 10,000-word cover story. There are not a lot of journalists in America who can do it. The journalists in America who do it are almost exclusively white males. What I have to do — and I haven’t done this enough yet — is again about experience versus potential. You can look at people and be like, well, your experience is writing 1,200-word pieces for the web and you’re great at it, so good going!

That’s one way to approach it, but the other way to approach it is, huh, you’re really good at this and you have a lot of potential and you’re 33 and you’re burning with ambition, and that’s great, so let us put you on a deliberate pathway toward writing 10,000-word cover stories. It might not work. It often doesn’t. But we have to be very deliberate and efficient about creating the space for more women to develop that particular journalistic muscle.

My Twitter feed of writers, editors, and book publicists erupted, mostly at the excerpt’s thinly veiled statement on ability. Women in my timeline responded with lists of writers of longform — books, articles, and chapters — who happened to be women, or people of color, or some intersection therein. Goldberg initially said he’d been misquoted. When Laura Hazard Owen, the deputy editor at Nieman who’d conducted the interview, offered proof that Goldberg’s statements had been delivered as printed, he claimed he had misspoken. Hazard Owen told the L.A. Times she believes that The Atlantic is, overall, “doing good work in diversifying the staff there.”

Taken together, their labor was a massive scholarly project, a written history of a people deemed outside of it.

Still, it’s a difficult statement for a woman writer of color to hear. “You literally are looking at me and all my colleagues, all my women colleagues and all my black colleagues, all my colleagues of color and saying, ‘You’re not really worthy of what we do over here.’ It’s mortifying,” Smith told me. Goldberg’s admission may have been a misstatement, but it mirrors the continued whiteness of mainstream mastheads. It checks out with the Women’s Media Center’s reports and the revealing fact of how much data is missing from even those important studies. It echoes the stories of black women who work or worked in journalism, who have difficulty finding mentors, or who burn out from the weight of wanting to serve the chronically underserved. It reflects my own experiences, in which I have been told multiple times in a single year that I am the only black woman editor that a writer has ever had. But it doesn’t corroborate my long experience as a reader. What happened to the writers and editors and multihyphenates from the era of the multicultural magazine, that brief flash in the 90’s and early aughts when storytellers seemed to reflect just how much people of color lead in creating American culture? Who should have formed a pipeline of leaders for mainstream publications when the industry began to contract?

* * *

In addition to her stints at Vibe, Smith also edited for Billboard, Time, Inc. publications, and published two novels. She was culture editor for ESPN’s digital magazine The Undefeated before going on book leave. Akiba Solomon is an author, editor of two books, and is currently senior editorial director at Colorlines, a digital news daily published by Race Forward. She started an internship at YSB in 1995 before going on to write and edit for Jane, Glamour, Essence, Vibe Vixen, and The Source. She told me that even at magazines without predominantly black staff, she’d worked with other black people, though not often directly. At black magazines, she was frequently edited by black women. “I’ve been edited by Robin Stone, Vanessa DeLuca [formerly editor-in-chief of Essence, currently running the Medium vertical ZORA], Ayana Byrd, Kierna Mayo, Cori Murray, and Michaela Angela Davis.” Solomon’s last magazine byline was last year, an Essence story on black women activists who organize in culturally relevant ways to fight and prevent sexual assault.

Solomon writes infrequently for publications now, worn down by conditions in journalism she believes are untenable. At the hip-hop magazines, the sexism was a deterrent, and later, “I was seeing a turn in who was getting the jobs writing about black music” when it became mainstream. “Once folks could divorce black music from black culture it was a wrap,” she said. At women’s magazines, Solomon felt stifled by “extremely narrow” storytelling. Publishing, in general, Solomon believes, places unsustainable demands on its workers. 

When we talk about the death of print, it is infrequent that we also talk about the conditions that make it ripe for obsolescence. The reluctant slowness with which mainstream media has integrated its mastheads (or kept them integrated) has meant the industry’s content has suffered. And the work environments have placed exorbitant burdens on the people of color who do break through. In Smith’s words:

You feel that you want to serve these people with good and quality content, with good and quality graphics, with good and quality leadership. And as a black person, as a black woman, regardless of whether you’re serving a mainstream audience, which I have at a Billboard and at Time, Inc., or a multicultural audience, which I have at Vibe, it is difficult. And it’s actually taken me a long time to admit that to myself. It does wear you down. And I ask myself why have I always, always stayed in a job two and a half to three years, especially when I’m editing? It’s because I’m tired by that time.

In a July story for Politico, black journalists from The New York Times and the Associated Press talked about how a sophisticated understanding of race is critical to ethically and thoroughly covering the current political moment. After the August 3 massacre in El Paso, Lulu Garcia-Navarro wrote how the absence of Latinx journalists in newsrooms has created a vacuum that allows hateful words from the president to ring unchallenged. Lacking the necessary capacity, many organizations cover race related topics, often matters of life and death, without context or depth. As outlets miss the mark, journalists of color may take on the added work of acting as the “the black public editor of our newsrooms,” Astead Herndon from the Times said on a Buzzfeed panel. Elaine Welteroth wrote about the physical exhaustion she experienced during her tenure as editor in chief at Teen Vogue in her memoir More Than Enough. She was the second African American editor in chief in parent company Condé Nast’s 110 year history:

I was too busy to sleep, too frazzled to eat, and TMI: I had developed a bizarre condition where I felt the urge to pee — all the time. It was so disruptive that I went to see a doctor, thinking it may have been a bladder infection.

Instead, I found myself standing on a scale in my doctor’s office being chastised for accidentally dropping nine more pounds. These were precious pounds that my naturally thin frame could not afford to lose without leaving me with the kind of bony body only fashion people complimented.

Condé Nast shuttered Teen Vogue’s print edition in 2017, despite record-breaking circulation, increased political coverage, and an expanded presence on the internet during Welteroth’s tenure. Welteroth left the company to write her book and pursue other ventures.

Mitzi Miller was editor in chief of JET when it ran the 2012 cover story on Jordan Davis, a Florida teenager shot and killed by a white vigilante over his loud music. “At the time, very few news outlets were covering the story because it occurred over a holiday weekend,” she said. To write the story, Miller hired Denene Millner, an author of more than 20 books. With interviews from Jordan’s parents, Ron Davis and Lucy McBath, the piece went viral and was one of many stories that galvanized the contemporary American movement against police brutality.

Miller started working in magazines in 2000, and came up through Honey and Jane before taking the helm at JET then Ebony in 2014. She edits for the black website theGrio when she can and writes an occasional piece for a print magazine roughly once a year. Shrinking wages have made it increasingly difficult to make a life in journalism, she told me. After working at a number of dream publications, Miller moved on to film and TV development. 

Both Miller and Solomon noted how print publications have been slow to evolve. “It’s hard to imagine now, particularly to digital native folks, but print was all about a particular format. It was about putting the same ideas into slightly different buckets,” Solomon said. On the podcast Hear to Slay, Vanessa DeLuca spoke about how reluctant evolution may have imperiled black media. “Black media have not always … looked forward in terms of how to build a brand across multiple platforms.” Some at legacy print institutions still seem to hold internet writing in lower esteem (“You can look at people and be like, well, your experience is writing 1,200-word pieces for the web and you’re great at it, so good going!” were Goldberg’s words to Nieman Lab). Often, pay structures reflect this hierarchy. Certainly, the internet’s speed and accessibility have lowered barriers to entry and made it such that rigor is not always a requirement for publication. But it’s also changed information consumption patterns and exploded the possibilities of storytelling.

Michael Gonzales, a frequent contributor to this site and a writer I’ve worked with as an editor, started in magazines in the 1980s as a freelancer. He wrote for The Source and Vibe during a time that overlapped with Smith’s and Solomon’s tenures, the years now called “the golden era of rap writing.” The years correspond to those moments I spent reading magazines with my high school friends. At black publications, he worked with black women editors all the time, but “with the exception of the Village Voice, none of the mainstream magazines employed black editors.” Despite the upheaval of the past several years (“the money is less than back in the day,” he said), Gonzales seems pleased with where his career has landed, “I’ve transformed from music critic/journalist to an essayist.” He went on to talk about how now, with the proliferation of digital magazines:

I feel like we’re living in an interesting writer time where there are a number of quality sites looking for quality writing, especially in essay form. There are a few that sometimes get too self-indulgent, but for the most part, especially in the cultural space (books, movies, theater, music, etc.), there is a lot of wonderful writing happening. Unfortunately you are the only black woman editor I have, although a few years back I did work with Kierna Mayo at Ebony.

  * * *

Danielle A. Jackson is a contributing editor at Longreads.

Editor: Sari Botton

Fact checker: Steven Cohen

Copy editor: Jacob Z. Gross

[biofunmy]

Sex and the Subway Ad

There is so much sex on the New York City subway now. Have you noticed? If you’re here, you must have. It’s inescapable.

Sometimes, train stations are just coated in phallic cactuses. They jut out in every direction, advertising a company called Hims that sells not plants, but pills to help treat hair loss and erectile dysfunction.

Within train cars, an ad for the linens company Brooklinen shows three pairs of feet tangled together under a sheet. Brooklinen originally wanted to tell riders that the sheets were meant for “threesomes” but was made to tweak it by the Metropolitan Transportation Authority. The advertisement now says that the sheet is for “throuples,” those in a committed relationship of three.

There are so many more. The Museum of Sex. Breast Augmentation. Lola prompts riders to talk about “condoms, lubricant and wipes,” under an image of two women happily discussing “the weirdest thing I’ve ever felt.” OkCupid uses a common acronym for being willing to have casual sex. Roman asks if you’re subject to (again!) erectile dysfunction.

When did this start? Where is it going? Do we really need this much sex on the subway? And what do we tell the kids?

Graffiti Out, Nudity In

In the 1980s, the subways were perhaps the least sexy place in New York, unless you were turned on by dirty, broken things. In 1984, the M.T.A. hired a superstar of the transit world, David L. Gunn, from Philadelphia to improve the system.

At first, Mr. Gunn focused on the most serious problems: derailments and dangerously hot cars. But eventually he got around to cleaning up the interiors. By 1989, the eyesores of the previous decade — broken windows, trash all over the floor — were all but gone. A graffiti artist told The New York Times then that he barely had time to take a picture of a finished tag, or signature, before a worker popped up to scrub it away.

Three years later, the M.T.A. lost a major source of revenue when it banned tobacco advertising in subways and buses, which had made up about 16 percent of the $27 million the agency earned from advertising annually.

A new class of advertisement soon emerged to fill all those empty spaces. In April 1993, New York Newsday ran an article with the headline “SEXY BUSES, SEXY SUBWAYS” on its front page. It reported that the city’s subway and bus system would soon get its “raciest ads ever,” for the radio station Hot 97. They were to feature eight embracing couples, some of them nude to the waist.

The next year, Gay Men’s Health Crisis, an AIDS nonprofit, began running subway ads that showed same-sex couples canoodling, with the tag line “Young. Hot. Safe!”

The organization received bomb threats that specifically cited the ads, said Krishna Stone, then a volunteer with G.M.H.C.

Hot 97 ads used sex to sell an image of the radio station. Gay Men’s Health Crisis was compelled to mention it by way of addressing a public health epidemic. In 2019, the companies that advertise on the subways frequently blur the distinction between these very different categories of ad.

The M.T.A. has long used contractors, companies like New York Subways Advertising, TDI and (these days) Outfront Media, as its first line of defense when it comes to determining what is decent enough for the public eye.

It’s always been a balancing act. “We recognize that advertisers have a right to get their message across,” Larry Levine, then a director of real-estate operations for the M.T.A., told Newsday in 1993. “At the same time, we don’t expect our contractors to put up things that are totally offensive.”

Four years ago, tired of losing in court, the agency again changed its advertising policy, most significantly banning all political advertising on the subways and buses. That helped convert the legal status of the transit system from a designated public forum into a limited public forum, with more ability to self-regulate.

These days, the process is supposed to work like this. When Outfront Media believes that an ad violates the M.T.A.’s advertising policy, it is supposed to forward the ad to the agency’s advertising review committee of three: a director of external affairs, a compliance officer and a development officer (two women and a man). The committee, which sees a tiny percentage of all the ads submitted to the subway, is advised by a lawyer who specializes in free speech.

If advertisers are rejected, they can appeal the committee’s decision, asking the authority’s chief development officer, Janno Lieber, for a formal written ruling. Not many companies get to that point.

Next Stop: Your Undies

It is a classic, if risky marketing strategy to get attention through provocation. (See “You want to know what comes between me and my Calvins? Nothing.” and its variants.) If advertisers can get publicity by feuding with the subway, it may serve them better in the long run than the neutered ads that the authority would permit them to run.

The year the subway changed its advertising policy, Thinx, a company that makes products for women, like special underwear for periods, took a combative route after being rejected by Outfront. (This was before Miki Agrawal, a founder and the chief executive of Thinx, was ousted from the company after being accused of sexually harassing employees.)

