#claret park

[mouseandboo]

Postcrossing US-10265156 by Gail Anderson Via Flickr: Postcard with a photo of claret-cup cactus growing in the higher elevations of Big Bend National Park in Texas. Sent to a Postcrossing member in Finland.

[definitely-maybe-perhaps]

I'm forever blowing bubbles

Pretty bubbles in the air

They fly so high

Nearly reach the sky

Then, like my dreams,

They fade and die

Fortune's always hiding

I've looked everywhere

I'm forever blowing bubbles

Pretty bubbles in the air.

[epochofbelief]

Strictly Confidential: Chapter Four

A Feysand Modern AU

She’s a law student turned confidential informant. He’s a federal prosecutor with one goal: bringing down her boyfriend for his white collar crimes. What could go wrong?

Author's Note: I finally did it! Shoutout to SZA's song "Saturn" for helping me finish this chapter. I'm so excited for where this is going, everyone. Please let me know if you would like to be tagged. No promises on the editing.

Strictly Confidential Masterlist

My Other Feysand AU Fic (Completed)

Chapter Four

Feyre cursed herself for a fool from where she hid, deep in a supply closet on the fifth floor of Tamlin’s environmental empire, Spring Solutions.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. It had taken days for her to convince Tamlin to finally show him around her work. Only after she assured him she wouldn’t leave his side while there had he agreed to let her accompany him to the office on the following Friday morning.

Feyre forced her breaths to remain steady as another person passed by the door, the band of light between the door and the floor guttering with the motion.

“Where the hell is she?” A muffled, angry voice filtered through the walls around her.

But then the sound of the footsteps, along with the angry voice, receded.

Feyre took a deep breath. It was now or never.

She placed her hand on the cool metal of the door handle and pushed.

Three Days Earlier

The newfound knowledge of Tamlin’s alleged crimes slowly ate away at Feyre over the next several days. She couldn’t focus on her schoolwork. She missed a cold call in class. Her father called twice and she actually managed to ignore him.

When Tamlin returned on the following Monday, Feyre had to force herself to act as if nothing had changed. She let him touch her, kiss her, wax poetic about how much he had missed her.

Before he proceeded directly into his study to get back to work.

Feyre was on pins and needles for the hours he sat at his computer. She waited for the moment he somehow discovered she had accessed his computer and came to demand an explanation.

But he never did.

And so Feyre began to execute the next part of her plan.

When she came home from school on Tuesday, she gushed about how much she was enjoying her environmental law class. Tamlin listened intently, sitting forward on the couch as she paced in front of him, declaring her newfound intentions to pursue a career in environmental law. Lucien, who had been present for Feyre’s little performance, leaned against the kitchen counter behind Tamlin, eyebrows creeping higher and higher as Feyre delivered her monologue.

“That’s great, honey. I’m so glad you love this stuff as much as I do,” Tamlin said, eyes shining with sincerity. Feyre bit back her disgust.

“I really do,” Feyre said. “Which is why I wanted to ask if you would be open to me shadowing you at work. I would love to talk to some of your in-house counsel, just get a feel for what environmental law looks like in the real world.”

Tamlin sat straight up.

“Oh. Really?”

Feyre nodded, ignoring Lucien as he folded his arms at her words, his eyes tracking her every movement.

“Let me think about it,” was all Tamlin said. Feyre didn’t want to risk pressing harder, so she dropped the subject for the night.

But the next day, she resumed her prodding. Asked Tamlin if he had had time to think about it. After receiving a similar response, she waited until Thursday to ask once more.

In the intervals in between, Feyre found herself looking over her shoulder everywhere she went. On the train to and from the law school, during her walks in the park, while she was at the gym. She knew the FBI had to be on her trail, but never once did she catch a glimpse of Special Agents Claret or Lapis. And though she knew there was no possibility that Rhysand was the one observing her, she couldn’t help but wonder what he would think of her life if he was watching. Her quiet, appallingly small life. If he was watching, he would see her utter lack of a social circle, the disgusting amount of hours she spent hunched over her books, snacking on chips from the vending machine and whatever form of caffeine was closest.

It was probably better that Rhysand wasn’t the one watching.

On Thursday, Tamlin at last relented. He offered to meet Feyre at his office the next morning, for an hour before his lunch meeting.

And Feyre had duly accepted.

After her Friday morning class, she took the train back downtown, getting off at a stop about a block away from the enormous high-rise building that housed Spring Solutions. The receptionist, a young woman who looked to be a few years older than Feyre, struck up a conversation with her as they waited for Tamlin to emerge from the elevators that led up to his floor.

“I’m Ianthe,” the receptionist said, long blonde hair cascading over narrow shoulders, her sky-blue dress making her eyes pop. “You must be Feyre.”

Feyre gave Ianthe a nervous grin, shaking her perfectly manicured hand. This woman must spend hours on her makeup every morning. Her skin was absolutely flawless, lower eyelids lined with white, black mascara only further emphasizing those piercing blue eyes.

“Sorry,” Ianthe beamed. “Tamlin’s mentioned you a few times. I feel like I practically know you already.”

Feyre sucked on the inside of her cheek. “Ah.” Tamlin had never mentioned his gorgeous receptionist Ianthe. And yet he had been talking to Ianthe about Feyre so much that Ianthe already felt like she knew her?

Feyre reminded herself that jealousy was not a productive emotion. Especially when her boyfriend was in all likelihood a white collar criminal.

As Ianthe asked her about law school, Feyre wondered whether the receptionist knew about what went on behind the scenes at Spring Solutions. If there was indeed a “behind-the-scenes” to be spoken of.

Feyre answered Ianthe's questions with the shortest answers possible. But after the basic What practice areas are you considering pursuing? What led you to law school? What did you study in undergrad? questions, Ianthe launched into a monologue about how hard she had worked to decorate the atrium of Tamlin’s business.

Which was even more boring than the Administrative Law class Feyre had taken during her second semester of 2L.

To Feyre’s relief, the elevator to the left of Ianthe’s desk emitted a faint but elegant ding, and Tamlin emerged in his usual crisp, dark suit, his blonde hair perfectly arranged. Feyre pasted a smile onto her face, words sour in her mouth. “Hi, babe.”

Game time, Feyre thought. No matter how hard this would be, perhaps finding evidence of Tamlin's illegal activity would give her a stronger reason to break things off with him.

But hadn’t Rhysand said that Tamlin’s illegal activity would make it even more difficult for Feyre to leave him? Even dangerous?

Feyre shook her head, giving Ianthe a wave over her shoulder as Tamlin guided her into the elevator, a possessive hand on her lower back. Feyre turned to face him in the elevator, casually stepping out of his grip and leaning against the mirrored wall.

“How’s your day?” She asked. “Stressful?”

Tamlin stepped closer, one hand caressing her neck. “Much better now that you’re here.”

Feyre tried not to flinch away.

Gods, one second she was letting him pull her into bed and the next she couldn’t stand the feeling of his touch against her skin.

If she was honest with herself, discovering that he really was a criminal mastermind would probably make her life much less confusing.

Unfortunately, Feyre had to put up with Tamlin’s hands all over her as he toured her around the four floors of the high-rise that his company occupied. She met several accountants, a myriad of consultants, a plethora of assistants. Lucien joined them about halfway through the tour. He greeted Feyre as usual, but kept close behind her as they walked. Feyre couldn’t tell if his green eyes were tracking her every move or if she was just being paranoid.

At last, they reached the top floor—where both Tamlin and Lucien had their offices, and where the in-house legal department resided. Tamlin guided her into a large conference room, where several attorneys were gathered on one side of a long table, a lunchtime feast of sandwiches, chips, and coffee spread before them. It looked like a lunch break in all aspects except one: each attorney had a laptop propped in front of him or her, not even speaking to each other.

So this was what Feyre had to look forward to—work above all things. A twenty-minute lunch break to get to know one’s coworkers? Forget about it.

She knew in-house was different than big law, but if anything, big law firms like Hybern & Night were much more notorious for their bill or die mentality. These in-house attorneys were either unprecedented workhorses, or they were working on something important.

Feyre wondered if it was something illicit.

Feyre shook the three attorneys’ hands, smiling as they introduced themselves. Tamlin, Lucien, and Feyre joined them at the table, and Tamlin plated Feyre a ham-and-cheese sandwich, forgetting once again that she much preferred turkey.

But she smiled, ever the gracious and perfect girlfriend, launching into a stream of pre-prepared questions as the attorneys gave her their full attention. About halfway through the discussion, a secretary of some sort stuck her head into the conference room, telling Tamlin that he had an important phone call on line one. Tamlin excused himself, gesturing for Lucien to accompany him. Feyre waved them off, listening intently to one of the male attorneys—Hart—as he explained the benefits of taking “Tax Accounting for Lawyers” in law school. This rivaled Ianthe’s interior design diatribe in terms of how well it piqued Feyre's interest.

Feyre made herself wait two minutes before she excused herself to use the restroom.

As soon as she was clear of the conference room windows, she had to resist the urge to run. There must be cameras all around, and if she looked like she had a purpose, rather than lost on the way to the bathroom, this whole thing would be over before it began.

So, instead of rushing through the halls, she meandered, looking around herself, eyebrows scrunched together. She really should have pursued acting, rather than law.

At last, she passed what looked like an empty office. She shut herself inside, and almost giggled in nervous relief when she saw a phone on the desk. She picked it up, knowing the chances of it connecting to Tamlin’s line were close to zero—but—

She dialed one.

Tamlin’s voice erupted through the speaker the second her finger hit the button:

“What do you mean they’re not ready?” Tamlin growled.

Feyre almost gasped at the anger, the vitriol, in her boyfriend’s voice.

A muffled voice responded, so quietly Feyre almost missed it in her surprise at the harshness of her partner's tone. “They need another week.”

“We don’t have a week.” That was Lucien. Quieter, but just as tense as Tamlin.

“There’s no way they’ll be ready for you in time.”

“I don’t give two shits whether they’re ready. We’ll be there on the established date, and they better be ready to implement the recommendations we have already provided.”

The muffled voice didn’t respond.

“Brannagh?” Lucien’s voice cut through the silence.

“We’ll see you in a week.”

“Good.”

The receiver clicked. Feyre bit her lip.

This didn’t mean anything. It proved nothing.

But if it didn’t matter, why was Tamlin so angry? And what did “we’ll be there mean? He hadn’t mentioned going out of town again. . . Was this a local job?

Feyre bit her lip, carefully hanging up the phone before easing back out into the hallway, replaying the conversation she had just heard in her head. What did it mean? Was it innocuous or incriminating? Was it enough to bring to Rhysand?

Feyre wandered down the hallway, now truly on the lookout for the restroom. She had just spotted the signs when a man emerged from a conference room down the hall and to her left, clad in a much less expensive looking suit than the one Tamlin had worn, earbuds firmly fixed in his ears.

Feyre froze, but it was too late. He had seen her.

“What the hell are you doing down here?” The man demanded, striding purposefully toward Feyre.

Feyre swallowed, giving a little shrug and a sheepish smile before she turned down another hall, hopeful the man would conclude that she was the lost girlfriend of one of the many men who occupied the Spring Solutions Tower. Because that was at least one thing Feyre had learned about her partner’s business: very few women were employed there, and if they were, they were secretaries or Ianthe.

Unfortunately, Feyre heard the thundering of heavy footsteps behind her as she rushed down the hallway. Shit.

Feyre ducked into another hallway and threw open the first door she saw, breathing a sigh of relief when the sight of a dim janitorial closet greeted her, complete with mop bucket, broom, and shelves full of various cleaning products. Feyre slipped inside, standing where the door would hide her from view if opened, trying not to remember the few times she had convinced her older sisters to play hide-and-seek with her when they were kids.

Nesta rarely agreed, but Elain had played with her on several occasions, humoring her years-younger sister out of the goodness of her heart.

Feyre shook her head, clutching the hem of her suit jacket as heavy footsteps thudded by.

“Where the hell is she, Belfort?” A voice—this one different from the man with the earbuds—sounded from somewhere to her left.

“Do I look like I know?” The earbud man's voice responded.

Feyre swallowed, grateful when the footsteps faded away. Were these men unfamiliar with the layout of the building? Perhaps they were new . . . Or perhaps they didn’t usually work here. Because if Feyre were searching for a potential intruder, the broom closet would be the first place she checked.

She slid out into the hall, relief coursing through her at the sight of the empty hallway. She rushed back the way she came, looking over her shoulder as she turned back into the hallway where she had met the in-house attorneys—

Her chest collided with a wall of muscle, sweaty hands wrapping themselves around her upper arms in a grip that was just a little too tight.

Feyre turned to face her captor, catching a glimpse of hard dark eyes and a tight jaw, downturned lips and a forehead creased with anger, before a voice from behind the man had him straightening up and releasing Feyre.

“Is there a reason you’re manhandling my girlfriend, Belfort?”

Feyre stumbled backward, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of Tamlin, followed by Lucien and several members of what appeared to be the security team.

“Your girlfriend, sir?” Belfort asked, glaring at Feyre one last time before he turned to face Tamlin. “But—”

Feyre cut him off, striding toward Tamlin and setting a hand on his shoulder. “I got lost on my way to the bathroom. I think they must have thought I was an intruder or something,” she said with a laugh, leaning into her boyfriend’s side.

“Belfort?”

Feyre stared at Belfort and hoped his desire to avoid a disagreement with his boss would win the day.

Evidently it did, because Belfort held up his hands. “My mistake, sir. Please, return to your lunch.”

Tamlin nodded, turning so quickly that he missed the look Feyre caught on Belfort’s face—

It was a look that said, I’m watching you.

------

Feyre stopped at a coffee shop on her way home from Spring Solutions, even allowing herself the time to sit in a booth at the window to drink it. She pulled out her current read—Foster, by Claire Keegan—but the book sat abandoned on the table in front of her as she stared out the wide windows at the streets of Prythian, mulling over the events of the morning.

Tamlin’s anger during his phone call. The man on the other line—Brannagh’s—response. Belfort stalking her through the shiny bright hallways of Spring Solutions just because she had walked down the wrong hallway.

To a court of law, none of this had any meaning.

But that feeling in the pit of Feyre’s stomach, the flash of fear she had felt when Belfort had caught her, the small bruises already forming on her biceps from his grip. . .

Feyre’s instincts told her something was wrong, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to rest until she discovered exactly why.

She took a sip of her coffee, sighing through her nose, resolving to give herself ten minutes to collect her thoughts before she walked the rest of the way home to resume studying.

But any chance to calm herself flew out the window when a man slid into the booth across from her.

Feyre jumped a mile high before she registered the hazel eyes, the classically beautiful features, and the scarred hands.

“Agent Lapis,” she breathed.

The SA held up a hand, his lips pursed. “Please, call me Azriel.”

Feyre glanced around her, as if she hoped to catch a glance of Cassian—or Rhysand—hovering somewhere nearby. But the rest of the cafe was occupied by innocuous coffee drinkers and several students with books and laptops spread across the tables in front of them.

“Azriel,” Feyre said, forcing herself to take another drink from her coffee.

“I’m here for your answer,” he said, eyes scanning the room even as he spoke to her.

When Feyre didn’t respond, his gaze snapped to hers. Whatever he saw there put a frown on his face.

“Are you alright?”

Feyre shifted in her seat, and couldn’t resist the reflexive look she gave the bruises on her biceps.

