#the real reason kendall is so quiet all the time

[miss-morgans-lover]

Some PRDC Textposts I've Made (Part 1):

@spookyblazecoffee @themundanemudperson @the-gays-ever @grimfoxy-and-friends @rawrloooool @gayferret420

[biblio-smia]

one | two | three

when it rains, it pours.

this sentiment rings in your chest - dully, an ache you can't get rid of.

the gray clouds that had hung in the sky, over your head, began to empty themselves mercilessly over grizzly lake. this morning's soft breeze picked up into an icy wind, creating a white cloud of rain that your windshield wipers could not quite battle. you could barely see the cars you shared the road with, water pounding on the roof of your car as you finally made it into your driveway.

the relentless rain had begun as a stray raindrop in your eye as you furiously walked to your car after your chewing out of clapton davis.

despite the anger you still held on to, warm in your chest and keeping you from shivering in your soaked clothes, you hoped clapton made it home before it'd begun to storm.

your home was empty, quiet as you padded to your room, cold hands digging for cozier clothes to lounge in. as you exchanged your wet clothes for dry ones, clapton wasted no time in intruding your thoughts.

each exchange you'd had with clapton began to play like a slideshow in your head, from the first time you'd seen him around to the first time you'd actually noticed him.

as you changed into something cozier to lounge in, every exchange with clapton began to play over and over. from the first time you’d seen him to the first time you'd actually noticed him.

the timeline of whatever had been going on between you and clapton was beginning to haunt you - it had no real definition. there was no concrete evidence of being anything more than friends. the idea had lived in the thoughts and assumptions of others, it had stopped there, never anything tangible to explain away the pain that you and clapton now shared.

the only proof that there was anything romantic lived in shy laughs exchanged and eye contact held a few seconds too long - but that was not anything real, not a confession or a date. so there was no reason to feel as heartbroken as you did now.

it wasn’t like clapton had done anything explicitly. but the way it’d felt like he was accusing you of something, of falling into a stereotype that had been pushed upon you, as if he’d thought it’d happen inevitably. had the line of thinking that, somehow, clapton davis was not cool enough to ask you out held him back from doing so?

the entire thing was beginning to make your head spin and your chest hurt, no longer able to discern what pain came from hurt and which came from anger. you could no longer tell what it was you wanted.

actually, no. it was clapton you wanted. you did still know that.

your brain forcibly showed you all the times he’d push his calculator over to you, answers sometimes right, mostly wrong, always trying to be helpful. all the times he’d sit a little too close to you, all the times he’d slump on the table when mr. kendall got too boring and his arm would slide right up against yours, his head just a few inches away. all the times you wondered what it’d be like running your hands through his curls, the moments you considered pretending that something was in clapton’s hair just to have an excuse to try it.

all the times you’ve imagined what his face would look like if you suddenly pulled him into a kiss.

clapton davis liked you. you knew this, a feeling deep in your gut. he had to, to talk and act like how he did with you. to ask you, clearly out of jealousy, if you were dating billy nolan out of all people (who was so terribly not your type).

you try to remember this about clapton as you try to calm your rage. there’s a part of you that’s glad you chewed clapton out, hopes he learned that you’re not as superficial as others might make you seem, and there’s another part that hopes you haven’t scared him off permanently.

god, you’re so glad it’s friday.

though, you wonder what it’d be like if you did have to see clapton tomorrow. would he act as he usually did, pretending like nothing had happened? would he apologize? ignore you? again, clapton had successfully begun to drive you crazy.

your head was aching and your eyes were closing, the sound of the rain still steady against your window as you drifted off, wondering what clapton would do now.

"clapton, i am seriously going to murder you."

"okay, sorry, geez," clapton sighs as he drops next to riley, weighing down the mattress. if his distress wasn't clear enough with the pacing that was driving riley crazy, it's evident with the way clapton groans hopelessly, palms rubbing his face as if to will a good idea out of his head. "i just don't know what to do." clapton admits desperately, edge in is voice muffled by his hands.

riley sighs. she's been partially annoyed when clapton appeared at her door, stomping in straight to her room without waiting for an invitation, riley grateful that her father had chosen to pass out in his room instead of the living room as she chased after clapton, awaiting an explanation. he'd given it to her as he paced, recounted every interaction, repeated every word exchanged. no, clapton davis could not remember formulas in physics, but he could remember how your face had light up when he'd complimented your sweater, how you'd proudly told him you'd thrifted it.

riley listens intently, letting clapton rant, forming her own objective opinion. she tries to take the things clapton says with a grain of salt, to imagine conversations between the two of you from an outside perspective. even then, you had to be into clapton if you let him make you listen to the music on his ipod - it was bad.

"okay," riley begins, idea suddenly striking her. "give me your phone."

"why?" clapton asks, removing his hands from his face, immediately defensive as he looks over at riley. "what are you going to do?"

"just trust me, okay?" riley puts a hand out impatiently, only content when clapton digs his small phone out of his pocket and slaps it into riley's hand. his heart is beating rapidly, eyes nervous as he glances at riley typing quickly.

"hey, i'm sorry about today," riley reads. "can we talk?"

"okay, no, that's bad," clapton says, immediately thinking of how to rework riley's words.

"too late. already sent it."

"what?" clapton shoots up in his spot, horror-stricken and mouth agape.

riley tries not to laugh.

clapton's phone buzzes and his heart sinks. that's it. it's over.

riley gasps. "now, question mark, question mark." clapton thinks you sound annoyed, while riley insists your quick response is a good sign.

"only... if... you're... not... busy," riley reads as she types. "we... can... meet... some- oh."

"what? riley, what?" clapton scoots closer, desperate to see what text from you had managed to shut her up.

but riley's smiling, flashing the small to screen to clapton. to his surprise, before clapton (riley) could even offer a location, you had sent clapton your address.

"clapton davis," riley grins. "you've got one more chance."

you know clapton lives nearby, details of some old conversation fuzzy in your brain. as soon as you text clapton your address (a very brave move, you must admit), you're in the mirror, trying to fix yourself up, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

it seems like there's a knock at your door in a time so short it couldn't possibly be clapton.

you're wrong, of course.

with a knack for proving you wrong, clapton davis stands on your doorstep, temporarily shielded by the small roof above your door from the rain that still falls. he's thoroughly soaked, his dark shirt sticking to his body, his jeans a darker color than they originally were. his hair sticks to his forehead in thick strands. there's still a few drops of water running down the bridge of this nose, down his arms, off the ends of his hair and sticking to his thin eyelashes. he's looking at you with wide eyes and his mouth slightly agape, as if he can't really believe he's here.

a drop of water makes it into his eye and clapton blinks quickly, rubbing his eyes and shaking off his hair.

"oh, my god, clapton," you exclaim, putting your hands on his shoulders, feeling the cold, wet fabric of his shirt. you keep the door open with your foot, try to lead clapton inside, but he shakes his head, rooted firmly to his spot.

"i'm gonna get your floor wet," clapton says.

you look at him exasperatedly but you can tell he's being serious. it's becoming unsettling, now, how often you've seen the boy you thought was all jokes and easy smiles turn sincere, even innocent with you.

perhaps you didn't know clapton as well as you thought you did, either.

"just hang on, okay?" your words are soft, but you don't wait around to see how clapton responds to that as you turn back inside. you wonder, as you move to the bathroom to get a fresh towel, if clapton will still be there by the time you open the front door again, or if he'd have come to his senses and made a mad dash home.

but clapton davis has waited for you, believed that you would not leave him outside in the rain.

clapton sees the towel in your hands and reaches for it but it's pulled away just as his fingers graze the material. he watches you come closer, letting the door shut slowly behind you, finding that he is unable to move as you drape the towel around his shoulders, press it against his arms to try and absorb all the extra water dripping down his limbs.

clapton wasn't sure what he was expecting. maybe more yelling? definitely annoyance. certainly not this softness.

clapton knew you liked him (though it'd taken you saying it straight to his face for him to catch on), but he'd only partially believed riley when she told him he had another chance. even as he ran to your house, even as you opened the door to see him, clapton had fully believed his jealousy had pushed you away completely.

but now, as clapton kicked off his wet shoes and did his best not to track any water into your home, clapton was starting to think that maybe he did still have a chance.

clapton sits on your bed, in a change of clothes you had scrounged your house for. you'd insisted on clapton changing into something warm and dry, refusing to get blamed if clapton got sick (as if he'd ever blame you). his roughly towel-dried hair is still a little damp and he's completely silent for what he thinks is the first time in his entire life, trying to gather his thoughts.

he feels uncomfortable, out of place. he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be sitting on your bed like it was an everyday thing. he's especially fidgety under your stare - it's not angry, clapton's sure, but it's expectant, which is worse. after all, clapton is the one who put in so much effort to be here. so, now that he's here, why can't he manage to say anything?

you've caught on to clapton's quiet dilemma and you take pity on him, sighing as you uncross your arms and move to take a seat next to him.

"sorry i got so mad at you," you say finally and you mean it. you knew some of it was misdirected, that you'd taken out annoyance at the general population of grizzly lake high on clapton davis. but you look over to see clapton shake his head, scoffing lightly.

"no, no, you shouldn't be," clapton insists. "i'm sorry. i didn't... i don't think you're some popularity-obsessed person. i just let... someone convince me that any of that mattered."

"who?" you ask a little playfully, curiously.

"sander," clapton says, rolling his eyes a little as he finally brings himself to look at you.

that makes you laugh. "sander? of all people?"

clapton laughs lightly, looking back down at his lap. "i know. stupid, huh?"

your voice softens. "completely. as stupid as thinking i would ever date billy nolan."

clapton laughs, scoffs again. "okay, yeah, that was also pretty stupid."

"but i don't think you're a stupid guy, clapton. i think you do stupid things, but i also think you're sweet. i think you're smart when you want to be, about the things you really like. you have a way of getting along with anyone and your music taste is so weird but i like it-"

"hey!" clapton exclaims, eyes on you again. but he's smiling now, not one of his signature smiles, but a i-can't-help-it smile, one that stretches wide and hurts his cheeks a little. "you know, i think i should be the one doing this."

"well, i'm not stopping you."

clapton takes a breath. "okay, well... you're stunning, obviously. but you're also so nice. you laugh at all my jokes, so you clearly have a great sense of humor. you're smart, and you have this way of this way of talking that just... is captivating."

"clapton davis, are you trying to tell me you like me?" you grin playfully.

"oh, duh. i think half the school is in love with you."

you're laughing again, one of those bright ones clapton loves, bumping clapton's shoulder gently.

"i'm sorry i was a douche. seriously, i shouldn't have believed a rumor and i shouldn't have assumed you'd like billy just because he's on the football team," clapton shakes his head.

"yeah, football players aren't really my type," you agree with a nod. "i prefer class clowns."

clapton smiles, tries not to blush, as he notices your hand in the space between the two of you, slowly inching closer. he really has no choice but to finally make a move.

he slides his hand in yours first, waiting until you clasp your fingers around his before turning his body towards you. his free hand cups your face, glancing from your eyes to your lips and back.

"please let me kiss you."

you lick your lips and nod, breathing out a quiet yes and clapton slowly places his lips on yours, thinking your lips fit perfectly together as he tilts your chin, moving his head ever-so-slightly for the perfect angle. you lean back but clapton won't let you go so easily, pulling you in for another soft kiss, and another. he can't get enough of the feeling of your lips, missing the soft pressure every time you pull away.

clapton kisses you until his lips feel weird and you're laughing too much to kiss him back properly, hands somehow in his damp hair.

"go on a date with me? please?" clapton says a little desperately, only a few inches of space between the two of you as you try to catch your breath.

"i guess you've convinced me," you respond and clapton can't help but kiss you again, deeper this time. no longer savoring the taste of your lips but hungering for the feeling of them against his.

he breaks from you only when he can barely breathe, panting softly but refusing to separate himself from you completely, his hands on your back and your hip. he's looking at you carefully, not wanting to forget what you look like after you'd let him kiss you over and over.

"still don't think we fit together?" you mumble teasingly, hand on the back of clapton's neck keeping him close.

"oh, shut up," clapton groans, though most of it gets muffled by you.

requests are open! | masterlist

[youreirrelevant]

Heat Lightning

pairing: kendall roy/reader

summary: It was a bad time for that night’s tension to reach its peak. Or maybe just.. inconvenient.

“We gotta be quick. And you have to be, fucking– quiet.”

words: 1078

tags: explicit, pwp (like, for REAL this time,) semi-public sex, established relationship, playful and quiet, unprotected sex, hair-pulling

a/n: Heat lightning is a summertime phenomenon where lightning- that is visible-is so far away that the sound of the thunder doesn’t reach you; it’s silent. That’s part of the reasoning for the title, but also, uhhh they gotta fuck fast and that's hot.

I wrote the bulk of this at 7am, and then did a little editing later, so it's not a masterpiece but it's fun ig. (Also, once again, not the one I keep promising but I swear that will be done.)

It was a bad time for that night’s tension to reach its peak. Or maybe just.. an inconvenient time.

Some janitors' closet. Roomy enough, walls lined with wire racks. The door isn’t even closed fully before his hands are on you, pulling your lips to his with palms and fingers pressed in on the sides of your face. Sloppy; your lipstick will be everywhere, but luckily it’s in your purse, too.

“We gotta be quick.”

You look up at him with wide, eager eyes and nod. The door has no lock, so he leaves the light off to draw less attention, to maybe buy some time if someone came in. Just enough to get your clothes straightened out.

Light streams in through the gaps around the door; it makes the white plastic coating of the shelves on the wall seem to glow, the most reflective. He turns you to face them, presses a hand on your back to bend you, just a bit. You brace yourself on the shelf; your forehead almost knocks against the one above it. Kendall’s rough as he pulls your dress up, (your thong down,) and it makes your knees wobble, floods your stomach with so much heat it kind of hurts.

“And you have to be, fucking– quiet.”

The clink of his belt seems obnoxious in comparison. His voice is hushed- stern. The music from the gala is really only vibrations now, minimal bass making the floor buzz.

“I will be.”

You sound so impatient that it makes him grin. Pulling his hand over himself a few times.

“Uh-huh. I’m certainly convinced.”

The head of his cock just barely presses into you, not even really in. His grip on your waist stops you from just pushing your hips backward onto his, taking him.

“Y-you’re the one that’s gonna have to worry about being quiet,” you're damn near whining already.

He rolls his eyes- affectionately- grips your shoulder- the span between your neck and the downward slope of your arm- firmly. It’s soothing, in a way, steadying, as he uses that hold to make you meet his hips that push forward.

Okay. It’s already hard. Aching- he makes you ache. Your head does bump the shelf, tipped forward from relief. You have to stop yourself from breathing not to make a sound. When he almost completely pulls out before easily gliding back in, you can’t help but choke out a soft moan, startled by the chilled jolt it sends up your spine, the goosebumps that raise over your arms.

He shushes you, right as his hips start into a snapping, purposeful rhythm. The way your whole body slumps, gives to him, makes his cock hurt.

You want to see him. You want to see him so fucking bad. You can hear his breathing- sometimes he’ll huff, grunt from the effort. Kendall tucks his lower lip in over his teeth, bites it, flattens his top one in, too. The back of his neck tingles, his stomach clenches. He’s got both hands on your shoulders now, rougher- you only have so much time.

Your hands are all over, trying to find something to grab, release some of the urge to make noise through the tightening of your fingers. One hand grasps at the wire rack that’s at eye level, fingers slipping into gaps- the other presses against your stomach, slides down to scratch at your upper thigh. The texture of his cock, the wetness slipping over him, getting into his pubic hair to then be pressed back into your skin- you feel everything.

Finally slipping your hand between your thighs, rubbing over your clit that was practically buzzing, itching with need. It’s deep- feels like it’s tapped deep within you, past the center of your abdomen, into a wormhole. You’re trembling beneath him, heels clacking against the floor a few times, dully. The tension winds up into your throat, stills your breathing. You’re so tight around him he can’t help but groan, restrained, smothered by his buttoned-up mouth.

When it finally releases, it seems only natural that it pulls the loudest possible moan from you.

He was pretty much poised for it, hand clapping over your mouth so fast, grinning and stifling laughter as he fucked you through it, feeling your heavy, irregular breathing over the top of his index finger.

“I fucking knew you were gonna do that.”

He sounds delighted and cocky.

“That was so fucking loud.”

His hand pulls away. You’re gasping for air. The giddiness feels fluttery in his chest.

“I’m sorry. I really tried.”

“I know you did,” somehow the way he whispers it makes it even more patronizing.

The ego boost alone could’ve got him there. Fist in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to make your back arch. There’s really no point in trying to be quiet anymore; the unmistakable sound of skin slapping together each time your hips meet has to be audible to anyone that might walk down this hallway. But he really doesn’t care, keeps up the brutal pace, feels his own abdomen tighten, tightens his fist, digs blunt nails into your waist.

It almost sounds like he’s crying, choking down sobs, the way his breathing staggers out from his nose when he cums. Long, deep strokes, dragging it out. He does let you press back into him, then, his tenuous grasp on restraint, the way he throbs inside you makes you want more. His eyes flutter as he resigns himself to pulling out, remembering where you were and where you were supposed to be. Doesn’t say a word as he straightens himself, trying to steady his breathing. Slacks buttoned, zipped. Shirt tucked back in. You stand up, dress falling down around your feet, thighs slipping against each other in a way that makes you feel hot.

Even in the darkness- eyes having adjusted to the minimal light- Kendall can see what a mess you are. Dark smudges under your eyes, across your cheeks, color indiscernible. You run your thumb over your middle finger, self-conscious about someone somehow looking and seeing it glisten, even though it has mostly dried, even though that’s the least obvious sign.

The way he looks at you makes it clear. The smudges across his own cheeks make it even clearer.

“They’re gonna know, aren’t they?”

He smooths a hand over your hair in an attempt to right it, trying his best to seem unphased.

“I think they’ll live.”

[romeulusroy]

Survivor's Guilt (Roy!Sibling x Roy Family)

Character/s: Connor, Kendall, Shiv, Roman, Logan

Word Count: 1,356

Tag: @locke-writes

A/N: I had these thoughts after my dad died, I still do, so I thought I'd put it into writing. It was how I found out, like the show, and it felt like a punch in the gut. I could not stop crying watching that episode. It only seemed fitting that Baby Roy would feel the same. Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Was there anything you could have done differently? Was there anything you could have said to make it better? That day plays on loop in your head, before your eyes. In fragments. Broken pieces. Bits and pieces of conversation, of crying, then nothing. Others talking around you, but you were in a daze. It hadn’t sunk in then. The reality, the forever of it. It still doesn’t seem real. Someone holding you. Panic on the phone, incoherence, someone is saying something, but you’re not understanding. It isn’t making any sense. Someone screams, you think, but that detail is fuzzy. You think you imagined that part. They wanted you to come along, but you wouldn’t move, you couldn’t. Hands on you, guiding up on your feet, out the door. Your brother beside you. Your sister taking the front, being asked to say what no one else can. She’s crying. When was the last time you saw her cry? Forever ago. She tells him. You turn away, not wanting to see his reaction. Arms around you, holding you, all of this unreal. You say something. You still don’t know what, but it comes out in a choke. What had you said on the phone? Does it matter? You’re in a new room. People are apologizing. Connor doesn’t leave your side. He speaks softly, saying nice things, but you’re so cold. You’re cold and scared and you want to wake up from this terrible day. You want to wake up and laugh and call him because he’ll be there soon. He said he would. But he’s not. You’re in shock. Its the only reason you’re still breathing. Shock is saving you.

You wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for air. He’s in your dreams again, but they feel more like nightmares. You’re scared to see him, to hear him, to hear his laugh. You fear if you hear him and see him then you’ll never want to wake up. Whatever your relationship was like before, it doesn’t matter. All those messy years, years you spent angry at him, it all feels like a waste. Selfishly, you want that time back. Selfishly, you want the world to stop. You want the sun to stop rising and setting. You want the galaxy to freeze in the moment you found out. If your life had to stop, then you want everyone to suffer with you. It’s not fair that they’re smiling, laughing, enjoying themselves. It’s not fair that others got so much more time with him than you did. It’s not fair that they expect you to keep going like you’re not half-dead. There is a line in the sand, a Before and an After. Everything in your life can be split between this. Before and After. You want to go in the Before, for just a second longer. You want to breathe the air of Before, you want to see him again in the flesh, you want to hear his voice, you want to crawl back in time and settle in where no one will ever find you, but you can’t. There’s no going back. You’re trapped in the After for the rest of your life, for the rest of time. It is lonely here. It is quiet here. Nothing but the sound of your own heartbeat, your own cries. He’ll never know this version of you, any other version of you. Whatever you do, whatever you accomplish, he won’t be there to see it. He won’t know. He never will. These thoughts consume you. They overtake your mind until you can’t breathe, sobbing, choking, screaming.

If he can’t sleep in a bed, why should you? If he can’t live, why should you? They call. When they can’t call, when you don’t take their calls, they visit. You’ve been sleeping on the floor for a while. It helps. It makes you feel small, in control. If he can’t eat then why should you? If he can’t be here, what’s keeping you? There are pillows and blankets stacked on the floor, between the bed and the wall. You stay in that spot more often than not. They come by. Sometimes they are gentle. Connor helps with laundry, he makes sure you’re eating, sleeping, showering. He is easy. He is kind. He understand that your grief is all-consuming. Sometimes they are not. Shiv is angry. Angry at him, angry at you, ordering you to get off the floor, to pick up the pieces of your life, and carry on like the rest of them. She wishes she could rot, but she can’t. There are important things and important people looking to her for guidance. It doesn’t matter what she says, you feel like you’re under water. You feel like you’re the only one drowning and everyone is watching. Roman does his best to coax you from your cocoon, but he can’t get you to go out, to get dressed. Hes not sure how to help, what to do. In the end he tucks you in on the couch, figuring its better than the floor, calling Kendall for guidance. You don’t move when he’s around, he doesn’t expect you to. He just wants to talk. Talk about Dad, his death, processing things by talking, hearing it come from his own mouth. You want to push him away, just another reminder, but he’s trying to help, so you must be kind. He pats your head. He throws another blanket on top of you. He has to go. They all do. They’re helpless in this, with you. Scared of what you’ll do, what you’ll try.

When you can pick yourself up again, when you can get dressed and make it to the office, everything is a reminder. Not just his name or his desk, but everything, everyone. It enrages you, the thought they they got together and talked about it and moved on like it was nothing, like your father wasn’t dead. Your eyes were red and watery, they could all see it. They say nothing. You’ve been named sensitive, implosive, delicate. They are to leave you to do what you want, per your siblings orders. Each of them checks on you through the morning, the afternoon, all day you spend at his desk. Sitting at it, but touching nothing. Shiv brings you coffee, Kendall lunch, Rome a car when you’ve had enough. Only Gerri is the one to notice you’re wearing one of his sweaters. It still smells like him. It feels like him. You’re not sure who brought it over, only that you’ve been wearing it since he died. After, when its dark, they call. They text. They email. Connor sends you pictures, but you can’t stand to look at them, at him, because it’s not him. That’s a body, but he’s not in there. Not anymore. You smash your phone. Then you check it, looking over the last texts you ever sent him. You should have told him you loved him. You should have told him what he meant to you. But you didn’t. And now you wouldn’t get a chance to.

How can you explain this to them? This immense guilt sitting on your chest. It should have been you. It doesn’t work like that, you know that, but you can’t help it. It should have been you. It should have been you. It should have been you. He had more time left, he had more of an impact. He had grandchildren and children and people who relied on him. You? You don’t have any of that. People don’t need you like they needed him. If you could trade places with him, if you could have been the one, you'd do it in a heartbeat. Everyone would be better off, you truly believe that. When you voice this to Connor, in a moment of defeat, he's quick to tell you you're wrong. You're wrong. He would be lost without you, they all would, but you know better. You believe better. If there was any possible way, you would have tried it already.

You would have done anything to get him back.

[mariacallous]

Russia and China continue to intensify their economic, diplomatic, and military cooperation more than two years into Moscow’s invasion of Ukraine. 

The deepening ties, to be cemented next month by Russian President Vladimir Putin’s visit to China, seem to have given Russia partial relief from the impact of Western sanctions on its economy, which hit energy exports especially hard, and have provided a fillip to acquiring much-needed defense gear. But the growing relationship is a very imperfect solution to the international isolation Russia feels and China fears.

Just weeks before the Kremlin launched its all-out invasion of Ukraine in 2022, Moscow and Beijing formally announced their “no limits” relationship, taking what had been a marriage of convenience and renewing their vows, this time with feeling. Ever since, bilateral trade and military cooperation between the two have exploded. 

Trade between Russia and China soared to a record $240 billion last year, and it kept growing in the first quarter of this year. Russia is sending oil and natural gas east, and getting in return cars, machinery, and some critical components to keep its defense industrial base humming. In particular, U.S. officials say, China is providing Russia with drone and missile engines as well as semiconductors that Russia needs for its defense industry. U.S. Secretary of State Antony Blinken last week protested to his Chinese counterpart about Beijing’s role in propping up Moscow’s illegal war in Ukraine. 

But the growing military cooperation is not only a concern for the war in Ukraine. It also has implications for a potential U.S.-China conflict.

“What’s even more important is what Russia is having to give away in return” for what it’s getting from China, said Andrea Kendall-Taylor, director of the Transatlantic Security Program at the Center for a New American Security. “Russia is augmenting the military capabilities of China and our other adversaries.” 

Moscow, for years leery of providing Beijing with advanced military and aerospace technology, is now opening the vault, providing advanced air defense systems and reportedly some of the advanced technology used in China’s breakthrough new quiet submarines.

The closer trade and military ties go hand in hand with an invigorated diplomatic outreach. This month, Chinese President Xi Jinping welcomed Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov, where the two gushed about their creation of an alternative to the U.S.-led global order; Lavrov said enhancing ties with China was Russia’s top foreign-policy priority. When Putin travels to the country next month, it will mark his first foreign trip since his “reelection” in March. 

Both countries are at odds with the West, and especially the United States—Russia for its invasion of Ukraine and China for many reasons, not least its threat to take Taiwan by force—so they are seeking a safe harbor. 

In many ways, the intensified economic relationship between the two countries is a product of Western pressure. Russia, stung by ratcheted-up Western sanctions after its full-scale invasion, belatedly sought alternative markets to the lucrative one it lost in Europe. 

China, which by all accounts is preparing for a possible military solution to its decades-old Taiwan problem, is itself trying to prepare for a world of economic hurt. That is why in recent years Xi has not only looked for self-reliance in high-technology sectors threatened by Western trade restrictions, but has also increasingly warned the Chinese public of the need to brace for “extreme scenarios” if the country becomes an economic and financial pariah due to its own war of choice.

“They are creating an alternative order. Their convergence creates a new center of gravity around which others can gravitate when they are dissatisfied,” said Kendall-Taylor, who previously served as a U.S. intelligence officer. She said that the rejuvenated grouping, despite plenty of historical and modern-day differences, will make it harder for the United States and Europe to rally coalitions of countries to impose costs on aggressor states and enforce global rules.

Yet a Sino-Russian condominium won’t solve either Russia’s immediate problems or China’s long-term challenges.

For Russia, the biggest casualty of the war in Ukraine—besides nearly half a million Russian dead and wounded—is access to the European market for its energy exports, formerly the source of about 40 percent of Russia’s budget. Making lemonade out of the lemons that are the probable loss for good of its biggest and richest market, Russia intensified the pivot to the east that it began the first time it started a war with Ukraine and fell afoul of Western sanctions. Russian oil, largely blocked from the West, has flowed east. Russian gas, unwelcome now in Europe, is seeking a new home in China.

But the Chinese market is not at all a replacement for Russia’s lost markets elsewhere: It is smaller, brings fewer returns, and promises almost none of the advanced energy-sector technology Moscow needs to keep its fields pumping efficiently and its compressors working. 

“Asia is very much a consolation prize, and a poor one at that, compared to the loss of Europe,” said Craig Kennedy, an expert on Russia’s energy sector at Harvard University’s Davis Center for Russian and Eurasian Studies.

Russian oil that formerly traded in Europe at only a modest discount to global benchmarks, and which was part of an integrated energy system with Russian gas stations and retail sales, is now scuttling furtively around the seas looking for buyers who demand—and receive—big discounts. Russian oil exports to China have soared, replacing Saudi Arabia as Beijing’s biggest supplier. But it all comes at a discount, and China pockets the profitable bits by refining Russian crude at home. 

Ditto with Russian natural gas, which formerly heated Europe but now sits largely untapped in Siberia since Europe quickly swore off Russian gas due to Putin’s latest war. Plans between Russia and China to expand (discounted) gas sales, in the works for years, could amount to an additional 16 billion cubic meters a year—about 10 percent of what Russia formerly exported at a premium to Europe.

And whereas in the past, Russia could count on Europe for advanced technology to goose tired oil fields, tackle challenging frontier projects, and keep its Arctic gas liquefaction plants operational, it now can get almost none of that. Chinese technology can fill Russian gaps in drones, chips, and missiles, but it can’t make old oil fields young again or keep thousand-mile gas pipelines fitted with vital turbines for compression.

“Russia has to pivot, because it has no other choice,” Kennedy said. “But we’re only now beginning to see the full impacts” of the shift of Russia’s energy markets from west to east, he said.

And while the two countries talk up the broader importance of their growing trade ties, touting a near “de-dollarization” of bilateral trade, the reality is a lot messier. Despite years of half-hearted Chinese efforts to internationalize its currency and turn it into something resembling a reserve currency, the renminbi is still between the Canadian dollar and the British pound as far as cross-border trade goes—a distant rival to the U.S. dollar and the euro.

Even Russian firms doing more business with China are relying on expensive middlemen to figure out how to handle payments and transactions in a world where U.S. financial sanctions play whack-a-mole with banks that facilitate illicit trade. In some cases, it’s not just Russian exports that head east: Due to difficulties dealing with international financial sanctions, some Russian firms are decamping smelter and all to China.

Recent U.S. moves to deploy even more sanctions, nominally against Iran but targeting Chinese involvement, are a reminder of the reach of the dollar-denominated global financial system. Even the bottlenecks in Russian bilateral trade with China are reflective of Chinese banks’ unwillingness to risk opprobrium for what is, after all, a tertiary market. 

As China prepares its populace and economy to withstand what could be a battery of sanctions and financial isolation in the event of a war in the Pacific, the vaunted closer ties with Russia are actually a reminder of just how little economic and financial pull the new center of gravity really has.

[phanfictioncatalogue]

hey! Do you have any list with the YouTubers High AU that centers around Phan? With other British vloggers from that era but there all in highschool?

We don’t have a specific tag for this (might start one now) but 90% of High School AU’s from 2014-2017 will have YouTubers as side characters (it’s always a bit cringe but a good classic) so feel free to check out our regular highschool au masterlists 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 . Also tons of variations of high school aus that you can find on our website thing

However I do love this trope so here’s a few I recommend if you just want some fast finds (all completed you’re welcome):

Desires (ao3) - A_Million_Regrets

Summary: What would you do if you were suddenly hauled from your inauspicious life and dumped into an unforeseen catastrophe with your worst enemy?

Dan Howell and Phil Lester completely and utterly hate each other. They fight every time they meet, and all of their friends are tired of it. But one day, these two hot-headed, reckless men stumble through a secret passage in a mysterious old house and wake up on a strange island uninhabited by other intelligent life forms. They only have each other and no way to escape. Will they fight to death, or will they learn to trust each other in a world where no one else exists? Can they put aside their mutual hatred for each other to survive this misfortune?

A Stolen Ring (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: Dan’s not normal. Why? He's not human, he has a mysterious ring, and he hates Phil Lester. They have a strange past, one filled with bullying and avoidance, but when Dan turns into an incubus, everything changes. He struggles with his identity and cries himself to sleep most nights, yearning to be normal. And somehow the universe makes it worse by bringing him and Phil together - in the most literal sense.

You’re Gonna Learn To Dance (ao3) - Carryonmywaywardlester

Summary: PBB story is loosely based off the movie Footloose. (1984 version with Kevin Bacon!). Dan and his mother move to Rawtenstall to live with his mother's sister, husband and children. Dan starts the local high school, and quickly becomes friends with PJ, Sophie, Zoe, Alfie, and Louise. Dan's shocked to discover that there is no dancing or drinking allowed within the town limits - only to find himself having to fight the honourable Reverend Thomas Lester - Phil’s father and the town council to have the law changed so dancing be allowed within the town again. Dan tells Phil if he’s going to have to go up against his father and the town council, that Phil is going to be taught to dance - much to Phil’s horror. Love blooms between Dan and Phil, after Dan comes to the rescue, when Phil tries to break things off with his current boyfriend, Chris Kendall, Chris gets angry and beats Phil up, after Phil attempts to smash Chris’ car up. Eventually, the dance lessons pay off, and Dan, Phil and friends, spend the night dancing their asses off.

Lover Boy (ao3) - cafephan

Summary: Phil is the shy new kid at school, taken under the wing of Dan’s group of friends. The two develop crushes on one another, but a secret from the past threatens to jeopardise everything before it even begins.

Hawk and Dove (ao3) - aprilflowers96

Summary: In a world where super powers plague people all over the world, Dan Howell fights to keep his emotions and pyrokinesis under control. After years of success, Dan is outed and whisked away to a school that claims to teach him to use his abilities "safely". Still unable to control the fire that seems to rage under his skin, Dan's only solace is in his roommate Phil, who can't seem to stop turning things to ice. While trying to end the corruption at The School, the team discovers the real reason they're being held. In an explosion of fist fights, super suits, and betrayal, Dan and Phil try to do what they feel is right.

Give Me A Spark, I’ll Give You An Explosion (ao3) - cafephan

Summary: Phil is quiet and shy, silently pining. Dan is loud and flirty, and doesn’t care about labels. House parties and nail polish occur.

-Rae

[the-west-meadow]

Hope you have room for another one 🙏 number 48 with kendall

hope you enjoy! xoxo

Kendall Roy x Reader

prompt: You make me want things I can't have.

The chill Santa Fe air met you as you stepped out of the jet onto the runway. You could see Connor and Willa standing by their black SUV some distance away, waving. Luggage in hand, you headed towards them, waving back with a smile.

The car was already running and warm. Connor hooked his arm over Willa’s seat to talk to you.

“Need to pick anything up before we head to the ranch?”

“I think I’m good.”

“It’s like I told Willa: Starbucks is a long way away.”

“I don’t need Starbucks,” you said.

Connor laughed and put the car into gear. “Then you’ll fit in just fine.”

You watched as the flat landscape passed beneath gray skies. In the distance, dark mountains rolled on the horizon.

“So how’s he doing?” you said, finally getting to the real reason why you were here.

“Ken’s good. I think the isolation is doing good things for him. You can’t live in a city and expect any sense of peace.”

“True,” you said. But something in Connor’s voice told you that Kendall wasn’t as good as Connor might say.

“He’ll be glad to see you.”

That part, you hoped, was true.

You rolled up the long gravel driveway to Connor’s adobe ranch house.

“What do you think?” Connor asked proudly as you stepped out of the car.

“If I were Kendall, I wouldn’t want to leave,” you admitted. “It’s so quiet here.”

“You only notice how quiet it is once you’ve lived in the city. It’s normal for us now.”

He nodded his head towards the house.

“Come on in, we’ll get you settled. Ken should be back from his meeting any time.”

“What meeting?” you asked tentatively, not understanding.

Connor gave you a curious glance.

“His AA meeting.”

As he walked ahead of you into the house, the full scope of why Kendall was here in the first place sank in.

You were unpacking in the guest room when you heard a soft knock behind you. You turned, and your heart leapt. Kendall stood there in the doorway with his hand on the frame. He wore a down vest over his fleece jacket, with black jeans and boots. He looked so different from how you remembered him. In the city, he was constantly running on adrenaline and manic energy. Here, he looked calm and composed, almost peaceful. But the most striking thing about him was the look of deep sadness in his dark eyes.

He walked up to you and smiled without a word. Then, hesitantly, he wrapped you in a hug. He held you loosely at first, but as you remained in his arms, his grip grew firm. You held each other like this for a long moment, and tears inexplicably came into your eyes. When you stepped back, you quickly wiped your eyes.

“Hey…” Kendall said, frowning in concern.

“I’m sorry,” you said, choking up slightly.

“It’s okay. I know this is a lot.”

He glanced around the room.

“Are you busy? Let’s go for a walk. There’s trails all over his property.”

“Sure,” you said, pulling yourself together. “Let’s go.”

The land spread out wide and flat around you. The dark desert shrubs rustled in the wind as you trudged along the rocky unmarked trails around the ranch.

“How is it here?” you asked, walking side by side with Kendall.

“It's tough. You can't hide from your feelings out here. Everything is revealed, you know? I can't get away from who I am."

He strode along with his head down, hands in his pockets.

“Last time I saw you wasn’t great.”

You nodded. It wasn’t something you liked to remember. The sight of Kendall drunk and weeping on his floor would stay with you for a long time.

Kendall paused, eyeing you. “I don’t want you to think of me like that.”

You shook your head. “I know you better.”

“You’re the only one who does.”

You had stopped on a slight hill that overlooked the sweeping land below, dotted with shrubbery and volcanic rock. The mountains stood darkly in the distance and the cold wind blew through you.

You suddenly felt Kendall’s arm around your shoulders. He was smiling, but his eyes were unbearably sad.

"It's hard for me to see you," he said. “You make me want things I can’t have."

“You can have anything you want, Kendall.”

“Just not you.”

His warm body shielded you from the wind. You could feel your heart fluttering beneath your coat.

“I’m here now,” you whispered.

He traced his fingers down the side of your face. When he kissed you, all sound disappeared. There was only his soft lips, his gentle fingers in your hair, his chest pressed close to yours. Even his kiss was sorrowful. He touched with you with such fragility it was as though he never expected to see you again.

You grabbed his hand and held it tight, pressing his fingers against your lips. His breathing was ragged, uneven.

“I’ve never wanted anything more,” he whispered.

“You’ll get your life back, Kendall. In the meantime, I’m not going anywhere.”

He tilted your face up and kissed you again, harder, wrapping his arms around you.

“Good,” he said between kisses. “You better not.”

[slimeypuppy]

Summary: On the night of Shiv's wedding, Roman and Kendall went for a drive that ended in a horrible car accident. Kendall survived; Roman did not. His spirit, however, lives on.

WC: 2.2k | AO3

Chapter: Pathetique Sonata (5/13)

“Dad sent me to talk to you.”