Ms. Agrawal told Bustle that men were afraid of the period. She told Mic that, seemingly, it was fine to objectify women as the menstrual cycle went unacknowledged. (Consider the ads for local plastic surgeons who do breast implants.) And she told The Times that the rejection was “a double standard we were not going to let by.” On the same day, the M.T.A. told The Times, referring to the ads, that “of course they will be approved.” They went up.

“We feel like we paved the way for many other brands to really push the boundaries of their advertising,” said Siobhan Lonergan, the chief brand officer of Thinx.

Indeed, many other companies selling intimate products or referring to sex seem to be getting easy clearance from the M.T.A. In fact, the agency is more lenient than transit agencies in other cities, said Melissa Hobley, the chief marketing officer of OkCupid, the dating company.

Its recent campaign was kept off the Bay Area Rapid Transit system in San Francisco and Oakland. Chicago rejected it, as did Austin, Tex. But while the New York subways didn’t take the ads right away (Outfront kicked it up to the M.T.A., which then negotiated changes with OkCupid), the ads eventually began to run.

And yet, despite the M.T.A.’s increasing permissiveness, two companies that make sex toys have found a line that the agency, so far, has been unwilling to cross.

The M.T.A. says in a posted list and questions and answers about its policy that advertisements for sex toys straightforwardly violate a rule against what it calls “sexually oriented businesses” introduced in 2015, at the same time as the rule prohibiting political advertising.

In the spring of 2018, Polly Rodriguez, a founder of Unbound, a company that makes sex toys, thought the subways would be a good place to advertise. She submitted mock-ups to Outfront, but was told that the ads would not be approved under M.T.A. guidelines.

Ms. Rodriguez did not hear from the M.T.A. directly. She heard only from an employee of Outfront, David Luna, who said that “our committee” decided that the ads did not meet M.T.A. guidelines. The ads violated sections of M.T.A. rules that prohibit dissemination of indecent material to minors and the public display of “offensive sexual material,” he said.

Like Thinx before it, Ms. Rodriguez’s company went to the press, accusing the M.T.A. of sexism. After several articles and lots of social media fervor, a spokesman for the agency told The Times that it would “work with the company toward a resolution that is agreeable to all parties and allows their ads on the system.���

Over the summer things with Outfront continued to drag along. For a time, Ms. Rodriguez gave up.

“Everybody’s allowed to use women’s bodies and sexuality to sell since the dawn of time, except women themselves,” she said.

Encouraged by the agency’s public diplomacy in the press, another female-led company that makes sex toys, Dame Products, submitted an ad campaign to the M.T.A. in August, and went through several rounds of edits.

In November 2018, the authority posted a “frequently asked questions” page that specified that advertisements for sex toys or devices were barred from the subways. A month after that, Dame’s ads were rejected in a final determination by Mr. Lieber.

Alexandra Fine, a founder of Dame and a friend of Ms. Rodriguez’s, received an email from Andy Byford, the president of New York City Transit (the branch of the M.T.A. responsible for day-to-day operations). He told her that he “cringed” when he read of her experience but that he did not have the authority to do anything himself.

Ms. Fine did not give up. Earlier this summer, Dame sued the M.T.A.; its chairman, Pat Foye; and Mr. Lieber. In the suit, Dame asked that the court compel the M.T.A. to feature its ads. The litigation is continuing.

Ms. Rodriguez and Ms. Fine have consistently contrasted the M.T.A.’s treatment of their companies with Hims and Roman, which also sells pills to combat erectile dysfunction. The subway justifies allowing those companies’ advertisements by saying they offer medicinal products while Unbound and Dame offer products only for pleasure.

“Fifty-five-year-old men don’t need erections,” Ms. Fine said. “Those erections make them feel alive and that’s beautiful, but same with my sex toys.”

Emma Freeman, a lawyer representing Dame in the suit, said that “the notion very broadly that advertisements like Roman and Hims serve a public health interest that Dame doesn’t is nonsense,” adding that the M.T.A.’s decisions represented a “pretty egregious double standard that stems from patriarchal and sexist cultural standards.”

Asked to comment on the Dame lawsuit, the M.T.A. said in a statement that its “advertising policy and its decision not to display the Dame Products ads is not gender-based or viewpoint discriminatory,” adding that its advertising policy clearly states “that advertisements for sex toys or devices for any gender are not permitted. Advertising for FDA-approved medication — including sexual dysfunction medication for any gender — is permitted.” 

More generally, the agency says that advertising “provides a critical revenue source” and that its advertising policy allows it to “maximize ridership and fare revenues and maintain a secure, orderly and welcoming system.” In other words, it runs ads to make money, while also running a transportation network that serves a huge cross-section of the public.

Mad as Heck

Along with all the other trouble facing the M.T.A., like suspended service during a recent heat wave, total unpredictability from line to line and the saga of the L train, the agency says it hears frequently from organizations and individuals upset about sexual content in advertisements. Occasionally, passengers’ interactions with them pop up on social media, too.

But even if a judge rules against Dame the increasing permissiveness of the last 50 years suggests there will come a day when ads for vibrators will not offend enough New Yorkers for the agency to bother rejecting them.

Hims’s chief executive, Andrew Dudum, expressed support for Unbound and Dame. “If there is any sense of gender bias, then it’s exceptionally offensive,” he said. “And I would encourage the M.T.A. to take women’s health issues and women’s sexuality with the same degree of importance that they would take anybody else’s.”

Mr. Dudum added that his own ads should not bother anyone.

“You wont ever see ‘sex sells’ with Hims and Hers,” he said. “You won’t see crazy nudity or things that are graphically vulgar that when I walk the streets of New York I’m shocked have been allowed anywhere.”

Dan Gluck, the founder of the Museum of Sex, which is advertised on the front of buses that sail past elementary schools in Brooklyn and elsewhere, has four children: two teenagers, a preteen and a toddler. He said that ads that promote sex are “just part of the conversation of life.”

“Why not expose people, even at a young age, to the idea that sex is part of their lives, their world and their culture, and it’s O.K. to talk about it?” he said. “I don’t think there should be pornographic ads in the subway. But I think its O.K. to have sexually oriented ads in the subway that initiate conversation. I have zero ethical problem with that from a parent’s perspective.”

Katherine O’Keefe, a spokeswoman for Brooklinen, said that the company did hear from “moms and people who are concerned about what image we’re selling,” but said that far more often the company got laudatory feedback from customers who were excited to see themselves represented in the ads.

Still, it is clear that the ads are uncomfortable for religious communities, many parents and teachers shuttling children from classes to museums (not the one of sex) on the subway.

In May, The Jewish Press lamented the Museum of Sex ads in an editorial: “Nearly every day, at least several hundred thousand people — including tens of thousands of innocent teenagers and children — see these ads,” the editorial read. “Among them are many hundreds (perhaps thousands) of yeshiva boys and Bais Yaakov girls who ride on trains.” (The phrase “Bais Yaakov” means school age.)

Elana Taubman, who teaches middle-schoolers in the city, said she was put in an uncomfortable situation by one of the companies that sells erectile dysfunction pills during the past school year. One of her students asked her what erectile dysfunction was. She told him to ask his science teacher. But the students continued to talk about the advertisement.

“It made me realize that my students were pretty old compared to all the students who take the subway every single day,” Ms. Taubman said. “A 13-year-old, that’s not even that crazy. To think that there are 9-, 10-, 11-year-olds being exposed to this every day? I’d say it was a very explicit ad, and I thought it was a lot for them to see.”

Ms. Fine, the Dame founder, understood this perspective. Referring to Hims and Roman and all the other companies permitted to allude to sex in the subway (however subliminally), she said, “If nobody could run ads, if they couldn’t run ads either, I would not feel nearly as indignant about it.”

In an email later in the day, though, Ms. Fine returned to her initial stance.

“Sex-focused products SHOULD be allowed to advertise because sex is a healthy part of the human experience,” she wrote.

Sahred From Source link Fashion and Style

from WordPress http://bit.ly/33rsKYw via IFTTT

[colettascorner]

#TakeMeOutToTheBallGame SL with @BestYoullNvrHve and @TryButYoullLose

SL #4 - Take Me Out to the Ballgame

Oliver: [I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and peeled off the bandage, the new one Cole had just put on a few hours ago. I poked at the healing wound, still slightly angry after a few days, but not as bad. Some things hurt, some didn’t. Sometimes it was as if it had never happened...until I picked up the newspaper and saw another article splashed across the front page. I glared at the newspaper next to me, despising that picture of my limp body being wheeled out of the museum. I was nobody’s fucking victim, and I couldn’t wait to stand up in front of the press and say so. But what really rankled about the photo was the sheer emotion written all over Cole’s face. I couldn’t look at it. After spending the evening with her, feeling that need to have her close, I’d woken up the next morning with a renewed dedication to keeping my distance...and keeping her safe. For the case. This was all for the case. I ignored anything other than work, pulling the woman who stabbed me’s case file, her son’s, combing the list of contacts Cole had provided for some link that we could exploit. The detective I’d spoken with this morning said the woman had asked for a lawyer as soon as they brought her in. They hadn’t even gotten to ask the first question.  John was adamant I wasn’t trying the case against her. I conceded, for now, but that wouldn’t stand. She was going to give me what I needed or I was going to put her son in the most gang infested prison in the state. In fact, I’d already made a few calls and greased a few wheels. Beginning of next week I’d have his transfer papers as leverage for her to flip on Martinelli. I was sure of it.

I stared at the tux on the hanger, a new one considering my old one was too stained to salvage, but I wouldn’t be needing it tonight. Instead, I sighed at my Yankees jersey, nodding. Tonight, we were going to “blend in” to the crowd, see a game, eat some crazy good food and canoodle for the paps. Cole had been mum lately, even shunning questions about her father’s reaction to the news, but maybe tonight she’d open up to me. It had been two days. That was it. But the distance felt like two years. I chastised myself, running my hands through my hair, careful not to stretch too far. This was only for the case. That’s it. Wasn’t it?]

Coletta: {As I'd predicted, the day following his stabbing looked much different than the night of. I'd crept up to my room to shower after we'd passed out on the couch, leaving him sleeping in the early morning light peeking through the curtains in his study. When I'd come down to get something to eat, I found the study door firmly closed. Hearing him on the phone, I decided not to interrupt and made myself some eggs, had coffee then retreated to my room. I could very easily entertain myself with a day of pampering after a night for the horror movies, especially since the day had gotten such a late start. Face mask, hair treatment, bath with a joint, a good book...the only thing missing was a massage. I may have even thought about my darling husband while I took that bath, willing him to join me but alas… Nevertheless, I felt like a million bucks as I returned to the kitchen for a light dinner. I  wasn't looking for Oliver, not at all, and it didn't sting that the door was still closed. I'm sure after the night we had, we had just as much work to do than he already did. After sleeping in the next morning, I told myself I needed to check in to see if there was anything he needed from me for the case. Only for the case. I was just about the knock when the door was pulled opened leaving me standing there with a fist raised and a shocked expression on my face, looking like a gaping fish. He barely acknowledged my presence, only looking at me long enough to tell me that we were going to the Yankees game tonight. As the door closed in my face… I stayed. Standing right there as a whirlwind started in my mind. The new feeling of dread at the mere thought of going out in public took root, but so did anger. He thought he could be friendly, almost nice one minute, needy when he was hurt, more than flirty when he was drunk or high, then...this when he had his wits about him? Well fuck that, Oliver Davidson. There was no way I was going to be played with. No more giving in because I had been starved for male affection for the majority of my life. I didn't want his scraps of it. I could play this game. I wouldn't be the weak one. Extremely glad that I'd packed so many of my clothes, I buttoned my Dustin Pedroia jersey over a long sleeve red shirt paired with ripped, tight skinny jeans and my ponytail pulled through the snap back of my navy blue Sox hat. Maybe he'd cancel rather than take me to a Yankees game.decked out in Sox gear, but if he didn't, I'd be fulfilling my wifely duty and doing my part to grab the headlines. I didn't bother to knock this time, traipsing into the office like I owned it. And I did, well, half of it anyway. Flopping down on the couch with a beer in my hand, I put my chucks on the coffee table and twisted off the bottle cap.} So where are.our seats? Behind home plate? Or the luxury box life for my worse half?