Azriel’s eyes darkened, his hand tightening on the mug of coffee on the table between them. “What happened,” he breathed, his voice soft, but so lethal it sent goosebumps erupting over the back of Feyre’s neck.

“I got into Spring Solutions today,” Feyre started, but Azriel was already shaking his head.

“We know. What happened inside?” He asked, giving her upper left arm a pointed glance.

Feyre quickly and succinctly relayed the events of her time in Spring Solutions to Azriel, whose stoic expression didn’t waver as he listened.

“None of it means anything,” Feyre finished, running her hands through her hair. “But—I can’t explain it. Something just felt . . . wrong.”

Azriel shook his head. “It might not seem important or groundbreaking to you now, Feyre. But Rome wasn’t built in a day. Any detail learned now could always be useful later. And while none of what you told me today is enough for an indictment. . . It certainly could be if we learned more information.”

Feyre nodded, staying quiet. It was clear Azriel had more to say.

“You did a good thing, today, getting inside Spring Solutions. But if you agree to work with us, we’ll have to establish some ground rules. For your safety, and the good of the investigation.”

“My safety?”

Azriel nodded. “Rhys almost marched into that high-rise after you as soon as we sent him word you had gone there to meet Tamlin.”

Feyre blinked. “Rhys—Rhys knows I got inside?”

Azriel lifted a brow. “He’s the one leading this investigation. We keep him apprised of all notable updates.”

“Ah,” Feyre said, ignoring the cascade of confusing emotions that had unfurled inside her chest and stomach as soon as Azriel had said the words Rhys almost marched in after you.

“But the protocols will come later. What I came here to ask you today was whether you had decided.”

Feyre didn’t ask for further explanation. She knew what the SA meant.

She also knew her answer.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes meeting Azriel’s. “I’ll do it.”

-----

Author's Note: More Rhys is coming, I swear :)

Taglist:

@rhysiedarling @shedoessoshedoes @popjunkie42 @adreamof-spring @that-little-red-head @witch-and-her-witcher @cinnamonmelody @azrielover @1islessthan3books @jenahid @toporecall @martzja @marinated-fish @muaddib-iswriting @queenofdivas

[leasstories]

The New Girl

Eddie Munson x fem!reader

TW: SH, blood, drug use, depression, mentions of bullying

Your family just moved in Hawkins Indiana, you're 18 and this is your senior year. You were your old town's freak, and the fact that you were a girl made it even worse. You were considered the town’s freak because you were mainly listening to metal and Rock N'Roll  but also because you loved Roleplay games. One day, you saw this magazine about Dungeon and Dragons and you really enjoyed the game's concept, you knew pretty much everything about this game but you had no one to play it with. This year means new resolutions and you decided to be the most "normal" that you could be. It means you have to say goodbye to the ripped jeans but also goodbye to the band t-shirts. And you even consider joining the cheerleaders even though you hate what they do. You won't be able to go through another year of bullying, all alone. Your high school years were really hard on you, you went into depression and school phobia and started having self harming habits. This year has to be different. You're even gonna hide your tattoos and you dyed your hair back in your h/c which is far different from their previous color which was claret-red.

This is your first day at Hawkins High, you dressed in a plain white, long sleeve t-shirt and a blue jean, and you only did your make up with foundation and mascara. You rush downstair, take your bag, a pancake and rush through the door while screaming "See you tonight !" to your parents. You hear your mom wishing you a good day before sitting on the driver seat of your car. You drive to school even though you are early and you hope you can find a calm spot in order to hide and smoke your cigarette before heading to class. You park your car on the parking, get out and see a little path leading to the forest, you take it and arrive at a picnic table, you sit thinking it's a very calm spot for your little pre first day cigarette. You sit down, take your cigarette out and start smoking when you hear leaves scrunching behind you. You jump off of the bench, to see a teenager, or young adult you don't know, with brown curly hair, brown eyes and his clothes are very similar to your former clothes. He raises his hands in surrender to show you he means no harm before speaking.

"I never saw you around"

"I'm new in town" you answer

The boy looks at you with his big brown eyes, you can't help but stare at him, but also admire him for being confident enough to wear the clothes he wants, you remember that once, you were like him, but that led you to be in such a dark place that you think it doesn't worth it.

"Then welcome perfect stranger, I'm Eddie Munson !"

You chuckle before answering "I'm Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N"

"Nice to meet you, I actually can't believe you are talking to me, most people would have ran away"

"Why is that ?” you ask

"Because I'm the town's freak" he makes invisible quoting marks with his hands "mean and scary"

"You don't seem mean and scary to me"

"Well thank you,  but you shouldn't hang out with me at school, not that I don't like you no, you are pretty and I enjoy talking to you but-"

You cut Eddie's rambling. "I can manage hanging out with the outcasts, I actually was an outcast in my old town"

"You don't seem an outcast to me, you seem the most normal person I've ever seen, and it's not an insult at all I promise" Eddie is all flustered and keep rambling.

"My style, my real style is similar to yours to be honest, I just changed it because I couldn't take being the freak anymore but I admire you. I admire you for not caring about what others think, and" you take a deep breathe "I want to learn, that's why, if you accept it of course, I'm gonna hang out with you at school"

While you were talking Eddie took a black lunch box out and started rolling a joint.

"I'd be honored to hang out with you, and I'll help you, I'll help you see how unimportant people's opinion is, all that matters is that you are comfortable in your own clothes, that you feel yourself. Do you even feel yourself in those ?"

You look at the ground, ashamed before answering "Not really..."

"You don't have to feel ashamed. I promise to help you be yourself" Eddie lits up his joint, you look at the joint tempted before Eddie asks you "Wanna share it with me ?"

You think about it, and if you're gonna walk into the hall of your new high school with him, you'll need courage, plus you haven't had one in two days now and the withdrawal is getting really strong so you nod.

"Before I share it with you I need you to say it out loud, please"

"Yes I want to share it with you"

Eddie hands you the joint and you take a few hits before handing it back to him. You look at your watch before cursing "shit ! Eddie we're gonna be late !"

Eddie shrugs but then he sees the panic in your eyes and takes his stuff before leading you to the high school.

When you both enter the halls, everyone looks at you. You start fidgeting with your fingers, really anxious for this first day when Eddie says. "You have nothing to be afraid of, if anyone is rude to you come to me and I'll flip them off"

You chuckle slightly before answering "thank you Eddie". Gosh you find this boy really sweet but also insanely attractive, but of course you keep your thoughts to yourself.

Eddie leads you to the secretary office and waits for you outside while you go pick up your timetable as well as your locker number and code. When you head out, you look surprised that Eddie is still here.

"What are you still doing here, you're gonna be late."

"I wasn't going to let you get lost in the maze that is Hawkins high, plus I don't care about being late"

"Thank you, I'm going to my locker and then to my first class"

Eddie snatches your timetable from your hands and look at you, grinning.

"We are together almost all morning !" he seems very excited at the idea of spending the morning with you and deep down you are too. You are also relieved.

"Sounds amazing" you answer

After your last class of the morning, that you had to spend without Eddie, you're going to the cafeteria, you enter and go grab food, once you have your tray, you look around for somewhere to sit when one of the basketball player, you think his name is Jason, goes to you and tell you "Wanna sit with us new girl ?"

You look at him in disbelief because of what he just called you, but you're kinda scared of him, you knew people like that at your old school, one of them used to hit you every single day, you start trembling a bit.

Eddie is sitting at his table with his friends from Hellfire. Gareth, Jeff, Dustin and Mike all look at the scene happening a few meters away which is your interaction with Jason when Gareth says.

"Look at the new girl already being seduced by the King of Hawkins high"

At those few words, Eddie raises his head from his plate and look at the exchange between you and Jason, he can sense that something is off but before he can say anything Dustin speak up.

"Why does she look so uncomfortable ?"

Eddie gets up on the table and scream "YN, you can come sit here if you want"

The whole cafeteria look at you and then Eddie in disbelief and Jason look at you with a glare saying 'don't you dare sit with him'. Before you could say anything Jason turns to Eddie and says "Want somethin' freak ?". The nickname make you wince and you get out of the cafetaria, running, with teary eyes. You run until you reach the picnic table you were sat on this morning.

Meanwhile, Eddie makes a face at Jason before jumping from the table and going to look for you. After 10 minutes of searching the whole High School, Eddie comes to the conclusion that you are at the picnic table. He goes there and see you with a bloody razor blade in your hand, crying. He delicately sits next to you and take the blade from your hands, he doesn't say anything because to be honest, he doesn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry" you manage to say between sobs

"Don't be YN, I am the one who is sorry, I should have been waiting for you at your class. What happened with Jason, did he say something ?"

You start crying even more at the mention of what happened in the cafeteria, Eddie start rubbing your back before he remembers the bloody blade. He looks at your bloody wrists and take one in his hand, he take his bandana and start wiping off the blood while you keep crying.

"I'm sorry if it hurts sweetheart but I have to clean all that blood"

You wince when the fabric of the bandana touch your wrist but you don't back up. You're ashamed that he saw you like that though.

After Eddie finished wiping the blood from your left wrist, he wipes the blood from your left wrist.

He keeps rubbing your back while you sob before asking "do you wanna talk about what happened in there ?"

You take a shaky breath before saying "I've known someone like Jason... back in my former high school, and he-" you start crying again "he hurt me almost every single day..."

"I'm sorry to hear that YN... Jason is a dick but he'd never hurt you like that, and even if he tried I wouldn't let him"

You look at Eddie, still sobbing, with your teary eyes and you mutter a shaky "thank you"

Then Eddie looks back at yout wrists and hesitate before asking "do you hurt yourself often ?"

You burry your face in your hands, ashamed and keep sobbing.

Eddie gets up from the bench and kneel before you, taking your hands away from your face. He lift your chin up so you can look at him before saying "You don't have to answer YN, but I want you to know that you can tell me anything, I'd never judge you or tell anyone what you tell me"

"I do..." you end up answering

Eddie look at you with saddened eyes before searching for a pen and a paper through his bag, he writes down his adress and phone number and hands it to you.

"The next time you want to do that, call me or  come see me, I'll try taking your mind off of it, and if you can't help but do it, I'll at least clean your cuts"

You take the paper after thanking him.

"Do you want me to bring you back home ?" You nod, you and Eddie go back to your car, once you've unlocked the car Eddie opens the passenger door for you.

"What are you doing ?" you say

"Driving you home" Eddie answers

"But what about your car ?"

"Don't worry for me YN, I won't let you drive when you're all shaken up, please let me do that for you"

You nod and climb on the passenger seat. Eddie close your door before climbing on the driver's seat. You give him the direction to your home. The ride is silent, but it's a comfortable silence. Once you arrive, Eddie open the passenger door for you before leading you to your door.

You unlock your door when Eddie says "See ya tomorrow YN !"

"Can you... can you stay please" you ask

Eddie look at you before saying "Of course I can, I have nothing better to do anyway, I can stay until your parents come back"

"Thank you so much" you say with a weak smile.

You lead Eddie to the couch and instruct him to sit down.

"I know you've been wanting to ask me something all the way home, please go ahead, ask me, whatever it is I'm prepared."

"Why do you hurt yourself ?"

You take a shaky breath before answering "Because the pain I feel inside of me is eating me alive, when I cut myself my focus is on another kind of pain, one that hurt less than the pain inside of me"

Eddie takes your hand. "I'm sorry, I wish I could take away some of your pain"

After this conversation, Eddie cheered you up, he made some jokes to make you laugh, you listened to Iron Maiden together, and when it was time for him to leave you kissed him on the cheek and Eddie was all flustered.

The next days, you spent a lot of time together and Eddie was always trying to put a smile on your face, he was doing everything in his power to make you forget the demons from your past, and it worked, every time you were with him  you were laughing and smiling. Thanksgiving holidays were approaching, which meant you would be all by yourself for a week. But you decided that you won't tell Eddie, he has to enjoy Thanksgiving holidays with his family, he needs to take time for himself. You can't ask him to spend his entire holiday with you even though you'd really like that. You can't be selfish, he's done so much for you in the past weeks.

This is the last day before the holidays and you decided to go to school with your style, you put on a black Metallica t-shirt with a black ripped jean, Doc Martens and let your tattoos show, you didn't tell Eddie that you would come to school like that, when you entered the hall, everyone was whispering, you went to class and sat at the last raw, next to Eddie's usual place.

Eddie was late as usual, when he entered the class he saw everyone whispering but paid no further attention, until his eyes spotted you. When he looked at you, his jaw dropped, he didn't think you'd be ready yet. He went to sit next to you and saw you figdeting and your knee bounce, you two had gotten really close in the past weeks so he put his hand on your knee and look at you, a look meaning 'I'm here for you'. The class go by and you keep fidgeting but Eddie keeps his hand on your knee until the teacher notice.

"Can I help you Mister Munson" she says

"I'm sorry Miss, I wasn't feeling well and Eddie was showing me emotional support" you answer

"The freak help the freak" says a cheerleader. Chrissy turn to you with an apologetic smile.

"Mrs Smith, I didn't ask for a comment, Mr Munson just remove your hand from her knee"

Eddie look at you before doing so, you nod, making him understand that it's okay. Deep down it isn't and you know that you aren't going to your next class.

When the bell ring, you don't even wait for Eddie and run to the bathroom, you lock yourself until the bell ring to indicate that the next class is starting.

Eddie enter the next class, he scans the room but doesn't see you, he doesn't care about what the teacher will say, he just get out of the room, ignoring the teacher who was ordering him to come back to class. He knew where you were but he also knew that you were hurting yourself, he knows how hard it had been for you and also know you weren't ready to handle everything that was coming with assuming your style, your mental health was still very fragile even though Eddie had helped you a lot. He had to find you, you needed him now more than ever.

You were sat at the picnic table, looking blankly at your bloody wrist when Eddie found you, he sat next to you and you were so afraid that you disappointed him that you decided to speak first, looking at your shoes.

"I'm sorry Eddie, I couldn't help it"

Eddie looks at you with a saddened but understanding look. "I'm not mad YN, I promise, let me fix this."

Eddie goes through his bag and take out some gauze and a bottle of antiseptic, he always has it in his bag since the first time he saw you hurt yourself, just in case. He didn't have to use it in a while, but he knew that you would probably relapse one day, and Eddie was glad he didn't take it out of his bag.

Eddie put some antiseptic on the gauze and started cleaning your wounds, he then looked at you in the eyes before saying "I really like your style" Eddie is grinning, even though he shouldn't be flirty, he can't help, you're just so beautiful, even more when you’re yourself. Eddie doesn't care about your scars, and even if it saddened him, the fact that you happened to hurt yourself wasn't something that made him run away. Eddie fell for you in those few weeks you spent together.

"Thank you for cleaning this up, and for the compliment" you blush at each special attentions.

"You’re not so bad yourself Munson" you added

Eddie got closer to you and took your hand in his. "I have something to tell you YN, and I know that now might not be the best timing but I can't keep it to myself anymore."

"I love you Eddie" you blurt out without thinking. When you realize what you just say you put your left hand on your mouth and take your hand away of Eddie's, ready to leave.