Kendall looks up from his computer screen and the emails he’s been looking at but not reading. Shiv looks put together, despite the circumstances, but he knows her well enough to see her grief. Her usual pantsuit and nice blouse with heels are on, but they’re all black, with deep gray pinstripes on the shirt. It’s the closest to mourning that Shiv will acknowledge. He wonders how long she’ll continue to wear it.

“About?”

“Apparently your therapist’s office billed you for property damage. Did you go fucking Dad’s-new-bathroom and trash the place in a fit of emotion again?”

He could tell her the truth. He could say that the medications aren’t working to stop him from hearing Roman, that he thinks maybe Roman is actually haunting him and not just a figment of his imagination, that if he’s not careful maybe Roman will kill him. None of those words make it past a lump that forms in his throat because he knows exactly the kind of dismissal he’ll receive for such a fantastical statement.

As he considers it, his computer makes a slow but steady move to the end of his desk. He watches it move, cognizant that Shiv’s watching his face and not the monitor, until it slips off the edge of the desk and crashes on the floor. She jumps out of the way in time for her feet not to be crushed under the machine.

“What the fuck, Ken?”

“I- I didn’t-”

She shakes her head with her lips curled in something that makes Kendall’s stomach roll and leaves him alone in his office. “Surprised she held out as long as she did,” Roman says. Kendall is not alone. He never will be. “I thought for sure she’d hate you the moment she realized you killed me.” A small red flame begins to flicker on the computer’s warped casing. Instead of putting it out, Kendall walks over to the windows overlooking the city. Cars, none broken and submerged in water, scutter along the roads. He sees, among them, a single brown body that leaps between the lanes like it was made to navigate between the flows of traffic. It’s a deer. Part of him thinks it must be the same deer. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a deer more than once or twice in his life prior to that night in England.

He feels compelled to join it in the road, and considers how hard it would be to break open the window and throw himself into the fray. Before he actually grabs something to aid him in doing so, the door to his office swings open. He turns around in time to watch Greg pour a flask onto the burning computer. The clear fluid that he first assumed to be alcohol douses the flame.

“Hey,” Greg says, sounding strangely calm. “So uh, I see your computer caught fire?”

“It did.”

“Cool. Was it Roman?”

“Are ghosts real?”

Greg sits on the edge of Kendall’s desk and stares at the trashed computer. “Yeah. And other things. Like I said at the um, at the funeral, I happen to know a lot, actually, about that kind of thing, and I think you might want some help? This seems to kinda be- be getting worse for you?”

“How do I make him go away?”

“Well, that depends.”

He pauses, deep in thought, and Kendall doesn’t disturb him. It’s an awful world if he needs Greg’s help, but he doesn’t have much in the way of other options right now. At the very least, someone might be able to make it stop. Roman is quiet again now, but his oppressive presence is still heavy in the air, as if it’s sinking into the oxygen so he fills Kendall’s lungs with every breath he struggles to take.

For some reason, it’s actually a relief that someone believes Roman might be real, rather than a figment of Kendall’s imagination. The meds weren’t working, and there are some things he just can’t explain, even as his own unconscious behavior- the computer comes to mind as one example. Being haunted by his dead brother was never something Kendall actually considered, but it feels easier to deal with than the idea that all the years of using finally broke something irreparable in his brain.

“Do you know what he wants?” Greg asks. “Like, has he made any demands, or have you noticed anything he seems super um, into doing?”

Kendall shakes his head. “I think he just wants me dead. He blames me for his death.”

“No, that’s not it. If he wanted you dead, you would be by now.”

“Comforting,” Kendall deadpans.

“Can you- it might be hard, but I think you should, um, you should tell me what happened? When he died?”

Kendall thinks back to the deer, the one that practically haunts him just like Roman does. It occurs to him that it may not be an actual dear, real or imagined, if it looks so strange and continues to appear to him so frequently. It could be a manifestation of some sort, if he puts real thought into it. Some story he read in high school mentioned the idea of animals as conduits for spirits. A deer doesn’t make sense for Roman, though; a deer is a timid and flighty thing, always about to sprint far away and unwilling to stand for itself. It’s not like the crass and brash man that Roman had been.

“There was a deer in the road,” he finally says.

“A deer?”

“A female deer,” Kendall adds, unable to resist filling in the line. “It was in the road, Roman uh, he- he swerved to avoid it. It was still there when I got back.”

Greg’s face drains of color, turning a warm but sickly gray beneath his usually bright complexion. “Tell me about the deer.”

“It’s everywhere now. It has- these fucking teeth, They don’t seem like they’d all fit in its mouth when it’s shut, but I see them sometimes.”

“Huh.”

He stands up suddenly and fixes his suit, despite it being more or less still as pristine as when he walked into Kendall’s office. The sudden shift in his demeanor sets Kendall on edge, but he doesn’t press the issue when Greg is trying to help him. It wouldn’t be right. Every exchange in this life is purposeful and political. He understands, better than anyone, that there are certain expectations he must fulfill when it comes to someone helping him in a crisis. When he was maybe seventeen or eighteen, Shiv helped him impress a girl on the condition that he helped her get her first sip of alcohol. Even in family, or maybe especially in family, selfless kindness is nonexistent, and anything portrayed as such isn’t to be trusted.

“We’re gonna hold a seance, um, tonight,” Greg tells him. “We’ll do it at my apartment, I have sigils, and like, protections and stuff, in place. It’ll be the safest. Bring some of his things? Like, anything that was his favorite, or super important to him, or anything like that. I’ll text you my address.”

It takes a moment to process his words. “Weren’t you sleeping in a shelter? I think Tom mentioned it.”

“No, I uh, actually came into some money recently? Other than this job. I have a nice place now, probably nothing like your usual a-accomodations, but it should be okay.”

Just as suddenly as he came in, Greg is gone. Kendall stares at the broken computer for a moment before texting Jess to clear his schedule and calling a car to Roman’s apartment. It hasn’t been cleaned out yet. Kendall is supposed to go over there with Shiv and Connor and pick over anything of his that they want to keep in his memory, but the three of them haven’t yet processed their grief enough to be ready to go through it all.

He blinks and he’s at Roman’s front door, although he doesn’t have any memory of the drive. He does miss time on occasion, has a lot over the past decade but especially since Roman’s death, but it still feels strange. The building manager finishes unlocking the door and leaves him on his own to walk into the dusty tomb of a life cut too short.

Even the air tastes stale as he walks in, carefully taking quiet steps like he’s trying not to disturb anything that may be lurking in these walls. Perhaps he is. The place is exactly as Roman’s housekeepers left it when they did their last clean during Shiv’s wedding. Everything is neatly put away, the throw on the couch neatly folded, the placemats set at the dining room table. Kendall draws his coat tighter around his body.

“I hate this fucking apartment,” Roman snaps. “I didn’t even decorate it. Grace’s interior design friend did. Tabitha fucking hated it almost as much as I do.”

“I’m sorry,” Kendall says.

“Fuck you. Hang yourself in my bathroom, maybe it’ll liven up the place.”

Ignoring the outburst, Kendall seeks out the bedroom. He hasn’t been here very much , so it takes a couple of minutes to find what he hopes is the right room. The bed is crisply made, but not with hospital corners because Roman always hated them. There’s a single photo on the bedside table, one of him, Roman, and Shiv, smiling in a way Kendall knows is staged. The logo background tells him it was probably taken at the RECNY ball, and based on Shiv’s dress, it was taken when they were all still in their twenties and pretending they could salvage a relationship.

He picks up the frame, studying it, before he places it back down with the photo face-down. The next thing to draw his attention is a heavy wooden box on the dresser. Kendall carefully opens it. There’s three watches, all expensive but none of them Roman’s favorite, the one he was buried in. A couple other pieces of jewelry sit within its lined interior. There’s a silver class ring from when he graduated high school, a few colorful bracelets, and a gleaming platinum cross with a pendant that must be at least two inches tall. Their mother gave it to Roman at his first communion twenty odd years ago. To Kendall’s knowledge, he’d never worn it, but it means something sad that Roman kept the memento all these years. Kendall picks it up to find it warm to the touch, around body temperature, its polished metal reflecting the low light through the blinds into his face. He tucks it into his pocket and moves onto Roman’s closet.

All of his suits and button downs and ties are hung up, free of any errant lines or wrinkles, arranged by color and material. It overwhelmingly smells like the fresh detergent scent that lingered beneath his cologne. Kendall thumbs through the shirts, eventually landing on a charcoal gray one from Kendall’s own wedding so long ago. He eases it off the hanger and drapes it over his arm before leaving the bedroom behind.

The wine shelf tucked into the pantry is his next stop. He remembers Roman’s distaste for wine, conquered only by his desire to feel superior and the women he loved who drank it. The oldest bottle stands out, near the bottom of the holder but not dusty like the others are. It too is warm when he picks it up, the year on it making him dizzy with how expensive it must have been and how deep and complex the drink would be if he were to open it and drain the expensive glass bottle. He tucks it close to his body. Three things should be enough.

As he leaves Roman’s apartment, he intends to put Greg’s address into his phone and ask the driver to just bring him there; based on the deep set of the sky, it’s been a long time since he walked into Roman’s home, though it feels like it couldn’t have been longer than maybe twenty minutes at all.

While he waits for his car, he finds himself calling Connor. It rings a few times before his brother answers. “Hey, Ken, is everything alright?”

“Roman’s haunting me. Greg and I are- are having a fucking seance or some shit.”

“Oh! When?”

“Like, tonight.”

A long pause stretches between them.

Finally, Connor says, “I didn’t know you were into that kind of thing. Do you want me there?”

“Yeah,” Kendall answers, surprising even himself with it. “Can you come?”

“Of course, man, I’ll be right there. Text me the address?”

“Sending it now. I’ll see you soon.”

“Bye, love you.”

Kendall hangs up before he’s even processed those words. Connor said he loves him. It’s not the first time he’s said it, not even the first hundredth. It just feels like it’s been a while since someone told Kendall they loved him and he knew they meant it. He takes a deep breath as he sends the address, the car arriving just as he closes his phone to take him to Greg’s.

[bumbershots]

A CERTAIN ROMANCE

CHAPTER FOUR: SILENCE COMES AND GOES

Author’s note: Hello! We continue with this, I would like to thank everyone once again for all the likes and reblogs the story has gotten so far, couldn’t be happier! Enjoy (:

Story masterlist ** Word count: 2.9K **

It is possible that Harry is ignoring the big elephant in the room, as he spreads some jam in his crumpet, well aware of Fernando and Jack exchanging knowing looks. He takes a bite of the savoury treat and hopes none of them dare to confront him, at the same time he wants to be questioned about why he hasn't called Alma yet.

Harry spent the last two weeks grumpy and frustrated.

He's called his therapist way too many times. He has no idea where he went wrong in his healing process. They were back to square one, whispered his tired heart.

Jack is surprised too, his friend got on so well with Alma at the party and apparently even went the extra mile asking for her number then he spent the following fourteen days acting as if she didn’t exist. Didn't even text her like Gemma suggested. He sips his coffee and sighs for the millionth time that day.

The musician is infuriated at himself and desperate that he wants to have Fernando demand an explanation for his behaviour towards his sister. Harry's not a confrontational guy, but he's going mad. Might be losing it. He wanted to scream at the two men before him that he did plan on calling Alma, but then he got so sad. Now he's afraid it's too late.

"Do you want another one?" Fernando holds the plate with crumpets in front of Harry who takes one more and thanks him before grabbing the jam. "Do you reckon you'll be man enough to call my sister within the next couple of days?" Harry chokes on his food while Jack's laughter booms through their home.

Nobody has ever called him out like that. Harry's still unsure whether to be grateful or scared. Maybe a bit of both he thinks after composing himself again from the fit of coughs, he knows Fernando is still waiting for an answer.

"Is she upset about it?" A hint of relief and pride linger on Harry's voice. Jack shakes his head, knowing that he's avoiding the question. Something he's very good at.

"That's not what I asked." Fernando's clipped tone leaves no room for the musician to beat around the bush anymore.

"I was really nervous about calling her, kept putting it off until days turned into weeks... I'm not sure how to go about it," he plays with his rings and looks away from the inquisitive gaze of his companions.

"How did you get Taylor to go out with you?"

"What?" Harry and Jack ask at the same time.

"You must've asked her I guess," Fernando shrugs. "What is so scary about Alma that puts you off? Are you interested in just a shag and you're worried she'll decline or tell the media about it?" Harry is shaking his head vigorously and the dark haired architect leans a bit closer towards him, "you're so full of sh-”

"Alright let's take a break," Jack's soothing tone brings his house mate back from the rage path he was following. But Harry knew that he was right.

It had been a year already, he moved to a new house, one where his ex never set foot into and still her ghost was everywhere. He has this crazy need to destroy everything that can relate to her. Her favourite cardigan is kept away in a box full of Polaroids and books that are all her.

The real reason why he didn't dare to call Alma is because whatever he felt at the beginning of his previous relationship, or any other one, was at least ten times less intense, than what he was feeling now. Seeing the menace before them, his heart and mind decided to leave him courage-less towards the situation. It's less painful to think what could've been than to know it and see it being taken away from you. Again.

But he deserves to be happy, that's what Gemma reminded him the other day.

"I gotta go," Fernando announces before rising from his seat, walking inside the house and upstairs to his room. Jack tries to tidy up the table a bit, not daring to look at his apparently mute friend. When Fernando comes back down he steps outside to the patio where they had brunch, one last glance to a very ashamed Harry and he sighs. "Brigit's Bakery Classic Afternoon Tea Bus. Alma’s been dying to get tickets but never has the time to actually book it," he explains adjusting his jacket's collar. "It's not too late." With that he turns on his heel and leaves the house.

Harry takes their mugs and places them in the sink, he notices Jack is going around the kitchen putting away the butter and milk in the fridge.

"What are you waiting for Romeo?" The blue eyed man asks, stopping in front of a blushing Harry.

They're both quiet for a minute. Harry's heart is racing and can feel his hands get clammy. He hasn't felt someone's faith in a long time, and he's not sure if he's happy or pressured that Fernando and Jack are pushing him to call Alma, he doesn’t even know if she will give him a chance. Harry's wishing to be the kind of guy to take out his mobile and make the call, maybe even crack a witty joke that will have Alma laughing in that loud way he remembers and not be awkward with asking her out on a date. As if he wasn't completely mortified by being rejected.

Harry was sure he would ruin it, not just the call but the date and everything else that was actually going to happen between them without even trying first.

"Hello?" She answers after the third ring, confused at the unknown number calling her.

"Yeah it's me," Harry nods to Jack who urges him to finish whatever sentence he's trying to form, "I believe I owe you some coffee."

"Harry?" Alma tries to fight back a laugh. A wide smile splitting her face after recognising who is the mystery caller.

"Yes! Sorry I forgot you didn't have my number." Jack is red with second hand embarrassment for his friend and decides to start the dishwasher just to keep his eyes from the train wreck happening in his kitchen. "I'm sorry for not calling sooner."

"You're calling now, 's all that matters... I'd love to get that coffee. Next Thursday works for you?" He nods feverishly and remembers he's on the phone.

"Of course, I'll pick you up at five if that's alright."

"Make it half past five please, that's when my shift ends. I'll text you the address." She throws the latter smoothly as an excuse to initiate conversation until they meet again and Harry is oblivious about it.

"Sure great, perfect I'm... really looking forward to seeing you," he plays with the tea towel on the counter, his back turned to Jack, a million butterflies fluttering in his stomach when he hears the coy chuckle his confession got out of her. "Have a good day, see you later."

"See you later, Harry" Alma's goodbye is full of hope and endearment, just like the one he got before she walked away from him that morning after Freddie’s birthday party.

After ending the call, he mentally scolds himself for dreading it so much. It went so much better than expected, even got a laugh out of her. Perhaps Harry needed to stop making decisions based upon his fears and more taking in consideration the other person. He always thought he knew best, it's what he's been told for so many years and although he needs to be making big choices most of the time, perhaps now he could share that responsibility. Felt dead nice for a change.

"That wasn't so bad." He admits to Jack before drying the now clean dishes with a towel.

"I'm proud of you, now tell me, where are you guys going for that coffee?" Jack's eyes are full of curiosity and excitement, it's impossible for Harry not to feel a chill go down his spine at the prospect of planning the date. He thinks about what Fernando suggested, but it would be too obvious that it wasn't his idea entirely.

Alma deserves something exclusively planned by him.

"Don't know yet, perhaps somewhere nice and quiet" he ponders and his friend agrees.

Last time Harry had a proper first date was about two years ago or so. He cooked aubergine parmigiana following Jamie Oliver's recipe and baked some biscuits for dessert that he enjoyed with his companion overlooking the Pacific Ocean from his home's balcony. Back then it seemed to be the right choice to keep it low-key, a simple dinner at his, no risk at all to be bothered or watched. But Harry knew that at some point it got old, being overly discreet was easily mistaken for being ashamed of the relationship. That kind of thing can do a lot to someone's confidence, little by little until it's all too much to bear.

If he could only learn not to care about the world's prying eyes.

Harry doesn't want to drag anyone into the scrutiny of the media until he knows it's an incorruptible bond. The inevitable thought of forever, something he believes might not exist for him, at times. He did think Taylor was it, even Kendall for a while, which is why he dated more publicly back then, until she came along and the love Harry felt was so grand it made him overly protective of them. Countless times he tried to explain that this was the first time something was working in spite of all the circumstances that came with his life and he was trying to cherish it, keep it to himself. Nurture it until it was as tough as old boots.

That night was spent writing down ideas for that first date. Number one was The river café, near Putney Bridge, a place free of paparazzi. Number two, Rail house café, lovely spot to share dinner. Number three The sanctuary café, located in a beautiful building with a quirky environment. Number four and his personal favourite Lola's bakery, their service was so warm and intimate, he remembers the cinnamon Chelsea bun and his mouth waters instantly. So, drawing a big circle around the fourth option he smiles before going to bed that night.

Saturday morning finds Harry at his grandparents’ old home, carrying a bag full of ingredients for a vegetarian lasagna he is planning to cook for his grandfather and his mum. He immediately banishes Anne from helping in the kitchen. She observed him follow the recipe, cooking for no longer than ten minutes the garlic, thyme and aubergine, and then crumble over the chilli carefully. He lets her grate the Parmesan when the sauce isn’t thickening and reducing like it was supposed to. With a bump of her hip, she nodded towards a couple of tomatoes, Harry smiled before tipping them in, breaking them with a spoon and five minutes later, the sauce was ready.

His mother is a marvellous woman, like the good son he is, Harry doesn't want to make her sad, ever. The last time he visited her, recently broken hearted, they spent it baking, cooking, eating sweets and drinking hot chocolate at the rear terrace. Once he had enough of moping around, he decided to make it up to her and create good memories from that visit. They explored the local parklands as if it was the first time, shared ice cream, got tipsy on cheap red wine and chatted from dusk till dawn.

A few hours later, after eating the delicious meal and tidying up the kitchen afterwards, Harry watches his mum talking to his grandad, holding his shaky hand in hers and caressing it in a soothing way. The elder man’s Parkinson is getting worse with time, he feels so useless, specially because it affects his favourite people. He wants to know what his mother is thinking when she joins him back in the kitchen. There is some anguish dancing in her kind eyes, but Harry knows better than to push her to share something she is not ready to.