Oliver: [I looked up when she walked in, and I couldn’t have been more pleased if I’d asked her to do it myself. Which I wouldn’t. But somehow I knew she’d make it her own. That’s what was different about her.] Good strategy. They’re already talking about how we’re from different worlds, a real Romeo and Juliet love story, so a Sox fan with a die-hard Yankees supporter will be fabulous. [I let the droll topic show in my voice, but I was anything but bored. Those jeans hugged her in all the right places, and she looked radiant. I smoothed down my Aaron Judge jersey, so ironic, dark wash jeans and a pair of comfortable black Jordan’s, turning around and fixing the bit of hair that stuck from my backwards Yankee hat.] I assume you’ve read the papers. If not, the Times is there, along with a few others. Seems we made front page news. [I pulled the tray from its spot, only to find my stash empty, and my side was aching like a bitch. Seemed like I’d been smoking too much, and with guard detail, it was hard to get more. Cursing under my breath, I shoved the tray back into the slot and slammed the door, turning back to Cole, trying to be civil as I poured generous drink.] I was hoping you’d have some insight into how your father is taking all this. [I took a long sip, knowing I couldn’t go to the game drunk, so I paced myself, turning back and pulling a flask out of the wet bar and filling it up. I filled her in on the lady who’d stabbed me, wincing a bit as I moved, finally taking a seat in my chair as I shoved the flask in my pocket] Our seats are above the dugout. But I do have a skybox available to us if need be. Also, I did what you asked and ran extra checks on security. Turns out a few had been compromised. They’ve been replaced and we should have a solid set now. [At least I hoped we did. I’d fired the assholes myself, telling them that if I find out they had anything to do with the stabbing, I’d personally oversee their trial.] You look very nice, by the way.

Coletta: {Noowwww I remembered why I hated him. I was also mad that I'd let myself forget. God forbid he be more than a cyborg at any time aside from when his mind was altered, but it was fine. I had plenty of years of practice as an ice princess, growing up in a house run by a sociopath where any sign of weakness or emotion could be manipulated and used against you. I had allowed myself a level of comfort here because I'd been so emotionally raw from everything that had happened, but not anymore. I'd play my part, then spend my down time fantasizing about the life I'd never have. Lose myself in a book...maybe I'd write one. At least I didn't have the day to day stresses of work, bills, horrible family to deal with. And my husband was nice to look at. It could be worse. My lips twitched when he slammed the drawer shut on the empty tray. I could share my stash with him, I had enough left for a little while, but I wasn't feeling particularly magnanimous at the moment. Maybe I'd put him on a behavioral reward plan he didn't even know about. The subject of my father's reaction was like an ice bucket on my anger, pulling my focus back to the present.}  That night and the next morning he was livid. Livid that we were out as an official couple. Livid that the hit was unsuccessful. Since yesterday, he's been planning. The bounty on both of our heads has increased. Probably doubled. He's working any and everyone he can for information. It's imperative now that any plan you make for us to be out in public, only a few people know about. We may want to think about hiring private security. They get paid more than cops so don't bribe as easily. Just a thought. {Taking a deep breath, I lifted my gaze from where I'd been staring blankly at the coffee table to meet his insanely pretty eyes.} If he gets wind of this game, he'll stack the upper deck, maybe with snippers. Oliver, eventually, he might get reckless, but this excursion could risk numerous innocent lives. {Blinking rapidly to staunch the tears that threatened at the thought, I tipped the beer bottle back, taking another long chug.}

Oliver: [Now she was just being ridiculous. I rolled my eyes, even though I could see the wet tears shining in her eyes, unshed, but I was unaffected. Somewhat. Why did she have to cry? I hated when she cried. I sighed, shaking my head] We’re only going to stay in our seats for a certain amount of time. Every precaution is being taken. After that time, we’ll be moving to a skybox, which Yankee Stadium has gladly allowed us to replace with bulletproof glass. At our expense of course. [My phone vibrated, letting me know the car had arrived, and I stood, but doubled over with a loud curse. One of the security men walked in, and I held up a hand, shaking my head] It’s fine. I’m fine. Just...let’s go. [I pressed my hand to my side, carefully standing up, making sure I didn’t pull anything again, then slipped my phone in my pocket and looked back at Cole.] No, I’m not taking something. I hate pain pills. I’ve been drinking. I’ll be fine. [I waited for her, holding out my hand for her to take, knowing she’d realize that it was best in case there were paps out beside the gate. When she slipped it in mine, I felt better. No matter how we got along, I wasn’t alone in this. She could hate me and ignore me, that was fine, but she was here and so was I. That meant something.] They have dinner ready for us in the Skybox. Do you want to get something to snack on? [I was trying to make small talk as we walked out to the towncar, I let her slip in before me and then I settled in. When I saw the two sandwiches on the tray, I nodded.] Someone read my mind. There. [I pointed, then sat back. Traffic was going to be a nightmare, and I was glad for preferred parking. I knew she was nervous, and if I was honest, I was kind of nervous myself. One doesn’t get stabbed then not be leery of public places. But this was my life. Even before the Martinelli trial, I’d had my share of assholes and revenge attempts. This was no different. They wouldn’t keep me from my goal.] Relax. We’ve got a little while to drive.

Coletta: {Dismissed again. Awesome. Or at least mostly. Maybe I'd breathe again once we left our seats and made it to the box. I almost jumped out of my seat to help when I watched him double over in pain. He was still far worse than he'd let on and he'd been working or whatever he'd been doing while hulled up in his office, far too much. So this was a dick measuring contest...proving how unaffected he was by the stabbing, and I was the prop. I merely shrugged when he mentioned not taking anything. No skin off my back if he was suffering, and I understood his reasons for not. He was far too type A to let anything affect his mind that he didn't choose to let affect it. Jaw clenched, I pushed to my feet, and very nearly slapped his hand away when he reached for mine. Only the fact that with security in the room, the act was on, had me taking his hand instead.} I'm fine. {Was the only thing I had to say to him as we slid into the darkly tinted limo. The attempt to fill the silence with small talk told me just how nervous he was, which gave me a little comfort. Except that I didn't want to comfort or be comforted by him. Not if these scheduled appearances were the only time my existence was to be acknowledged. The fact that I was hurt by his treatment of me over the last two days told me just how far my mind had taken things after a few enjoyable interactions, and I knew I needed to shut it all down to protect myself. Tucked into the curve of the wrap around seats, I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, cheek resting on my knees as I stared out of the window. He didn't care that my heart was hammering so hard in my chest that I felt like I might stroke out. He'd scoff when we were in a crowd and I was jumping out of my skin at every loud noise. He'd roll his eyes if I told him that even now, I felt like a vice was squeezing my throat and I couldn't breathe. If I needed a reminder of how little my opinion, let alone my feelings mattered, or that I had no choices in any of this...this little excursion hit all the check marks to remind me of that.}

Oliver: [As we drove, I kept a side-eye on her. She was taking it better than I expected, really, even though just by her posture I could tell she was having a hard time. I regretted it, somewhat, but this was what we had to do. This was the game, this was the plan all along, and I couldn’t always be concerned that she was going to fall apart. It pissed me off a bit, and I reached inside my jacket pocket for my flask, taking a quick sip. Hell, I was afraid too, but you didn’t see me curled up in the corner of the limo.] Look, you’re going to have to...stop, okay? You can’t always be afraid of everything. You can’t let him win like that! [I ran my fingers through my hair, blowing out a breath. I definitely wasn’t in the mood for any cuddling or coddling, for that matter, but he had to do something or this day was never going to as planned. I leaned forward and rummaged through the cabinet under the wet bar and found an empty silver flask, and I handed it to her, then opened the cabinet all the way for her to see] Take whatever you want. Fill that up. I’ll get you a beer or two, some food, and you’ll feel better. Just...don’t cry or anything. Please. [I felt the car slowing, saw the lights even through the tint, and sat up, reaching for the whisky. I uncapped my flask and filled it up, tucking it away and checking the time on my phone.] The game starts in a half hour. We have an escort to our seats. We’re one back from the dugout, some agents in front of us, so we’re secure. I don’t know if that helps, but I hope it does. [The car stopped, and just as I was about to get out, I looked back at her, staring for a moment. I knew that without something to relax me, I was a grade A asshole. She didn’t deserve that, so I had to try to be a little better than normal.] We’re in this together. I’m not going to leave your side, I promise. If you want, there’s kevlar in the back for us, but I wasn’t sure if you would. But if it’ll make you feel safer, we can put it on. [The door opened and two plainclothes guys were on either side of the door, and I nodded, stepping out, then holding my hand out for Coletta.] We can do this, me and you, or… [and John would be pissed, but if that’s what she wanted, I’d do it.] we can blow this place and go somewhere else. It’s up to you.

Coletta: {His anger only served to stoke my own. As if I wanted to be frozen in fear like this? This wasn't me. It never had been, but the feeling that every breath I took could be my last was a little taxing. Lifting my head, my eyes narrowed in a death glare, I kept my voice low and steady.} I'm not going to ruin your plan. I told you that I can play the part. When we're not on display, I’d appreciate the chance to process things in my own mind without you barking at me, so if you could leave me the fuck alone when we're not out parading around for this bullshit, I’d really appreciate it. Oh wait. You have been, so what am I complaining about? {A derisive snort escaped as I grabbed the flask from his hand. I didn't want to be drunk, but it was better than being in my own head and it looked like my only option at the moment. Grabbing the bottle of Patron, I took a swig first, hissing at the burn from the tequila before pouring some into the flask. Capping the flask, I slid it into my back pocket before following him out of the back of the limo. His reassurances fell on deaf ears because I knew it was lip service. He didn't give a fuck about anything but proving his mightiness, and gave even less of a fuck about me. I guess if I got shot, that'd ruin his plan though. This time, I did slap his hand away before climbing out of the car. This and anywhere but safe in his home, were the last place on earth I wanted to be, right now, so his last comment had me grinding my molars, as I pulled the brim of my hat lower over my face.} Don't you dare pretend that I have any sort of a choice in any of this. It's insulting to my intelligence and yours. {Turning my back to him, I plastered the fakest smile I could muster as I addressed the plainclothes officer beside me.} Where are we sitting? I don't want to miss the line up.

Oliver: [Alright. If that’s how she wanted to play it. Fine by me. I slammed the door a bit, hearing her talk to the officer as we walked, I trailed behind and took out my cell phone, going over the headlines. We weren’t in the public eye yet, still in VIP, but soon we’d have to put on the masks and make nicey.] You know, you’re not the only one who's getting the shit end of this deal, but go ahead and fucking think it’s all about you. By the way… [I pointed ahead, seeing the entrance to the stadium, camera’s turning this way and flashes firing as I slipped my phone in my pocket and my hand into hers, trying for a smile. I wasn’t drunk enough for this. People were hollering my name, and because it was good press, I stopped in front of a nerdy looking guy. “Mr. Davidson, just three days ago you were brutally stabbed at an art gallery charity event, and now here you and Ms. Martinelli are out and about again. You’re haven’t been seen at work since the first hint of a threat. Are you up for this? Do you have concerns for safety?” I looked at Cole with all the affection I could muster right now, and I’m not even sure how it came off, but I turned back to the man and nodded.] All is well, I assure you. We’re excited to be here tonight to support the organization...well, I am… [I looked at Cole and grinned, and all the journalists chuckled] We’re taking precautions, but we’re going to live our life. Out loud. We won’t be afraid, and we won’t be intimidated. Thank you. [More questions flew at us, but I placed my hand at the small of Cole’s back, leading her through the tunnel and following close at the heels of our escorts. I stayed close by quiet, still stewing about it all. I had no idea how I was going to pull off the entire night like this. Fourth inning couldn’t get here soon enough.]

Coletta: {I wanted to cringe away from his hand when he took mine, but I couldn't. The cameras were already snapping, the pop of the flashes had my hand tightening in his. Damn this anxiety. Stone faced until he stopped to talk to them, I plastered a smile in place, tilted my head up, eyes only on him as he spoke, I put on my best doting wife impersonation. Laughing along with the old rivalry joke, I kept my smile in place and rolled my eyes. I didn't know if I'd have been able to speak if they'd wanted me to, but the thought that my father might be catching this little exchange live, stole my voice. I could see him, flipping a desk, throwing things, shooting at god knows what if there was a gun nearby...probably aiming at the image of me on the screen. I didn't even realize we’d made it to our seats until we were squeezing down the aisle to take out spots behind the dugout. That alone told me how out of it I was. I didn't do my usual top to bottom, left to right, visual scan of my surroundings. Right now, if my future killer was in the crowd, I didn't want to see them. Once seated, I kept my head angled down, face shielded by the brim of my hat as I combed my finger through my pony tail. I was fidgeting, but I couldn't help it. We were completely exposed right now, and all I could hear was my heart pounding in my ears. I wasn't going to be able to keep this up. That thought in mind, I pulled the flask from my back pocket and and chugged it before.dropping the empty tin in Oliver’s lap. With a smile that hurt to force, I finally looked his way.} How do I get a refill, counselor?