Eddie grabs you by the wrist and kisses you passionately before saying "I was going to say that I love you more than I should love a friend. And please don't interrupt me, let me finish. I really enjoy every moment with you, and I'm proud of you for coming to school like that, I'm proud of you for not self harming for weeks. Yes you've relapsed today, but relapse is part of recovery and please believe me when I say that you can tell me when you've done it, I'd rather be there for you, help you clean it up and help taking away your guilt than not knowing what you're going through. You've come such a long way YN, and I'm so so proud of you. I love you and nothing can change that."

You have tears in your eyes, what Eddie said is so beautiful, you don't even know what to answer to that, no one as never been this kind to you before and it's overwhelming, so instead of saying anything you hug him and don't let go.

It is Thanksgiving today, your parents left in order to spend Thanksgiving with your grand-parents as well as your aunts and uncles that you don't particularly appreciate, that's why you decided to stay home. You have been trying out outfits all morning long to find the perfect outfit and now you found it, you're gonna wear a black leather dress, tights and heeled boots, you put on some black eye liner, mascara and red lipstick. You've just finished putting your hair in a tight bun when you hear Eddie's van pulling up in your backyard. You rush to the door taking your keys and bag. Your run in Eddie's arms and hug him tight, your legs around his waist. Eddie chuckles and kiss you before saying "Ready to spend Thanksgiving with me and my uncle ?"

You seem a bit stressed so Eddie looks at you in the eyes before saying "Wayne is gonna love you YN, I'm sure of that"

You spend the ride hand in hand, listening to your favorite song, 'Rainbow In the Dark' by Dio.

"Eddie ?" you say, breaking the silence

"Mmh" he answers

"You are my Rainbow in the dark"

Eddie smiles and squeezes your hand. "I love you Sweetheart"

" I love you too Eddie"

And as Eddie predicted Wayne loves you and you spent the best Thanksgiving you've ever spent, surronded by people you feel safe around. Not thinking once about hurting yourself. Eddie is really your Rainbow in the dark.

If you or anyone you know has to deal with SH, depression or suicidal thoughts please reach out for help. https://www.cdc.gov/reproductivehealth/depression/resources.htm

[killerdancingqueen]

Good Omens timeline (as of season 2), from Before the Beginning until the end of season 2:

- “Before the Beginning” — Aziraphale and Crowley meet for the first time.

- 9:13 a.m, Sunday, October 21, 4004 B.C — The creation of the universe (according to God).

- 4004 B.C, "just after the Beginning" — Eve and Adam eat an apple, and then Crowley and Aziraphale have their first on-screen interaction.

- Somewhere between 3070 and 3030 B.C (when Nefertiti was alive), Egypt — Aziraphale presumably impresses Nerfertiti with his magic skills, “You're talking to the Angel who fooled Nefertiti with a lone caraway seed and three cowrie shells.”

- 3004 B.C, Mesopotamia — Aziraphale and Crowley witness the events of Noah's Ark.

- 2500 B.C, the Land of Uz — Aziraphale and Crowley help Job and his family (A Companion to Owls minisode).

- 33 A.D, Golgotha — Aziraphale and Crowley see Jesus’ crucifixion.

- 41 A.D, Rome — Aziraphale and Crowley have oysters.

- 537 A.D., Kingdom of West Essex — Aziraphale and Crowley are knights in King Arthur’s time, and Crowley first suggests “the Arrangement”.

- Sometime in the 1500s (likely between 1503 and 1506 if wikipedia is to be believed), Leonardo Da Vinci’s Studio, Italy — ‘In which Crowley gets drunk with Leonardo Da Vinci’ and buys a sketch of the Mona Lisa for fifteen florins (cut scene from the script book).

- 1601, the Globe Theatre, London — Aziraphale and Crowley meet Shakespeare (who steals a line from Crowley that he uses in Antony and Cleopatra). Crowley also performs a miracle to make Hamlet popular.

- 1650 — The first (known) time that Aziraphale does the apology dance for Crowley.

- 1656, Lancashire, England — the last true witch in England, Agnes Nutter, is burnt by Witchfinder Major Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultry Pulsifer, who is killed in the process by Agnes’ forward-thinking.

- 1760, Monsieur Rossignol’s Night Classess — Aziraphale learns french the hard way.

- 1793, Paris — Crowley saves Aziraphale from prison during the French Revolution's Reign of Terror (and then they get crepes, as well as Aziraphale doing the apology dance for Crowley).

- 1800, the opening of Aziraphale’s bookshop in Soho — Gabriel and Sandalphon visit Aziraphale to promote him back in heaven. Crowley overhears this, and tricks Gabriel into having Aziraphale stay on earth in order to “thwart him” (cut scene from the script book).

- Sometime before 10th November, 1827, but likely after 1800 — a conman attempts to seduce Aziraphale into helping her “brother” with his debt. Some-point after, Aziraphale tells Crowley of the story over a glass of claret.

- ~A month before 10th November, 1827, Edinburgh, Scotland — Crowley and Aziraphale visit a graveyard with a statue of Gabriel and end up helping a body-snatcher, Crowley also prevents her from committing suicide which results in him being sucked into hell “And that, was the last I was to see of Crowley. For quite some time.” (The Resurrectionists minisode).

- 1859, Aziraphale’s bookshop, Soho — ‘In which Aziraphale almost sells a book’ before receiving a note delivered by a street urchin from Crowley reading ‘the usual place - C’ (cut scene from the script book).

- 1862, St. James Park, London — Crowley requests holy water from Aziraphale for assurance in case anything goes wrong.

- Sometime between 1889 and 1919 (the years Hoffman is alive) but likely around 1876 (the year the book, Modern Magic: A Practical Treatise on the Art of Conjuring is published, that Aziraphale has a signed copy of), England — Aziraphale receives magic lessons from Angelo John Lewis, pseudonym Professor Hoffman, ‘“Aha! Professor Hoffmann's modern magic. Ah, there you are. To Mr. Fell, that's me, a wonderful student” (written) Yours, the Hoff’

- 1941, London — Aziraphale gives prophecy books to some nazis for Hitler, in an attempt to arrest them, only they double-cross him as well. Crowley then comes to Aziraphale's rescue and gives him a lift home, stopping at the West End theatre on the way back . However, the nazis come back as zombies for hell to expose Aziraphale and Crowley’s arrangement, but Aziraphale’s magic thwarts them (Nazi Zombie Flesh Eaters minisode). At some point later on, Aziraphale does the apology dance for Crowley.

- 1967, Soho, London —Crowley arranges a heist (after having gone clothes shopping that morning) to steal holy water from a church with Lance Corporal Shadwell and others. Aziraphale thinks it’s too dangerous, so he gets Crowley holy water himself.

- 1970s, London — Crowley changes the design of the M25 to represent the symbol Odegra, which comes back to bite him later on (as most things do).

- ~2008, “Eleven Years Ago" — Hastur and Ligur deliver the Antichrist to Crowley, who gives it to The Chattering Order of St. Beryl. The Antichrist is then swapped with Deirdre and Arthur Young’s child, while their child, Warlock, goes with Thaddeus and Harriet Dowling. Trying to prevent Armageddon, Aziraphale and Crowley agree to help raise Warlock, the boy they assume is the Antichrist.

- ~2013, “Five Years Later - Six Years Before the End of the World”  — Crowley disguises himself as Warlock's nanny, while Aziraphale disguises himself as the Dowlings' gardener.

- ~2019, “Six years later” — the chronological events of season 1 unfold, ending with Aziraphale and Crowley eating at the Ritz.

- Between 2019-2023 — Gabriel and Beelzebub routinely meet in the Resurrectionists pub, where they fall in love.

- ~2023 — the chronological events of season 2 unfold, ending with Aziraphale going up to Heaven and Crowley driving away from the bookshop to destinations unknown (his flat? out of london? out of the uk? out of the world?).

[boatsease]

via @door, a tag meme i'm using as an excuse to shill my favorite novella about two elderly lesbian artists with coarse personalities vacationing, bullying a houseguest, and filming child cemetery-fanatics

last song: i’m generally ambivalent wrt the national, but their moma ps1 “A Lot of Sorrow” performance—six increasingly weary, increasingly encouraged hours of the same short repetitive song i’d never heard before—is enchanting

favorite color: all of them! green! yellow ochre! earthy orange! persimmon! vermilion! also: dirt (various), cool pale yellows*, warm grays*, blue-grays, yellow-grays, purple-grays, taro, claret, teal

*both as seen in my coy best friend the adult black crowned night heron

currently reading: le guin’s always coming home; rereading tove jansson’s fair play. fair play is 100 very precise, remarkably romantic pages about the daily life of two asocial sharp-tongued seventy-something lesbian artists whose relationship includes living in different apartments on the opposite ends of the same building, romantic arguing, jealously romantic arguing, romantic co-op bullying, regular arguing, passive-aggressively slaughtering perch, swinging and missing at sweeping statements on human psychology, videography, movie night, travel, and hanging up on friends in crisis. i adore it beyond measure.

currently watching: ds9, but so slowly. i am bad at tv but i’ll brave it to see sisko

last movie: studio ghibli’s lupin iii: the castle of cagliostro (1979). wildly lovely color palettes & value arrangements

sweet, spicy, savory: savory, spicy, sweet. on earth there should be more spicy pastries and lattes

relationship status: old birder at the park said the herons have “special feelings” for me

current obsession: if i have fewer than 12 obsessions call an ambulance. loosely by type: plein air sketching; herons; tomatoes; spiderwort; carving stamps; single-pigment green paint; fountain pens, incl. (today) 70s wallet-size sailor f-8s and the (modern) sailor pgs mini; taccia ukiyo-e akasakura ink (!!!); fancy notebooks; glacially slowly learning japanese; doing le guin’s steering the craft workbook for the ~4th time; writing

tea or coffee: i like incredible tea slightly more than incredible coffee, but tolerate mediocre coffee better and so drink more of it

last thing i googled: bungubox sailor 蒔絵コンバーター　鯉

mea culpa i am bowing out of tagging!

[sagefranklin]

— dylan westwick dylan's home, claret park.

It was funny, how much of Atlas' life seemed to be tied to the neighborhood, despite the man living in an entirely different one; his oldest daughter, his youngest daughter, his close friend... if she didn't know any better, she'd wonder if the man spent his free time just strolling the streets of Claret Park, picking up people to build a found family with. The thought alone was enough to make her laugh softly to herself as she made her way to Dylan's front door, not too far from her own home just a mile or two away. A box took up her right hand as her left hand reached up to knock on the door, a gift bag decorated with rainbows and newborn baby items gently swung from the place where it rested on her left arm with the action. Then, she stepped back until the door opened, cracking a gentle smile of greeting at the sight of the other woman. "Hi," Sage offered in a whispered greeting. "I hope now was a good time to drop off some things, I won't stay, just thought I'd get these two you before the two little ones end up in college."

@dylan-westwick

[vibratingskull]

The heart's dilemma

Part1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18

Tags : angst, bit of alcohol, gift

FemaleReader x Thrawn

You go back to the Chimaera for a soiree with Thrawn to study the book you gifted him, but is everything going as planned ?

We’re FINALLY done with the Memories chapters and got back to present times, this one takes place some month after The Present.

You’re applying your favorite lipstick with caution, you have to be presentable after all. Thrawn may be an old friend with whom you recently reconciled, but he’s still your superior and a proper behavior and apparel is expected. This meant dignified makeup and outfit. You thank the Maker you don’t need makeup during work days on the Relentless, Admiral Konstantine considering it a selfish and useless display of individuality when the Navy needs obedience and unity. You don’t disagree with him, albeit you’re less vehement than him. But tonight you’re invited over at a party in Thrawn’s quarters on the Chimaera, an informal party so less suffocating than those Imperial gatherings but you’re still nervous nonetheless. You want to appear at your best and most confident so you did opt for a bit of makeup. 

You pick up your favorite perfume and apply it lightly on your neck and behind your ears, after a good shower those fragrances of fruits and honey will give you a fresh scent. You comb your hair and arrange it in a proper hairstyle. You open your jewelry box and rummage through it. Most of them have been offered by Arzel and they’re not especially… neutral. You pout and search for some simple pearls or earrings. You only find a platinum ring with Arzel’s initials, it’s the least tacky of all your jewels. You pass it on and walk to your grand mirror to inspect yourself one last time. You chose a claret-red dress that hugged your form and modestly cuts at your knees, the collar is evasive with off-shoulder sleeves that spread through your whole arms to a ring of fabric on your middle fingers that hold the sleeves in place without folds. Spiced up by some heels, the overall look is a bit bold but he will surely cut you some slack, you hope he’s not a man to worry too much about that behind closed doors.

You're spinning on yourself to check your attire at every angle when your comlink rings. It’s Arzel, he’s wondering what you’re up to this evening. You consider his message, wondering how to respond… Should you be honest and tell him you go see Thrawn? He said he has a newfound respect for him but you feel you’re still walking on eggshells with this subject. You opt for a reasonable “I’m going out with friends.” and grab your purse and jacket.

The evening is still warm enough and the sun is only starting to set, illuminating Coruscant in pink and tangerine shades, you don’t resist and take a picture with your imager. You secretly hope Thrawn will let you snap a pic of the two of you, in the good old days’ name, a symbol of your friendship freshly renewed. You just have the time to pass the doors, you notice a limo parked in front of your building. You slowly approach unsure. The driver straightens as you walk closer.

“Lieutenant commander (y/n) (y/l/n)?” He asks.

“Yes.”

“I have been tasked to drive you to the Grand Admiral Thrawn.” He politely opens the car door “Please, take your seat.”

You sit down in the luxurious car, smelling the odor of new leather. The limo is spacious, with a mini bar and tinted windows, inside it already resonates with an album of one of your favorite bands. 

“The Grand Admiral, especially requested for your favorite drinks and snacks to be at your disposal.” He explains, taking place behind the wheel.

“That is very thoughtful of him.” You thank him.

You’re a bit intimidated, usually when you’re in those types of cars Arzel is with you, so you don’t mind what’s around you too much. But today you’re alone in this incredibly pricey car and you feel a bit out of place. Your dress and perfume suddenly seem really cheap. You squirm on your seat, trying to take as little place as possible, like you were bothering someone. 

You shake your head. 

No. 

You’re simply coming to see an old friend, he can display his new fortune as much as he wants, you’re beyond that. You’re coming to see him, not his wealth. You make the conscious effort to spread yourself in the car to feign confidence, like you owned the place.

“We will be there in one standard hour.” He indicates as he takes off the limo.

“Perfect.”

The flight is uneventful, your driver took the priority lanes, passing before many civilian cars. Your nervousness subsided a bit but you play it safe and favor fruit juices over any alcoholic beverages, you slowly rock yourself to your favorite music and speak with him from time to time.

“You’re no ordinary driver, you're a new officier, am I right?”

“Indeed I am, ma’am. How did you know?” He demands without letting his gaze go out the road.

“Because I’m being asked the same thing from time to time.” You laugh.

Such is the weight of lower officers, you think looking out through the window. To do the bidding of admirals. You hope he doesn’t take it too badly to have to drive an officer barely higher than him, but nothing in his demeanor indicates any anger of jealousy.

“If I can, ma’am. What are your ties to the Grand Admiral?” He asks with a conversational tone.

“Oh, we are old friends.” You smile. “We met each other at the Imperial Academy.”

“You must be really good friends. He especially asked for you to be safely transported by one of his subordinates.”

“Well, I hope I am.” Your heart flutters. “You've been under his orders for a long time?”

“From the beginning ma’am.”

“Is he a good superior? I never worked under his supervision.”