"I have a date next Thursday," he chokes out, in hopes of distracting her, and it works. Anne's head whips towards her youngest child, evidently shocked and yet proud. It's been years since Harry shared that kind of information with her.

"A proper date?"

"Yes," he wants to add how nervous it makes him. "I dunno how serious it'll get... just met her once, properly I mean, we saw each other on the tube's carriage three times prior to it. Coincidentally of course, Gem said it is something straight out of a film."

"Who is she?" His mother is giving him that look, the one that says how giddy she is to know absolutely everything about the person that got her son so skittish, that he started to rearrange the containing of the cupboards entirely.

"Her name is Alma," he doesn't know where to start, if he spills all the ways in which he thinks she is wonderful, they'll end up pulling an all-nighter.

"And she's a...?"

"Cashier during the week, Spanish teacher on the weekends and occasional interviewer for her Youtube channel." Anne raises her eyebrows, impressed and wondering why such a busy girl agreed to go on a date. Must like him a lot of course, she thinks watching her son pour hot water on a mug, and dunking a tea bag in it afterwards.

"Where did you meet her if not on the tube?'' She is curious and weary. This wouldn't be the first time her youngest spawn overlooked certain things from strangers. Very little things in Harry's life were coincidences nowadays.

"Remember Jack Robinson?" his mum nodded, how could she forget the cheeky chap that helped Harry escape almost every night from his dad's house in the summer, just to go skate in Southbank's center until midnight. Anne admitted to not liking the bloke for a while, but gave him another chance after watching him grow into a responsible adult. "He's in charge of my home renovation, extension whatever it is called. Invited me to Freddie's birthday party and she was there." The dreamy look on his eyes when reminiscing the moment brought out a wide smile on his mum's face followed by her loud laughter.

"Oh Harry, you've got that look." it was the truth. He looked completely gobsmacked by his mother's reaction, but he couldn’t deny the peace he felt when knowing that she was already fond of the girl that he couldn’t get out of his mind.

"It’s too soon to tell!” He doesn’t want to dive into it, not yet. 

"How did you really meet? I want all the details." Anne asked, taking a seat at the coffee table and Harry told her everything.

From the first glance he stole her way to the last phone call he had yesterday at Jack and Fernando's house, his hands flew several times to tussle his hair and the dimple on his left cheek was exquisite, when telling his mother, how she asked him to dance with her. He spared no detail, from her intoxicating Moschino perfume to her raspy accented voice. By the time he finished, his mum's mug was empty but her heart was full. For so long she wondered if she would ever witness the beauty of Harry in love again and enjoy first-hand the way he spoke about that person in the sweetest manner, the high-pitched tone of his voice when finally admitting how nervous he actually was about this first date.

"Right, well in that case, stop thinking about how everything is going to go wrong." Easier said than done, Harry thinks but nods. "I'm sure whatever you planned will sweep her off her feet." Anne knew how much of a romantic her boy was, he went all out in that department. His best quality and Achilles heel.

"If the cupcakes from that place don't... I could literally do it." Harry plucks a banana from the fruit bowl before them and narrows his eyes when his mum rolls her eyes at him playfully.

His mother's reassurance made him feel less hopeless, the next day when they went to Sheffield's city center, she even picked out a couple of new mugs. 'Just in case we have new visitors at home.' Harry groaned but failed to hide the dreamy look in his eyes, he even crossed his fingers behind his back as he watched her pay for the cups. The thought of Alma meeting his mother in the near future —and the rest of his loved ones— excited him to an unfamiliar degree, like the first time he saw the seaside with his own eyes at a very young age, like that time he sang in front of a considerable amount of people, like a warm hug of his late grandmother. The idea that she may like him enough to agree to a second date is stuck on his brain, despite that they haven't even survived the first one.

Anne saw him enjoy himself the rest of that afternoon and the next morning before he had to go back to London. She sighed and watched him drive away, standing in her front door for a few more minutes, rejoicing on the memory of Harry's toothy grin. Usually she was careful and waiting for the other shoe to drop, but not this time. There was a bit of certainty in the unfamiliar situation, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, she decided to patiently wait and see. She hummed a familiar tune while putting away the new additions to her crockery. The same song her son decided to play on his journey back home.

Qué será, será. Whatever will be, will be. The future's not ours to see. Qué será, será.

///

Let me know if you like the story! *** Join the taglist!

///

TAG LIST: @laurxn-robinson @mellamolayla

Next chapter

[jclvni]

𝐡𝐬𝐡𝐪𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐤𝟎𝟑𝟑            𝐣𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐚 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐧. ' ̖-

we got a little bit carried away but this is v2 of our jelimpia kids ( our first au kinda made us sad so we sent them to therapy ).  / @olimpiacroy​

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐮𝐩.

after a tumultuous number of months and years, olimpia and jelani kind of get their thing to work and then bam ! olimpia gets pregnant by accident. it’s their ( misguided ) optimism that makes them think that they can handle a baby. terminating the pregnancy would have been a tough call for olimpia anyway, keeping the baby seems like a natural decision.

the first kid is definitely olimpia’s ; jelani’s still trying to figure out if he has it in him to be a dad. olimpia never forgets to complain about how she’s doing so much. in true jelimpia style, the quips escalate, and then it happens. one night, she so much as implies he’s behaving like his father and he snaps. jelani mwezi, whose tongue is so readily dipped in poison, had not a word to say as he slams the door shut behind him and disappears. it doesn’t last long ( a couple of nights, more than enough to have fanni pestering olimpia to forget him ), but he returns, of course ; he knows where he wants to be, and it’s with oli and kai. it’s a rocky couple of years that drive them to go to therapy, get their shit together — they can’t be stupid 20-something-year-olds forever. 

the first two kids are born in europe but they move to tanzania before the youngest is born. it’s olimpia’s way of saying every past mistake is water under the bridge. all the kids are baptized in budapest though, it was not up for debate.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬.

the kids have names that the parents liked. malakiàs is the name of a prophet, olimpia wanted a biblical name and it was pretty. safiri sounded nice. safiri and malakiàs both kind of sound like gemstones ( sapphire & malachite ) so it’s an added plus. akina was a name with attitude and it sounded pretty too. all kids are croy-mwezis because jelimpia wanted the kids to have an obnoxious name probably.

𝐢. 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐈 ( jordan bolger fc )

zodiac sign: sagittarius name meaning: ( biblical ) messenger ; god-fearing

olimpia wants malakiàs to be living proof of how her relationship with jelani is not as hopeless as people think it is. she has high expectations for little ki and is a very hands-on parent the first years of his life. jelani is a bit absent — there, but not really there ; being a dad is difficult on him and he isn’t quite there yet. but these are formative years for ki. he’s relatively young when he gathers that his dad is not like the ones on tv. preschool aged and already bitter, ki begins to act up. aggressive brawls in the playground, snarky just-under-breath backchat to his nanny. olimpia is sad, but jelani is crushed — after all, it’s much too familiar ! a rough twenty years prior, it was he who was throwing messy punches in the school yard. this was a reality check for him. he’ll seek help before turning drowning in the rabbit hole that transforms him into andrew mwezi-rhodes.

malakiàs has many names but the most common nicknames are ”kai” which is used internationally and ”ki” which is used by family. olimpia usually calls him malakiàs though because it’s a name she chose and loved. ki starts acting out the older he gets and eventually olimpia just gives up. she doesn’t know what to do and kind of sees ki as a lost cause. ki grows up to be an independent adult.

the shame is that ki is the smartest kid of the three. just a bit smarter than average. but he never  applies himself. he does the bare minimum in school. he gets average ( sometimes excellent ) grades, so he has no reason to spend time and energy on studying. 

ki has only one passion: american football. he was three when he attended his first match, club seats to a cowboys vs patriots game, sat on the lap of grandpa andrew ( a big money american with friends in higher places ). he was four when his grandfather gifted him his first football, complete with mini goal posts and a helmet. and how jelani envies ! he envies his ki, who at four years old has garnered more affection from the man that he has over two decades ; and he envies his father, who had ignited a little spark in those chocolate brown eyes that not even olimpia had managed. how dare he ? so he overcompensates. every game day is a game day. new jerseys for each game, signed by all the big names at post-match meet and greets. little league games were proceeded with a feast of ki’s choice ( all too often, mcdonalds ). he does what he feels is necessary to ensure ki would pick him over grandpa andrew. 

olimpia had long backed off, and jelani was never all that paternal, so his teenage years divulged in a rebellious streak. he most certainly has a fling with a zulu ( kenny’s kid most likely ) and he’s bffs with karla de braganca ( a fact, no one can contest this ). 

godparents: @imanv, @lcvcntc

𝐢𝐢. 𝐒𝐀𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐈 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐈 ( addis miller fc )

zodiac sign: libra  name meaning: journey ; second

safiri was jelani’s redemption arc. he was planned, he was wanted & he was cared for. he was born five years after ki. safiri grows up wanting to fix the family. he sees the cracks in his parents’ relationship and the issues his brother has. safiri does everything in his power to keep the family together. family life is probably the main source of stress for him.

safiri is popular though. he takes after jelimpia the most: stubborn, social and so sure of himself. his squad is the it squad of instagram. had he been born in the 90s he would have been bffs with kendall and sofia richie. he’s the luka sabbat / fai khadra of the next gen.

his real bff is céleste d’orléans. ciel likes taking pictures and safiri loves posing. they do projects together and just click. safiri gets along with both of his parents but he’s definitely jelani’s child. 

godparents: @siljcs, @aurcls

𝐢𝐢𝐢. 𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐀 𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐙𝐈𝐀 ( tasha green fc )

zodiac sign: aries name meaning: solidarity ; summer

akina happens because olimpia needs a daughter. a bit less than two years after safiri. two kids should have been enough but no. akina is luckily a girl and olimpia is over the moon. olimpia tries her hardest to have the most iconic mother-daughter relationship one can hope for. akina definitely talks to olimpia about everything but olimpia can be a bit suffocating. 

akina is a late bloomer. jelani tells olimpia to take her to speech therapy when she’s almost two and hasn’t learned to speak. akina has always been quiet. she’s an observer with a million thoughts running through her head. she doesn’t really like the role she has in her family.

so when she graduates from high school she goes to live with the savari kids. she redefines herself outside of her family and realizes what she wants to do and that is art. after her gap year she applies to central saint martins to study textile design. she loves london and her new freedom. she sends postcards to her parents and lots of polaroids. social media is so uncool.

godparents: @fannicroy, @bastivvn

[dvp95]

quiet on widow’s peak (14)

pairing: dan howell/phil lester, pj liguori/sophie newton/chris kendall rating: teen & up tags: paranormal investigator, mystery, online friendship, slow burn, strangers to lovers, nonbinary character, trans character, background poly, phil does some buzzfeed unsolved shit and dan is a fan word count: 3.4k (this chapter), 46.4k (total) summary: Phil’s got a list of paranormal experiences a mile long that he likes to share with the world. Abandoned buildings, cemeteries, and ghost stories have always called his name, and a particular fan of his has a really, really good ghost story.

read this chapter on ao3 or here!

"You're Martyn's brother, right?"

"Martyn is my brother," Phil corrects her, doing his best to keep a straight face. He's never met the teenager, but she'd been happy enough to get on Skype with him for his last-ditch attempt at getting some information that isn't useless. He's really running out of ideas, and he isn't sure how much longer he can stretch this case out. "And you're Frankie's sister."

"Frankie is my sister," she repeats. Her grin is wide, her teeth straight and lips painted a dark pink. Phil wonders how that colour would look on Dan.

Great. He'd managed a whole thirteen minutes of coordinating this Skype call without thinking about Dan. It's a new record at this point, and all it took to break it was the memory of how pretty Dan looked with lip stuff on.

"I'm going to start recording now," he says, getting his various windows all sorted before pressing the big red button on his software. "Can you state your name and connection to the case for us?"

"Sure. I'm Val and I'm one of the people responsible for the sigils in the Wilkins place attic."

Phil freezes. He hadn't known that. Val had simply confirmed that she and her friends had gotten in trouble for trespassing in September, and now Phil feels like an unprepared idiot for not seeing how connected she was to the mystery before he hit call. He wonders what Dan would say about that.

He checks the time again. Definitely less than thirteen minutes that time.

"Will you tell us a bit about sigils in your own words?" Phil asks. Maybe if he keeps her talking, he’ll have time to lasso his wandering mind back into place. "I've done my own research, of course, but I think it can be useful to hear it from someone who knows what they're talking about, y'know? Plus," he adds, giving her a conspiratory sort of smile, "then I can use your voiceover instead of recording one myself."

Val laughs and launches into a Sigils For Dummies explanation that Phil does his best not to interrupt. He asks some leading questions and mentions his own hit or miss experience with taking sigils into the house. For a teenager, she's surprisingly eloquent. Moreso than Phil is, anyway.

They talk a bit about the Wilkins place the way he had with the other people he's interviewed, because he's fairly certain that Val's testimony will be the only one that he actually ends up using for his video. He doesn't let himself feel any creeping sense of hope, though. She could still have nothing aside from some fun backstory, and this whole investigation could still be a failure.

Not just the investigation, either. Phil doesn't like to conflate his own worth with the content he produces, because there are always going to be people who are unhappy with what he does - including himself, more and more lately - and he can't be worrying about his future every time a video doesn't pan out the way he wants it to. Something about this case is making him feel that in a way he tries very hard not to on others. Maybe it's how close it is to home, quite literally, or just how helpless he'd felt while waiting for his friends to wake up.

This investigation could still be a failure, and so could Phil. He can't deny how entwined those are right now.

Phil knows he shouldn't be basing his decisions on something as volatile as a single YouTube video, not when he's usually comfortable posting anything that's entertaining, but he feels like the tide is coming in and he's going to get swept away unless he moves somewhere.

"So, back to your sigils specifically," says Phil. He's supposed to be taking notes or something, probably, but instead he's just doodling some half-assed sigils of his own.

"Yes. We heard about all the incidences and, while we were pretty sure that not everything going around was true, my friends and I wanted to check in and make sure. We did a couple of different rituals first, cleansing the space and trying to see if we could find the presence, but..." Val went quiet for a long moment. "Well. I don't know what exactly was in there, but there was something."

"What makes you so sure?" Phil asks quietly.

"Well, you can feel it," she says. She runs her hands over her own forearms, like she's a mime pretending to be cold. "Goosepimples. Hair on the back of your neck standing up. You keep wanting to turn around, but nothing is looking back at you from the darkness."

Phil keeps his own input rather impartial in interviews. There's no real reason to alert anyone to his own opinions on what might be going on - that's what the wrap-up is for.

So instead of telling Val that he felt everything she's talking about, he simply asks, "Is that all?"

"No," says Val. "No, the rituals we tried to do... it didn't work, Phil. And I know you might be thinking that rituals aren't supposed to work or that magic isn't real or something, but it's not just that nothing happened. It's that... it was like something was messing with them on purpose. My candles kept blowing out even though there wasn't a draught and Sammy's sage bundle just... disappeared. It really scared us, to be honest."

"Why didn't you just leave the place alone from then on?"

"We knew people weren't going to stop partying there," she says. "And that's... a choice, I guess. But we wanted to help if we could, so..."

"So you put the sigils on the floor," he says when she can only finish with a vague gesture. "I know that you can't tell me their exact meanings or anything, since you don't know them anymore, but can you give me a general gist of what you guys were trying to do?"

"Sure, yeah," she says, shifting around like she's getting comfortable in her chair. Phil can see an incense burner on her desk next to a perilous-looking stack of books, and he wishes he could light a candle or something. His room, and his parents' whole house really, has been smelling like nothing but cleaning supplies since he got here. "We took different roles, kind of? I focus on minor protection most of the time, so it was my job to make sigils that would sort of protect innocent people from coming into contact with whatever the entity was, while Sammy is more about healing and cleansing - she was trying to heal the house, I think. We tried not to talk about them in detail so we didn't fuck each other's things up, because the whole thing felt a bit too high-stakes for that."

Phil doesn't know nearly enough about sigils to know whether or not the ones in the attic were helpful or harmful, but he's glad he didn't have to talk to a bunch of teenagers trying to summon a demon or anything. For the second time this year.

"That's really good of you to try," Phil says with a little smile. He's trying to figure out exactly how he should play this one. "And you covered a good amount of the floor."

"Of course, that's when the cops got called," Val grins back.

"That's when the cops always get called," he says.

He's got a handful of other questions for her, but Val doesn't actually know much more about the Wilkins place that she hasn't already told him, and he doesn't want a lesson on protection magic today. She says that he can email her when the video is up, and to send her any other interesting magic cases he comes across in the future.

The future. Phil is trying not to think about that too much right now. He promises, anyway, and ends the call on a fairly light note.

He's got more of an idea how he wants this video to look, now that he's gotten one of the small mysteries solved. He exports the video and audio from the call separately, knowing he's going to use a good chunk of Val's answers as narration over the surviving footage. Not that he has much of that - just the tour of the house that he and his friends had gotten the first night and some more dark corners in VHS and Polaroid form. He knows that he can make a video out of what he's got.

The problem is that he also knows it won't be good enough.

Sure, it might be good enough for his audience - most of them, anyway, since he's got a pretty stubborn set of fans - but it isn't good enough for Phil.

His suspicion is confirmed after a couple more hours of cobbling together what survived into a rough edit, which he sends off to PJ. After a moment of thought, he adds a final line to the email.

P.S. I know you already told me that you aren't a gender guru and that was really funny and everything and I don't expect you to like educate me or whatever, but why do things get so effing complicated with it????? Like I had myself figured out and now I don't, and that sucks.

--

PJ calls him a little after dinner, lulling Phil into a false sense of security with questions and comments and suggestions about the video. Phil has almost forgotten about the postscript entirely, but then PJ cheerfully says, "So you're an idiot, huh?"

"Yeah," says Phil. "Wait, why?"

"What's so complicated about gender for you?" PJ asks, and Phil wishes he'd never answered the phone. "Are you questioning?"

"You know that I'm not," says Phil, rolling his eyes.

They've known each other for years, and PJ is his best friend, and there is no way in hell that he doesn't know exactly why Phil is Googling words he'd only ever thought about in passing before. He can practically hear PJ's smirk. He seriously considers hanging up before this gets even more humiliating.

"Yeah, I know, but thought I'd ask in case," says PJ. "It would be irresponsible of me as your token trans friend to act like I know how you feel about your own gender."

It's the first time that Phil has actually heard him use the word. He'd always imagined that PJ talked in riddles on purpose, like maybe he didn't actually want to use words for things when he could use extended metaphors and jokes instead, but it's possible that Phil just hadn't been paying enough attention, because PJ sounds ridiculously comfortable with saying it out loud.

"You're not my token anything," Phil says. He waits a beat, picturing PJ's skeptical expression, before he adds, "Dan's my friend, too."

"Dan," PJ repeats. "You've got it bad, my friend."

"What?"

"I can hear it in your voice. You already miss them, don't you? You've been spending all your spare time with them already, you absolute knob. And let me guess," PJ continues before Phil can even attempt to defend himself, "you've got it in your head that liking Dan makes you less gay?"

Phil touches the tip of his nose and then remembers that PJ can't actually see him.

"Maybe," Phil hedges. He knows that PJ is right and he's sure that PJ knows it too, but admitting that is a whole other beast. "And it's also, like... it isn't fair, is it?"