Oliver: [I slid my hand over her cheek and pulled her to me, kissing her temple. What looked like an outward show of affection was actually quite the opposite. I whispered low in her ear while I tucked the empty flask in my pocket.] The point of a flask is to be covert, darling, because alcohol is still not allowed at the stadium, only what you purchase. Furthermore, I won’t have you out here drunk off your ass. I don’t date those kinds of women. You said you could play the part, but that small little flagrant display was not the part. Now, if you can’t seem to keep your shit together for the three innings we’re going to stay down here in the seats, tell me now and I can fake a work emergency and take us right back out the same way we came. I’m not about to be embarrassed, by you or anyone else. [I lightly kissed the corner of her mouth and sat back in my seat, seething as I took out my phone. Everything ached today, and without some kind of medication, keeping my cool was next to impossible. I tried to stretch, to make it feel less tight, but that just brought on more pain, so I stopped, relaxed, and texted Peter: Are you here? He texted back right away, and I gritted my teeth. “Yup. Watching you suffer uselessly. I’ll never understand your adversion to narcotics.” I just let it go, resisting the urge to throw my phone, instead slipping it back in my jacket pocket. Just then, I saw Judge’s bit head pop over the duggout with a grin. I laughed, getting out of my seat and walking down to the railing, sticking my hand out and his big paw dwarfed mine. “Heard you got stabbed. What’s the deal? I need to come head your security?” I chuckled, shaking my head.] Nah, just some angry woman. You know how that goes. [I smirked, and he flipped me off. I turned toward Cole, then back to Judge. “Yeah? She’s the one?” I nodded, leaning against the railing. “She worth all this?” I didn’t even hesitate, nodding again.] Yeah. She is. [And she was, just not the way Judge thought. I’d put up with her for as long as it took. I might not be sane when it was all over, but that was the price I’d pay. We made small talk, I wished him luck, bumped, then I walked slowly back to my seat, sitting down gingerly, looking over at her.] Have you made your decision?

Coletta: {The little kiss to my temple sent a rock to the bottom of my stomach, the fakeness of it all making me want to bring back up the liquor I'd just drank. That compounded with the chastisements whispered in my ear had me thankful for the little bit of cover from my ball cap, as I knew my cheeks were flaming. Goddamn him, he was right on one point. The last thing I wanted to do was make a spectacle of myself for being a sloppy drunk. I was certainly acting the petulant princess part, but that wasn't what I was going to need to be today. Keeping my mouth shut, I stared at the Sox players warming up in the outfield as I tried to get my shit together and settle on my own plan of action. The liquor was at least beginning to loosen the tension that had my stomach in knots and put some awesomely bad ideas in my mind, but at least they'd be fun… When Oliver left his seat to go talk to some guy at the dugout, I leaned forward to speak between the two plain clothes officers I knew were part of our guard detail sitting in front of us.} I did a little too much pregaming in the limo, fellas. Could one of you do me a solid and run up to concessions? I'm going to need some carbs. Fries. Maybe a hotdog. Definitely peanuts. And a couple of beers for me and the big shot. {When the “WTF?” glare was aimed in my direction, I just flashed my sweetest smile and nodded, knowing eventually one would take on the chore. Sitting back when Oliver returned to his seat, I lifted the arm rest between us so that I could cuddle up against his side. I knew it was the wounded side and just maybe took some sadistic pleasure in knowing he'd be fighting not to show the pain. Nuzzling the crook of his neck, the alcohol keeping my revulsion at bay, I laid my hand on his thigh, sliding it slowly up and down, inching closer to his groin and inner thigh with each pass as I murmured by his ear.} If I'm a good girl, can I get to third base later?

Oliver: [When she pushed into my side, I bit the inside of my cheek and cursed her up one side and down the other. Little bitch knew what she was doing. But here, I couldn’t push her off. So carefully, I raised my arm and put it over her shoulder, tucking her in and leaning down to smirk at her statement. I watched her hand slide over my thigh, and I chuckled, lowering my voice as I spy the empty seat in front of us] Good choice. [I didn’t care the game she was playing, and no matter how good she was, nothing would make my dick stiff with this pain. I lifted my hips into her hand to show her that her little trick was useless. Just then, the missing seat guy came back with two fries, two hotdogs, two beers and two bags of peanuts. Before I took the huge tray, I reached down and slipped her hand off my limp dick and leaned down to nip at her ear] The security is not for concession runs.  [I passed her everything that was hers, kept its double for me, and too a long sip of beer, eyeing the security guy and motioning him to sit. The game started, and I watched passively, nausea at the pain making my stomach roll, but I kept myself in check, smiling cutely at Cole, even playfully picking at her food. The first inning was a quick turnover, and the second was looking the same, so I got up to deposit the trash in the bin, then snagged two more beers from a guy in the stands, bringing one and holding it out to Cole...just as I did, security looked back, I at them, and I thought something was wrong. I froze. But one guy smirked, shaking his head and pointing up at the big screen. There, around both Cole and I, was the heart and the word KISS flashing wildly as people began to cheer]

Cole: {If he thought I cared that he wasn't hard, he was wrong. The point was, I was playing my part. At least when the food arrived, I had something to do with my hands. I made myself eat something between huge gulps of beer, the nerves that had kept me on edge robbing me of my appetite, but at least it'd help regulate my buzz. I knew better than to try to go drink for drink with him, so I grimaced when he came back with a second beer before I'd finished my first. The back of my neck tingled when I saw him freeze, my gaze following his to the kiss cam on the big screen. Instincts had me leaning in to plant my lips over his to hide the horror my face would have shown. Whoever didn't already know we were here surely did now, including those watching at home. Namely, dear old dad. Bringing one arm over as if to move closer, I “accidentally” hit one of the beers in his hand, spilling it across his lap. Now I could break the kiss, a look of shock on my face as laughter roared around us.} Oh my God! I'm so sorry, baby! {My words and expression exaggerated so my lips could be read on the screen until the camera moved on, I dabbed a handful of napkins over his groin as I leaned in as if to hide my face from embarrassment.} Get as pissed as you want, but I needed to give us an excuse to get the fuck out of these seats. The whole fucking stadium now knows we're here and I refuse to be a sitting duck for you macho display of resilience for another second. Get me out of here or I'll do it myself.

Oliver: [I barely kept my cool, waving and kissing her once more, glad when the cam moved away from us onto the next unsuspecting couple. I didn’t even say anything, helping her up, my hand a little tighter than it should be on her arm. Security was right behind us, and up to the skyboxes we went. When we were in the elevator, I wanted to yell, to rant, but it was no use. She was right. I stood away from her, on the other side, taking long draws from my beer and half the one she spilled. The ding was a relief, and I stepped out, long strides took me down the hallway to Peter’s box, and when I walked in, I leaned heavily against the wall, and he was right there, putting his shoulder under my arm. “I got you, asshole. You’re the bane of my fucking existence, Oli. I swear.” I just kept my head down, settling down on the couch, and letting Peter put my legs up on a chair.] Peter King, Coletta Martinelli. Cole, Peter. [I laid my head back, I let the control slip, and I swallowed hard, willing myself not to throw up. Peter nodded at Cole, lifted my shirt and swore. Pointing over to the wet bar. “Fix what you want. Bring him a glass of whatever. He’s not picky. But he’s going to need new stitches and I don’t have lidocaine.” I didn’t even look down, just closing my eyes and letting my arms hang loosely.] Dim the lights up front. Less they see the better. [I undid my pants and pulled them down way below my waist and Peter came back with his bag. As he poked around, and when I winced, he muttered. “I’m going to give you an antibiotic, too. West said the procedure was done at your house. It’s a little red. Leave it to you to get a fucking infection. You know, you don’t fucking pay me enough.” I smirked, shrugging.] I don’t pay you at all. But you like borrowing my yacht, don’t you? [Peter snorted, gloving up and beginning to thread needle. “And you like my box seats. Sit still or I’m going to make it hurt more. And don’t be a bitch.” I gritted my teeth at the first pinch, letting my mind go, ready for the rest]

Coletta: {I was expecting a tongue lashing as soon as we were out of the public eye, could feel the anger radiating off of him, so when it didn't come while we were in the elevator, I eyed him warily. He must be hurting more than I had realized, a suspicion that was confirmed when I noticed the paleness of his usually tanned face and the sweat sitting his. Shit I may have even just saved him the embarrassment of passing out in our seats if he'd pushed it any further, not that I'd ever hear a thank you. Not in this lifetime. As we entered the suite, I recognized the man Oliver had spoken to at the dugout. I liked him immediately when he started giving my darling husband shit, even as he took care of him. Maybe it wasn't just me that he drove insane. Snorting at the exchanged, I nodded at the introduction, smiling despite myself now that we were out of the crowd and I could relax marginally.} Can we be best friends? He's the bane of my existence too. {Moving to the bar, I grabbed myself a bottle of water and poured Oliver a full glass of scotch. Hissing when I saw the red staining the bandage at his side, I grimaced, shaking my head.} I swear, I'll never understand the dick swinging mentality as long as I live. {Frowning as I moved to the top of the couch where his head was, I held the glass for him, bringing it to his lips.} Drink, moron. As soon as you pass out, I'm watching the rest of the game in peace. {Glancing at the doctor, friend, whoever he was, I arched a brow as he prepped the needle.} Can I pay you to make it hurt more?

Oliver: [I didn’t have to even look to tell that Peter was grinning like a fool. I drank when she put it to my lips, the burn as it went down probably the best thing I’d felt all day. When I had my voice back, the glass emptied, I spit out the words] Fuck you both. [Peter laughed.”I tried. You said you didn’t do men. I made a good case, said you screwed them all the time in the courtroom, but you still said no. Your loss. By the way, I like this one. See if you can manage not to fuck it up, alright?” I smirked, but didn’t laugh, not chill enough for that just yet. Peter regaled Cole with the time I was nearly poisoned, how I barfed in his Camero, the time I got shot in the ass, and, even though I tried, I couldn’t stop him from telling her about the time we had to play a couple to get a witness to talk. “Honey, he says he likes just the pussy, but Oliver has a fuck me look, and he doesn’t hide it. At all. And he turned that look on me...lemme tell you, asshole here can’t lie for shit. I know he liked what he saw.” Peter had a smug grin, but I was already half asleep, my voice soft as I heard him say he was done, and the alcohol had worked just as I’d hoped.] What? I told you you were good looking. Queen. [Peter poked hard at the wound, and I doubled, but he just shrugged. “That’s for her. I can imagine the shit you’ve already put her through.” I kept my eyes closed, and nobody seemed to offer to button up my pants, so I did it my damn self] Bitches. [I could hear Peter talking in the background, and I didn’t know if he was talking to Cole or someone else. I didn’t care. In about an hour, this would wear off, and I’d be fucked again. Might as well enjoy it while it lasted]

Coletta: {My grin was real for the first time in days as Peter shared some of the more salacious stories I knew I'd never had heard otherwise. It was oddly reassuring to know that someone got to see the real Oliver. Maybe he was at least part human after all. Was I crushing on the gay guy? Maybe a little. Laughing hard at the story of the gay interrogation, I shook my head.} All the good ones are always gay. {Letting out a put upon sigh, I looked down at Oliver, my smile fading as I watched him slide from consciousness. Brushing aside the blonde strands that had fallen across his forehead, I could only shake my head.} He scares the shit out of me. {Softly spoken words that meant everything and nothing, I pushed back to my feet, moving back to the bar to set down the glass and my half finished water before grabbing a bottle of beer. Holding it up, I tilted my head questioningly before grabbing a second beer when Peter nodded and setting it on the bar.} Thank you. For all of this. I don't know what you owe him to let him drag you into this mess, but for what it's worth, which probably isn't much, I appreciate it. {Sincerity showing in my expression, I nodded, taking my beer and sitting in the back corner seat of the few rows at the front of the suite. The mostly obstructed view kept me mostly shielded from onlookers, but allowed my a view of home plate, and I suddenly wished I had a score book to focus on. Countless summer afternoons and nights had been spent on my father's knee as he taught me the numbers side of the game. My love of the Red Sox was because of him. Not because he loved them, but because he taught me that if you give your loyalty to something, you stick with them, even through the tough times. As a die hard Yankees fan himself, my love for the Red Sox was a tiny bit of rebellion I dared in my youth. He respected an underdog and told me it would build character to support a bunch of losers. He even sent me Boston for the World Series years back. Taking a long swig, I picked at the bottle label as the bum in black pinstripes at the plate hit a double. I wasn't surprised that those memories didn't hurt. They nothing. I had no emotion left, no fondness to remember of my father. He wanted me dead and I wanted worse for him. That's why I was here. That's why I'd stick this out. Even if it destroyed me.}

[365footballorg-blog]

Wigan’s Max Power: ‘One game from the quarter-finals, you start to dream’

Wigan Athletic [1]

Wigan’s Max Power: ‘One game from the quarter-finals, you start to dream’

Wigan take on Manchester City, the side they famously beat in the 2013 FA Cup final, but the midfielder says he wanted an easier draw

Paul Wilson[2]

@paulwilsongnm [3]

Mon 19 Feb 2018 03.26 EST Last modified on Mon 19 Feb 2018 13.30 EST

Share on Facebook [4]

Share on Twitter [5]

Share via Email [6]

View more sharing options

Share on LinkedIn [7]

Share on Pinterest [8]

Share on Google+ [9]

Share on WhatsApp [10]

Share on Messenger [11]

Close

Max Power has helped Wigan to the last 16 of the FA Cup and second in League One. Photograph: Ryan Browne/BPI/Rex/Shutterstock

When Wigan Athletic take on Manchester City on Monday night the League One team will be unable to select a single player from the famous 2013 Cup final upset[12] involving the same two clubs. City still have Sergio Agüero and a handful of others but they have not had the churn brought about by three subsequent relegations. There are no connecting links between the Wigan side hoping for promotion back to the Championship and the one that Roberto Martínez led to Wembley success and a Premier League exit in the same season, though at least the midfielder Max Power remembers the Cup run well.