“He is very good, ma'am. The empire should have more admirals as understanding and competent than him.”

“You can cut the “ma’am”, I’m sure we are almost the same rank.” You gently propose.

“I can’t ma’am. The Grand Admiral specifically asked I treat you like a superior.” he answers straight off.

You pout. Odd but not that unexpected.

“Well, I’m practically here as a civilian tonight.” You insist.

“No can do.” He bluntly responds.

You drop the subject, slouching back in your seat, observing the dying rays of the sun. It’s splendid. You recognize the dockyards and the limo took off higher, in the direction of the Chimaera. The sudden acceleration pushes you into your seat. You slowly enter the ISD’s hangar and park next to a civilian transport?

“What is that?”

“A ship the Grand Admiral got back from some pirates.” 

You shake your head with a smirk, surely he uses it for when he goes undercover with some stupid character, Eli talked to you about this Horatio Figg thing. It makes you chuckles simply thinking about it. Your driver kindly opens your door and guides you to Thrawn’s quarters. Some people turn towards you as you pass by and a horrifying thought crosses your mind, what if they think I am some prostitute? You suddenly slow down, unsure of your attire now. Your driver notices and stops, looking at you with questions in his eyes.

“Is everything okay, ma’am? You don’t feel well?”

“Is my outfit… appropriate?” You ask, a little tremor in the voice.

He details you from head to toes.

“Your outfit is great ma’am. I don’t see any problem with it.”

You silently praise yourself for not choosing stilettos or shaded stockings, the verdict could have been quite different. You try to pay more attention to the faces of those who stop in your way, but they are just gaze, no whistle, no offensive comments or inappropriate hand gestures. You even see some impressed faces. You feel better even if your heart's still pounding a little. Your heels clac all the way through the Chimaera with the boots of your escort. 

“Could you send my greetings to Commodore Faro?” You demand.

“Of course, ma’am.”

You sigh interiorly, it would have been some months before you would have to add Commander Vanto too to not appear suspect. But he’s not here anymore, Thrawn sent him away somewhere in the vast universe. You bite your lips, you missed him. Despite what happened, you wish you had the occasion to say goodbye. But it’s too late now, and you’re filled with regrets for not having talked to him. To just say that you saw what happened and that you forgave him. You would have hugged him and playfully disheveled his hair to spite him, then you would have laughed together at a bar for the whole night. 

You finally arrive before Thrawn’s door, sorting you out of your thoughts.

“I must leave you here. Good evening, Ma’am.” Your escort says and walks away.

You knock on the door. Some second pass before it slides open. You hesitantly pass the head through, observing the room. It’s more of a suite than a room, the lights are soft and dimmed and smooth jazz is played on a low level. You enter and the door shuts down behind you. Thrawn is nowhere in sight, so you just walk some steps aimlessly, an immense glass wall allows you to observe the immensity of space but your gaze is lured by some art pieces displayed in the room. Real ones and not projected holograms this time. You’re observing a canvas of an impressive size when a voice rises behind your back.

“Welcome, (Y/n).” 

You turn towards your friend, as usual his hands are joined behind his back and wears a haughty expression, but a thin smile greets you this time. Despite wearing is white uniform he dropped the lieutenant commander. He comes to your side. You get a whiff of his cologne.

“I am glad you accepted to come.”

“I told you I was also interested in that book.”

“I stopped you in your analysis of art. Please, tell me what you see.”

You chuckle, everyone’s analyzing art for him and not just appreciate it.

“It is an interesting painting.”

“I am sure you can do better than that.” He encourages softly, looking at you

“Well.” Your gaze goes back to the canvas, a black paint ribbed with touch up of reds and reddish magenta, some drops of whites “It looks like a frozen scene only lighted by a red lightning through a window. I guess the whole principle is to be able to see what we want in those specks of colors.”

“And what do you see?” He asks gently.

“Hmm… I see…” Good question, what do you see? “Either two parting hands, or two joining hands.”

“Does your heart not tilt toward one of those two options?”

You look again, doing some soul searching.

“They are definitively joining.” You decided. “Reaching towards each other.”

He lightly nods, his smile stretching up a bit, apparently he appreciates your analysis.

“And you?” You inquire. “What do you see?”

“It depends.” His gaze goes back to the painting. “Most of the time I see victory and boldness. Other times I see a specific landscape. And sometimes I see two bodies embracing each other.”

“What dictates when you see it?”

“When I feel alone and long for a connection.” His gaze lost itself in the void, his smile dying.

So it does happen for him to feel alone. Surely sending Eli must have worsened this sensation. You graze his arm with the tip of your fingers.

“It may be bold of me, but I am here. You don’t have to feel alone all the time.” You smile gently “Plus you have Karyn at your side, she may be a bit obstinate and gruff sometimes but she has a good heart, she would understand.”

His smile comes back but shakes his head, he heads towards the long sofa and tea table.

“She does have a good heart, but I’m afraid she’s not the right person for this longing.” He leans forwards and takes an envelope on the table. “But surely you are.”

You fluster and feel a stroke to your ego.

“Well, I can always try. What kind of longing are we talking about?” you request merrily, joining him.

He looks at you with an enigmatic smile.

“You will discover it soon enough.” His stern expression comes back and he hands you the envelope “Here. Eli left this behind for you.”

Your smile disappears. You take the envelope after hesitation which only wears your name for mention. 

“You have an idea what this is?” you ask, a bit sad suddenly.

“He only told me that you should read it alone.”

You consider the envelope and put it in your purse, you’ll deal with it later then. Thrawn invites you to sit on the pricey sofa while he goes for some glasses. You bounce a little, which amuse you tremendously. 

“But tell me, your suite is richly decorated. Where does all that come from?”

“Most of it comes from auctions I won, others are presents I received.”

You grin.

“Does a Grand Admiral really have time for auctions?”

He comes back with filled glasses and a chuckle.

“I always have time for art.”

“That’s fair.”

You take your glass and clink it with him but he doesn’t sit down. He reaches for something, behind the sofa and takes out the Codex.

“Now, for what you came for.”

You spend the next hours debating with him about this book, analyzing the drawings and figures and testing every traductors possible. But you can’t really say you advance in any meaningful way. The discussion gets heated by moments but never degrades into an argument, you laugh and drink a lot, emptying several glasses as the evening leaves place to the night. 

“What’s this by the way?” you ask pointing your glass. Maybe you worry about it a bit late.

“It is barely alcoholised. I knew you would drink and wanted your mind clear.” He explains gently, caressing a page of the book.

“Good thinking.” It’s true you feel the stinging of alcohol but your mind is surprisingly clear, albeit a bit light. You finish another glass.

“I want you focused and without faulty consent for the night.” He closes the book.

“Well” you laugh “That’s an imaginative way of saying you don’t want to deal with me completely drunk, but I get it.” You already take another glass

He shakes his head.

“You obviously do not. But you will soon.” He puts the book on the table and takes a little black box. He dusts a speck of dust and puts it in your hand “Happy anniversary (y/n).”

Your gaze navigates between him and the box.

“Oh you remembered!” You exclaim “You shouldn’t have!” Lies, you’re overjoyed to receive a gift once again, it must be your greedy side. 

You open the little box without losing a moment. 

A ring. 

It mimics a wicker braid, but is made of two distinct metals, Orichalc and another one you can’t identify. You raise your eyes to Thrawn who looked at you opening your gift like a child would. You think you could see a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“It is Nyix.” He answers your silent question, taking the ring out of the box. “A precious metal coming from my worlds.”

He takes your right hand and goes to put it on but stops as he sees there is already a ring.

He observes it and his eye twitches imperceptibly as he reads the initials. He takes your left hand instead and slides it on your ring finger. You take the time to admire the jewelry. It is really splendid.

“I had it specifically made for your starday.”

You extend your hands, shocked.

“You had it made especially for me? But it must have cost you a fortune!”

“Less than what you probably paid for that book.” He counters. “I wanted something that came from both of our worlds.” He explains.

“To symbolize our friendship?” You feel the tears behind your eyes, you’re overflowed with joy, even if your heart is a bit contrite.

“Yes, our… friendship.” He repeats lowly.

“It’s gorgeous, Thrawn. Thank you.” You smile looking at him “I will cherish it all my life.”

He nods, sliding closer to you with his glass.

“To you.”

You clink it with yours once again.

“To you, too.” You chuckle

“To us…” He breathes

You take another sip of this tasty fizzy drink. It’s really good.

“Did I tell you you look ravishing, tonight?” He asks in a low voice.

You finish your sip with a click of your tongue, giggling at his weird humor but appreciating the compliment nonetheless.

“No you did not.”

His hand grazes your thigh through the fabric of your dress.

“It is a shame, because you truly are.” He puts his hand on your thigh, with a gentle smile.

You stop mid movement, surprised. You look at him a bit lost, but you can only see confidence in his gaze. He slowly leans towards you, imperceptibly.

“I am honored you took the time to dress you up for me.” He delicately tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. You’re completely frozen. “I do not know if you remember, but you wore the exact same colors at the Academic Gala. Already you wore them perfectly back then but your dress was not as… Alluring.” His finger brushes his way from your cheek to your jaw, sliding under your chin.

He takes the glass of your hand and holds it, kissing your knuckles where the ring is without breaking eye contact.

“(Y/n)...” He purrs

“Th-Thrawn…?” You’re petrified.

“I wanted this for so long…” He confesses, holding your chin and leaning slowly, eyes fixed on your lips.

“I… I…”

Wait.

Hold on.

Is it really happening?

After all these years?

You feel butterflies in your stomach and your heart pounds so furiously you’re sure he can hear it over the jazz music. Your cheeks are on fire and your mouth is terribly thirsty. You blink several times, verifying it is happening. 

But you’re not dreaming. You feel his hand sneaking its way up your thigh, picking up the fabric at the same time, his breath on your lips and his scent of cologne and musk fills your lungs. He brushes your lower lip with the tip of his finger, parting them slightly. His gorgeous face fills your field of vision as he comes closer and closer. He stops a painful centimeter away from a feverish kiss, your breath gets stuck in your throat, your stomach making knots.

As you close your eyes, a light reflects on Arzel’s ring.

You…

“Thrawn.”

Surprised, he moves back a bit with wondering eyes.

“I’m sorry, but… I’m engaged and… I’m loyal.”

Silent, he considers you with an indecipherable expression.

 “And that is honorable from you.”

He moves away. You’re left in shock, eyes lost in the void.

What just happened ?

A shudder comes and shakes you, feeling really cold abruptly.

You're trembling with all your might, taking fistfull of your dress, you feel tears rolling on your cheeks and a wave of shame comes rising in you.

What are you doing here?

“I think… I think I’ll go!”

You don’t let him time to respond or do anything, you take your jacket and flee. You run, bewildered with fog in the eyes. You arrive as well as one can to the hangar where your driver is speaking with some colleagues. He sees you arriving and looks perplexed.

“Drive me back home!” You order, already sitting down in the seat.

He doesn’t ask anything and sits behind the wheel. He took off and you left. But strangely, your stomach knots only worsen as you go away. Your driver looks at you through the rearview mirror.

“Did… Did he tried something?” He asks maladroitly.

“No..” You gulp, in tears. “No. It’s me…”

The rest of the trip is spent in silence, occasionally broken by your sobs.

You run to your room. You lean against the door and let you slide to the ground. You hold your knees, your stomach In knots and cry your heart out.

It’s you…

@bluechiss @justanothersadperson93 @al-astakbar @thrawnspetgoose @readinglistfics @twilekchiss @pencil-urchin @ineedazeezee @mssbridgerton

[beckettj]

The Heart of a Villan - Chapter 3/5

Chapter Three - Dangerous Play

Summary: Three-thousand miles from home, Henry drags Emma into a land she never imagined venturing to; the realm of English football. She holds no interest in the sport but when she’s approached by Villa Captain Killian Jones, she determines that there could be something in the sport for her after all.

Words: 6907

Chapter One, Chapter Two

Read on AO3

Killian’s fingers drum absent-mindedly against the table as the gaffer’s pre-matchday briefing hits the thirty-minute mark. A morning of training followed by an afternoon of travelling on the team bus, getting stuck in traffic early in the journey on the M6, has Killian quite done with the droning sound of Gold’s voice. He knows, from over a year of experiencing Gold’s meticulous patterns, that he’ll only repeat himself during the morning’s pre-match briefing.

With that in mind, Killian allows himself to switch off, to block out the gaffer’s talk of positions in transitional moments, as he dreamily stares out the large windows of the hotel’s conference room. He’s in London. After five days, he and Emma are finally in the same city once again. It’s a city of almost nine million people and her hotel is right by the Thames whilst his is three miles away in Islington but it’s closer than bloody Birmingham, nonetheless.

His phone is on silent – dutiful, professional club captain mode initiated – but he feels it vibrate in his pocket and a message flashes up on his smartwatch – do not disturb mode not initiated due to a slight lull in his professionalism, caused by the expectation of receiving a message from a particular blonde he can’t shake from his thoughts.

He glances at the notification, a small smile creeping onto his face when he reads her name.

Henry sporting the colors at the palace. The guard doesn’t look too impressed. Think you can use your connections to get us in?

Killian frowns at the message; they’d already done the Palace a few days ago – Emma has been regularly keeping him updated on her London adventures – and she had even referenced his royalty connections then too. He can’t imagine them doing it twice, not when the only thing to do was to stand outside the gates and take in the enormous grandeur of the building.

There’s a picture with the message, one which can’t be displayed on his watch, and it’s driving him crazy. He can do nothing but imagine what the image may be; perhaps Emma and Henry in front of the big, tall gates, a royal guard in the background, watching them closely as if expecting the American mother and son to attempt to storm the place. Emma had made reference to Henry sporting the colours and Killian wonders whether the guard could be a bluenose, not appreciating their rival club’s success being rubbed in their face. His mind focuses on Emma, drawing up images of her also sporting the famous claret and blue; a tightly fitted professional shirt, highlighting her curves, combined with the white shorts ridden halfway up her thigh, the long blue socks rolled down to her ankles, exposing the flesh of her toned legs.

He can’t bare it any longer. He would rather risk the wrath of Gold than allow his brain free reign to draw up such mouth-watering images of Emma. He pulls his phone from his pocket, turning to old schoolboy tactics of hiding it under the table, and pulls up the image.

It is one of Henry and Emma, though Emma’s fully covered up wearing dark blue jeans, a red t-shirt and a blue leather jacket, and they’re not stood in front of the palace Killian envisioned. They’re pictured outside Selhurst Park, stadium home to Crystal Palace FC and the ‘guard’ in the text is in reference to the security guard scowling at the claret and blue scarf Henry is holding aloft.

The second message which pings through provides much more context;

Help me! It turns out we are going in after all. I’ve been unknowingly dragged to an Aston Villa women’s game. Because one match per weekend isn’t enough, apparently.

Killian marvels at how, once again, Emma has managed to sport the colours of the opposition team, her blue and red outfit complementing the blue and red of Crystal Palace perfectly. He shakes his head slightly as he types.

One of these days I will see you in claret and blue.

She replies almost instantly.

That was my plan for tomorrow, but my dad has just informed me that the fancy seats you got us tickets for is a smart casual dress code and strictly prohibits away team colors. What a bummer.

The flashing dots on his screen tell him she’s not finished there.

Henry’s just found out too. He’s mortified. I hope you realize what you’ve done.