"Fair to who?"

Despite everything in Phil wanting to brush the subject off and start talking about ghosts instead, he takes a moment to consider the question. He supposes that it isn't fair to either of them, really. His feelings for Dan are throwing everything he knows about his sexuality into question and he doesn't know how to deal with that.

Because Phil is gay. He's very gay. He's known it for a long time, even if most of his family members are still in the dark about it, and he's never had reason to think about it like this before. Sure, he's had the usual fantasies of how much easier things would be if he were straight, but he's never actually wanted to be. Maybe he doesn't talk about it the way some people do, but that's because it's far from the most interesting thing about him. Phil has never really considered it other peoples' business.

That doesn't change the fact that it's a fundamental part of him.

Someone who's gorgeous and tall and has big hands that fit ridiculously well into Phil's own shouldn't be enough to throw a wrench in that certainty. But they have, and Phil can't keep acting like they haven't.

PJ is being patient, waiting for Phil to find the words. There's some kind of video game music on his end that Phil can't immediately place, and Phil has a weird moment of homesickness for PJ and the Brighton house, even though it hasn't been that long since they were there together.

"It's not fair to anyone," Phil eventually says. "I think it's pretty obvious why it isn't fair to me, but it isn't fair to Dan either."

"Humour me," says PJ. "Why isn't it fair?"

"Dan isn't... a man," Phil says, slow. He pulls a face at his ceiling, knowing how clumsy he sounds right now. "And I don't think I'd like them if they weren't..."

"You wouldn't be attracted to them if they had a typically feminine body, right?" PJ asks, and then immediately continues as if Phil had answered. "That's not unfair, Phil. I seriously doubt Dan would be bothered by it."

"We don't know them that well," says Phil. It feels a bit like a lie, because he feels like he does know Dan fairly well at this point, but he needs PJ to understand where he's coming from with this. "And I don't know if they'd even be comfortable enough to tell me if they were bothered."

There's a long moment where the only sound is Phil's own breathing and the music of PJ's video game - Spyro, Phil realises - but PJ breaks it in a mild sort of tone. "I get that. Like, I really do get it. You might not think I get it, but I get it. Thing is... I've been somewhere like this. Because I met Soph after I was already living as a guy, right, but I thought she was totally straight at the time. She thought so too, actually, but I know she's felt a lot more connected to the community for a while now. And I didn't know... how to tell her. Because what if she totally freaked? That's not exactly a low risk, y'know."

Phil is far from an expert, but he does know that much. He's well aware of some of the numbers out there, knows that it can end in more than just hurt feelings when trans people come out to their partners, but he'd never once considered that PJ dealt with that. He feels a bit stupid for it. Sophie - and Chris, he supposes, even if he doesn't particularly know the intricacies there - isn't PJ's first foray into dating. Yeah, they've been together as long as Phil has known him, but that's not an excuse.

"Sorry," says Phil, hoping it sounds as sincere as he feels. "That, um. That sounds like it sucks."

"Oh, it totally sucks," PJ laughs. "And that's why I can say that you're freaking out for no reason. I mean, your own shit, whatever, you can run yourself in circles for months if you really want to, but the Dan thing? It's unfair not to tell them how you feel, Phil. They've been out for a little while now, they know how this works as well as I do. Sometimes there are compromises."

"I don't want anyone to compromise an identity," says Phil. He can't explain why that makes him so on edge. It would take too long, and he knows that his friends are various degrees of fluid when it comes to their attractions, so there's no guarantee of them understanding at all. It's not that he's being stubborn or close-minded or anything; it's that he's gay. "Peej, I'm a Kinsey fucking six. Telling Dan I have feelings for them is opening a bucket of worms that I don't know if I could close again."

"A can."

"What?" Phil asks, thrown.

"A can of worms, you fucking buffoon."

"Why would worms be in a can?"

"The - you know what, Phil? I can't have a conversation like this with you right now." PJ is doing his best attempt at a serious voice, but Phil can hear him trying not to laugh. "Tell Dan you like them. They like you."

Phil sighs. "I know. That's part of the issue here."

"I don't see an issue," says PJ. "You like them, they like you. Go... like each other."

"It's not that simple."

"It's never really that simple," PJ says, giving in to the laughter. Phil smiles at the unrestrained sound. "You think what I've got going on right now was simple in the beginning?"

"I don't like to put much thought into what you've 'got going on right now'," Phil admits. "But... no. You just make it look easy."

PJ cracks up properly. Phil can't help grinning, too, because PJ's Muppet laugh is always a bonus to saying something ridiculous. PJ waits until he's got his breath back before he says, "Phil. You're kind of a moron."

"I accept that," says Phil. "And before you get your lecturing pants on again, I know that it would be best to talk to Dan about this. I'm just..."

"Scared?"

Phil wants to deny it. He almost does, knee-jerk, but the problem is that PJ knows him too damn well for that. He knows that Phil worries about everything to the point that he's got medication to help with the anxiety spirals, and he also knows that Phil isn't exactly jumping to think or talk about his feelings at any given moment. It's normally a bit like pulling teeth, both for Phil and for the person trying to connect with him.

But PJ knows him. So he says, "Yeah. More scared of that than of the house."

--

The lighting isn't as good as Phil has in his room, back in Brighton, but he brings all the lamps he can find into his childhood bedroom to make sure he's decently visible on the viewfinder. He doesn't do a lot of talking to the camera without any external stimulus - the only times he's sitting still and addressing the audience directly is when he's doing the wrap-ups at the end of each video. Sometimes he does an intro as well, but it's usually able to be replaced with some good B footage and voiceover. Phil fixes his hair for the millionth time and takes a deep breath before he presses the record button.

He tells his audience what happened, the night that's been lost. He explains everything, every vibe that felt wrong and every terrifying moment in the attic, every file that he can no longer access. Even as he's saying it, he can imagine what the comment section is going to look like.

"I won't blame the lot of you if you don't believe me. I'll put what it looked like when we tried to access the files on the screen now. The corruption was on our devices, though, and we couldn't retrieve anything."

Another deep breath. They're still not going to believe him.

"And that's okay," he adds. "I'm not here for you guys to take my words as, like, facts or whatever, and it's not my job to convince anybody. I'm just here to tell a good story. I wish it had a more conclusive ending, but I'm sure you're already bickering in the comments about what we all experienced, or if you think we experienced anything at all. So tell me what you guys think, and let me know - do you think I should keep imposing on my parents to investigate this some more or is the Wilkins place a story to leave alone?"

He'd normally start to do his like-and-subscribe routine after that, but he pauses.

"And I wanted to say a really big thank you to everyone who helped me with this project, but especially to Winnie. They really went above and beyond in sending me this one, and I'm not going to forget that."

Phil gives the camera an awkward sort of smile. He might not leave that bit in, but he needed to say it.

[justjessame]

Put Me In Coach

Senior year. Three years of high school, eight years of elementary and junior high, just so I could reach this, my final year. The first day of my FINAL year in this school and I end up in the principal’s office. Seriously?

“Miss Kendall.” Principal Jones was looking over my file, I could tell because my name was almost bold and highlighted.

And I was confused. I had an impeccable record. My grades were high, my extracurriculars were all academic, there was absolutely NO way that I should be in this office today of all days.

“Yes, Mr. Jones?” I was fighting to sound calm, but this was the freaking principal and he was looking at me like I was lacking. Shit.

“Miss Kendall, it appears that you’re missing some vital credits.” What? “Just one, actually.”

“Mr. Jones, that’s impossible.” I offered, my schedule this year was packed. And it was perfect. “I-Mrs. Rosin looked over my credits, every single year.” My guidance counselor, Mrs. Rosin had worked hand in hand to make sure all my credits lined up with the college requirements of my target schools.

Mr. Jones, looking far too much like a turtle for his own good, looked over his glasses at me. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Rosin missed a required class. If you expect to graduate this year,” I felt my eyes widen. “Then you’ll have to fit this one in, Miss Kendall.”

I sighed and leaned back in my chair. “Which one?” Please, let it be math, or another history class. Don’t, under any circumstances be-

“Physical education.” Shit, shit, shit. “I’m sorry, Miss Kendall, but you seem to have missed a semester of PE.”

“I thought we were only required to take two semesters?” I got into debate mode. I’d taken Coach Negan’s hellscape of a class for both Freshman and Sophomore years, I could fucking swear it. “I took it Freshman and Sophomore year.”

“Actually, according to your records, you received an incomplete in tenth grade.” What? That rat bastard. “And that means-”

“I have to retake the class.” My voice was practically a growl. I wanted to kill that asshole. “Of course I do.” He was such a fucking irritant. Arrogant asshole. “If I could get Coach Negan,” I spit his name out like it was poison. “To agree to retest me, could I get the credit without taking the class again?” Anything, please God, anything other than seeing his smug, mocking face every fucking day for a semester.

“It’s not likely, Miss Kendall.” Mr. Jones warned, but he gave in. “If you can get him to agree, then yes, you can skip the class itself.” I nodded and started to stand, but he stopped me with another warning. “You know he’s never given the option to another student.”

“Then I’ll just have to be more persuasive than they were.” I answered, walking out of the office.

 I took my revised schedule from the secretary and glared down at it. Physical education was right after lunch, because of course it was. I made my way through my classes without noticing. I took my notes, I answered questions, I did every single thing that I normally did. All muscle memory, brain and eye memory. I didn’t have to think about doing it. Or answering correctly. That was simple.

Lunch was a blur. My best friends clucking around me, not quite understanding my distraction.

“It’s not like you’re gonna be waterboarded,” Mary, the voice of reason chimed in. And I glared at her. “It’s badminton and wiffleball.”

“And the coach isn’t exactly hard on the eyes,” Eric added, giving his eyes a suggestive wiggle.

I laughed despite myself. “You could try harder to not be SO flaming.” I was picking at a muffin on my tray. The only prepackaged food that didn’t look disgusting in the cafeteria. “He’s an asshole, you both know that.”

“He’s not that bad,” Mary rolled her eyes. “Or at least he isn’t if you don’t correct his grammar every three seconds and argue about how many laps he’s made you do versus, I don’t know the cheerleaders.”

“ONE time,” I argued. “One freaking time, and he was wrong.” I was glaring again. “Why did I have to do fifteen fucking laps and that bimbo do five when she was in just as much the wrong as me?”

“Didn’t you tell Kelly that it was a good thing that she was so limber, since she’d be making her cash on, and I quote ‘the pole’ after high school?” Eric asked, grinning widely.

I groaned. “Only after she’d made a rather rude comment about my inexperience with the opposite sex.” A polite way of saying she’d compared me to Virgin Mary so many times that I was ready to rip her extensions out at the roots. “Shit. Tell me the truth, how good do you think I am at changing people’s minds?”

“You’re awesome, I’ve watched you debate.” Eric smiled. “But Coach isn’t one of the debate team students and he’s less likely to give you a pass.”

“Unless you’re prepared to use ALL your assets.” I shot Mary a look. Irony, she was named Mary and she’d probably slept with more people than Kelly.

I had to fight the urge to smack my forehead off the table. “Why me?”

“My guess?” I shot Mary another glare. “You pissed him off one too many times, this is your punishment, just you know, late.”

“You could ask him to just give your ass a nice spanking and then call it square.” Eric said as he tossed a chip in his mouth and made an indecent sound, either from the flavor or living vicariously through the image he’d created of Negan spanking me.

“Not happening.” I stood up, closing my eyes against the torture that was coming.

Mary and Eric chuckled at the martyred expression on my face. “Why are you fighting it so hard?” She asked me, a smirk on her face. “It’s not like you’re out of shape or that you can’t do it.”

“Not the fucking point.” I growled, grabbing my bag. “I already did it. I shouldn’t have to do it again. It’s not-”

“Fair.” They both finished for me with matching grins. “Yeah, but you might have to. Fair or not.” Eric stated calmly.

I straightened my back and fixed the skirt of my dress. “Or, he can pretend to be a reasonable human being instead of a rancid asshole and I can get on with my preplanned Senior year.”

“Good luck,” they called as I walked out of the cafeteria, trying desperately to believe that I had a chance at winning the battle ahead.

 I found him in his office. He was leaning back in his desk chair, feet up on the surface of his desk, and looking like he was waiting for me. Shit.

“Why, Miss Kendall, whatever brings you to see me?” He was smiling and his dimples were deep with glee. Fuck. “Oh, that’s right, you’re doing a repeat.”

I forced my face into a smile. “Actually, Coach, I wanted to speak with you about that.” His eyes were twinkling and I had to fight glaring. “I think we both know that I completed my second semester, and if I could retake any of the written tests, then I could be out of your hair and on my way.” To a real class. That I really need.

“We both know?” He sat up, placing his feet on the floor, but staying in his chair. “I don’t think I’d agree with that assumption.” Shit. “After all, I’m the one who marked it incomplete.” And then, to prove that Mary and Eric were right, the zinger. “Did I say that properly, Miss Kendall? I know what a stickler you are for proper English.” Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

“Yes, sir.” I answered, and I could have sworn that his eyes darkened. “I can’t dress for class today, I wasn’t told until I got to school that my schedule had changed.”

“That’s fine, Miss Kendall.” He stood and I stepped back, he seemed to fill the small room. “For today, you can take inventory.”

 Days and days of torture. “Miss Kendall, keep your knees up.” Or “Miss Kendall, your eye isn’t on the ball.” The reminders to move faster, that I was older than my classmates, to keep up. I wanted to take the plastic bat and smack him right in his short wearing dick.

Lunch became pep talk time for my best friends. “Look you’ve made it a month.” Eric kept the countdown going. “You’ve only got three more months, and most of two of those are holidays.”

“And you’re keeping your cool,” Mary would pitch in. “You’re not calling him out on his weird shit, you’re doing what you’re told. It’s cake.”

And then I’d leave and go change and start another round of torture. Pulling on shorts and my sports bra/tank combo, tie my tennis shoes and ignore the underclassmen. It became a habit. And then to the gym to hear what our fearless coach had in store for that particular day’s hell.

“Miss Kendall,” I was stretching, getting ready for laps, not from punishment but for class. I looked up and waited. “Come here, Miss Kendall.” Don’t roll your eyes, I was telling myself, don’t roll your fucking eyes.

“Yes, Coach?” I asked, oozing perky politeness.

Negan was staring down at me, and his lip quirked. “Miss Kendall, I was thinking that another inventory is due.” Yes, I thought, fucking no sweating for me today. “Let me get the class started and you and I will head over and get started.” Wait, what?

“Didn’t I do it well the last time?” Come on, don’t make me deal with you for the entire class.

“You did fine, but I want to DIG A LITTLE DEEPER into the equipment stocks.” Damn it, did he mean for that to have the innuendo? Or was I just, shit, was I getting horny? Fuck, was Eric rubbing off on me now?

“OK,” please tell me that I didn’t sound as breathless to him as I did to myself. “I’ll just go, get the clipboard.” I wandered to his office.

I was looking for the damn clipboard when I heard him enter the office. Usually the damn thing was right on the corner of his fucking desk, but today of all fucking days, nowhere to be found. I was just about to ask him where it was when I realized that he was leaning against the closed office door. Damn it.

“Miss Kendall.” Had his voice always been this deep? “I thought we should have a private conversation, before we get started on inventory.”

I nodded, and felt like I’d run the fucking laps when I wasn’t looking. Why was I breathing so damn hard?

“You alright?” He’d moved closer and was looking down at me again. He licked his lower lip and my eyes landed on the movement. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“I can’t find the clipboard.” I offered, lamely.

He smiled. Not a smirk, not mocking, just a smile and it changed his entire appearance. “I’ll get it for you in a minute, sweetheart.” His hand moved up and he brushed my bangs away from my eyes where they’d fallen during my search. “Do you hate me, Miss Kendall?”

My eyes narrowed, was this a trick? “No, of course not, Coach.” I swallowed when the pad of his finger brushed my cheek. “I just hate gym.” And the tone you use to get your way. I added.

“I can be a bit harsh,” he sounded so quiet, so different. “I just want everyone to reach their potential.” I nodded and bit my lip. His eyes landed on my teeth worrying it. “You remind me of myself, Miss Kendall.”

Wait, what? “I’m not sure I-”

He moved past me and grabbed the clipboard off the top of his filing cabinet. Way beyond my eye level. “Smart mouth. Hates shortcuts. Willing to take the punishment if it’s worth the cost.” My stomach clenched at the way he said ‘punishment’. “Here,” he handed me the clipboard. “Let’s go get knee deep in balls.” And I found myself laughing despite myself and his grin in answer was something I found myself enjoying.

 I stopped hating going to the gym after lunch as much after that day. Not that Negan had stopped being demanding. Oh that wasn’t ever likely to happen. He just started being a little less abrasive. I even convinced him that my first name wasn’t ‘Miss’.

“Amara?” Ah, there it was, my actual name. I jogged over to him from where I’d been hitting the tennis ball against the wall. Rain made the courts unusable. “Can you come after school today? I have a,” he glanced down at me and I felt my stomach flutter. “Job for you.”

“Sure, Coach.” I answered, jogging back to my place in line, knowing from the burning feeling on my back that he’d watched me go. I fixed my ponytail while waiting for another go, and glanced back to see him biting his lip as his eyes stayed on me. Dear Lord.

 The end of the day found me walking back to the gym, wearing another dress, very similar to the one I’d worn on the first day of school. The building had emptied fast, it was the middle of the week, no clubs were meeting. It was raining and gross outside, so the sports teams had practice cancelled. The halls were eerily quiet, the flashes of lightning and the crashes of thunder the only noise other than my shoes on the tiles heading to his office.

If I was being honest with myself, and why not? I knew that we’d been tap dancing around something. The flirting that wasn’t overt, but it wasn’t subtle either. The way he’d stopped calling me ‘Miss Kendall’. The way he felt comfortable with casually brushing my bangs out of my face, or tugging on my ponytail when I jogged in front of him. Not in full view of the class, but when we both knew we could take notice of it.

Somehow I knew, as I finally saw his office door in view, that today was it. The climax of those touches, those comments. That when I knocked, and he invited me in, we’d finally figure out what the fuck we wanted.

I knocked and heard his low voice call out for me to come in. “Amara.” He was sitting exactly how he’d been sitting that first day of term. Leaning back in the chair, feet on the desk, and smiling up at me.

“Coach.” I answered, leaning against the other side of the desk. I saw his eyes flicker down my body, at least the part he could see now. The red plaid dress, long tight sleeves, buttoned up and belted, with the flared skirt. “You asked to see me?”

That smile, those dimples, and fuck those eyes all trained on me. “Oh, I definitely wanted to see you, princess.” Shit. Princess? “Come here, sweetheart.” His feet hit the floor and he sat up in the chair and pushed back from the desk.

I walked around his desk and he pushed his chair back and stood up. “What do you need me to do, sir?” I asked, looking up at him. He inhaled sharply at my words and I smiled when I realized my words were double edged.

“I thought we could go over,” he turned toward his desktop and I saw a pile of papers. “These.” he tapped the top. “Test grading, I fucking hate it.”

“Oh.” I turned to the pile, and felt him standing behind me, close enough to feel his heat, but still far enough back that he wasn’t touching me. “So you want me to grade these for you?”

And then he was pressed closer, his body touching my dress, but not my body. “I’ll help, of course, but yeah. If you don’t have plans?”