“I was still at Tranmere but I was following Wigan that year,” the 24-year-old says. “I’m a mate of Callum McManaman and he was outstanding throughout. He’s a big Everton fan, so when he scored in the quarter-final win at Goodison[13] I knew how much it meant. By the time they played City I was on a family holiday in Tenerife, but when one of your mates is playing in an FA Cup final you pay attention. I don’t think I have seen Callum play any better. He was top drawer that day, he ran Gaël Clichy ragged, and no one could say Wigan didn’t deserve to win.”

Wigan Athletic v Manchester City: match preview

Read more

Nonetheless, a rematch was not necessarily what Power and his team-mates were looking for after knocking out Bournemouth and West Ham[14]. “I wanted Liverpool, and so did the manager, but they didn’t even make it into the draw,” Power says. “After that, we players fancied one of the lower-placed teams who were left. No disrespect to Coventry or anyone but we wouldn’t have minded a team we felt we had a chance of beating.

“It’s a funny thing but when I was at Tranmere and it was a battle just to reach the third round, whenever we managed it we wanted the biggest name possible, to either go out in a blaze of glory or get to play at a top ground. When you have reached the fifth round you look at it a bit differently. One game from a quarter-final you start to dream, to wonder how far you might go. Then you end up paired with one of the best teams in Europe. Being realistic it’s probably dream over, but you never know. There’s a bit of Cup history at this club now.”

A combative midfielder who along with the suspended Sam Morsy forms the solid platform for Wigan’s attacking success, Power enjoys being recognised for his footballing ability these days instead of just his name. Not since Austin Healey was playing rugby union up the road at Orrell have local headline writers had so much fun with a sporting moniker, but though Power can confirm the truth of the Wikipedia factoid he was named after the family labrador, he is evidently happy enough with the attention. He passed on his own name to his son, not the dog’s. “It runs in the family now, I’ve started a dynasty,” Power says. “Max is bang into his footy at the moment too. I’d never force anything on him but as far as you can tell with a five-year-old I think he might stick with it.”

Quick guide

Wigan Athletic’s greatest day

Show Hide

Wigan were battling the Premier League drop but were fearless in the 2013 FA Cup final against Manchester City[15], holding out against the likes of Carlos Tevez and Sergio Agüero with the favourites distracted by rumours over Roberto Mancini’s future. With the game goalless in injury time, Wigan took their chance, with Ben Watson powering home a near-post header to win the team’s first ever major trophy. Three days later, the team were relegated from the top flight, with manager Roberto Martínez joining Everton that summer.

Jacob Steinberg’s matchday MBM

This is unbelievable! Ben Watson has surely won the FA Cup for Wigan Athletic[16]. Maloney whipped the corner to the near post and Watson darted in front of Rodwell and glanced a brilliant header past Hart and into the far corner!

WIGAN ATHLETIC HAVE WON THE FA CUP! There’s your romance. What a story. Watson will never have to buy a pie in Wigan again. Footballl? Bloody hell.

Photograph: Laurence Griffiths – The FA/The FA Collection

Was this helpful?

Thank you for your feedback.

If so, young Max might only have two or three years before professional clubs come calling. His father was scouted at the age of eight, eventually opting for Tranmere in spite of interest from Liverpool because it was his local club and felt he would be offered opportunities earlier. That was certainly true – he had captained the side by the age of 21 – though by that time the upwardly mobile club he had followed avidly on Prenton Park Friday nights was on the slide. “Being part of the team that went of out of the league still haunts me,” he says. “It was tough but it had been coming for a while. We had only just stayed in League One for three years running, we were a team that had become used to losing. As soon as we ended up in League Two dropping through the trapdoor was just a matter of time. The club was in freefall; it couldn’t be stopped.”

Perhaps that experience explains why, after a season in the Championship with Wigan, another relegation led him to try to force a move. Briefly at the start of this season he was in something of a Riyad Mahrez situation, except no one was offering £65m for his services. As it turned out, no one was offering anything at all.

After making it clear he wanted to leave, he was dropped from the first‑team group and sent to train with the academy. Then, when the transfer window closed with no takers, he had to swallow his pride, make his peace with manager and fans and successfully reclaim a first-team place. It says a lot for his personal drive he is back playing as if nothing had happened, though he also speaks highly of Paul Cook’s patience and understanding.

“It wasn’t a good summer, I would be the first to admit,” Power says. “I fell into the trap of listening to agents, putting my trust in what they told me. It spiralled out of control, but I take full responsibility. I was led to believe a move was close to happening and I did what I thought was necessary to continue playing at the same level.

“I gave Paul Cook a problem and I accept he had to plan for the future without me. But when it all unravelled he welcomed me back. I had to start again, press the reset button on my career, but I was willing to do it and the manager didn’t hold it against me. I’m really grateful for that and I think I’m wiser for the experience. The grass isn’t always greener.”

Topics

Wigan Athletic [17]

Manchester City [18]

FA Cup [19]

interviews [20]

Share on Facebook [21]

Share on Twitter [22]

Share via Email [23]

Share on LinkedIn [24]

Share on Pinterest [25]

Share on Google+ [26]

Share on WhatsApp [27]

Share on Messenger [28]

Reuse this content [29]

References

^ Wigan Athletic (www.theguardian.com)

^ Paul Wilson (www.theguardian.com)

^ @paulwilsongnm (twitter.com)

^ Facebook (www.facebook.com)

^ Twitter (twitter.com)

^ Email (www.theguardian.com)

^ LinkedIn (www.linkedin.com)

^ Pinterest (www.pinterest.com)

^ Google plus (plus.google.com)

^ WhatsApp (send)

^ Messenger (share)

^ 2013 Cup final upset (www.theguardian.com)

^ so when he scored in the quarter-final win at Goodison (www.theguardian.com)

^ and West Ham (www.theguardian.com)

^ Manchester City (www.theguardian.com)

^ Wigan Athletic (www.theguardian.com)

^ Wigan Athletic (www.theguardian.com)

^ Manchester City (www.theguardian.com)

^ FA Cup (www.theguardian.com)

^ interviews (www.theguardian.com)

^ Facebook (www.facebook.com)

^ Twitter (twitter.com)

^ Email (www.theguardian.com)

^ LinkedIn (www.linkedin.com)

^ Pinterest (www.pinterest.com)

^ Google plus (plus.google.com)

^ WhatsApp (send)

^ Messenger (share)

^ Reuse this content (syndication.theguardian.com)

FA Cup | The Guardian

Wigan’s Max Power: ‘One game from the quarter-finals, you start to dream’ was originally published on 365 Football

[minnievirizarry]

Stop the Presses - How to get Journalists Talking About YOU

In Hollywood, they say any publicity is good publicity.

Tesla did publicity right when they launched their product at an event specially hosted for Hollywood stars.

Tesla was by no means the only electric car manufacturer in the US. In fact, it wasn’t even the first. But if Arnold Schwarzenegger and a bunch of other A-listers publicly thought Tesla’s product was great and they actually wrote checks to preorder it—then it’s about to get some major press time.

From Automobile magazines to Wired, CNET, Fortune Magazine, the New York Times, you name it—the press was glowing.

These days, if you think electric cars, you think—Tesla.

Now we're not saying you should go TMZ on your business just to get some attention, but we do believe a little press goes a long way.

Love 'em or hate 'em, journalists are still the keyholders of the press. So if you want to get featured, it always pays to get journalists to talk about YOU.

And that, dear subscriber, is why we came up with these strategies on how to use Ninja Outreach to help you connect with journalists.

Using the Prospecting Tab to Find Journalists

Most journalists maintain their own social media profiles, so that’s one good place to start looking for them.

Say you’re a SaaS company and want to find tech journalists to write about your business.

Just go to the Prospecting > Social Influencers tab and type a keyword like “tech,” or “tech journalist,” for example.

Through this tab, you can quickly comb through millions of Twitter and Instagram profiles. You can also use filters and tags to find the most relevant journalists to cover your brand or business.

Next, check the filter tag for Journalist. Checking “Include” means the engine will specifically search for the words “Journalist, PR, Writer, Author, Editor, and Press in each prospect’s bio.

Hit enter and add the relevant results to your list. Add as many relevant journalists as you can. The bigger your prospect pool, the better.

Once you’ve exhausted all possible prospects from this search, start another one.

How about searching for prospects using the keywords “Forbes contributor”?

Some alternatives you can also use are:

Forbes author

Forbes writer

Forbes columnist

You can even use these keywords for other publications such as Inc., Business Insider, and Entrepreneur magazine, among others.

You can do this search in the Prospecting > Social Influencers tab.

Alternatively, you can also make this search in the Prospecting > Find Leads tab.

Every time you see a good fit, just click the Add button at the top right section of the prospect card to save them to your list.

Once you’ve exhausted all the prospects you can find using Ninja Outreach social search, it’s time to switch to other Prospecting tabs.

How to Find Publications

Go to Prospecting > Promotion opportunities and search for relevant publications. Use a keyword like “tech magazine” for starters.

Next, sort the results by Alexa Rank, Domain Authority, or Social Shares—whichever metric fits your goals best.

As before, you can review each prospect one by one and add them to your prospect list individually, or you can click save all, which saves all results into your list instantly.

Again, try to collect as many prospects as you can.

Once your search runs dry, try other keywords. “Tech blogs,” “tech publications,” “tech news,” “tech press,” etc.

Importing Results from Google Search

It’s no secret that Google has one of the most advanced search engines out there, so why not make use of it?

You can run your search on Google as well. For example, here’s a search you can do using Advanced Operators.

[Topic+Target-keyword] site:[URL of your target publication]

Ex.

Tech contributor inurl:forbes.com

If you’re mostly satisfied with what you see, simply import your Google search results into your prospects list using Ninja Outreach chrome extension.

Here’s how to install and use the Chrome extension.

And here’s how to import Google search results into your NinjaOutreach web app list.

Building Relationships with Journalists

Once you’ve added enough contacts to your list, it’s time to jumpstart your relationship.

First, you have to remember—the early rapport-building stage is NOT the right time to send a pitch.

Why?

Forbes contributor Josh Steimle, who covers marketing and entrepreneurship for the online magazine, had this to say:

From a journalist who, by his admission, receives tons of pitches a day, this advice is golden.

So with this in mind, you can start with an intro outreach, follow them on social media, subscribe to their newsletter, comment on their posts—anything to help put your name on their radar.

For example, once you’ve checked out a prospect’s blog or articles, you can send them an intro outreach.

Here’s one example from our pre-written templates.

Another example using our original pre-written template version:

The next one below is an edited version modified to fit your specific needs.

It’s a good intro outreach because it shows you read your prospect’s content, you’ve shared this interest with your audience, and you want to know more.

  For more examples of pre-written templates that you can use (or modify), just go to Outreach > Templates > Create Template

Click Load Pre-Written Templates and choose the most relevant one from the selection. Modify this to suit your particular campaign.

If all else fails, you can always create a fully personalized outreach email from scratch.

As you do this, update your prospects’ relationship labels.

Relationship labels identify what stage of the relationship you are on with your prospect.

Here’s more on how to manage your Relationship labels with prospects.

All changes to your relationship labels are recorded in NinjaOutreach, so you can track when you first sent your email, first retweeted a post of theirs on Twitter and other actions.

This lets you gauge when the time is right for you to finally send your pitch.

It also provides you personalized points of reference for when you’re crafting your outreach email.

For example, instead of yet another generic intro, you can see in your Relationship label history that you shared an article of theirs on a particular date.

With this data on hand, you can then say something like this in your message: “Loved your recent post! I actually shared it all over my social circles last week and I got a lot of comments about how [something about a point prospect made in the article]…”

Making an effort to build a relationship with a journalist may take a bit more time, but pitching to someone you’ve already built some rapport with will definitely up your chances of success, compared to a blind outreach to journalists who’ve never heard of you before.

So, connect with them first, be patient, and see how far this will take you.

As Forbes’s Josh concluded:

Outreach to Journalists

Once you’ve built enough rapport, it’s time to prepare the perfect pitch.

Take note:

Journalists receive as many as 20 to 50 pitches per day on average. Some even get at least 100 or more. Out of these journalists, the majority write only two or fewer stories per day. And, on top of all this, only a few often write a story based on pitches.

As you can see, the margin of acceptance is pretty small. So if you must pitch something, make sure it’s something relevant and worthwhile—not what’s interesting to you, but to your target audience.

If you did your prospecting well, then the audience that you’re targeting should be the same audience that your journalist prospects would also want to please.

Take for example the case of Klooff, a social media app for pets.