He has no chance to reply before another massage pings through.

He’s on a mission to find claret and blue underwear before tomorrow’s game now.

The scheming villan.

Killian is silently impressed at her correct spelling of ‘villan’. Even players at the club had made the mistake of adding that tempting ‘i’ in their social media addresses, an open invite to a flood of comments making them well aware of their innocent mistake.

For a self-professed non-Villa fan, she wasn’t entirely acting like it.

He’s halfway through a response, instructing Emma to find her own claret and blue underwear and beginning a witty remark about proving her allegiance after the game when he’s elbowed in the ribs, hard, by Robin. His teammate snatches his phone from his grasp and glares at him pointedly.

Killian huffs and folds his arms as he’s forced to switch his attention back to Gold’s deep analysis into the areas of weakness across Arsenal’s back line.

-

“I don’t like this.”

Robin speaks apprehensively the very second Killian disconnects from his call with the London Eye’s management. Killian turns to find Robin making himself at home on his bed, as if the man doesn’t have his own hotel room just across the hall.

Robin places his hands behind his head, leaning back against the headboard.

“This is the Eloise Gardener infatuation all over again,” Robin says warningly.

Killian scoffs, “Please, I wasn’t infatuated with Eloise Gardener.”

“The woman was actively jeopardising your career and, even knowing that, you kept crawling back into her bed,” Robin recounts. “Tell me, how is that not infatuation?”

“Stupidity, maybe,” Killian concedes but remains adamant, “Infatuation, most definitely bloody not.”

“Whatever you want to call it, it’s happening again,” Robin maintains. “I mean, think about it Killian, first you’re hooked to your phone during an important meeting, then you sulk like a teenager who’d lost his phone privileges for a week when I took it from you, and now you’re talking about sneaking out to see her the night before a big game. This woman has you acting like a schoolboy.”

Killian ignores him, his plans in place, his mind set. He grabs his jacket from the chair he had thrown it over and shrugs it on.

“Don’t worry, dad,” Killian shoots at him sarcastically as he carries out one final mirror check. “I’ll be home by curfew.”

“Killian,” Robin groans tiredly.

Killian ignores him, walking straight out of his hotel room, letting the door shut behind him, and leaving Robin behind. He pulls his phone out and sends Emma the latest in a series of hilariously bad football themed lines he’d pulled from the internet.

You’ve got me feeling like a substitute, eagerly awaiting my chance to impress you.

As bad a line as it is, there’s truth to it; he is keen to impress her; the precise reason why he’s headed to her hotel, a whole twenty-four hours early, without even so much as a head’s up. He can’t wait any longer.

-

Killian hesitates as he stands outside her hotel door – room 205; the very room he’d sent a bouquet of red roses and blue delphiniums to earlier in the week – realising he has absolutely no idea whether she’s on the other side of the door.

He should have called her. He knows he would have; were it not for the fogginess of his head from training, travelling and a two-hour analysis meeting. He could still call but since he’s right outside the door, he opts instead to go ahead and knock.

“That’ll be the food!” Emma’s voice, slightly raised; she’s in there. “Can you get it?”

He waits for Henry to open the door, wondering whether he’ll be disappointed at the lack of food or excited at his unexpected arrival, or both.

The door opens. Killian’s eyes naturally drop to the expected height level of the ten-year-old; they do not fall on the lighting up brown eyes of Henry but onto the dull grey of a shirt. His gaze slowly adjusts, raising higher until he’s eye to eye with an adult man and trying his best to cover his surprise and the way his heart drops in his chest.

The man stood before him – the man in Emma’s hotel room – appears around a decade older than Emma, early-forties at a push, but Killian can’t imagine an age gap deterring Emma from pouncing on the man who could well have walked straight off the page of a bloody GQ magazine. He looks right at home in the doorway of Emma’s room, leaning his left elbow against the doorframe, bicep bulging around his tight grey sleeve, and his blue eyes hover over Killian warily.

“Killian Jones,” his tone matches the look in his eyes.

Killian hopes he’s not about to get punched.

“Err… hi there, mate,” despite being utterly thrown, Killian attempts a friendly tone. “I was- I was looking for Emma.”

He glances briefly over his shoulder, to the closed door just inside the room, then tells him, “She’s in the shower.”

“Right,” Killian says, his mind jumping to unwanted thoughts of the unidentified man and Emma fooling around in the unmade bed he eyes across the room. “And Henry?”

Speak of the devil.

Henry crashes through an adjoining door on the right-hand wall and throws himself onto the tousled sheets of the bed. He’s up in an instant, bouncing on the bed as if recreating the classic scene from Home Alone, minus the popcorn, and Killian raises an eyebrow at the sugar high the lad is most clearly on.

The man at the door rubs his forehead tiredly, “Henry, we spoke about the bed.”

A similarly exhausted woman with a pixie cut enters through the adjoining door, lamenting, “I warned you that this would happen, David, but did you listen to me? No! You went ahead and got him the extra large pick and mix!”

The man at the door – David – turns to her, “Come on now, Mary Margaret, I didn’t expect him to eat the lot in one go!”

“He’s a ten-year-old on vacation!” Mary Margaret stresses. “How could you expect anything less?”

Killian stares at the light chaos before him, utterly lost as to the connection between Henry and the two adults in the room but the lad looks more than comfortable in their presence, continuing to jump up and down on the bed. Henry’s eyes fall on him and a grin flashes across his face. In a ginormous leap, he’s off the bed and halfway across the room.

“Grandpa!” Henry exclaims, running to the man in the doorway. “Look! Killian’s here.”

David laughs and ruffles Henry’s hair as he returns, “Yeah, I know.”

Killian stares. Grandpa? The man in front of him doesn’t look old enough to be a grandparent.

“Mom! Mom!” Henrys yells, banging on the bathroom door. “Killian’s here!”

The bathroom door opens suddenly. Emma steps out, a towel wrapped around her head, another one around her body. Killian’s quick to notice that his daydreams of toned legs stands true and his eyes linger on her exposed collarbones before drifting downwards, to where the beginnings of the towel wrapped tightly around her chest is an invitation for his imagination to go wild.

David steps across him, blocking his view, and the pointed look in the man’s gaze makes it clear it was a purposeful move.

“Killian, hi,” Emma greets him quickly, sounding panicked, “I thought we agreed tomorrow.”

“We did, love,” Killian replies, scratching the back of his ear, all too aware of David’s eyes boring into him. “I just couldn’t wait another day. If you’re not busy, would you care to accompany me around London tonight?”

“Yes!” she replies immediately; a good sign, and then, with more control, “I mean, sure. Just… give me some time to get ready?”

“David, why don’t you take Killian into our room. I’ll help Emma in here,” Mary Margaret suggests.

David places a rather forceful hand on Killian’s shoulder, guiding him into the room and through the adjoining door into an identical room, Henry following fast on their heels.

-

Killian sits in an uncomfortable window chair, being studied intently by David and he wonders whether it was an intentional decision by the older man to lead him to what looks to be the most disagreeable chair in the hotel room. There’s a tense atmosphere in the room as an oblivious Henry throws question after question at Killian, attempting to gain the inside scoop into the team’s tactics ahead of the Arsenal game.

Killian provides short, worthless, distracted answers; he doesn’t want to think about work. Emma’s still at the forefront of his mind, wrapped in towels, a slight dampness to her exposed skin. David coughs and Killian’s attention is brought back to his presence; a cynical scepticism in the man’s heavy stare.

“So,” Killian clears his throat and glances in Henry’s direction. “Grandpa, huh? I take it that makes you Emma’s father?”

“It does indeed,” David replies with a short nod.

Killian takes in a sharp breath; he has some winning over to do then.

“I’m glad you got hit with food poisoning,” the words fly out of his mouth before he thinks them over.

Shit.

At the very least, David’s hard expression falters, struggling to hold back a chuckle, as Killian attempts to dig himself out of a hole.

“By that, I don’t mean I was glad that you were chucking your guts up, I just mean that from a bad situation allowed me the privilege of meeting your daughter. And to be frank, had you been there when that ball had impacted with the lad’s face, I fear I may have felt the impact of your fist to my face,” Killian has no idea why he can’t just shut the hell up. “And I realise that is a situation which may still yet arise.”

David only hums in response.

Through his years in professional football, Killian has learned a lot about mind games. He knows David’s silence is a tactic to make him uncomfortable, to pressure him into talking, to reveal his intentions and inner thoughts, and despite knowing all that, he finds himself relenting.

“I must say, you look far too young to be her father.”

Killian can’t help but smile, triumphant with himself for finally coming out with something to soften the man, charm him, get him onside.

David grimaces, “That’s not the complement you think it is.”

Killian’s smile falters; of course it’s bloody not.

Henry swoops in, “You know, Grandpa, Killian does lots of work with fostering charities and foster families. They said on the tour that he regularly opens his box up to foster families to watch the game, don’t you?”

Henry turns to Killian, nodding him on eagerly. Killian’s eyes shift momentarily towards David whose expression has softened slightly, watching him curiously.

He thinks about his response, considering carefully, not wanting to inadvertently put his foot in it again, not when Henry had swooped in and helped him make a minor step towards progress.

“From time to time,” he confirms modestly.

David folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head curiously, “Of all the causes, why that one?”

“Some children don’t get the best starts in life. Some go through more heartache and misery in their formative years than some adults experience in their entire lives,” Killian’s more confident in his words since the conversation has been moved onto a cause he has been fighting for his entire career. “If I can provide a small gesture which brightens one day in their lives and gives them hope that their future doesn’t have to be defined by their past, then it only seems right to do so.”

David stands suddenly and Killian tracks his movement across the room to the fridge where he crouches and opens the door. He reaches inside and glances to Killian.

“Want a beer?” David offers.

Killian relaxes into his seat at the friendly display.

“I’ll never say no, mate,” Killian accepts.

“And me!” Henry eagerly tries his luck.

“Not a chance, Henry,” David laughs.

Killian takes the bottle from David with an appreciative nod and they dive into an easy conversation. Emma’s father is officially onside; Killian’s hit the back of the net, with a brilliant assist from Henry.

-

One beer turns into two and David is deep into a hilarious tale about a nine-year-old Emma flat out refusing to have any part in the soccer practise he had taken her to, sneaking away when he had turned for a few seconds, finding a bus to get herself home and sending him into a wild panic in the process. Between joint bouts of laughter, David attests that as much as they laugh about it now, it had been the most horrific moment of his life at the time.

Mary Margaret enters the room and looks at the amicable pair suspiciously, as if determining whether her husband had been replaced by an imposter.

“Not to interrupt… whatever this is,” Mary Margaret, in fact, interrupts, “but Killian, Emma is ready for you.”

He stands immediately and considers downing the half a bottle of beer he has remaining before deciding against it, setting the bottle down on the side. He receives a parting handshake from David and a huge smile from Mary Margaret as he passes by Emma’s parents and steps through the adjoining door.

He has to catch his breath.

Emma stands beside her bed, in a delicate, soft pink dress which immediately draws his eyes to hover longingly over the v-cut neck which gives him just a teasing glimpse of what lies beneath the material. If it weren’t for her parents and her son in the adjoining room, he would have forgone all his plans for the night in favour of ripping the delicate clothing from her, falling into the territory of her already tousled sheets, and inviting Emma’s attacking pressure upon him.

Only her parents and son are right there and he’s only just succeeded in winning her father over. He catches himself, collecting his racing thoughts, and lifting his gaze so to make eye contact.

“You look stunning, Emma,” he tells her.

He offers Emma his arm and she takes it.

“Where are we going?” she asks as he leads the way to the door.

He smiles knowingly, “Wait and see.”

-

Killian always forgets how much he utterly despises the Westminster Bridge.

The place is always rammed with tourists taking pictures and lingering around the cup and ball scams; walking across the bridge at a reasonable speed to get to a destination is bloody impossible. With Emma tightly pressed against his side as they manoeuvre through the crowds, he tolerates it; it gets her close to him and he appreciates the way they move naturally, steps in sync with one another.

They emerge on the other side of the bridge, he keeps his arm wrapped around her and she doesn’t pull away. He leads the way down the stairs onto the Queen’s Walk, past Shrek’s Adventure, the London Dungeon and the Build-a-Bear Workshop until they reach a stop, right in front of the London Eye.

The wheel towers above them, lit up in a bright pink, standing out against the dark night’s sky.

“I pushed for claret and blue but they wouldn’t go for it, bloody West Ham, so pink it is,” Killian tells her.

She stares at him, “You did this?”

“Aye, love,” he confirms with a nod. “I know tonight may be all we get together but that doesn’t mean I can’t make it memorable.”

She clutches his arm just a tad bit more.

“This is just… amazing,” Emma remarks, staring up at the London Eye, radiating pink, wonder pouring out her green eyes.

He smiles as he watches her every movement, captivated by it all; the way her head tilts back to truly take in and appreciate the whole sight, barely blinking as she stares, the way her mouth lingers open from her initial surprise, the way she slowly releases each breath-

“Mr Jones?”

Killian’s forced to break his gaze from Emma, turning to the young man working on the attraction who had recognised, approached, and spoken to, him.

“We’re all set for you,” the young man informs him. “Whenever you’re ready.”

The man makes a move away to give them time but Killian calls after him, “We’re ready now, mate.”

The man leads the way, winding around the ramp leading up to the base of the London Eye and Killian follows him, guiding Emma along.

She leans into his shoulder and whispers curiously, “Ready for what, exactly?”

Killian’s reaches the top of the ramp and gestures grandly to the awaiting pod, illuminated in pink lighting. The oval seating area in the middle has a picnic blanket draped over it, champagne bottle taking centre stage, surrounded by fancy, silver cloches.

“Dinner with a view,” he states proudly. “And by view, I am, of course, referring to you.”

She laughs, “I don’t know what’s worse. That line or the football ones you’ve been send me over text.”

He doesn’t respond, he just stares at her, feeling a huge Cheshire-cat grin pulling at his lips and he lets it.

“What?” she questions him obliviously.

“It appears Operation Cobra was a success,” Killian remarks.

She stares at him, lost.

“You called it football,” he points out.

She considers her words and then quickly brushes it off, “Henry’s been rubbing off on me.”

He doesn’t believe it for a second, but he lets her have it, silently revelling in his victory. He steps into the pod awaiting them and offers out his hand which she takes as she step on.

“Welcome aboard, milady.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

The doors are closed on them, isolating them from the outside world. In their pod, slowly lifting into the night sky, it’s just the two of them; no prying eyes, no lingering journalists – he can be himself, without worrying about consequences or reputations. All the talk of preparation and positions and tactics for the coming game is forgotten, his focus entirely and utterly captivated by her.

Emma approaches the far window, her fingers reaching out for decorative lettering on the window; Emma Nolan in blue, Killian Jones in claret – they had at least agreed to do that much in the claret and blue he’d requested – and to the right of their names was a football, following the colour scheme, with a yellow lion in the centre. Killian had turned down the offer to encircle their names in a heart, thinking it too presumptuous, and had requested, instead, the football – a nod to where they had first met.

“Now, I have-” he hesitates, catching himself before the word ‘lovingly’ can escape his lips way too soon, “worked tirelessly to create your perfect three-course meal.”

“That’s what all those texts with questions about food was about!” Emma puts the pieces together immediately.

“Aye, and I’ve commissioned the top chefs in London to cater specifically to your palate and so you can be sure that the food tonight will ignite your tastebuds but first, drinks.”