My eyes closed at the feeling of his warmth so close to me. I cleared my throat and fought against turning around and pulling him to me. He was my teacher for fuck’s sake. “No plans.” Breathless again, fuck. I bit my lip and waited for him to take his seat, for him to push some of the papers to the side for me to handle and let me grab a chair to do it. Instead, his body closed the small gap and I felt him. ALL of him. And boy, was there more of him than I expected. Shit.

He leaned over me and pointed to the top of the pile. “This is just one class,” I felt his breath teasing my hair. “I have a full load this semester, so it may take awhile to get through all of them.” Damn it, another double meaning. His full load...fuck.

My lip was close to bleeding by this point. His heat was one thing, but his fucking body? Yeah, that was going to fucking kill me. “I have the time.” Jesus, I sounded like a bad Marilyn Monroe impersonator. Pretty fucking soon I’d break out into a rendition of ‘Happy Birthday, Coach Negan.’

“Glad to hear it, Amara.” Did he have to say my name like that? Like he could taste it, me? Savor the letters, make a full meal out of one syllable. He still hadn’t pulled away, and before I made the conscious decision to do it, I bent over to study the papers and let my butt roll back into his body. I heard his breath hiss out of his lips and fought a smile.

Looking over my shoulder, I could see his eyes were closed, like he was fighting against something. “Guess we should get started, right Coach?” His eyes opened and found me looking at him, and those dimples came back with a smile.

“Good idea.” And then he was in his chair, and gesturing toward one of the less comfortable ones on the other side of the desk.

 We worked through the piles, me wondering the entire time if he had kept the grading of all of them off until today because the piles seemed endless. Not that I was complaining, not really. Negan asked me questions as he worked through his pile, and I answered glaring at some of the papers wondering how bad these kids had to be to fuck up a quiz in gym.

“Which of my dumbass students is taking you to Homecoming, Amara?” He asked, at one point, eyes not leaving the paper in front of him.

“Homecoming?” I looked up at him. The hell did that come from? “Who said I’d be going to Homecoming?”

I saw his eyebrow raise, even with his eyes down on the paper in front of him. “You are a Senior, right?” I chuckled, well spotted.

Rolling my eyes, I turned my attention back to the paper in front of me and red lined another wrong answer. “Yep.” I popped the ‘p’, and groaned. “Don’t see why that means I have to participate in the archaic bullshit that is Homecoming.”

I heard his answering laugh, but kept grading. “No ambitions to be queen?” My eyes rolled again. “Or holding out for prom?”

“Neither.” I looked up to see him studying me. Putting the end of my red pen between my lips, I considered why he would assume I’d want either. Wow, a Senior girl, must want a tiara? I pulled the pen from my lips, pretending I didn’t notice how his had been focused on my absent sucking on a pen for shit’s sake, and smiled. “I guess you haven’t noticed, Coach, but I don’t need a crown to be a fucking queen.”

His smile turned into a full blown laugh. “Guess not.” And then we went back to grading. A few minutes passed and then, “No date?” What? On the test? I didn’t answer, thinking it was something he was asking the test. “Amara?”

“Yeah?” I looked up and met his eyes.

“Don’t have a date?” He asked, again, and I realized it had been directed at me.

I squinted, trying to pick up the conversation where we’d stopped. Homecoming. Ah. I shook my head. “No, no date.” I didn’t feel like pretending I cared about football, or the dance, for that matter. I started to return my attention to the next test, when he stopped me again.

“Must be fucking blind,” it was almost a mutter, but I looked up at him again, and saw him still studying me. “Those assholes must be fucking blind.” I felt the fluttering of butterflies in my stomach grow.

“Not sure about that,” I offered, looking back down. “I didn’t say I didn’t have offers, Coach, I said I didn’t have a date.” I was smirking at the paper in front of me, holding back a giggle. Shit, he’d looked so aghast by the mere thought of no one taking notice of me, I couldn’t help it.

“Who?” He had gone back to his own stack, and sounded almost nonchalant. Almost.

I flicked through the next few questions before asking. “Joe Malberry,” captain of the wrestling team. “Josh Grady,” one of the football players. “Oh, yeah, and Alex Ransom,” pitcher on the baseball team. I kept marking papers, but couldn’t hear his pen touching the papers in front of him. Curious I looked up to see he was watching me again. “What?” I felt self conscious.

“Collecting players from all the sports, princess?” His voice was low and sounded dark.

I shook my head again. “I don’t have a date, like I told you.” Not that I didn’t date, or that I hadn’t dated each of the guys I’d named, but he looked somewhat dangerous and I was smart enough not to poke a caged bear.

“And no boyfriend?” Ah, great, more relationship questions. Another shake of my head. “Why not?”

I kept my eyes on him. “Why get serious with a boy?” I leaned forward slightly, like I was about to share a secret. “Maybe I prefer men.” Winking at him, I went back to my stack of papers.

The silence stretched between us again, until finally, the papers were graded. I was about to grab my bag when he stopped me again. “If you could, Amara, tomorrow afternoon I’d like you to update my grade book.” I smiled at him across his desk.

“Consider it a date, Coach.” Another wink and I walked out.

 Eric was staring at me during lunch with a shrewd eye. “Why do you look like you’re REALLY looking forward to gym class today?” Shit, how had he- “You keep looking at your watch like you’re doing a fucking countdown to the end of lunch.”

“Another day, another X off the days I have to be there,” I tried. Taking a long sip from my drink, and hoping beyond hope that Mary wasn’t as astute or that her attention had been on that huge ass football player she’d had her eye on all month.

She snorted and I knew that my luck wasn’t good. “Sure, Amara, sure.” I looked over to see her eyes gleaming. “You haven’t bitched about good old Coach for weeks. Or sweating. Or any of the other irritating shit you usually bitch about.” She was studying me, and when I glanced at Eric I realized he was too. “Are you hot for teacher?” She made a mock gasp of modesty. “Amara Kendall, are you thinking inappropriate things about Coach Negan?”

I could FEEL Eric’s smile before I even glanced to confirm it. “Oh shit, she’s caught it.” I glared. “You caught the horniness.” I rolled my eyes. “Wow, Amara’s human, who fucking knew?”

“Fuck you.” I hissed, trying to feel more anger than I did. Truth was I was practically bursting with it. And I hadn’t been able to tell anyone. “It’s nothing. I’m just staying after to help him-”

“Count his balls?” Eric offered, snickering. “You did say you do inventory for him after all.”

“Inspecting Coach Negan’s balls-” Mary hummed in appreciation. “Feeling pretty damn jealous, Amara.”

The bell rang and I groaned. “You two make it seem so dirty.”

“If it’s good, it’ll be very fucking dirty,” Eric whispered into my ear as his arm came around my shoulder.

“And wet,” Mary offered from my other side, “otherwise it’ll hurt.”

“You both suck,” I muttered as I pulled away and started for the gym.

“You better too!” was their parting shot and I felt the blush burn my cheeks.

  Class went normally. Or as normally as class can go when you’re ignoring the teacher. Or trying desperately to ignore the teacher.

“Amara!” I looked up as a ball came straight for my face. “Keep your eye on the ball!” Fuck. I dodged just in time to not sport a black eye. “Head in the game, people, head in the game!” He was smirking at me like he knew what I was trying to NOT think about.

The game, the class, dragged on. Longest fucking gym class of my life. And as I started for the locker room, he called me over. I tightened my ponytail and jogged to where he was leaning against the wall.

“Yeah, Coach?” I asked, telling myself that I was breathless from the exertion from exercise, not from the scent of him. I bit my lip and looking up I saw his eyes were laser focused on my mouth.

“Still on for this evening?” I nodded, and his hand reached out to swipe my bangs out of my face. “Good, my grade book is feeling pretty fucking neglected.” I smiled up at him. “See you after school.”

“Later, Coach.” I turned and walked toward the locker room. Feeling his eyes on me the entire way.

 I was at my locker, listening to the rowdiness of the other students slamming doors and screaming out plans for their evenings. Tugging on the silky fabric of the dress that barely peeked out from under my over-sized sweater. Knee high socks and matching boots completed the look, my hair braided over one shoulder. I sighed, and gave myself a pep talk. It was just updating his grade book. I was CLEARLY reading more into everything than he meant me to. There was NO WAY that Negan looked at me as ANYTHING more than his only upper class student with more brains than brawn.

I almost missed Eric and Mary coming by to offer their see ya laters, or their heavy handed innuendos about my after school activities.

“Remember, don’t be a hero,” Mary offered, tugging on my braid. “Not everyone can deepthroat on their first go.” I glared at her, for fuck’s sake, I wasn’t a damn virgin.

“Don’t glare, it’s good advice.” Eric continued. “We know you’ve fucked, sweetie, but Coach isn’t in the peewee leagues, he’s a MAN.” A wink and a laugh and they were off. Fuckers.

And I’d almost had my nerves under control. But they were in full bloom as I made my way down the once again empty hallways. The gym came first, then the office door, and my hand knocked gently.

“Come in.” I took a deep breath and opened the door. At ease in his desk chair, leaned back reading a magazine, with his feet up I let my breath out. See, I told myself, not interested in me at all. “Wow,” his eyes flicked to me standing framed in the doorway, and I watched him drop the magazine and take in the full vision of me. “Feel like I’m under dressed, Amara.”

I smiled. “Dress for the job you want, right Coach?” I offered, walking into the room further and putting my bag down next to the chair I’d sat in to grade papers. “Grade book?”

“What job do you want, Amara?” His eyes were still on the way my sweater was falling slightly off one shoulder, showing the thin strap of the satin and lace dress I wore underneath. I took my seat and crossed my legs, knowing that my skirt rose a bit higher when I did.

“Why don’t you guess?” I sat back, looking more confident and carefree than my stomach would indicate, I hoped.

I watched Negan bite his lip and drink me in. “Never seen anyone in any job dressed like that, sweetheart.”

“Let’s go with a student for now,” I offered, and his eyes met mine. “Isn’t that what I am?” I shrugged my shoulder, and felt the sweater slip a bit more. His eyes locked on the bared skin and I saw him swallow.

“Yeah,” he breathed and then he snapped himself out of whatever image had been playing in his mind. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a generic grade book. Walking around the desk, he leaned against the edge to open the book. “Pretty standard, but,” I leaned forward to follow his finger as he explained how he liked the grades to be entered. My hand reached out to trace a line and he stilled.

“So you want them to run linear, but you also want the grades to be both numerical and alphabetical.” I glanced up at him and saw that my hand, over the book, was right over where his crotch would be if the book wasn’t in the way. Oh. I bit my lip and he groaned.

“Shit.” He sat fully on the desktop and looked up to the ceiling. Gathering strength? Resolve? “Amara,” he looked down at me and then the grade book was tossed on the desk and my hand was on his thigh. Oops. He swallowed hard. “Honey, do you really want your hand there?”

I studied him. He wasn’t pushing my hand away, he wasn’t disgusted or pissed. He was warning me, but not the type of warning I expected. It made my next move easier. “No,” I whispered up at him. “I think I want my hand here.” I moved and cupped him through his gym shorts. “Is this alright, Coach Negan?”

His eyes rolled back as my hand pressed down a bit harder, feeling how hard he was, and was only getting harder. I licked my lips and slid my hand along the shaft I could feel through his layers. His hand covered mine, but instead of drawing mine away, he helped me find the rhythm he wanted. He swallowed a moan and I smiled up at him. “Keep that up, princess, and we’re not gonna get anything done.”

“Still want that grade book updated, sir?” He couldn’t hold back his moan at that. He really enjoyed that ‘sir’ shit. I licked my lips again. “Hand me the book.” I took my hand away and his hands took my elbows and pulled me from my chair.

“That’s not what’s gonna get done, Amara.” And then his lips met mine and it was me trying to hold back my moans. His tongue flicked against my lips and I opened my mouth for him. One of my hands found his neck, the other was fisted his shirt both holding him to me. He pulled away slightly and I groaned. “You want this, right?” Wait, what?

“Read the room, Coach,” I muttered, and pulled his face back to me. “Do I look like I’m fighting it?” His chuckle vibrated my lips as our mouths met again.

He turned our bodies, so I was sitting on his desk and he was standing between my open knees. “Knees up, Miss Kendall.” He ordered against my mouth and I obliged. His hands slid up my boots to my raised knees, helping to put my feet on the desk. He hummed as his hands continued up my bare thighs, under the satin skirt of my dress, until his fingers hooked into the thread that constituted the waistband of my lace panties. He tried to pull them down, but it was basically a thread, and I giggled as they literally snapped in his fingers. Oops. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to-”

I shook my head, and nipped at his bottom lip. “I have more.” And his mouth left mine, kissing along my jaw, nibbling on my earlobe.

“Good,” he breathed against my ear. “I didn’t mean to, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.” And then his teeth grazed the sensitive skin under my ear and my eyes closed. He kissed down my neck and his fingers, which had gone still after destroying my panties, started to explore my waist, the soft skin of my upper thighs, teasing but not touching where I was internally begging him to. “Seems like you want something, Amara,” his mouth was on my shoulder, bared before he’d even touched me. “Say it, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.”

“Touch me,” I pleaded, my fingers digging into his shoulders, pushing down, trying without words to show him.

“Where?” His nose was buried between my sweater and satin clothed breasts, breathing in my perfume. “Where, princess, where do you want me to touch you?”

“Everywhere, sir, everywhere.” I breathed, and felt his chuckle vibrate through my sternum. “But first,” my hand left his shoulder and met his under my skirt. “Here,” and pulling his hand to the center of my heat I sighed as the pads of his finger brushed my folds.

“Oh, here?” He asked, pulling back to look into my face, my eyes locked on his. And then, he let his fingers slip through the slick wetness he found with my help. “You’re wet, Amara, so fucking wet.” Between the lips, feeling the dampness grow, he licked his lips. As his thumb brushed my tightly wound bundle of nerves, my hips left the desk. His other hand moved to hold my hips down. “Now, now I didn’t say you could move, sweetheart.” Fuck. He let one long finger slide up and down my slick, and then, watching my face and my expressions, slid slowly inside. My head fell back and I practically growled at the feeling. Fuck, a finger, and I was ready to go insane. I wouldn’t fucking survive his actual dick. “How’s that feel, Amara?”

I tried rocking my hips, I tried rolling closer. His hand holding me still was like a vise. Fuck. “Not enough, that’s how it feels, Coach. Like it’s NOT enough.” I bit down on my lip as he added another finger, still not moving once I was impaled by both. Fucking tease. “Is this a fucking punishment for something?” I begged, trying once again to move my hips, to force him to move.

“Oh, sweetheart, when I punish you, you’ll fucking know it.” Shit, I just got- “You like that don’t you, princess? The idea of me punishing you.” I felt my walls clamp down on his fingers and so did he. “We’ll have to talk about that later,” he leaned forward and licked back into my mouth. “I want to taste you, Amara,” he breathed into my mouth.

And he did. He feasted on me. He used those fingers of his, and that mouth on him, to make me a shaking, moaning mess on his desk. And then, once he felt he’d had his fill of me, he stood up and helped me take off my sweater, sliding his hands over the satin of my dress before tugging it over my head and tossing it on the chair with my sweater. The bra was gone before I could contemplate it, and then, I was pulling his shirt off his body, tugging down his shorts and without any more preamble, he was thrust deep inside of me. My feet still on the desk, my knees high, my legs open, and his hands on my hips controlling the rhythm.

My hands were back on his shoulders, my mouth and tongue tasting the skin of his chest, finding tattoos I wouldn’t have known about in ordinary circumstances, but then his hips moved and I whimpered. “Is that the spot, Amara?” He growled, hitting it again and again, as I arched my hips a bit higher, trying to find friction and purchase. “That’s it, isn’t it, sweetheart?” And then again, and I was pleading by offering him his name over and over. “Come on, princess, come on.”

And it happened. Like a freight train rushing through me, I came, biting his shoulder so I wouldn’t scream and felt his thrusting stutter as my clamping and tightening body forced him over too. We were shaking and breathing hard, but he didn’t pull away. He kept holding me, his fingers sliding over my bare skin as he grew limp inside of me. His lips kissing my forehead when I pulled away from his chest to look up at him. Our bodies were slick with sweat, a sweat that I would gladly wear again and again. Our lips met, and I smiled into his kiss.

When we pulled back, his forehead pressed against mine, I had to laugh when he said, “now about that grade book.”

[hes-writer]

Just A Little Bit of Your Heart (2)

Summary: Harry and Y/N are in an open relationship

Warnings: angst and a teensy bit of smut?

Word Count: 4870 words

A/N: unedited cause it’s late at night but I wanna post it now so I could read your guys’ comments tomorrow morning :)

Y/N woke up with no indents of Harry’s body creased on the navy blue sheets of their bed, indicating that he didn’t come home last night and probably spent the rest of the evening at some lesser known hotel to avoid the attention. She sighed, already used to it but the stabbing pain in her chest didn’t come any softer. She had just woken up and her mood was ruined, but she knew she couldn’t let this affect her for the whole day.

Y/N slipped her feet into the fuzzy slippers by her side of the bed, feet shuffling lazily on the hardwood flooring leading to the bathroom where she freshened up for the day. Grabbing her towel, she hung it on the rack before sliding the glass door of the standing shower to the side to let her hand in through the crack and turn the water knob on. The stream of water took her by surprise, jumping a few centimeters off the ground. Y/N waited until it was warm enough for her liking before stripping off of her pajamas, leaving it huddled on the marble floor.

The hot jets massaged her sore muscles and wiped off the excess makeup that the makeup remover and night wash couldn’t get off. It was relieving, to say the least, and she slowly felt her body relax against the open air of the shower space. While cleaning her body with soap, she was taken by surprise when a gruff voice cut off her slightly off time singing and cold arms wrapping themselves around her body.

“Hey love,” Harry murmured against the name of her neck.

She turned around to face him, her breath meeting the expanse of his tanned chest. Y/N inspected his face; glowing and bright. Although she was happy that his skin was thriving, the reasoning behind as to why that was was something that Y/N wasn’t ready to proclaim.

“When did you get home?” Y/N littered small kisses on his jawline, feeling the rough stubble of his five o’clock shadow.

“Couple of minutes ago,” He answered, tilting his head up to catch the water on his mop of hair, getting the strands wet and damp.

Y/N caught sight of the dark hickeys dotted on his neck–and chest–to which she hadn’t seen earlier because of his unexpected arrival. The lighting glimmered a new area of his skin where marks of infidelity decorated him. Some of them were bruised while others were a light shading of red—but all of them proved that Harry did shag the woman in the red dress last night. Somehow, Y/N had convinced herself to always see the good in Harry and that meant creating scenarios where he rejects any women who weren’t her in their advances. She was sadly disproven once again.

Harry looked down at her when he felt her fingers tracing the bruises, hissing slightly when she tapped a bit harsher than usual. In an odd way, Y/N felt a sense of smugness knowing that he was hurting. She saw it as a way of punishing him for being away from her for another night. Another lonely time laying in bed where she wondered what she could’ve done better.

“Ouch!” He wheezed, wincing at the pain when she pressed on the purple one by his left pec.

Y/N ignored his complaint, advising him to turn around so she could clean his back off the sweat and brine that must’ve built up in the span of twenty-four hours. What she saw made her gasp; completely horrified by the scarlet lacerated marks striping his back muscles.