Klooff, based in Chile, wanted to enter the American market.

But, instead of doing a traditional press release barrage, the PR firm they hired suggested three story ideas that Klooff could pitch to US media.

Now, if you look at these headlines below, you won’t immediately see anything directly promoting the Klooff app. What you see, instead, is an understanding of the interests of Klooff’s potential readers and by default, target users.

3 Ways Pets Teach Your Kids Important Life Lessons

How to Take Better Care of Your Pets and Save Money

Which dog breed is most likely to score you a date?

But, they didn’t keep the ideas to their internal drawing board. Klooff also asked their target audience what interested them most.

After surveying 1k people, they finally got the results—the third headline, under the dating and relationships angle.

With a data-backed decision, they then pitched this to the media.

The result? They loved it.

Klooff’s story was featured in major publications across 21 countries, and their app went from zero to 20k users.

So what should you do?

Do research on the things your target audiences are interested in, what’s trending in their community, find out who the talking heads are, and what story angles do journalists in that niche typically cover.

What you absolutely shouldn’t do? Mass send a generic pitch to all your journalist prospects.

But what if you have a thousand (or more) prospects?

The answer is, no, you don’t have to write 3,557 outreach emails for each of your 3,557 prospects. (That’s a random number, by the way.)

You can change some details to fit each different prospect at least—just don’t send the exact same outreach message to everyone.

For example, below is our pre-made outreach templates pitching a blogger to feature you in an interview or podcast.

Obviously, you can’t send that as is, but it’s a good place to start crafting some ideas.

Some personalizations you can do are:

Use Custom Fields so you can tailor for each prospect's first name, blog title, website URL, etc. For a more detailed guide on how to create custom fields and templates,

Edit the templates from within the email text section

Click Create new template to craft a specific message for each group of prospects.

Of course, bloggers understand outreach, and are more likely to respond to outreach templates such as the one we shared above.

But journalists for bigger publications are tougher nuts to crack. So you have to step up and actually do a bit more work with your pitch.

For reference, below is an example of our own non-generic pitch sent to TC:

As you can see, we put a little more effort into that one.

How to Set up an Automated Outreach Campaign

When we say automated campaign, we don’t mean you simply click a button and all your work is done.

What we mean by an automated campaign is you get automated sends and follow-ups.

You still personalize your messages, but you don’t need to sit in front of your computer all day, sending each of those outreach messages and follow-ups to each of your thousands of prospects one by one.

To know more about integrating your email and setting up an automated outreach campaign, read our helpdesk article here.

Once you start getting replies, NinjaOutreach will track all these and you can view analytics such as the number of Clicks, Replies, and Opens, for each template you used.

As your campaign goes along, update the relationship labels of your prospects. That way, you won’t mistakenly send a follow-up to prospects who have already replied to you.

Last Words

As your outreach campaign machine chugs along, stay patient.

Most importantly, stay firm. Keep sending worthwhile pitches to as many journalists as you can. It may sound cliche, but don’t give up.

Why? It might seem daunting to think of pitching to, say, 5,000 tech journalists.

But think of it this way, if you manage to get through to at least 1% of these leads, that means you get covered by 50 publications—which is not bad at all.

Hazel Mae Pan is Content Manager for NinjaOutreach. She is in charge of content writing, co-editing, and developing the strategy for the NinjaOutreach blog.

The post Stop the Presses - How to get Journalists Talking About YOU appeared first on Ninja Outreach.

from SM Tips By Minnie https://ninjaoutreach.com/get-journalists-talking-about-you/

[readbookywooks]