He steps to the oval seating, picking up the champagne bottle and offers, “We can crack this open right away or…”

He trails off as he reaches for one of the cloches, lifting the lid to reveal two steaming hot mugs.

“Can I interest you to some chocolate chaud avec cannelle?” he entices.

She raises an eyebrow, “Was that French?”

“Oui, le langage de l’amour,” he returns.

He winces, hoping she doesn’t speak French. If there’s anything worse than dropping the L word as he nearly did earlier, it was dropping the L word in French.

“You can speak French?”

She sounds impressed and, from the way she isn’t responding in French, he thinks he may just have gotten away with it, and he lets out a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding.

“I’ve had many a French teammate,” he explains to her. “One particular player, Gaston, was insistent on brushing up the few words I remembered from seven years of French in school. Now it helps whenever I come up against the French squad on international duty – a little bit of earwigging of their tactics.”

“Well it’s certainly impressive,” Emma remarks.

Killian hands her a mug of hot chocolate and she takes a sip as she stares out at the view of London, the lights of the city before them lighting up the shrinking buildings below.

“You’re so impressive. The top-flight football, the French, this,” she gestures to the pod and sighs mournfully, “How is any man back home meant to top this?”

He steps up behind her, wraps his arms around her and rest his chin on her shoulder.

“Can you do something for me?” he murmurs into her ear. “Just for tonight?”

“What’s that?”

“Can you pretend like we have a chance? Like this could go somewhere? Like it isn’t already doomed to fail?” he questions. “Like there isn’t three-thousand miles between us? Like there’s a future beyond you stepping on that plane in two days?”

She leans her head against his, their cheeks touching, and she sighs wistfully, “That sounds nice.”

He smiles and closes his eyes, soaking in the moment, the sensation of her soft, smooth cheek against his, the familiar combined scent of woody perfume and cinnamon sending him back to the moment they’d spent on the grass at Villa Park, lips inches from touching. He craves them, desperate to know if her lips taste as sweet as the smell of cinnamon wafting into his nose.

“The food smells lovely,” Emma comments.

Clearly, her nostrils aren’t lingering on the aroma of Creed Aventus that he was wearing, not that he needed her to notice it; it wasn’t as if he had spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to determine which aftershave she would most appreciate.

“Then without further ado!” he moves on promptly.

He places his hands on her shoulders and guides her to the pink pillows on the floor before the makeshift table. They sit beside each other, and she leans slightly into his chest as he lifts the lids off the cloches.

“Tonight’s menu, devised especially for Emma Swan, a starter of pancakes, a main course of grilled cheese complete with onion rings not fries, and to finish off, what else, other than bear claws?”

-

The food goes down well, both devouring everything, accompanied by laughter and easy conversation. Killian eases a few more football pick-up lines into their chat and manages to play off a high-spirited ‘are you the Champion’s League trophy? Because I’ve been searching for you my entire life’ as if there wasn’t a deep, sincere truth to the words.

Both stuffed, they lean back against the glass window behind them, taking in the view of the city from the window pane on the opposite side of the pod. Having booked the entire Eye out, the wheel doesn’t stop to let people on or off, instead continuing with smooth rotations and Killian’s long lost count of how many times they have been round. He’d booked the place for four hours – until midnight – thinking they’d only use it until they’d finished with the dinner but sat there, Emma in his arms, conversation flowing naturally, he never wants to leave. He wants the moment to last forever, to keep Emma close by him, to never let her fly back home, thousands of miles away from him.

“I googled you, you know?” her voice is low, a peaceful, calm aura in their isolated pod.

“Oh yeah?” he responds and smirks, “Did you see the modelling pictures?”

The silence that follows tells him all he needs to know.

He continues knowingly, “You did see the modelling pictures! The Calvin Klein ones?”

“They may have been a temporary distraction,” she confesses.

“What did you think?” he pushes.

“You should take that shirt off more often,” she remarks and he does not need tempting. “Very nice on the eyes. And then my eyes nearly fell out of my head when I stumbled upon a website which tells me how much you earn.”

Killian grimaces. It’s a topic he prefers to avoid, not because he wishes to hide his earnings but because the obscene and ridiculousness of it has a tendency to make things difficult and awkward.

“Ah. You’ve seen that?” is the only response he can come up with.

“I mean, it makes sense how you can afford all this,” she comments, gesturing loosely to the pod around them. “A hundred-and-thirty-thousand pounds a week? I converted into dollars and that’s more than I make in three years.”

“Like I said, love, the money in men’s top-flight football is bloody ridiculous,” Killian maintains and feels compelled to delve deeper, “Sure, it allows me to do extravagant things like this, and have a nice car and a nice house and have substantial savings but I don’t keep it all for myself. I give some to my parents – the bloody fools don’t let me give them much but no matter how much I were to throw at them, it would never repay them for everything they’ve done for me. Then a lot of it goes towards the fostering charities; there’s no point it languishing in my bank account when it can help children who have much less through no fault of their own.”

She stares at him with so much admiration that it hurts. He wants her, all of her; always and forever. She looks at him like he can do no wrong and whilst that’s far from the truth – he has many regrets from younger, dumb, more money than sense days – it makes him desperate to be that person for her; to wake up each morning and prove her right only to return home, recount his day to her and maintain the faith she holds in him. His heart aches for it and yet there’s a bloody large pond standing in their way.

But not tonight.

For Emma’s kissing him and he’s momentarily stunned until his yearning melts away and he’s pulled into the moment; she’s there, she wants him, she has him, he has her. Her lips do taste sweet, remnants of hot chocolate and cinnamon lingering on them, and he was adamant that he despises cinnamon and yet there he is, his lips locked on hers, wanting more of her, needing more of her, cinnamon and all included.

When she pulls away, the cinnamon loiters on his own lips and he’ll savour it for as long as it’s there; a little trace of her. A tiny trace, a memory that will always return whenever cinnamon happens to creep into his life.

She settles back down beside him, shoulders pressed against one another, hands clasped together, fingers entangled.

“I was once that child,” she murmurs.

His brain’s not working, lagging behind, reminiscing the kiss and he dumbly returns, “Huh?”

“A child with nothing, through no fault of my own,” she expands. “I was in the system, abandoned by my parents at the side of the road. I know what it’s like to be painfully aware of how much more other children in your class have. I know what a difference your work and your generosity will have on those children’s lives.”

He’s still rushing to catch up, frowning at the words escaping from her mouth, wondering if he’s hearing things correctly, whether he’s fallen into some daydream state; it sounds all too familiar, too close, too understanding.

“You… you were in the foster system?” he checks.

“For eight years,” she nods.

He tries his best not to gape at her and nods slowly, urging her to continue, if she wants to, keen to learn more of her story.

“I was found on the side of the road, taken to a hospital and placed with a family until I was three but then they had their own kid and they sent me back,” Emma recounts, a hint of anger creeping through. “I missed the golden years, the greatest opportunity for adoption and I struggled through the foster system, barely staying afloat. When I was eight, I got pulled from a nasty set-up, foster parents who were only interested in the pay check, and placed with a young couple under an emergency situation; it was only meant to be a night but a night turned into a foster placement and that turned into adoption.”

“David and Mary Margaret. They were the young couple,” Killian realises.

“They were twenty-three when I was placed with them,” Emma confirms.

It makes sense, explaining why Killian hadn’t immediately pegged David for her father and why he’d been so downbeat at the comment of looking young for her father, a reminder that he hadn’t been able to be there for her in the early years of her life.

“I was lucky,” Emma notes. “I found people who cared for me. There’s not many who can say the same.”

“Aye,” Killian hummed in agreement, “but I can.”

It’s her turn to stare at him, slightly lost, as if she can’t quite dare to believe what he’s insinuating.

“There’s a reason it’s a cause so close to my heart,” he expands. “My mother died when I was young and my father moved us around a lot after that. He got into some financial trouble and then some criminal trouble until he got himself into trouble which got him killed.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s genuine, a full sincerity to it like nothing he’s heard before and he takes his chance, wrapping his arm around her, holding her tight.

“My brother and I wound up in foster care, bounced about a bit and then our social worker started talking about splitting us up, saying finding family’s willing to take in siblings was equivalent to preforming miracles,” Killian recalls. “Then we got lucky. We found Ella and Thomas Rogers. They had a fourteen-year-old daughter of their own but they welcomed an eight-year-old and an eleven-year-old with open arms and never let go.”

“So, Alex Rogers-”

“Is my sister’s name,” Killian reveals, “And an alias I have used on many occasions.”

“There was an Alex Rogers in goal for the Villa women’s team earlier today,” Emma comments.

“I wondered whether you’d pick up on that,” Killian smiles at her. “That’s my sister.”

“Does your entire family just eat, breathe and live football?” Emma enquires.

She’s joking, but she’s not too far off.

“Pretty much,” he confesses with a laugh. “Alex is in the top-level of women’s football and Liam’s currently in the National League but did stints in League One and Two in his younger days. Thomas, my dad, has always been really into the game; I guess it rubbed off on the three of us. He’s the reason I found Aston Villa, as a fan, long before I even dreamed of playing for them, and he dedicated so much of his free time getting us to various training sessions across the county. The day I signed for Villa, twenty-two years old, stepping up from League One to the Championship, it felt like I was repaying him for everything he’d done over the years.”

“I know what you mean,” Emma agrees. “The day Henry was born, the day my parents became grandparents, I watched the way their eyes lit up as they held the tiny baby he once was; I gave them what they’d missed out on with me and, it sounds stupid to most people, and I’d never tell them this, but that day, it felt like I’d proven my worth to them.”

“Earned your keep,” Killian nodded knowingly.

Emma stares up at him, a rare vulnerability in her eyes as she admits, “I’ve never been able to share that with anyone.”

Killian pulls her in even closer and she rests her head on his shoulder. He leans his head gently on top of hers, breathing in the strawberry scent of the hotel shampoo. He understands her, she understands him; it’s perfect, or it would be perfect if it weren’t for the distance issue.

He reminds himself of his earlier remarks, to forget all of the barriers in their way. He stares out at the city of London, lit up like a Christmas tree, with Emma by his side and inside that pod, in their own little world, everything is perfect.

-

It’s gone one in the morning by the time they stumble into Emma’s hotel room, clutching hands tightly and resisting smothering each other in kisses due to the uncertainty surrounding Henry and her parent’s positions. As hoped, they were all fast asleep, Henry crashing on the spare bed in her parents room and Emma gently presses the adjoining door shut, hastily reaching for the lock, all the while Killian’s planting kisses into her neck, delving in the second they asserted the coast as clear.

She waits until he reaches the tip of her sternum before gently pushing him back, his step backwards hitting against the bedframe, causing him to topple onto the bed. He props himself onto his elbows as she takes small, seductive steps towards him.

“I have a surprise for you,” she tells him, the smile on her face causing her eyes to gleam, “but first, you need to help me out of this dress.”

She turns, revealing the clasps up the back.

“Light work,” he mutters assuredly.

He sits up straighter, his fingers dancing quickly over the fastens, releasing them all in an impressive time. She steps away from him before he has the chance to rip the dress from her. She’s teasing him, dragging it out, and he’s both impatient and utterly mesmerised by what she’s playing at.

She turns back to face him, her fingers clasping over the short sleeves of her dress so she can shrug them off, allowing the upper part of her dress to drop. His eyes drop from her captivating eyes to her impressive figure, subtle muscle tone highlighting her curves; not in-your-face muscle but signs of a silent strength. Her hands cup underneath her breasts, drawing his attention to them; to the lacy blue bra doing half a job at covering them; a sky blue, a familiar blue which has him questioning his own thoughts.

Surely not.

Her hands drop to the dress hanging around her waist and she shimmies out of it, stepping forward, closer, and leaving the material abandoned on a heap on the floor. She reaches for his hands, placing them onto her waist, the lacy material of her revealing thong soft and fresh against his hands. His jaw drops as he eyes the thong – and all it reveals – but his fingers trace over the thin material; the rich claret colour.

“I couldn’t find claret and blue underwear so I bought two matching sets and mixed and matched,” she explains.

He doesn’t process a word of it.

“I need you,” he says breathlessly.

He pulls her onto his lap, engulfing her in a kiss fuelled by her repping his team’s colours, fuelled by his passion for Villa, by his passion for her. She barely knew him – not before the evening they’d spent in the pod – and yet she had donned his colours for him.

She lifts his shirt up his body, the movement forcing him out of the kiss so she can continue lifting it over his head. She chucks his shirt dismissively to the side of the bed and her hands quickly move to wander down his torso, pushing him down onto the bed.

He lies there, staring up at her, taking her in in her entirety, the claret and blue really working on her, even more so than he’d dreamt the kit doing so. She lowers herself onto him, her mouth lingering near his ear, her breath warm against his skin.

“We never got to finish our match at the stadium,” she reminds him. “Let resume now; one vs one, I’ll let you go on the inside of me every time.”

His eyes light up instantly; the claret and blue, the dirty football talk – she’s a quick learner. She burrows into his neck, her lips pressing against his skin.

“I’ll remind you, love, we footballers go for ninety minutes across eleven different positions,” he matches her.

Her lips retreat from his neck and they’re back against his ear, murmuring, “Promises, promises.”

He flips her onto his back, rotating positions, a little squeal of delight escaping her lips at his unexpected display of strength.

“I’m like Arsenal,” he tells her. “I’ll stay on top but finish second.”

She chuckles as he tears the blue bra from her. The claret and blue was fun whilst it lasted but there was much more fun to be had.

“I don’t understand that reference,” she admits.

“I ain’t explaining it now, love.”

The claret thong reunites with its blue counterpart, discarded on the hotel room floor.

[elifalvey]

LOCATION: Eli and Asli's home, Claret Park.

WHEN: After Spring Extravaganza's annual kayak race.

WHO: Elijah & Aslihan ( @draslihanxfahri-bailey ).

The sound of the idling Jeep rang through Elijah’s ears and nothing else, having sat in the driveway with his hands still clutching onto the steering wheel for more than a handful of minutes now; it was a bloody miracle that he even managed to make it home in one piece, all puffy-eyed and mentally disheveled by the time he turned the corner of their street. Things had been fine when he’d first showed up. He’d been determined to have a good day, spending much needed quality time with Erol as they watched the town’s yearly kayak race commence. The moment that Erol had left, however, it was like it had all gone to shit — with impeccable timing, another ghost of his past had decided to waltz back into his life and now he was stuck, replaying their conversation over and over in his mind. He would have hated you for doing this to us. His knuckles were white — had been the entire drive, actually — and he slowly, meticulously, almost painfully unfurled his fingers in an attempt to calm down. He turned the car off. Released a breath. Shut his eyes as the engine came to a halt and he was met with complete silence. No, no, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t fucking calm down. As he sat there and tried, the only thought that had reared its ugly head was how badly he needed a fucking cigarette instead, and his breath easily turned into a frustrated groan. The crux of the issue was Kaya, and how easily she and Roman had managed to crumble the walls he’d placed in front of himself after nearly five whole years of building them up, but the inability to process any of that so quickly meant that his anger had redirected in different ways; the inability to find his stupid cigarettes being the main one, at the minute, itching to relieve an almost insatiable stress-induced urge. He patted his pockets down several times when he first hurried back to the car, but found nothing except his phone and wallet. Afterwards, he practically turned the whole damn thing upside down to sift through every compartment — no luck there, either. He couldn’t even visualize them sitting atop his bedside nightstand, like most misplaced things he happened to realize were misplaced far too late. He was at a loss. Opening his eyes again, he finally willed himself to move, locking the vehicle behind him and barreling into the house. He didn’t make time to kick off his shoes, or to pet the cats that came trotting to say hello as he usually would. Rather, he barreled up the stairs and made a beeline for their bedroom in order to tear that entire place up, too. No blanket left unruffled, no pillow spared as he feverishly searched for the tiny blue box he’d been needing as a crutch. As to be expected, there was no sight of them, and so he detoured to the balcony, and then the bathroom, and each of the guest rooms until the entire upstairs had been rifled through. He couldn’t fucking find them. He expelled another irritated groan. “Babe!” he called out, his voice practically booming through the otherwise quiet house as he hurried back down the stairs, searching for Aslihan this time. Undoubtedly an easier task, and maybe she’d know where he put them. “Asli, have you seen my American Spirits? I thought I saw them this morning, but now I can’t fucking find them, and I —” He tiredly ran a hand over his face, into his beard before he finally made eye contact with her once it dropped to his side. “I’m sorry,” he breathed out, a little softer. “Have you seen them?”