“Is it that bad?” His head glanced over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the traces that caused a dull pain on his back. He knew they were there ever since he woke up this morning with a sore torso. The cab driver he hitched a ride for stared at him from the mirror when Harry jolted his back upright as soon as it rubbed against the leather seat, laughing sarcastically at his pain.

——

“I know who you are,” The driver uttered, eyes catching his green ones once in a while. “Does your lady know about this?”

Harry fumed as he was not ready for the mimicry this early in the morning, “Please keep quiet. I’m paying you for your service,”

——

Yes, it was pretty bad. If anything, it looked like a rabid cat scratched its claws deep into his soft skin and ripped the first surface, resulting in welts. Y/N thought that some of them were even bleeding.

“Very bad,”

Harry and YN dried themselves off a few minutes later. Harry carefully patting his body dry to not irritate the swollen skin.

Y/N instructed him to lay down on the bed so that she could rub some ointment on the welt marks. “I hate this,”

Harry hummed in response, completely clueless as to what she was talking about. “What do you hate?”

“The marks, the hickeys and the scratches, H” She spoke mindlessly, her fingertip acquiring a penny sized amount.

“Are you saying you want to end this?” This, as in, the open relationship they’d placed upon them self. Either one of them could stop it at any time but Y/N couldn’t bring herself to hold her ground. They’ve not been like a normal couple in ages and if they did stop this, it would be difficult to act all sweetly—like they didn’t just love on another body weeks previous.  “Y/N?”

She shook her head, “N-no I don’t” and she hated herself for being so weak–despite what the media made her out to be–because she was hurting twofold but seeing Harry take full advantage of their agreement made her feel guilty for taking away something that he enjoyed in his life. “I just don’t like how they leave marks on you,”

Harry scoffed, “Sorry, some of them like it rough,”

She pinched his skin between her fingers causing him to groan in pain.

“I don’t even know who they are but they always find a way to make themselves known,” Y/N said sadly.

She wasn’t stupid—of course, he was seeing people behind her back (and right in front of her) but if she didn’t know their name or saw how they looked like—she could pretend that they weren’t real and it made her feel a bit better; delusional, but better. But seeing his skin tainted with their wake left her astonished at how gradually pieces of Harry was being taken from her hold. His heart was still hers—as far as she was concerned—but his body was being metaphorically split between women that she didn’t know. Y/N was sharing her love with people who mostly only slept with him for the sake of it—because of who he was and not because they shared the intimate affections that her and Harry once gave to each other.

———-

It was a stupid idea; emphasis on stupid. Looking back in retrospect, there were better ways to handle what had happened between the two of them. Y/N came home one day tired from shooting scenes for her new movie. One click to her phone downed her mood even more because of the news that Harry had been papped with Kendall at a club. Now, of course, they’ve had talks about who to and not trust but the pictures spoke for themselves.

“What is this?” She said sternly as soon as Harry entered the doorway of their bedroom.

“I’m guessing you saw,”

“Of course I did,” Y/N crossed her arms across her chest, standing up from her having her legs crossed. “Care to explain yourself?”

“I didn’t cheat on you,” He noted right away.

She nodded, a small breath of relief made its way out of her mouth, “That’s good to know,”

“I almost did, though” Harry admitted, eyes searching hers for some sort of emotion that he could use to justify his actions. Just like that, the weight on her shoulders dropped heavily.

“Y-you what?”

He sighed, closing the gap between them and taking her hands into his large palms. “I’m not gonna lie to you, Y/N. I almost kissed Kendall today, plenty of times actually, but I didn’t.”

Y/N rolled her eyes at him, “So what? Should I be grateful that you didn’t kiss her?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” He answered, voice deepening in a tenor note, “I thought about it long and hard on the way home,” She cocked an eyebrow at him to continue. “I think it’s better if we break it off,”

“Break it off?” Y/N repeated, annunciating his words. No matter how infuriated she was at him, she didn’t think she could handle breaking up with Harry.

He gulped, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, “If I was having thoughts about kissing another girl, then maybe … maybe it would be best if we broke up,” Harry explain his thoughts briefly, “I wouldn’t want to cheat on you either,”

“Do you like her?”

Harry’s curls bounced when he shook his head, “Do you still love me?” He nodded, “Then why are you leaving me?”

His palm glossed over his angelic features, “I just wanted to try kissing her,”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” Y/N concluded. What kind of sick joke was he playing at?

“I know it’s crazy but please try to understand. I’m trying to figure this out too,”

And from then, she briefly remembered her old self suggesting an open relationship. Her friend had talked about it once before, indicating that it was the best decision she’d ever made in her life. Both partners were free to fuck and kiss any other person but their hearts were still loyal to each other. Y/N found it quite concerning as she believed that if two people really loved each other—then they would give everything in exchange, even their bodies and not just their hearts. However, it also gave both parties freedom and liberation to explore something that their current partners might not be into—it was something that greatly defined Y/N and causes her to shiver in disgust. Sure, she preferred as others would call ‘vanilla’ sex most of the time, but that was only because she would like to be cared for in her most vulnerable moments; she didn’t know that it would be the cause of a massive downfall in her and Harry’s relationship.

They were both busy and it was pretty accurate. Y/N didn’t have enough time for Harry and Harry certainly didn’t make her feel any special in the few months leading up to their decision of such a relationship. So it was no surprise that Harry jumped at the opportunity when she suggested it. His eyes twinkled in delight and his smile held a certain degree of mischief that would soon be expressed in rough fucking the next day. Needless to say, YN had to sit through the story of how Harry absolutely ruined Kendall (in terms of orgasms). She didn’t ask, but he was too excited to thank her for her suggestion. The marks on his hips confirmed his words and truth to be told, she almost gagged while Y/N was riding him.

She felt absolutely used and dirty knowing that another woman had touched him the way she was doing it right now and he didn’t even seem bothered! The bliss on his face kept her going, hoping that he would cease his actions right at the beginning and realize that he didn’t need other women because Y/N was there for him—in more ways than one.

Obviously, it didn’t.

——

As soon as pictures of Shawn and Y/N were released on the Internet, there was no doubt that Harry’s blood boiled upon seeing it.  His eyes widened at the phone screen and he gaped at Y/N getting dressed at one corner of the room while sat back the bed with his legs stretched out. Of course, they were going to be leaving with each other; Harry saw the looks they gave one another. How dare she lecture him about the marks on his body when she herself was getting tainted?

He was agitated, to say the least—nostrils flaring wild with thoughts building on top of one another and he couldn’t help but say, “How was Shawn last night?”

Y/N paused all her actions, slowly turning around with a confused face, “What do you mean?”

“Oh come on, Y/N,” Harry chuckled sarcastically. “He fucked you last night, didn’t he? Was he good?”

“Harry, wha–? He took me home because he saw that you left and–,”

“No need to lie. I saw the pictures,” Rolling his eyes, he fumbled with his phone to turn the brightness up, “I always tell you about my escapades, why don’t you tell me any of yours?” He questioned, leaning over to show her the pictures dating from last night.

Because I don’t have any ‘escapades’, she thought.

“It’s because I haven’t slept with anyone,”

Harry furrowed his brows, forehead scrunching, “In a while?”

She shook her head, stammering a bit from her unplanned confession, “N-no, in ever,” Her fingers twist the button of her jeans, tightening the fabric around her waist, the blouse she’d picked for today matched the black denim; everything went well the dark jeans. “I haven’t slept with anyone except you,”

He gasped incredulously, “Really?” He then doubled over in cackling laughter, “That’s a funny joke, now tell me the truth. How many has it been? 3? 5?” He muttered while counting on his fingers, “I know mine is at least 23, plus last night would be 24,”

Y/N shifted her soles uncomfortably in her socks. She definitely didn’t need to know how many women Harry had fooled around with, she didn’t even need to see him recount every one of them in perfect memory as if they all did something memorable to him.

—-

Harry was taken aback at her confession. He figured that Y/N must’ve fooled around with somebody else at least once. Now he didn’t know if she was lying about the number of her flings to make him feel guilty because he had taken full advantage of what this relationship had to offer.

Deep inside, he knew that if she did begin to talk about other men like he did with women–he wouldn’t be able to handle the jealousy bubbling inside of him. It’s not like he could control what he says any better either; it would be a big mess. All in all, he was glad that she avoided talking about men in front of him.

He can always claim to love her–he does, by the way–but at times he gets antsy in his pants because she could walk in the door at any time and break it off with him. Even though his body was not entirely hers, his heart was a piece of him that she will forever carry in her dainty hands. He had decided long ago that nobody took better care of him other than Y/N, and he was eternally grateful for her ability to withstand his mistakes and misfortunes.

Harry didn’t like the idea of his girl hanging around with other guys and he was aware that Y/N wasn’t too fond of him being around various women often. However, both of them were too coward to actually say something to each other. They knew each other very well, but not at this topic. This topic was blurry and foggy, and they had no sense of what to do to stop this. Both of them would probably project their feelings and ideas to one another, and it would only create an even bigger mess because their pride was too huge to push aside.

The fact the Y/N doesn’t share about her experiences caused Harry to think of the worst, that being that her tendency to not make him a part of it meant that she must be doing it secretly– as if he was doing it behind his back, times two. If Y/N did go out with another guy, she was doing it very sneakily as the press hadn’t caught her and her arm candy. She must be going out on dates when he was out of the house. Maybe she even brought them back in their home and fucked them on the marble kitchen counter. Not once had she called about canceling dinner plans or meetings so she must be doing it while Harry was off fucking the brains out of some random chick whom he’d have to force to sign an NDA later on.

It worried him sometimes if the person she was with treated her right. Y/N wasn’t the type of girl that you hump and dump; if the articles were right about something, it would be that she was the kindest, most humble woman in the business that you would probably feel physically sick if you made a frown etched on her face. He knew he had no right to swipe left on who she wanted to see, much like how he preferred for her to stay out of his decisions on who take home at night.

—-

It was the third day in a row where Harry forgot to pick up Y/N on set. He was on a break from writing and basically everything so it shouldn’t be too much of a problem to get a sense of time and pick up his girlfriend from her filming location. She was sitting at the black leather seats at the front lobby of the building, dressed in the outfit she left in earlier this morning. Her hair was done up in the ’70s do to get the vibe of the part she was supposed to play. All Y/N wanted was to wash the hairspray off of her hair and wipe the makeup from her face, but she couldn’t do that unless she was home. There were already some fans outside the tinted glass windows who caught wind of her whereabouts and she had already interacted with them.

Still no Harry.

“Hey Y/N. Sorry, I’m late,” Harry huffed, his hair wildly curly for it to be the work of the spring breeze. There were marks on his neck and his pupils were blown wild. Of course.

As much as she felt repulsed at his audacity to show up late looking he had just had the best fuck of his life, all Y/N really wanted to do was eat some dinner and cuddle with him–after he had taken a shower.

“It’s fine,” She muttered quietly, voice a little hoarse from how much she had to rehearse to get her lines accurate. “‘M tired.” Burying her head on his chest was a giant mistake because as soon as she was in proper distance from him, a sweet scent hit her nostrils and her earlier suspicion was confirmed.

“Aw bub, how about we go home, hmm?” He felt her head nodding against his shirt causing him to look down at her in admiration. She was such a hard-working woman who was determined to achieve greatness. “Let’s go,”

Upon settling in Harry’s car, Y/N lazily buckled in her safety belt and sat patiently while Harry rounded the front of the vehicle to get to the other side. He opened the door and got comfortable as well before starting the roar of the engine and shifted the gear to reverse, pulling out of his parking space.

“So I was thinking maybe we could cook dinner together,” She started. “We’ll cook your favorite, then we can watch a movie in bed while cuddling like we used to.” Y/N’s eyes softened at the thought of being affectionate with Harry. “What do you say, H?”

He hummed in response, not saying much else. Y/N assumed it was because of the heavy traffic that kept his attention on the road. She didn’t mind though, just knowing that his presence with near her made her feel warm and fuzzy on the inside. They hadn’t been together much, not even at nights where it should be reserved. He was always off staying at some lady’s chateau and as much as she was glad that he was safe; she wished and preferred that he would–one day–pick their home as a safe haven.

Y/N must’ve taken a bit of nap because she was woken up with a slight shake to her shoulder. Harry smiled at her gently, informing her that they were home. She adjusted her eyes to the bright space of their house, lights guiding the way to the cobblestone pathway to the front door. She grasped the handle of the car, pulling it towards her while using her other hand to push the entrapment in order to exit. Y/N was about to swing her legs over the seat when she realized that Harry was entitled to his phone which was buzzing repeatedly in his hand.

“H?” Y/N called out but to no avail. He was biting his lip, tearing the skin slightly. “Harry?” She questioned again but all she received was the soft purr of the engine. “Harry!”

The rising volume of her voice snapped him out of his electronic trance, “Yeah?”

Y/N scoffed to herself, rolling her eyes minutely before asking: “What do you say about dinner?”

“Oh, uhm, I think it would be a great idea but–,”

“Great! Then we can pick a movie and cuddle afterward, yeah?” She interrupted, feeling excitement vibrating through her bones.

“Actually, I’m busy tonight,” He admitted sheepishly, dimple popping in a slight indent. “Maybe some other time?”

His answer got Y/N speechless and her mouth was dropping open and closed in a matter of seconds. “Where are you going? Is there something wrong?” The concern in her voice was enough to make him feel a bit guilty.

“No actually– I uh–,” The buzz of his phone distracted his train of thought and his eyes widened when his thumbprint unlocked his cell. Harry whispered a breathy ‘fuck’, not meaning for Y/N to hear it.

Y/N shifted her hand to rest on the cushion of the car seat, reaching over to grab Harry’s phone from his clutch. She could see his fingers trying to grasp on the air where his phone used to be, his eyes growing wide when he witnessed his girlfriend glance down at the white screen illuminating her face.

It showcased a conversation between him and a girl named Chloe. Y/N inspected the messages they had sent each other in the past minute and she almost gagged.

***

You think you can sneak away for a bit? Y/N gets to spend almost every day with you! Come on, I can cook you dinner and offer a show…

She rolled her eyes at the atrocity of the message the woman sent, but it wasn’t anything compared to Harry’s reply.

Mm, you definitely know how to persuade someone into giving you what you want. I’ll make something up. I expect you to be waiting for me in an hour or so.

The show would be even better if you wore the white panties you were wearing yesterday

It was a simple request that caused Y/N’s heart to pound for attention to be soothed, yet she couldn’t do anything else but let her thumb scroll down further. A part of her wanted to blow up, throw the phone on the ground and watch it shatter in pieces; much like how her heart felt after comprehending the filthy messages. Another, more sensible, part of her wanted to calmly return his pain-inducing device calmly and not give him the satisfaction of seeing her eyes well up with tears.

Of course, I bought them as per your request. I know white lingerie is your favorite.

It is when I take it off your body,

I need you Harry

Im coming. I expect you to be naked.

Her throat was dry and she still had a bit of trouble understanding the lengths he was willing to go through just to fuck some girl. He was planning on blatantly lying to her about his plans for the evening and showed no hesitation of leaving dear Y/N once again for the umpteenth time.

“I guess I’ll be spending tonight with just me,” Y/N chuckled bitterly, having half the mind on locking his phone to try to erase the messages somehow before handing it back to him. Harry stared at the phone as if it would burn his skin if it touched him; it felt like it to Y/N, too.

She proceeded with her previous actions, stepping off the vehicle and slamming the door shut before Harry could say anything. Y/N fumbled with the keys on the walk over to the front door, rushing to find the right one.  

“Y/N, wait!” Harry pulled on her arm, making her face him. “I-i, you weren’t supposed to see that,” His tone was demeaning as if it was her fault that she was hurt.

“Obviously I wasn’t. What did I expect asking you for dinner and a movie?” She admitted, attitude going down in the dumps and a little sourer. “Guess I’m always last on the list, huh?”

He shook his head fast that it was dizzying, “No you’re not,” She lifted a hand to silence him from his unprepared excuses, “Save it. Just go.”

And with that, Harry was left immobilized on the gravel while Y/N skipped towards the front door. She made eye contact with him before shutting the door against the frame.

—-

Y/N was disheartened that her long and tiring day only sought to be more disappointing than she had expected. How could she ever think Harry would be able to deliver with her request? He was busy pleasing other woman and to even think of satisfying Y/N was swirling down the drain.

She huffed, annoyed at his ability to piss her off every twenty minutes. This was who they were behind closed doors. The speculations of their fans and the prying articles of news outlets could have never guessed that precious Y/N and Harry were not as innocent as they appeared to be. This had been their scenario for the past couple of months. This was them now; this is Harry …

But this isn’t Y/N and maybe it’s time for a change.

As YN picked up the light case of her phone, she tapped unto her contact list and found the name she’d been searching for. He had frequented in dropping hints about how he found her attractive, but of course, Y/N never felt objectified because his charm glazed him with an ability to soften the tough barricades of her heart. He was respectful to her and to Harry and kept his distance away from Y/N even though he was looking at her with lustful eyes during the Nolan premier. His self-control was amazing, Y/N gave him that. The way he focused on her with such an intense gaze made her squirm in her seat and partly wished that it was Harry who couldn’t keep his eyes off her.

There had always been sexual tension present in the air between them, but neither parties acted upon it because of who they were. Not only would it cause a big scandal, but they were afraid that it would ruin their friendship with each other. Y/N cared too much and he would rather have her as a friend if he couldn’t have her as a significant other.

Y/N’s fingers tapped on the keyboard with fresh speed; a sentence that she had never thought should, or be able to type.

“Come over and fuck me.”

She waited until the text was titled ‘sent’, before taking a quick shower and slipping into some white lace lingerie that complimented the curves of her body. Y/N popped the cork of a wine bottle as well, setting it on the bedside table and grabbed to clear glasses in the kitchen. After some time, the doorbell rang and she had sprinted down the stairs, walking the last few meters to catch her breath and swung the door open.

Y/N scanned the man in front of her, dressed in a simple white tee and grey sweats that showed off his bulge that she had wondered about frequently. The shared a small smile with each other, a twinkle in their eyes.

“Hey Shawn,” Y/N greeted before feeling a pair of lips pressed against her own. Her chest landing on his broad pane. Somewhere in the distance, the front door slammed shut and her body got pinned on the wood. He groaned lightly against her mouth when she traced a finger on his neck, grazing over the generic soft spot, feeling him shiver with delight and her lashes flutter on her cheeks.

She should’ve done this sooner.

—-

ok not gonna lie, I feel like I totally rushed this but my schedule is getting busier and busier and I didn’t wanna leave you guys yearning for more so ta-da! :D

I think the 3rd part will contain some filth?? my FIRST smut fix and sksksksk

permanent taglist;  @ynm1505 @kissme-hs @agoddamnmango @harrys-kingdom @calums-sugarbaby @queenbeestuffs @ashkuuuu @kettxo @send-me-styles @ofpeppermintbay @littledreamybeth @trustfulhaz @harrysfeastedflower @harrystxleslx @befourep @moonandstars-xo @babebenhardy @swayingnoodlelove @mendesromano @harrystylinsince1994 4 @juliassgem @miscll-fangirl @little-dragon-ate-my-heart

jalboyh taglist; @harryspirate @officiallyunofficalperson @gviosca @llandaaa @mutuallynotmutual @mellamolayla @madformichael @toolazymyguy @sauveteen @joycelovedorial @rebelflower19 @myfangirlworld @stella95827 @katelynmusic @loganmay19 @calssunflower

​

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Work Something Out

Characters: Dean Winchester x Teacher!Reader, Castiel Winchester 

Word Count: 1,480

Warnings: just fluff, minor angst

Summary: One of your students tells a story that captures your attention quickly because it brings you back to your past and the one thing that changed your life forever.