The Hogwart's High Inquisitor

They had expected to have to comb Hermione's Daily Prophet carefully next morning to find the article Percy had mentioned in his letter. However, the departing delivery owl had barely cleared the top of the milk jug when Hermione let out a huge gasp and flattened the newspaper to reveal a large photograph of Dolores Umbridge, smiling widely and blinking slowly at them from beneath the headline. MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST EVER HIGH INQUISITOR 'High Inquisitor?' said Harry darkly, his half-eaten piece of toast slipping from his fingers. 'What does that mean?' Hermione read aloud: 'In a surprise move last night the Ministry of Magic passed new legislation giving itself an unprecedented level of control at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. '"The Minister has been growing uneasy about goings-on at Hogwarts for some time," said Junior Assistant to the Minister, Percy Weasley. "He is now responding to concerns, voiced by anxious parents, who feel the school may be moving in a direction they do not approve of." 'This is not the first time in recent weeks that the Minister, Cornelius Fudge, has used new laws to effect improvements at the wizarding school. As recently as 30th August, Educational Decree Number Twenty-two was passed, to ensure that, in the event of the current Headmaster being unable to provide a candidate for a teaching post, the Ministry should select an appropriate person. '"That's how Dolores Umbridge came to be appointed to the teaching staff at Hogwarts," said Weasley last night. "Dumbledore couldn't find anyone so the Minister put in Umbridge, and of course, she's been an immediate success--" ' 'She's been a WHAT?' said Harry loudly. 'Wait, there's more,' said Hermione grimly. '"--an immediate success, totally revolutionising the teaching of Defence Against the Dark Arts and providing the Minister with on-the-ground feedback about what's really happening at Hogwarts." 'It is this last function that the Ministry has now formalised with the passing of Educational Decree Number Twenty-three, which creates the new position of Hogwarts High Inquisitor. '"This is an exciting new phase in the Minister's plan to get to grips with what some are calling the falling standards at Hogwarts," said Weasley. "The Inquisitor will have powers to inspect her fellow educators and make sure that they are coming up to scratch. Professor Umbridge has been offered this position in addition to her own teaching post and we are delighted to say that she has accepted." 'The Ministry's new moves have received enthusiastic support from parents of students at Hogwarts. '"I feel much easier in my mind now that I know Dumbledore is being subjected to fair and objective evaluation," said Mr. Lucius Malfoy, 41, speaking from his Wiltshire mansion last night. "Many of us with our children's best interests at heart have been concerned about some of Dumbledore's eccentric decisions in the last few years and are glad to know that the Ministry is keeping an eye on the situation." 'Among those eccentric decisions are undoubtedly the controversial staff appointments previously described in this newspaper, which have included the employment of werewolf Remus Lupin, half-giant Rubeus Hagrid and delusional ex-Auror, "Mad-Eye" Moody. 'Rumours abound, of course, that Albus Dumbledore, once Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, is no longer up to the task of managing the prestigious school of Hogwarts. '"I think the appointment of the Inquisitor is a first step towards ensuring that Hogwarts has a headmaster in whom we can all repose our confidence," said a Ministry insider last night. 'Wizengamot elders Griselda Marchbanks and Tiberius Ogden have resigned in protest at the introduction of the post of Inquisitor to Hogwarts. '"Hogwarts is a school, not an outpost of Cornelius Fudge's office," said Madam Marchbanks. "This is a further, disgusting attempt to discredit Albus Dumbledore." '(For a full account of Madam Marchbanks's alleged links to subversive goblin groups, turn to page seventeen.)' Hermione finished reading and looked across the table at the other two. 'So now we know how we ended up with Umbridge! Fudge passed this "Educational Decree" and forced her on us! And now he's given her the power to inspect the other teachers!' Hermione was breathing fast and her eyes were very bright. 'I can't believe this. It's outrageous!' 'I know it is,' said Harry. He looked down at his right hand, clenched on the table-top, and saw the faint white outline of the words Umbridge had forced him to cut into his skin. But a grin was unfurling on Ron's face. 'What?' said Harry and Hermione together, staring at him. 'Oh, I can't wait to see McGonagall inspected,' said Ron happily. 'Umbridge won't know what's hit her.' 'Well, come on,' said Hermione, jumping up, 'we'd better get going, if she's inspecting Binns's class we don't want to be late ...' But Professor Umbridge was not inspecting their History of Magic lesson, which was just as dull as the previous Monday, nor was she in Snape's dungeon when they arrived for double Potions, where Harry's moonstone essay was handed back to him with a large, spiky black 'D' scrawled in an upper corner. 'I have awarded you the grades you would have received if you presented this work in your OWL,' said Snape with a smirk, as he swept among them, passing back their homework. 'This should give you a realistic idea of what to expect in the examination.' Snape reached the front of the class and turned on his heel to face them. 'The general standard of this homework was abysmal. Most of you would have failed had this been your examination. I expect to see a great deal more effort for this week's essay on the various varieties of venom antidotes, or I shall have to start handing out detentions to those dunces who get a "D".' He smirked as Malfoy sniggered and said in a carrying whisper, 'Some people got a "D"? Ha!' Harry realised that Hermione was looking sideways to see what grade he had received; he slid his moonstone essay back into his bag as quickly as possible, feeling that he would rather keep that information private. Determined not to give Snape an excuse to tail him this lesson, Harry read and reread every line of instructions on the blackboard at least three times before acting on them. His Strengthening Solution was not precisely the clear turquoise shade of Hermione's but it was at least blue rather than pink, like Neville's, and he delivered a flask of it to Snape's desk at the end of the lesson with a feeling of mingled defiance and relief. 'Well, that wasn't as bad as last week, was it?' said Hermione, as they climbed the steps out of the dungeon and made their way across the Entrance Hall towards lunch. 'And the homework didn't go too badly, either, did it?' When neither Ron nor Harry answered, she pressed on, 'I mean, all right, I didn't expect the top grade, not if he's marking to OWL standard, but a pass is quite encouraging at this stage, wouldn't you say?' Harry made a non-committal noise in his throat. 'Of course, a lot can happen between now and the exam, we've got plenty of time to improve, but the grades we're getting now are a sort of baseline, aren't they? Something we can build on ...' They sat down together at the Gryffindor table. 'Obviously, I'd have been thrilled if I'd got an "O"-- ' 'Hermione,' said Ron sharply, 'if you want to know what grades we got, ask.' 'I don't--I didn't mean--well, if you want to tell me--' 'I got a "P",' said Ron, ladling soup into his bowl. 'Happy?' 'Well, that's nothing to be ashamed of,' said Fred, who had just arrived at the table with George and Lee Jordan and was sitting down on Harry's right. 'Nothing wrong with a good healthy "P".' 'But,' said Hermione, 'doesn't "P" stand for ...' '"Poor", yeah,' said Lee Jordan. 'Still, better than "D", isn't it? "Dreadful"?' Harry felt his face grow warm and faked a small coughing fit over his roll. When he emerged from this he was sorry to find that Hermione was still in full flow about OWL grades. 'So top grade's "O" for "Outstanding",' she was saying, 'and then there's "A"--' 'No, "E",' George corrected her, '"E" for "Exceeds Expectations". And I've always thought Fred and I should've got "E" in everything, because we exceeded expectations just by turning up for the exams.' They all laughed except Hermione, who ploughed on, 'So, after "E" it's "A" for "Acceptable", and that's the last pass grade, isn't it?' 'Yep,' said Fred, dunking an entire roll in his soup, transferring it to his mouth and swallowing it whole. 'Then you get "P" for "Poor"--' Ron raised both his arms in mock celebration--'and "D" for "Dreadful". 'And then "T",' George reminded her. '"T"?' asked Hermione, looking appalled. 'Even lower than a "D"? What on earth does "T" stand for?' '"Troll",' said George promptly. Harry laughed again, though he was not sure whether or not George was joking. He imagined trying to conceal from Hermione that he had received 'T's in all his OWLs and immediately resolved to work harder from now on. 'You lot had an inspected lesson yet?' Fred asked them. 'No,' said Hermione at once. 'Have you?' 'Just now, before lunch,' said George. 'Charms.' 'What was it like?' Harry and Hermione asked together. Fred shrugged. 'Not that bad. Umbridge just lurked in the corner making notes on a clipboard. You know what Flitwick's like, he treated her like a guest, didn't seem to bother him at all. She didn't say much. Asked Alicia a couple of questions about what the classes are normally like, Alicia told her they were really good, that was it.' 'I can't see old Flitwick getting marked down,' said George, 'he usually gets everyone through their exams all right.' 'Who've you got this afternoon?' Fred asked Harry. 'Trelawney--' 'A "T" if ever I saw one.' '--and Umbridge herself.' 'Well, be a good boy and keep your temper with Umbridge today,' said George. 'Angelina'll do her nut if you miss any more Quidditch practices.' But Harry did not have to wait for Defence Against the Dark Arts to meet Professor Umbridge. He was pulling out his dream diary in a seat at the very back of the shadowy Divination room when Ron elbowed him in the ribs and, looking round, he saw Professor Umbridge emerging through the trapdoor in the floor. The class, which had been talking cheerily, fell silent at once. The abrupt fall in the noise level made Professor Trelawney, who had been wafting about handing out copies of The Dream Oracle, look round. 'Good afternoon, Professor Trelawney,' said Professor Umbridge with her wide smile. 'You received my note, I trust? Giving the time and date of your inspection?' Professor Trelawney nodded curtly and, looking very disgruntled, turned her back on Professor Umbridge and continued to give out books. Still smiling, Professor Umbridge grasped the back of the nearest armchair and pulled it to the front of the class so that it was a few inches behind Professor Trelawney's seat. She then sat down, took her clipboard from her flowery bag and looked up expectantly, waiting for the class to begin. Professor Trelawney pulled her shawls tight about her with slightly trembling hands and surveyed the class through her hugely magnifying lenses. 'We shall be continuing our study of prophetic dreams today,' she said in a brave attempt at her usual mystic tones, though her voice shook slightly. 'Divide into pairs, please, and interpret each others latest night-time visions with the aid of the Oracle.' She made as though to sweep back to her seat, saw Professor Umbridge sitting right beside it, and immediately veered left towards Parvati and Lavender, who were already deep in discussion about Parvati's most recent dream. Harry opened his copy of The Dream Oracle, watching Umbridge covertly. She was already making notes on her clipboard. After a few minutes she got to her feet and began to pace the room in 'Trelawney's wake, listening to her conversations with students and posing questions here and there. Harry bent his head hurriedly over his book. 'Think of a dream, quick,' he told Ron, 'in case the old toad comes our way.' 'I did it last time,' Ron protested, 'it's your turn, you tell me one.' 'Oh, I dunno ...' said Harry desperately, who could not remember dreaming anything at all over the last few days. 'Let's say I dreamed I was ... drowning Snape in my cauldron. Yeah, that'll do ...' Ron chortled as he opened his Dream Oracle. 'OK, we've got to add your age to the date you had the dream, the number of letters in the subject ... would that be "drowning" or "cauldron" or "Snape"?' 'It doesn't matter, pick any of them,' said Harry, chancing a glance behind him. Professor Umbridge was now standing at Professor Trelawney's shoulder making notes while the Divination teacher questioned Neville about his dream diary. 'What night did you dream this again?' Ron said, immersed in calculations. 'I dunno, last night, whenever you like,' Harry told him, trying to listen to what Umbridge was saying to Professor Trelawney. They were only a table away from him and Ron now. Professor Umbridge was making another note on her clipboard and Professor Trelawney was looking extremely put out. 'Now,' said Umbridge, looking up at Trelawney, 'you've been in this post how long, exactly?' Professor Trelawney scowled at her, arms crossed and shoulders hunched as though wishing to protect herself as much as possible from the indignity of the inspection. After a slight pause in which she seemed to decide that the question was not so offensive that she could reasonably ignore it, she said in a deeply resentful tone, 'Nearly sixteen years.' 'Quite a period,' said Professor Umbridge, making a note on her clipboard. 'So it was Professor Dumbledore who appointed you?' 'That's right,' said Professor Trelawney shortly. Professor Umbridge made another note. 'And you are a great-great-granddaughter of the celebrated Seer Cassandra Trelawney?' 'Yes,' said Professor Trelawney, holding her head a little higher. Another note on the clipboard. 'But I think-- correct me if I am mistaken--that you are the first in your family since Cassandra to be possessed of Second Sight?' 'These things often skip--er--three generations,' said Professor Trelawney. Professor Umbridge's toadlike smile widened. 'Of course,' she said sweetly, making yet another note. 'Well, if you could just predict something for me, then?' And she looked up enquiringly, still smiling. Professor Trelawney stiffened as though unable to believe her ears. 'I don't understand you,' she said, clutching convulsively at the shawl around her scrawny neck. 'I'd like you to make a prediction for me,' said Professor Umbridge very clearly. Harry and Ron were not the only people now watching and listening sneakily from behind their books. Most of the class were staring transfixed at Professor Trelawney as she drew herself up to her lull height, her beads and bangles clinking. 'The Inner Eye does not See upon command!' she said in scandalised tones. 'I see,' said Professor Umbridge softly, making yet another note on her clipboard. 'I--but--but ... wait!' said Professor Trelawney suddenly, in an attempt at her usual ethereal voice, though the mystical effect was ruined somewhat by the way it was shaking with anger. 'I ... I think I do see something ... something that concerns you ... why, I sense something ... something dark ... some grave peril ...' Professor Trelawney pointed a shaking finger at Professor Umbridge who continued to smile blandly at her, eyebrows raised. 'I am afraid ... I am afraid that you are in grave danger!' Professor Trelawney finished dramatically. There was a pause. Professor Umbridge surveyed Professor Trelawney. 'Right,' she said softly, scribbling on her clipboard once more. 'Well, if that's really the best you can do ...' She turned away, leaving Professor Trelawney standing rooted to the spot, her chest heaving. Harry caught Ron's eye and knew that Ron was thinking exactly the same as he was: they both knew that Professor Trelawney was an old fraud, but on the other hand, they loathed Umbridge so much that they felt very much on Trelawney's side--until she swooped down on them a few seconds later, that is. 'Well?' she said, snapping her long fingers under Harry's nose, uncharacteristically brisk. 'Let me see the start you've made on your dream diary, please.' And by the time she had interpreted Harry's dreams at the top of her voice (all of which, even the ones that involved eating porridge, apparently foretold a gruesome and early death), he was feeling much less sympathetic towards her. All the while, Professor Umbridge stood a few feet away, making notes on that clipboard, and when the bell rang she descended the silver ladder first and was waiting for them all when they reached their Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson ten minutes later. She was humming and smiling to herself when they entered the room. Harry and Ron told Hermione, who had been in Arithmancy, exactly what had happened in Divination while they all took out their copies of Defensive Magical Theory, but before Hermione could ask any questions Professor Umbridge had called them all to order and silence fell. 'Wands away,' she instructed them all with a smile, and those people who had been hopeful enough to take them out, sadly returned them to their bags. 'As we finished Chapter One last lesson, I would like you all to turn to page nineteen today and commence "Chapter Two, Common Defensive Theories and their Derivation". There will be no need to talk.' Still smiling her wide, self-satisfied smile, she sat down at her desk. The class gave an audible sigh as it turned, as one, to page nineteen. Harry wondered dully whether there were enough chapters in the book to keep them reading through all this years lessons and was on the point of checking the contents page when he noticed that Hermione had her hand in the air again. Professor Umbridge had noticed, too, and what was more, she seemed to have worked out a strategy for just such an eventuality. Instead of trying to pretend she had not noticed Hermione she got to her feet and walked around the front row of desks until they were face to face, then she bent down and whispered, so that the rest of the class could not hear, 'What is it this time, Miss Granger?' 'I've already read Chapter Two,' said Hermione. 'Well then, proceed to Chapter Three.' 'I've read that too. I've read the whole book.' Professor Umbridge blinked but recovered her poise almost instantly. 'Well, then, you should be able to tell me what Slinkhard says about counter-jinxes in Chapter Fifteen.' 'He says that counter-jinxes are improperly named,' said Hermione promptly. 'He says "counter-jinx" is just a name people give their jinxes when they want to make them sound more acceptable.' Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows and Harry knew she was impressed, against her will. 'But I disagree,' Hermione continued. Professor Umbridge's eyebrows rose a little higher and her gaze became distinctly colder. 'You disagree?' she repeated. 'Yes, I do,' said Hermione, who, unlike Umbridge, was not whispering, but speaking in a clear, carrying voice that had by now attracted the attention of the rest of the class. 'Mr. Slinkhard doesn't like jinxes, does he? But I think they can be very useful when they're used defensively.' 'Oh, you do, do you?' said Professor Umbridge, forgetting to whisper and straightening up. 'Well, I'm afraid it is Mr. Slinkhard's opinion, and not yours, that matters within this classroom, Miss Granger.' 'But--' Hermione began. 'That is enough,' said Professor Umbridge. She walked back to the front of the class and stood before them, all the jauntiness she had shown at the beginning of the lesson gone. 'Miss Granger, I am going to take five points from Gryffindor house.' There was an outbreak of muttering at this. 'What for?' said Harry angrily. 'Don't you get involved!' Hermione whispered urgently to him. 'For disrupting my class with pointless interruptions,' said Professor Umbridge smoothly. 