[elmaestrostan]

https://theathletic.com/5469108/2024/05/07/premier-league-managers-touchline-fashion/?source=user_shared_article What are Premier League managers wearing on the touchline?

@doublefrogs @laisy @howeaythelads

Article text under the cut!

“Look smart, play smart”, as the saying goes. Perhaps it is about time we coined the phrase, “Look smart, manage smart” — and the meaning of “smart” is very much in the eye of the beholder.

In his first full season in charge — and despite two separate points deductions — Sean Dyche has steered Everton clear of relegation danger in the Premier League.

And what does Dyche credit as his secret weapon? Ditching wearing a traditional suit and tie for a club tracksuit, of course.

We’re not here to debate whether football managers donning classy business suits or comfortable matching sets of sportswear is superior. Instead, this feels like the perfect time to dive into what the Premier League’s movers and shakers are wearing on the touchline.

Want to imitate the Dyche look? (He’s cool enough to appear in music videos, remember.) The Athletic’s writers have got you covered.

Mikel Arteta, Arsenal

On matchdays, Arteta tends to dress in monotone — shades of black and grey. He frequently sports black shoes, grey trousers and one from a variety of black jackets. Black conveys seriousness and credibility — perfect for a manager striving to achieve his first Premier League title.

“At a high-performance level, you have to be consistent, things are demanding, you want to be detailed and precise,” Arteta told The Telegraph last year. “But at the same time, you need to leave some room for creativity.”

In those nervous moments of stoppage time, he occasionally glances down at a Rolex Oyster Perpetual GMT-Master II. The watch dates from 2007 — the year Arteta was voted Everton’s player of the year after leading them to European football.

Perhaps Arteta should consider introducing some camouflage to his match attire: it might enable him to evade referees when escaping out of his technical area.

Unai Emery, Aston Villa

Suave, sophisticated and all about the football. Emery’s fashion is largely dictated by the environment and the conditions he goes to battle in. At Turf Moor, for example, he broke out the rarely worn club tracksuit. When facing the managers he considers to be the best in the world, he wears sharp polished shoes and a long coat.

After an international break or in the summer, he has olive skin and a fresh new haircut. In the winter, he has a claret scarf, Roberto Mancini-like, tucked into a black puffer jacket and almost always accompanied by slim-fit trousers and a V-neck jumper underneath.

Nothing over the top, but adaptable. Best of all, it reflects him: highly effective in all conditions.

Andoni Iraola, Bournemouth

Iraola has delivered a penchant for those ‘pundit trainers’ — you know, the black shoes with the white rim around them. It forms a part of his smart but casual look, like a trendy university teacher who wears a blazer when walking between classrooms. He wears tracksuits at press conferences but invariably a neat black jumper with a button-up shirt underneath, with the collars tucked over.

He’s also adaptable, like his Spanish countryman Emery — and at Villa Park, Iraola broke out a neat blue jacket, adding a dash of pizzazz to the usual black trousers and pundit trainers. Not quite Scott Parker, but Iraola is learning.

Thomas Frank, Brentford

When Frank stepped up from his role as Dean Smith’s assistant to become Brentford’s head coach in October 2018, he took his promotion seriously.

Frank prowled around on the touchline in suits, crossing his arms when he was frustrated and looking like a teacher — which he used to be back in Denmark.

He quickly ditched the suits for something more comfortable and in the 2021 Championship play-off final, one of the biggest moments in Brentford’s history, he rocked up in a simple long-sleeved green T-shirt and dark trousers.

Nowadays, he jumps between wearing club-branded coats in chilly weather or plain black hoodies — comfort over style. On special occasions, The Athletic has spotted him in a blue-and-white pair of Nike Air Max.

Roberto De Zerbi, Brighton & Hove Albion

De Zerbi’s dress code has been more consistent than his team this season. Rain or shine, warm or cold, Brighton’s head coach brings Italian suave to the touchline with his matchday outfit.

It can be a hooded jacket, a round-neck jumper with the sleeves rolled up, or a T-shirt, depending on the vagaries of the English weather, but the colour scheme is always the same — black with tight-fitting black slacks and white trainers.

Vincent Kompany, Burnley

Kompany claims he pays no thought to his touchline attire in the build-up to games, although it is difficult to truly believe him as he marches to the dugout looking more stylish than most.

First impressions count, so when his side faced Huddersfield Town in his first game in charge back in July 2022, he donned a white shirt, black blazer — and, surprisingly, no cap.

Kompany’s cap has become the new iconic trend in Burnley. There is genuine shock when he appears without it on the touchline or when conducting media duties. The cap is an extension of him.

The classic Kompany look usually involves a variation of a big black coat and his unmissable white shoes. However, in the warmer months, underneath, the T-shirt and blazer combination returns — and this time with a cap on his head. Occasionally, the club’s training gear may be chosen. It’s not everybody’s cup of tea, but the Burnley manager pulls it off.

Mauricio Pochettino, Chelsea

No one can accuse Mauricio Pochettino of not trying to find the right outfit to bring about better results at Chelsea.

As far as head coaches and looking smart go, Jose Mourinho set the benchmark for all to follow in his two spells between 2004 and 2007, and 2013 and 2015. It is a bit like his silverware collection while at Stamford Bridge.

Pochettino has gone for the smart, suited look on occasion, although, like his mood after another poor result, the colours are always very dark. There has even been the odd tie attached.

Then, there is the training kit. Perhaps Pochettino dons it so regularly to boost sales in the club shop. Chelsea do have to find all the ways possible to meet profit and sustainability rules, after all.

He appears to quite like a football drill top, which has white down the arms — a rare bit of brightness in his Chelsea life.

Oliver Glasner, Crystal Palace

Last year, Crystal Palace appointed Kenny Annan-Jonathan as the first creative director for a Premier League club, but Oliver Glasner probably doesn’t need any fashion tips.

Glasner’s matchday attire is simple and understated. A trademark Canada Goose jacket with a black jumper and black jeans, coupled with a pair of white Nike Air Max Plus (better known as Air Max TNs).

It contrasts markedly with the garish orange-and-black Macron kit that is usually donned at the training ground.

The 49-year-old has attracted attention for his change in playing style at Palace, but his fashion style is also a complete departure from previous manager Roy Hodgson and the iconic shorts worn by former assistant Ray Lewington, no matter the weather.

Sean Dyche, Everton

Dyche has said his mother “isn’t too happy about it”, but the emperor has new clothes and Everton are winning points.

Dyche has always managed in a suit — nothing spectacular, no subterranean polo necks, no avant-garde lapels — but Everton’s form was nose-diving. They were winless in 13 league matches, plummeting back towards the relegation zone, and Dyche’s man-management seemed to be losing its touch.

Reaching deep into his box of motivational tricks (or by listening to Michael Jackson), he began, suitably, with the man in the mirror, switching to a tracksuit for Everton’s must-win showdown with Nottingham Forest on April 21.

“I always thought it was correct to wear a shirt and tie, but I just thought I’d play my part in what I was looking for from my players and staff,” he said post-match.

Since then? Four games, no defeats, and Everton’s first derby win at Goodison Park since 2010. It has been the best week for shell suits since the 1980s.

Will he continue? “I have to,” he said last week, with the air of an ageing steel magnate on dress-down Friday. “I have no choice.”

Marco Silva, Fulham

Fashion seems to be important these days at Fulham. It is ‘on brand’ to look upmarket and stylish.

The club have leant into that affluent stereotype: just look at the sales of cheese boards in the club shop (purchased by fans for away days with more than a hint of irony, obviously). They have also established a partnership with male fashion brand Charles Tyrwhitt, which has a line called the ‘Fulham Look’. Marco Silva is not one of the models for that collection, but managers do need to look the part in south-west London.

His predecessor, Scott Parker, was never one to shy away from eye-catching knitwear. Silva is more low-key. He is a man of darker tones and a sharp and simple look, suggesting a seriousness that reflects his character.

He mainly wears black jumpers, sometimes opting for a turtleneck or a grey option, and often a big black coat in the rain and cold. Smart black shoes go with that, but he can and does switch to trainers and training gear. A smart or stylish watch is a must, though.

Jurgen Klopp, Liverpool

For Klopp’s farewell season at Liverpool, it’s been the trusted casual tracksuit attire we’ve become accustomed to seeing over his nine years in the Premier League.

At the start of the season, for the opener away at Chelsea, it was just a black Liverpool T-shirt with club tracksuit bottoms, a baseball cap and white Adidas trainers, the brand with which he became a brand ambassador in 2020.

As the weather turned, Klopp paired the above combination with a red-and-grey hoodie and had either a tracksuit top or a long raincoat over the top for the winter months. He’s sometimes added a snood for the really chilly games.

He has kept the club Nike baseball cap on all season — with his choice of colour the main fashion change-up.

In an interview with the Guardian in 2020, Klopp explained why he’s always kept it casual. He said: “I was a player and the next day I was the manager (of Mainz).

“In my locker room was the tracksuit of the guy who had the job two days before. It didn’t even fit me. I was just focused on the game. I never thought about how I looked. I know it’s not too cool because we are working in public, but then when I came to Borussia Dortmund, I thought: ‘Maybe I have to change’. I went for a while wearing jeans and a shirt but I just didn’t feel comfortable.”

Rob Edwards, Luton Town

Who remembers the Next catalogue? Every matchday, it looks like Rob Edwards has walked right out of it.

Edwards has the three-quarter zip jumper look locked down. His Luton team are in the relegation zone with two games to go, but he is top of the league when it comes to best-dressed managers.

Are you even a football manager if, when you open your wardrobe, you aren’t suddenly drowning in Sandbanks coats? Edwards certainly enjoys repping the brand, which has Jamie Redknapp as its ambassador, and he does so with style.

Edwards’ recent look for Luton’s away trip to Wolverhampton Wanderers was his best of the season. He wore something similar on a scouting trip to Molineux a few days earlier but rounded off the fit with a pair of clear-frame glasses. When it comes to manager fashion, he is clear.

Pep Guardiola, Manchester City

At the Etihad Stadium, high-end fashion and high-end football collide.

Guardiola has long been one of the most fashionable managers out there and his sensibilities have matured over the years to a point of pristine quiet luxury.

Gone are the ice-white trainers of old, replaced by chunky black derby shoes. Gone, too, is the bulky grey coat-cardigan hybrid, made by Italian brand Herno, that became his calling card a few seasons ago — although Guardiola is still partial to the odd piece of cosy, statement knitwear.

Once keen on Stone Island — although he sometimes removed the brand’s signature arm tag — the Manchester City manager is now more likely to be seen sporting CP Company, which is handy given the Italian luxury brand is set to become his club’s official Champions League clothing partner next season, replacing Dsquared2.

Erik ten Hag, Manchester United

Every Manchester United manager needs a big coat for when it rains at Old Trafford. This season has seen Ten Hag wearing a raincoat from Norwegian brand UBR. He appears to be a fan of UBR’s black Storm jacket, which retails at around €800 (£690; $860).

On matchdays when it isn’t raining, the Dutchman is fond of a black blazer from Spanish clothing company Adolfo Dominguez, pricing at around €300.

Recent weeks have seen him opt for a Paul Smith suit and cardigan combination — the English designer has been a club partner since 2008.

Despite these big names, you would be unlikely to say Ten Hag is a fan of luxury and designer clothing. The more sartorially minded might have spotted his suits had an off-the-rack look and seemed boxy around his lean shoulders. Ten Hag is most at home in a tracksuit but can dress up when the occasion calls for it.

Eddie Howe, Newcastle United

The most important factor in determining Howe’s pre-match attire? Well, that would be whatever Jason ‘Mad Dog’ Tindall, his Rottweiler-esque assistant coach, is wearing.

The Premier League has introduced a technical-area rule in an attempt to break up the perpetual Howe-Tindall pitchside axis, but to little avail.

They remain a tenacious touchline act, apparently attached at the hip and yet wearing suitably discernible outfits. If Tindall has gone for the black with green logo, then Howe will inevitably select the black with yellow logo. If their colour theme is consistent, one will opt for a hoodie and the other for a zippy top. Why they always dress differently, nobody seems to know.

And by outfits, we mean tracksuits, hoodies and training T-shirts. There is never a suit in sight unless there is respect to be paid to a deceased monarch pre-match, in which case it is hastily whipped off in the tunnel before kick-off anyway and the slack pants are restored. Comfort is essential when watching this Newcastle side, after all.

Nuno Espirito Santo, Nottingham Forest

Since his unveiling at the City Ground, Nuno has been unwaveringly consistent in his attire.

Blue Adidas tracksuit bottoms, blue Adidas training top or hoodie and, if it is cold, a blue Adidas puffer jacket. Nuno has, on occasion, gone crazy and gone for white Adidas trainers, but normally (you’ve guessed it) they are also blue.

As a head coach, Nuno is fiercely practical. He does not want to waste time with the peripheral duties of his job. He only wants to work with his players on the training ground. Anything else is a distraction. You suspect his choice of clothes represents function over form.

Chris Wilder, Sheffield United

During his first spell in charge at Bramall Lane, Wilder’s sartorial look was the very antithesis of his team. Where United played an innovative system featuring overlapping centre-backs that left the opposition unable to predict just where the next attack would be coming from, he stuck doggedly to sporting a gilet. Come rain, hail or shine, the ubiquitous garment was there.

So, when his second coming in the United dugout last December saw the 56-year-old sport a rather smart winter coat, suit pants and shoes so shiny the suspicion was he had been up all night polishing them, it didn’t quite feel right.

Thankfully, in time, the gilet returned, along with an array of club-branded sportswear to restore a degree of reassuring familiarity.

Ange Postecoglou, Tottenham Hotspur

Postecoglou began his time in north London by wearing a casual polo shirt. However, as summer gave way to autumn, he started to wear warmer clothes and settled on a suit and tie combination. Initially, this felt a little unnatural, but everyone has gradually grown used to it.

Postecoglou occasionally pairs the suit with trainers or the footwear known universally as ‘pundit shoes’, but generally, he wears smart black ones and has switched between a smarter coat and an official club sporty number.

The overall impression is of a man giving the minimum of fuss. It’s just who we are, mate.