'I am here to teach you using a Ministry-approved method that does not include inviting students to give their opinions on matters about which they understand very little. Your previous teachers in this subject may have allowed you more licence, but as none of them--with the possible exception of Professor Quirrell, who did at least appear to have restricted himself to age-appropriate subjects--would have passed a Ministry inspection--' 'Yeah, Quirrell was a great teacher,' said Harry loudly, 'there was just that minor drawback of him having Lord Voldemort sticking out of the back of his head.' This pronouncement was followed by one of the loudest silences Harry had ever heard. Then-- 'I think another week's detentions would do you some good, Mr. Potter,' said Umbridge sleekly. The cut on the back of Harry's hand had barely healed and, by the following morning, it was bleeding again. He did not complain during the evening's detention; he was determined not to give Umbridge the satisfaction; over and over again he wrote I must not tell lies and not a sound escaped his lips, though the cut deepened with every letter. The very worst part of this second week's worth of detentions v/as, just as George had predicted, Angslina's reaction. She cornered him just as he arrived at the Gryffindor table for breakfast on Tuesday and shouted so loudly that Professor McGonagall came sweeping down upon the pair of them from the staff table. 'Miss Johnson, how dare you make such a racket in the Great Hall! Five points from Gryffindor!' 'But Professor-- he's gone and landed himself in detention again--' 'What's this, Potter?' said Professor McGonagall sharply, rounding on Harry. 'Detention? From whom?' 'From Professor Umbridge,' muttered Harry, not meeting Professor McGonagall's beady, square-framed eyes. 'Are you telling me,' she said, lowering her voice so that the group of curious Ravenclaws behind them could not hear, that after the warning I gave you last Monday you lost your temper in Professor Umbridge's class again?' 'Yes,' Harry muttered, speaking to the floor. 'Potter, you must get a grip on yourself! You are heading for serious trouble! Another five points from Gryffindor!' 'But--what--? Professor, no!' Harry said, furious at this injustice, 'I'm already being punished by her, why do you have to take points as well?' 'Because detentions do not appear to have any effect on you whatsoever!' said Professor McGonagall tartly. 'No, not another word of complaint, Potter! And as for you, Miss Johnson, you will confine your shouting matches to the Quidditch pitch in future or risk losing the team captaincy!' Professor McGonagall strode back towards the staff table. Angelina gave Harry a look of deepest disgust and stalked away, upon which he flung himself on to the bench beside Ron, fuming. 'She's taken points off Gryffindor because I'm having my hand sliced open every night! How is that fair, how?' 'I know, mate,' said Ron sympathetically, tipping bacon on to Harry's plate, 'she's bang out of order.' Hermione, however, merely rustled the pages of her Daily Prophet and said nothing. 'You think McGonagall was right, do you?' said Harry angrily to the picture of Cornelius Fudge obscuring Hermione's face. 'I wish she hadn't taken points from you, but I think she's right to warn you not to lose your temper with Umbridge,' said Hermione's voice, while Fudge gesticulated forcefully from the front page, clearly giving some kind of speech. Harry did not speak to Hermione all through Charms, but when they entered Transfiguration he forgot about being cross with her. Professor Umbridge and her clipboard were sitting in a corner and the sight of her drove the memory of breakfast right out of his head. 'Excellent,' whispered Ron, as they sat down in their usual seats. 'Let's see Umbridge get what she deserves.' Professor McGonagall marched into the room without giving the slightest indication that she knew Professor Umbridge was there. 'That will do,' she said and silence fell immediately. 'Mr. Finnigan, kindly come here and hand back the homework--Miss Brown, please take this box of mice--don't be silly, girl, they won't hurt you--and hand one to each student--' 'Hem, hem,' said Professor Umbridge, employing the same silly little cough she had used to interrupt Dumbledore on the first night of term. Professor McGonagall ignored her. Seamus handed back Harry's essay; Harry took it without looking at him and saw, to his relief, that he had managed an 'A'. 'Right then, everyone, listen closely--Dean Thomas, if you do that to the mouse again I shall put you in detention--most of you have now successfully Vanished your snails and even those who were left with a certain amount of shell have got the gist of the spell. Today, we shall be--' 'Hem, hem,' said Professor Umbridge. 'Yes?' said Professor McGonagall, turning round, her eyebrows so close together they seemed to form one long, severe line. 'I was just wondering, Professor, whether you received my note telling you of the date and time of your inspec--' 'Obviously I received it, or I would have asked you what you are doing in my classroom,' said Professor McGonagall, turning her back firmly on Professor Umbridge. Many of the students exchanged looks of glee. 'As I was saying: today, we shall be practising the altogether more difficult Vanishment of mice. Now, the Vanishing Spell--' 'Hem, hem.' 'I wonder,' said Professor McGonagall in cold fury, turning on Professor Umbridge, 'how you expect to gain an idea of my usual teaching methods if you continue to interrupt me? You see, I do not generally permit people to talk when I am talking.' Professor Umbridge looked as though she had just been slapped in the face. She did not speak, but straightened the parchment on her clipboard and began scribbling furiously. Looking supremely unconcerned, Professor McGonagall addressed the class once more. 'As I was saying: the Vanishing Spell becomes more difficult with the complexity of the animal to be Vanished. The snail, as an invertebrate, does not present much of a challenge; the mouse, as a mammal, offers a much greater one. This is not, therefore, magic you can accomplish with your mind on your dinner. So-- you know the incantation, let me see what you can do ...' 'How she can lecture me about not losing my temper with Umbridge!' Harry muttered to Ron under his breath, but he was grinning--his anger with Professor McGonagall had quite evaporated. Professor Umbridge did not follow Professor McGonagall around the class as she had followed Professor Trelawney; perhaps she realised Professor McGonagall would not permit it. She did, however, take many more notes while sitting in her corner, and when Professor McGonagall finally told them all to pack away, she rose with a grim expression on her face. 'Well, it's a start,' said Ron, holding up a long wriggling mouse-tail and dropping it back into the box Lavender was passing around. As they filed out of the classroom, Harry saw Professor Umbndge approach the teachers desk; he nudged Ron, who nudged Hermione in turn, and the three of them deliberately fell back to eavesdrop. 'How long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?' Professor Umbridge asked. 'Thirty-nine years this December,' said Professor McGonagall brusquely, snapping her bag shut. Professor Umbridge made a note. 'Very well,' she said, 'you will receive the results of your inspection in ten days' time.' 'I can hardly wait,' said Professor McGonagall, in a coldly indifferent voice, and she strode off towards the door. 'Hurry up, you three,' she added, sweeping Harry, Ron and Hermione before her. Harry could not help giving her a faint smile and could have sworn he received one in return. He had thought that the next time he would see Umbridge would be in his detention that evening, but he was wrong. When they walked down the lawns towards the Forest for Care of Magical Creatures, they found her and her clipboard waiting for them beside Professor Grubbly-Plank. 'You do not usually take this class, is that correct?' Harry heard her ask as they arrived at the trestle table where the group of captive Bowtruckles were scrabbling around for woodlice like so many living twigs. 'Quite correct,' said Professor Grubbly-Plank, hands behind her back and bouncing on the balls of her feet. 'I am a substitute teacher standing in for Professor Hagrid.' Harry exchanged uneasy looks with Ron and Hermione. Malfoy was whispering with Crabbe and Goyle; he would surely love this opportunity to tell tales on Hagrid to a member of the Ministry. 'Hmm,' said Professor Umbridge, dropping her voice, though Harry could still hear her quite clearly. 'I wonder--the Headmaster seems strangely reluctant to give me any information on the matter--can you tell me what is causing Professor Hagrid's very extended leave of absence?' Harry saw Malfoy look up eagerly and watch Umbridge and Grubbly-Plank closely. ' 'Fraid I can't,' said Professor Grubbly-Plank breezily. 'Don't know anything more about it than you do. Got an owl from Dumbledore, would I like a couple of weeks' teaching work. I accepted. That's as much as I know. Well ... shall I get started then?' 'Yes, please do,' said Professor Umbridge, scribbling on her clipboard. Umbridge took a different tack in this class and wandered amongst the students, questioning them on magical creatures. Most people were able to answer well and Harry's spirits lifted somewhat; at least the class was not letting Hagrid down. 'Overall,' said Professor Umbridge, returning to Professor Grubbly-Plank's side after a lengthy interrogation of Dean Thomas, 'how do you, as a temporary member of staff--an objective outsider, I suppose you might say--how do you find Hogwarts? Do you feel you receive enough support from the school management?' 'Oh, yes, Dumbledore's excellent,' said Professor Grubbly-Plank heartily. 'Yes, I'm very happy with the way things are run, very happy indeed.' Looking politely incredulous, Umbridge made a tiny note on her clipboard and went on, 'And what are you planning to cover with this class this year--assuming, of course, that Professor Hagrid does not return?' 'Oh, I'll take them through the creatures that most often come up in OWL,' said Professor Grubbly-Plank. 'Not much left to do--they've studied unicorns and Nifflers, I thought we'd cover Porlocks and Kneazles, make sure they can recognise Crups and Knarls, you know ...' 'Well, you seem to know what you're doing, at any rate,' said Professor Umbridge, making a very obvious tick on her clipboard. Harry did not like the emphasis she put on 'you' and liked it even less when she put her next question to Goyle. 'Now, I hear there have been injuries in this class?' Goyle gave a stupid grin. Malfoy hastened to answer the question. 'That was me,' he said. 'I was slashed by a hippogriff.' 'A hippogriff?' said Professor Umbridge, now scribbling frantically. 'Only because he was too stupid to listen to what Hagrid told him to do,' said Harry angrily. Both Ron and Hermione groaned. Professor Umbridge turned her head slowly in Harry's direction. 'Another night's detention, I think,' she said softly. 'Well, thank you very much, Professor Grubbly-Plank, I think that's all I need here. You will be receiving the results of your inspection within ten days.' 'Jolly good,' said Professor Grubbly-Plank, and Professor Umbridge set off back across the lawn to the castle. It was nearly midnight when Harry left Umbridge's office that night, his hand now bleeding so severely that it was staining the scarf he had wrapped around it. He expected the common room to be empty when he returned, but Ron and Hermione had sat up waiting for him. He was pleased to see them, especially as Hermione was disposed to be sympathetic rather than critical. 'Here,' she said anxiously, pushing a small bowl of yellow liquid towards him, 'soak your hand in that, it's a solution of strained and pickled Murtlap tentacles, it should help.' Harry placed his bleeding, aching hand into the bowl and experienced a wonderful feeling of relief. Crookshanks curled around his legs, purring loudly, then leapt into his lap and settled down. 'Thanks,' he said gratefully, scratching behind Crookshanks's ears with his left hand. 'I still reckon you should complain about this,' said Ron in a low voice. 'No,' said Harry flatly. 'McGonagall would go nuts if she knew--' 'Yeah, she probably would,' said Harry dully. 'And how long do you reckon it'd take Umbridge to pass another decree saying anyone who complains about the High Inquisitor gets sacked immediately?' Ron opened his mouth to retort but nothing came out and, after a moment, he closed it again, defeated. 'She's an awful woman,' said Hermione in a small voice. 'Awful.You know, I was just saying to Ron when you came in ... we've got to do something about her.' 'I suggested poison,' said Ron grimly. 'No ... I mean, something about what a dreadful teacher she is, and how we're not going to learn any Defence from her at all,' said Hermione. 'Well, what can we do about that?' said Ron, yawning. ' 'S too late, isn't it? She's got the job, she's here to stay. Fudge'll make sure of that.' 'Well,' said Hermione tentatively. 'You know, I was thinking today ...' she shot a slightly nervous look at Harry and then plunged on, 'I was thinking that-- maybe the time's come when we should just--just do it ourselves.' 'Do what ourselves?' said Harry suspiciously, still floating his hand in the essence of Murtlap tentacles. 'Well--learn Defence Against the Dark Arts ourselves, said Hermione. 'Come off it,' groaned Ron. 'You want us to do extra work? D'you realise Harry and I are behind on homework again and it's only the second week?' 'But this is much more important than homework!' said Hermione. Harry and Ron goggled at her. 'I didn't think there was anything in the universe more important than homework!' said Ron. 'Don't be silly, of course there is,' said Hermione, and Harry saw, with an ominous feeling, that her face was suddenly alight with the kind of fervour that SPEW usually inspired in her. 'It's about preparing ourselves, like Harry said in Umbridge's first lesson, for what's waiting for us out there. It's about making sure we really can defend ourselves. If we don't learn anything for a whole year--' 'We can't do much by ourselves,' said Ron in a defeated voice. 'I mean, all right, we can go and look jinxes up in the library and try and practise them, I suppose--' 'No, I agree, we've gone past the stage where we can just learn things out of books,' said Hermione. 'We need a teacher, a proper one, who can show us how to use the spells and correct us if we're going wrong.' 'If you're talking about Lupin ...' Harry began. 'No, no, I'm not talking about Lupin,' said Hermione. 'He's too busy with the Order and, anyway, the most we could see him is during Hogsmeade weekends and that's not nearly often enough.' 'Who, then?' said Harry, frowning at her. Hermione heaved a very deep sigh. 'Isn't it obvious?' she said. 'I'm talking about you,Harry.' There was a moment's silence. A light night breeze rattled the windowpanes behind Ron, and the fire guttered. 'About me what?' said Harry. 'I'm talking about you teaching us Defence Against the Dark Arts.' Harry stared at her. Then he turned to Ron, ready to exchange the exasperated looks they sometimes shared when Hermione elaborated on far-fetched schemes like SPEW. To Harry's consternation, however, Ron did not look exasperated. He was frowning slightly, apparently thinking. Then he said, 'That's an idea.' 'What's an idea?' said Harry. 'You,' said Ron. 'Teaching us to do it.' 'But ...' Harry was grinning now, sure the pair of them were pulling his leg. 'But I'm not a teacher, I can't--' 'Harry, you're the best in the year at Defence Against the Dark Arts,' said Hermione. 'Me?' said Harry now grinning more broadly than ever. 'No, I'm not, you've beaten me in every test--' 'Actually I haven't,' said Hermione coolly. 'You beat me in our third year--the only year we both sat the test and had a teacher who actually knew the subject. But I'm not talking about test results, Harry. Think what you've done!' 'How d'you mean?' 'You know what, I'm not sure I want someone this stupid teaching me,' Ron said to Hermione, smirking slightly. He turned to Harry. 'Let's think,' he said, pulling a face like Goyle concentrating. 'Uh ... first year--you saved the Philosopher's Stone from You-Know-Who.' 'But that was luck,' said Harry, 'it wasn't skill--' 'Second year,' Ron interrupted, 'you killed the Basilisk and destroyed Riddle.' 'Yeah, but if Fawkes hadn't turned up, I--' 'Third year,' said Ron, louder still, 'you fought off about a hundred dementors at once--' 'You know that was a fluke, if the Time-Turner hadn't--' 'Last year,' Ron said, almost shouting now, 'you fought off You-know-Who again--' 'Listen to me!' said Harry, almost angrily, because Ron and Hermione were both smirking now. 'Just listen to me, all right? It sounds great when you say it like that, but all that stuff was luck--I didn't know what I was doing half the time, I didn't plan any of it, I just did whatever I could think of, and I nearly always had help--' Ron and Hermione were still smirking and Harry felt his temper rise; he wasn't even sure why he was feeling so angry. 'Don't sit there grinning like you know better than I do, I was there, wasn't I?' he said heatedly. 'I know what went on, all right? And I didn't get through any of that because I was brilliant at Defence Against the Dark Arts, I got through it all because-- because help came at the right time, or because I guessed right--but I just blundered through it all, I didn't have a clue what I was doing--STOP LAUGHING!' The bowl of Murtlap essence fell to the floor and smashed. He became aware that he was on his feet, though he couldn't remember standing up. Crookshanks streaked away under a sofa. Ron and Hermione's smiles had vanished. 'You don't know what it's like!You--neither of you--you've never had to face him, have you? You think it's just memorising a bunch of spells and throwing them at him, like you're in class or something? The whole time you're sure you know there's nothing between you and dying except your own--your own brain or guts or whatever--like you can think straight when you know you're about a nanosecond from being murdered, or tortured, or watching your friends die-- they've never taught us that in their classes, what it's like to deal with things like that--and you two sit there acting like I'm a clever little boy to be standing here, alive, like Diggory was stupid, like he messed up--you just don't get it, that could just as easily have been me, it would have been if Voldemort hadn't needed me--' 'We weren't saying anything like that, mate,' said Ron, looking aghast. 'We weren't having a go at Diggory, we didn't--you've got the wrong end of the--' He looked helplessly at Hermione, whose face was stricken. 'Harry,' she said timidly, 'don't you see? This ... this is exactly why we need you ... we need to know what it's r-really like ... facing him ... facing V-Voldemort.' It was the first time she had ever said Voldemort's name and it was this, more than anything else, that calmed Harry. Still breathing hard, he sank back into his chair, becoming aware as he did so that his hand was throbbing horribly again. He wished he had not smashed the bowl of Murtlap essence. 'Well ... think about it,' said Hermione quietly. 'Please?' Harry could not think of anything to say. He was feeling ashamed of his outburst already. He nodded, hardly aware of what he was agreeing to. Hermione stood up. 'Well, I'm off to bed,' she said, in a voice that was clearly as natural as she could make it. 'Erm ... night.' Ron had got to his feet, too. 'Coming?' he said awkwardly to Harry. 'Yeah,' said Harry. 'In ... in a minute. I'll just clear this up.' He indicated the smashed bowl on the floor. Ron nodded and left. 'Reparo,' Harry muttered, pointing his wand at the broken pieces of china. They flew back together, good as new, but there was no returning the Murtlap essence to the bowl. He was suddenly so tired he was tempted to sink back into his armchair and sleep there, but instead he forced himself to his feet and followed Ron upstairs. His restless night was punctuated once more by dreams of long corridors and locked doors and he awoke next day with his scar prickling again.