David Moyes, West Ham United

Since returning to the helm in December 2019, Moyes has kept his choice of clothing on matchdays simple and traditional.

He often wears a dark grey West Ham-branded Umbro tracksuit, with Umbro trainers.

Sometimes, the occasion calls for a plain, dark jumper, but also, sometimes Moyes will wear a suit, pairing a powder blue shirt with a claret tie to leave few doubts over the club he’s managing.

There are a few quirks when it comes to the clothing chosen by one of the Premier League’s most experienced managers.

Gary O’Neil, Wolverhampton Wanderers

Let’s be honest, there was not much about Wolves last season that was interesting, but Julen Lopetegui’s fashion choices certainly added a bit of intrigue.

Of the 26 matches he spent on the touchline as Wolves boss — he was banished to the stands for his final game in charge at Arsenal — the Spaniard managed an exact split, 13 games each, between a tracksuit and stylish chinos-sweater combo.

Yet the success rate in chinos (seven wins, three draws and three defeats) was so much better than in his tracksuit (three wins, two draws and eight defeats). It is remarkable he did not have a ceremonial burning of the sportswear.

In comparison, his successor, O’Neil, has been boringly predictable in his black hoodie, black trousers, black trainers and occasional black anorak.

But then, the football this season has been watchable, so swings and roundabouts…

[saulweissberg-archive]

availability / @thethaliaclark setting / claret park baseball field, april 9th, during the sixth inning.

though he knew no one would believe him, it wasn't intentional. he didn't set out to hire a collegiate baseball player to be his proxy in the charity game just to piss thalia off, or have someone compete against the collegiate player she sponsored to play in the game. he didn't set out for it to happen, but once he realized the coincidence, well... saul came from a very long, long line of competitive men. if it wasn't for the sponsorship, he probably would've only come out to support phoebe. now that he had some actual stake in the game, saul found himself paying close attention to a sport that he hadn't given a single fuck about in his entire life. oh, and it had absolutely nothing to do with his ex-wife, thalia clark, thank you!

it really, really was a coincidence. he had the sudden bright idea to sponsor a player after discussing the charity game with a few friends, subconsciously remembering thalia bringing up the prospect years ago when they were still married. when he realized thalia was doing the same thing this year, it was only then he remembered it had been her idea in the first place. oops. so, now he had double the reasons to want his team to win the game. of course he expected to see his ex at the baseball game, but he tried his hardest to avoid her. sitting with rachel helped, then running into elijah at the concessions stand, he hadn't much time to look around for thalia (just to ignore her). not until he left for the bathroom during the sixth inning. on his way back to the stands, he saw thalia up ahead and then nearly got knocked over a moment later.

for a second, he thought thalia toppled him. he knew better, though. she was one of the most graceless graceful people he had ever met. that was one of the first things he noticed about thalia that first night they met at the al smith dinner all those years ago: she moved like a swan. that, and her striking eyes. a prolific yogini, she had such elegance and poise about her, it was kind of shocking just how much of a klutz she could be. his hands shot out to grab her forearms. “whoa there, birdie.” just like a swan, her old nickname falling easily from his lips. it was easier to say than her real name. sometimes he still got her mail. he missed when her mail was addressed to: mrs. thalia clark-weissberg. sometimes it said just thalia clark. it hurt every time he read it. “are you trying to kill me before the game is even over because your team is losing?” was her team losing? was his? he truly didn't know.

[providencepeakrp]

“Despite the forecast — live like it's SPRING.”

As temperatures begin to warm and the last of the winter slush melts away, the city of Providence Peak is beginning to flurry with the activities of spring instead. Residence are cleaning up their homes, the city officials are cleaning up parks, and stores are fixing up their inventory to bring each and every person something new and exciting as Providence enters the Spring season at last! To help the adventure begin, the city will be hosting the annual Spring Extravaganza once more — the community working together to put on the biggest and best welcome to the new season!

SCHEDULE OF EVENTS

All Week (April 5th - April 13th) — The downtown extravaganza will begin on Saturday and run all week long. This portion of the event fills the downtown square area of Providence Peak with vendors selling local goods and foods, stalls offering free merch, activities for the children, and even a petting zoo! You can find the full list of vendors HERE. Friday (April 5th) — Cuddle up with blankets and a movie under the stars with Starview Drive-In with an early showing of Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire. If you're looking for something a bit more family-friendly, follow the path of migration to their showing of Migration. Feel free to show up before dusk for a bit of fun with cornhole competition, a barbeque provided by the drive-in free of charge, live music, and half-priced snacks for later in the night. Saturday (April 6th) — Come one, come all to the annual reopening of Stomias Point Amusement Park where admission is always free and on this day only, so are the rides! Every two hours, Stomias Point will be offering free ride wristbands. Ride wristbands are good for two hours and each person can only receive one wristband. There is limited availability, so be sure to snag yours up to experience the thrills of Stomias Point Amusement Park’s opening day! Sunday (April 7th) — Meander downtown as soon as the sun rises to a true Holy Spirits' Sunday mass, complete with brunch offerings courtesy of Amelie's and spring-themed cocktails that will have the offering plate overflowing by the end of the day. Monday (April 8th) — Hopefully you’re not too tired from the busy weekend, because as the festival carries on downtown, Take It Outdoors is hosting a boat and kayak race across Summit Lake. Feel free to bring your own equipment or they’ll have more than enough for participants to rent during the event. And what’s the prize for crawling out of bed and standing outside under the sun all day only to row across the largest lake in Providence Peak? Well, two brand new personalized kayaks, complete with paddles and life vests, of course! Tuesday (April 9th) — In support of Providence Peak Memorial's new research initiative, find yourself a good seat at the charity baseball game happening at the local baseball field in Claret Park or, if you're feeling charitable, join in on a team and swing some bats around for the sake of raising money for several research study opportunities that are pushing toward a brighter future in the healthcare industry. Concessions will be selling popcorn, hot dogs, and soda pops with all proceeds going toward the hospital's research program. Wednesday (April 10th) —  Find your way to Mayor Harris’ stand in the midst of the festival for a spring raffle. Each person has the opportunity to purchase 5 raffle tickets and are about to bet them on a chance to win some of this seasons grand prizes. Then, join Keola and Mya for a dance party in the center of the festival where they’ll be playing all of the current hits and rocking along to each one with the citizens of Providence Peak. Thursday (April 11th) — Join Barks and Recreation for an adoption event like no other. The community of Providence Peak is welcome to come hang out at their adoption center's location for their outdoor adoption event! In addition to holding meet and greets withevery single dog and cat that's currently waiting to find their furever family, there will be fun carnival-esque games to play and prizes to win for the entire family. Feel free to find a tree and take a break to enjoy refreshments provided by Lunch Box, The Sweet Spot, and Hot Cocoa Stop's food trucks. Sponsored by Good Pets, each animal adopted will also be going home with an entire care kit full of essentials free of charge! Saturday (April 13th) —  As the downtown festival wraps up, join the city at Frederick’s Farm in Bighorn Hills where everyone will be treated to fresh popped popcorn, apricots picked that day, and lemonade while waiting for their turn to fly in one of dozen hot air balloons sponsored by Providence Peak University.

EVENT DETAILS

This event will be kicking off Thursday, April 4th at 12pm EST (noon). It will run until Sunday, April 14th at 12am EST (midnight). No new event starters should be posted after this time, but members may take the next few days to wrap up their threads.

Previous threads should be paused or completed by Wednesday, April 4th.

Activity checks will be held as usual. Acceptances will be on a rolling basis.

Dress is casual and temperature is expected to be in the mid 70s during the day, be sure to dress and plan accordingly!

Have fun and be sure to relax and enjoy this event! Please tag all event related posts with providence.event and be sure to check the starter blog for open event starters.

[cjwelford-archive]

→ wren and jasper cantwell's home, claret park. self-para.

CJ had never felt like this in Wren’s home before. The living room in her spacious Claret Park home — an area that normally exuded warmth and comfort — was fraught with tension, not helped by Wren’s icy glare from where she stood, leaning against the grand bookcase opposite CJ, sandwiched in between uncomfortable seeming Emery and Jasper.

“Are you sure it’s a real marriage certificate?” She had asked, the first words spoken in over ten minutes when he had broken the news of him and Seb getting married.

“Yeah, it’s like stamped…and everything.” CJ confirmed, shifting slightly. Beside him, Jasper softly sighed. 

Wren squeezed her eyes shut for a second, opening them and shaking her head.

“What the fuck were you thinking, Ceej?” She demanded. He opened his mouth to answer, but she cut him off before he had a chance to explain himself. “No, you weren’t thinking. You never fucking think!” 

“Wren —,” Jasper began, and it almost sounded like he was about to defend his brother-in-law. However, her glower had him shut up quickly.

It made CJ’s gut churn uncomfortably then, because he did think. He thought about work, he thought about his family, he thought about his friends. 

“People do it all the time…” Was his only defense, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. And it wasn’t, because he and Seb were best friends and adults. Who cared that, according to the state of Nevada, they were husband and husband?

“So?!” Wren snapped, “The general American population is full of idiots, CJ!” She let out another sigh, squeezing the bridge of her nose with her fingers. “Look, this would have been fucking cute or whatever if you were twenty-one, but my god, you are in your thirties now and it’s embarrassing.” 

“What does my age have to do with it?” CJ asked, brow furrowed in confusion. Emery next to him shook his head, as if to beg CJ not to pick a fight; always one to keep the peace, but it seemed like Wren had no patience for peace today.

“You’re thirty-two years old, Carter.” And he winced at the use of his full name. No one ever full-named him. “You’re a college dropout, you work two shitty dead-end jobs to pay for rent in a rundown shithole you share with two other people who are just as bad or as arguably worse in your stupid fucking antics. You have no basic skills such as cooking or cleaning, or insurance. Or savings. You come over every week high as shit and the stench of weed stuck to you lingers long after you leave. Not to mention the shit that you take when you have your stupid fuck-boy-frat-bro ragers that you are way too old for. And now you just got drunkenly married in Vegas! Your life is a fucking mess, Carter. You need to grow the fuck up!” As Wren listed everything allegedly wrong with CJ’s life, she pointed her finger at him for emphasis, each item causing him to flinch. He could recall briefly Emery and Jasper interjecting to calm her down, to no avail, but he couldn’t focus.

Wren had expressed her dissatisfaction with how he had been living his life recently, but he didn’t know how deep it ran. How each word in her voice was laced with resentment. He didn’t respond immediately, and she ran her fingers through her hair, nodding over at Jasper, who said he’d get the company lawyers to look into annulling the marriage, discussing covering the costs of it, just sat there mulling over her words.

If his own sister saw him that way, how did everyone else? His friends? His fucking roommates? Was the fucking mess what Todd saw all those months? For the first time in his entire life, CJ was struggling to breathe, but managed to stand, the shakiness of his legs unfamiliar and disconcerting.

“CJ, sit down.” Wren barked, but he set his jaw, shaking his head.

“No.”

She sighed, and he could see the comment as it whirred through her brain, traveling to leave her lips. Probably something about him being a petulant child. He spoke up before she could further hurt his feelings.

“You’re right, Wren, I’m thirty-two years old. And a lot of thirty-two year olds are still, like, figuring it the fuck out or whatever. But if you want me to grow up, then don’t help me. I can handle sorting my marriage with Seb out myself.” Somehow, he managed to make his way to the doorway of the living room, shooting his family an uncharacteristically dirty look.

“And for the record, there’s much worse people to be married to out there. I’m lucky I married my best friend, and not some dude who knocked me up in college.” It was a low blow, sure, but Wren had crossed the line first. He also wanted to point out Ty, who was scary, and Emmy, who was married, was also in Vegas that week, and both of them would have been much worse people to marry. 

“Ceej —,” Emery began, his own voice sounding shaky, like he was about to cry. CJ felt momentarily guilty, wondering if he was accidentally dredging up memories of their parents for the younger of the Welford siblings.

“CJ,” Wren said, voice sounding tired, but no less angry, “I swear, if you walk out that door —,”

“You’ll what, Wren? Cut me off? Call me names? Fuck you, I’m over it. I’m over you dictating over my life because you think you have authority because you’re the oldest.” He snapped. “Catch you later, Em. And Jasper it’s been…”

His brother-in-law shrugged in response. It was probably the most amicable the two had ever been.

And without another word, CJ stormed out of the house, ignoring Everly and Lydia — crouched on the upper landing attempting to spy in on the family meeting — calling after their uncle. It didn’t matter he didn’t have a ride home, that he’d have to trek back to the apartment by foot, he relished in the alone time to just think.

Was he wasting his life? Was he supposed to go on to do bigger and better things? Was he that much of an idiot he had found pleasure in the little things and a simple life?

CJ didn’t realize he was crying until he could taste the salt of the tears running down his cheeks to his mouth, sniffling all the way home, glad that neither Jeanie or Seb were in the living area when he eventually got home.

He hoped Jeanie would never kick him out. He didn’t know if he’d feel like he’d belong anywhere else. 

Climbing under his covers, uncaring if Professor Murderclaws had been in that day, hoping he had so he could blame his tears on his allergies, and stared up at his bedroom ceiling. Maybe it was all a sign, maybe he had to change. 

Become the person he was expected to be.

He sighed, thinking back to Seb in the next room. Step one, he thought to himself, annul the marriage. Frowning as he forced himself to drift off to sleep, he amended his plan. Step one, google what ‘annulment’ meant. Step two, annul his and Seb’s marriage. 

It’d all be okay in the end. For CJ, a true optimist no matter what, it simply had to be.

Or he just blew up his life for nothing.

[dylan-westwick]

character: Aslihan Fahri-Bailey @draslihanxfahri-bailey

location: The Westwick-Bailey House; Claret Park

Dylan heard the doorbell and tried to run through the list of people. Her mom was going to be here in a few days but not yet and she had just finished feeding and burping both babies but they were still up as she bounced them around carefully for both her sake and their sake. She shifted Leda into the newborn carrier since Lysander was still a little too small for it, so she cradled him as she used her open hand to open the door. "Oh my goodness! Look who it is guys! Dodah Asli with food for Mommy and Daddy." She shifted Lysander a bit so Asli could see his sweet little face as she also shifted herself so she could see Leda as well who was squirming as she got comfortable in the carrier.

[max-cortez]

location — chey's and max's place, claret park.

character — @cheyohara

A quiet hum of music flowed through the kitchen and in between the sizzling in the pan and the beeps of the oven alerting him of the timers end, he could make out the lyrics of another Creedence Clearwater Revival favorite. Rather than the usual mug filled to the brim with his favorite amber colored liquid on tap, a water sat near the edge of the counter. "I just have a few more things to finish up. I hope you're hungry," he called out over his kitchen towel draped over his shoulder. Since the news had dropped, every waking second outside of the tattoo shop had been spent at the brunette's side. Happiness flooded his system, followed by the worry and fear of what the future would hold. The tattoo artist used the oven mitt to remove the pan from within the oven's hold and was careful to place it atop the covered counter. "After dinner, I was hoping to talk about something. It's just an idea I had, but I wanted your opinion on it." As the words rolled off his tongue, the male shifted to face the professor, his gaze trailing down her figure before raking upwards just as slowly. A different kind of hunger built in the pit of his stomach, one forged by the desire to eliminate every inch of space between them. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth and his dark hues told the story of a man who had finally found his place in the world. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything?"