Squared Filled: meeting the parents // Daycare Teacher au

Author’s Note: This is for @spndeanbingo and @spnfluffbingo2019 respectively and this is also based o @spn-imagines-nation imagine! This is unbeta’d and any and all mistakes are all on me.

Feedback the glue that holds my writing together

Tags at the bottom

“Alright class, I hope you all had a great summer. I see new faces, and to get to know each other, I want you to turn to your table and tell each other a little bit about you as well as something fun you did this summer,” you said to your class of adorable children. “You may begin.”

Almost immediately, chatter erupted throughout the classroom which made you smile. Taking a seat at your desk, you watch their faces grow with smiles as they told their old friends and potentially new ones of their lives. The one kid you were especially paying attention to was Castiel Winchester who was so enthusiastic in his storytelling. He had been in your class for the past few years, so you knew a little bit about him. He was usually quiet and reserved, but he wasn’t like that this time. He seemed to have found the courage to be outspoken and friendly to his peers.

Teaching kids is something you’ve always wanted to do. They were your passion and fuel that gassed up your motivation for life. Just seeing their smiles when they came to you with a project they made, a paper they wrote, a test they completed, and anything else they did at school or home gave you the utmost joy. You didn’t have any kids of your own, so you thought your school children as if they were. It was always a pleasure to teach them and help them grow into exceptionally fine people. It was always hard to watch them leave after every year, but it was worth it.

As each kid took their turns, you could tune into what they were trying to say. One kid was proudly telling their peers about how he and his older sister took a round trip across the country since she was going away to college soon and wanted to do something with him. Another kid talked about the time where she had to get her tonsils removed and how much ice cream she ate because of it. Each story was more or less the same, but they were all unique in their own way.

Getting up, you walked around the classroom and stopped by each desk to monitor the things they were talking about. You didn’t know how many times kids would talk about things that their parents did or recall something of what they heard that wasn’t appropriate for school. As you approached Castiel’s table, he was still talking about his summer, but that wasn’t why you were so concerned. It was the looks on his tablemate’s faces that got you immediately tuning into their conversation.

“And then my daddy ripped off the head of the vampire! Blood went everywhere and it was so cool! I was only allowed to stay in the car, but I saw the whole thing! It was like the time he stabbed ten demons in the gut and killed them all! He and my uncle are the best monster hunters ever!” Castiel grinned, showing off his toothless smile. He apparently had lost his two front teeth as well. His friends were clearly scared, and they looked at you for help, but you were frozen, unable to move or any anything.

His story brought back memories you’d rather forget. When you were a child, your family was murdered right in front of your eyes. For an eight-year-old, that was traumatizing enough, but it wasn’t humans that destroyed your life. A nest of vampires broke in and slaughtered everyone in their trail. The only reason why you were able to get away was that there was 7 of you and only 6 of them. It broke your heart to leave, but while they were busy munching on your family, you left and ran to your neighbor’s house who called the police. By the time they got there, the vampires were long gone, but you remembered everything about that night. Even though you told the police you were asleep and caught the men already inside. Even though you told them they were human. Even though after 25 years, you could still remember their faces and the way they sunk their teeth into your parents like they were a lean piece of meat. After that night, you never encountered another supernatural thing ever but researched a lot about vampires and other creatures in case something were to happen. Your passion was children, so you pursued that knowing that if something were to happen to your students, you would know what to do. The only problem was that they were back, and they were looking for you to complete the job. You escaped them once, and they didn’t want that to happen again.

“Castiel,” you said once you found that you could speak again. “Why don’t you let your other classmates have a chance to talk. Okay?”

“Okay, Miss Y/L/N,” he sighed as he sat down properly and let the rest of the group decide what to talk about. You made a mental note to talk to him after class because unlike his classmates, you believed every word he said.

“Castiel, could I have a word with you?” you asked at the end of the day. Students filed out of the door to greet their parents with huge smiles. You have never met Castiel’s parents, but you think you might need to now. Castiel bounces over to your desk, but once he saw the look in his eyes, he grew worried.

“You’re getting that look that my daddy does when something is wrong. Did I do something wrong?” he asked fearfully.

“No, you didn’t. Where did you come up with that story you were telling everyone?”

“It’s not a story. It really happened. My daddy and my uncle are monster hunters.”

“Okay, who is picking you up?”

“My daddy.”

“Can I speak to him? Can you go get him for me, please?” you asked sweetly. He shrugged and agreed before running out of the classroom. Knowing that there was actually monster hunters out there scared the shit out of you because you knew they were there for a reason.

“Did you get into trouble?” A man with a deep voice spoke as Castiel dragged him into the classroom.

“Miss Y/L/N says no,” the kid responded. Damn, Castiel’s dad is pretty hot. No, not pretty hot, most definitely hot. He had the brightest green eyes you have ever seen, and his body was muscular but not in the way that was disgusting. He was tall, the perfect height for you. Wait, you are not meant to size him up as your next boyfriend, he was here for a reason.

“You wanted to see me? I’m Dean Winchester,” he said as he held out his hand for you to shake which you did.

“Y/N Y/L/N. Castiel isn’t in trouble. He just told a story to his classmates that scared them. Something about vampires and demons.”

“Cas, go wait outside,” Dean said immediately, and his son did as he was told without question.

“I don’t know where he got that imagination from, but he told me everything he said was real. That you and your brother were monster hunters.”

“I’m sorry, he really shouldn’t be telling people those stories,” he chuckled.

“So the part about you slicing off a vampire’s head and stabbing ten demons in the gut is true?”

“No. Look, the bedtime stories I tell can get a little animated. That’s all.”

“That’s a shame,” you whispered.

“Why is that?”

“It doesn’t matter. Those stories aren’t real,” you sighed as you took a seat at your desk. Dean bit his bottom lip because he knew you were in some kind of supernatural trouble. If you weren’t, then you wouldn’t act like this.

“What if those stories are true? That they really happened?” he asked as he leaned on one of the student’s desks. Looking into his eyes, you knew that they were true. He only said they weren’t so he could test your reaction.

“Then I would tell you that I have a problem. A supernatural one. When I was a kid, a nest of vampires slaughtered my entire family, and now they’re back because I escaped. They’re looking for me, and since you’re a monster hunter, I figured you might be able to help. But, that’s if those stories are true,” you said with an eyebrow raised. Dean got up and produced a card from his jacket and handed it to you.

“Give me a call. We might be able to work something out,” he said with a wink. After taking the card, he walked out with his son. Never in your whole teaching career had you ever thought about dating one of your student’s parents. But to hell, if you think you were letting this one get away.

Wanna get tagged? Add yourself to this document! If your tag doesn’t work, find out why!

@akshi8278 @winchesterandpie @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @carribear31  @oreosatmidnight @not-naturalfangirl @iam-a-cutiepie @kristendanwayne @milo-winchester-4ever @jensenackesl @irishmaniac316 @helllonearth @juniorhuntersam @pouterpufftrain  @ruprecht0420 @carriemichelle2012 @fandomgirl17 @05spn18 @my-wayward-heroes  @onlydeanandjensen @expectosel @redsalv20 @dragonrider10 @designcted  @xxtheoutsidersxx @live-like-a-girl @unfortunately-a @waywardrose13 @adoptdontshoppets  @focusonspn @whizzer1320 @infinite-supernatural-adoring @babypink224221 @witch-of-letters @essie1876 @kdfrqqg @blackcherrywhiskey @gh0stgurl @mogaruke @li-ssu  @musiclovinchic93 @kristaparadowski @mizzezm  @thisismysecrethappyplace @the-walking-daryl @sandlee44 @supernatural13-13 @liberty01 @midnightsilver16830  @spnmeanwinchester @notmoose45 @posiemax @shortbty14 @cobrakai1967  @flamencodiva @paintballkid711 @phantomalchemist @gabrielslittleangel @mel-ithilethiel  @jennalyncarrigan1230  @whit85-blog @tricksterdean @gabriels-golden-kazoo  @emoryhemsworth @menewyn @strayrosesbloom @princessizzy36 @kiwihoee @jennazeise  @amotleyworld @kendall-michele @mrspeacem1nusone @ballistic-bailey @graceless-stuff  @calaofnoldor @stylesismyhubs @janicho88 @yoursmilemakesmeloveyou  @shamelesslydean @lizbester @kina666 @megsyrae @lmpala97 @deans-baby-momma  @lonelycaffeinateddreamer @screechingartisancashbailiff @thefaithfulwriter  @myownsnowflake @xxboesefrauxx  @hhiggs @mayaslifeinabox @woodworthti666  @algudaodoce03 @burningcoffeetimetravel  @deanmonsandnegansbitch @deansgirl-1968

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Your New Favorite Kind of Day

Characters: Matthew Gray Gubler x Reader, minor characters

Word Count: 1,763

Warnings: pure fluff, implied smut

Summary: On your days off from work you dedicate them to your pool, making it pool day. When Matthew comes over, pool day turns into something new.

Author’s Note: This is the July 1st fic “Pool Day” for the 30 Day Writing Challenge and if you have any requests, please send them in! this is unbeta’d and every mistake is all on me.

Feedback the glue that holds my writing together

Tags at the bottom

Glad to finally have a day off work, you wanted to spend most of it in the sun. It was a good thing you lived so close to set just in case they needed you, you could be right over. However, Thomas had informed you that the directors were experiencing some technical issue that was going to take all day to fix, therefore, giving you and the rest of the cast a day off. Every time you had a day off, you were most likely swimming in your gigantic pool. When you bought the house, you had the architect make room for a big enough pool to have a party in. The water was heated, there was a jacuzzi attached to it, and it went deep enough to have a diving board which you loved. Whenever your nieces and nephews came over, that was a popular thing to play with.

Since it was just you, you decided to just relax in the pool and maybe get in a few laps. The bathing suit you wore was brand new, and it happened to look very sexy on you. Granted it was a one piece, but you kind of rocked it. The whole thing was flower print, but it was the delicate kind and not the kind that felt too overwhelming. It was backless, and there was a love design in the front around the chest area that tied the whole thing together. The other reason why you loved pool day so much was because you got to show off your tattoos that the directors made you hide when you were filming.

The biggest one you had is on your left outer thigh. It was of a huge dream catcher with three red roses at the top of it with feathers and beads. The words “dream as if you’ll live forever” were etched on the side of it, and you couldn’t have been more happy of it. There was a total of six tattoos to litter your body, but that was the biggest and most beautiful one. When the artist was finished, you could not believe your eyes. It hurt like a bitch, but it was all worth it in the end.

Grabbing your sunscreen, you lathered it all over your skin before heading out. Dismissing the diving board, you ran and dove into the deep end, enjoying the feel of the water caressing your skin. Ever since you learned how to swim, you have always enjoyed the water. When you went on vacations with your family near water, you were always the one to beg to go into the water whether that be the beach, a pool, a lake, or a river. Any kind of water activity had you on your toes, and you’ve tried to get your castmates to come with you. The only one who was likely to do these things with you was Matthew.

He was such a free-spirited person that would try almost anything. He was weird, smart, goofy, and had a heart of gold. He was such good company to have, and there was never a dull moment with him. He brought smiles and laughter on set when things were serious, he loved to joke around and pull harmless pranks, and everyone seemed to love him.

Especially you.

When you first got hired on the show, your character was meant to be Spencer’s cousin who was just as smart as he was with a bit more personality. However, when the directors saw how much chemistry you two had, it was clear they didn’t want to go in the direction they originally wanted to go in. Instead, they made you Spencer’s love interest, and you’ve been that since the beginning. The more you had gotten to know him, the more you fell in love with him. The directors and other cast members could see just how well the two of you worked, and that meant they could tell how big your crush was on the guy.

Shemar made the point about you asking Matthew out first, but you had always been a traditionalist kind of girl. When the guy asked the girl out first, you thought that was romantic, and you told him you were going to wait until he either asked you out first or got a different girlfriend. Shemar left it alone, but he wished you would see things differently. Matthew was by no means shy, but he was when it came to liking someone. He was just a weird adult that was into childish things, so he was scared of asking a woman out in fear they would make fun of the things he was into. It’s why you two were such great friends. You always encouraged him to talk about the things he loved, and you often participated in those activities.

When he came to you and told you he wanted to write a children’s book, you were nothing but supportive, and now he has sold a million copies of Rumble Buttercup. Every day you tell him how proud you are of him, and that he was the bestest friend a woman could ask for. He loved so close to you, you often had sleepovers that ended in at least one of you without any clothes on. There was no say in how a night would end with Matthew which is why you loved being around him. However, right now, you enjoyed the peace and quiet by yourself.

After taking a few laps, you got out of the pool and walked over to your phone to see if you had any messages. While your back was turned to the door, you heard a low whistle and the voice of your favorite person.

“Damn Y/N, you should wear that on set,” Matthew jokes. Turning around, you smiled at the welcomed but unexpected visit. He was the only one out of everyone on set to have a key to your house.

“Ha-ha, very funny,” you grinned. “What are you doing here?”

“Thomas texted. We’re all wanted on set. They finally got everything fixed and needed to film what they couldn’t yesterday.”

“No, I was enjoying time by myself. It’s pool day,” you groaned as you pointed to the pool that begged you to jump in.

“I know,” he chuckled.

“Do they need us right away?”

“We have a few scenes, but it’s mostly Thomas, Shemar, and Paget.”

“Then we can afford to be late,” you grinned as you ran towards the pool and jumped in. Matthew couldn’t help but smile at this, and he set down his phone and bag by your things before walking over to the edge of the pool.

“We really do need to go in. I’ll buy you ice cream,” he proposed, trying to get you out of the water. Looking at him, the light bulb in your head went off when you got an idea. He was so close to the edge, and he was more inclined to stay with you if he was wet.

“Strawberry flavor? With chunks of strawberry in it?”

“Is there any other kind?” he laughed.

“Fine, help me out?” you asked. He held out his hand as he leaned down. Swimming to the edge, you slipped your hand into his, and he used his God-given strength to pull you out of the water. However, you caught him off guard when you yanked on his arm, sending him toppling into the pool. Grinning, you waited until he came up for air.

“Now that was the most childish thing you could have ever done,” he said as he spit out water and moved his hair away from his eyes.

“Come on, you’re already in the pool. Stay a bit.”

“Only because you dragged me in here,” he chuckled. Maybe Shemar was right, maybe you did need to initiate things if you wanted anything to happen between you and Matthew. Taking a gulp of air, you swam closer to him so that you were a few inches apart.

“Please? Stay with me,” you whispered as you caught his gaze. He stared into your questioning eyed with an emotion of his own—and it wasn’t questioning.

“Y/N…” he breathed, itching to put his hands on your body.

“Come on, Matthew. Just for a little bit. I’ll make it worth your while,” you grinned as you swam even closer to him.

“What would I want?”

“This,” you whispered just as your legs wrapped around his torso. He immediately placed his hands on your hips as yours went around his neck. Your lips planted themselves over his, and passion erupted immediately. The grip on your hips tightened as you moved your lips against his soft ones. Your tongue poked out to swipe at his bottom lip, but before you could invade his mouth, he snaked his tongue into yours. Grinning into the kiss, you pulled him closer if that were possible.

He turned you to face the edge of the pool, and he backed you into it until you couldn’t go any further. Moaning softly in the kiss, you let him detach his lips from yours before he kissed down your neck.

“Matthew,” you whispered as your fingers threaded through his soft hair. He latched onto the piece of skin his character knew so well, but this wasn’t acting. This was something different because it was just the two of you, and these were real feelings instead of the feelings coming from your characters. He sucked at your pulse point, no doubt leaving a mark. This made you come to the realization that you would proudly wear his marks if it meant he would replace them.

“Fuck,” you groaned before pulling him up back to your lips. He would have continued, but your phone rang which broke the silence.

“That’s probably work,” he whispered.

“Probably.”

“We can finish this afterward, yeah?”

“Hell yes,” you grinned before kissing him once more. Breaking the kiss and the connection your bodies had, you led him out of the pool through your steps before making your way over to the phones.

“It looks like they didn’t need us after all,” you grinned when you read the message from Paget saying the problems are continuing so they won’t be filming anything right now.

“How about we finish what you started?” he grinned as he backed you into the wall.

“You know where my bedroom is,” you said before jumping into his arms and resuming the kiss. Pool days were your favorite days for a whole new reason.

wanna be tagged? add yourself to this document! if your tag doesn’t work, find out why!

@adlerorzel-blog @kendall-michele @megsyrae @bitchwhytho @lucipie666

[bucket-of-rice]

'The Chosen One': In the midst of a career year, Morgan Rielly has become the Leafs reluctant star.

Scott Wheeler. 5th April 2019

His nickname in junior hockey was “The Chosen One” because everyone knew just how good Morgan Rielly was — and they wanted him to know it, too.

He doesn’t like to talk about it though. He didn’t then and he doesn’t now.

“It rings a bell,” he said of the moniker.

“You get to your junior team and you make nicknames for each other and that’s just your first experience of junior hockey. And really riding the bus with older guys and experiencing what it’s like to be a young rookie with older, 20-year-old men on the team when you’re 16.”

Nine years after his Moose Jaw Warriors teammates coined the nickname, Rielly is in the midst of a career year that will conclude with a debate over his merits as a Norris Trophy candidate and the season’s best defenceman.

“Whenever I see him, I still call him ‘Chose,'” said Joel Edmundson, now a Blues defenceman. “When I’m talking to my other former teammates, we still talk about him as being ‘The Chosen One.’ It’s weird how nicknames like that stick with you forever.”

Last month, Rielly became the third Leafs defenceman to ever register 70 points in a season, joining Borje Salming and Ian Turnbull. He’s the first 20-goal-scoring Leafs defenceman since Al Iafrate in the late 1980s.

But Rielly’s success didn’t come overnight. This is his sixth season with the Leafs, and even though he’s a star now, he has never thought of himself as one.

Those who know Rielly chalk it up to his modesty.

That was true when he was with the Notre Dame Hounds, a team he captained to a national championship. After his time with the Hounds, he was selected second overall by the Moose Jaw Warriors in the 2009 WHL Draft.

“The most important thing about him is he’s just a good person and a good friend,” said James Melindy, Rielly’s defence partner at Notre Dame. “His hockey obviously speaks for itself, but he’s a leader and he was a leader at a young age on our team and it’s so good to see a friend like him do well.

“It was nice to be able to give him the puck and let him do the rest.”

Steve Watterson, a billet with the Warriors, could see it in Rielly when he refereed the Hounds’ Triple-A games. That season, when the Warriors recalled Rielly for a few days around Christmas, teammate Travis Hamonic invited him to stay at the Wattersons during his visit. By the time Hamonic — a second-round pick of the Islanders — was traded to the Brandon Wheat Kings, the Wattersons knew they wanted Rielly as their next billet the following season.

Early in Rielly’s rookie season, he had already endeared himself to the Wattersons’ children, 10-year-old Alexa, 7-year-old Brennan and 4-year-old Brooklyn. No matter what was happening, he always made time for them whether it was playing cards, mini sticks or ping pong. For that, Watterson, a lifelong Canadiens fan, was swayed into becoming a Leafs fan.

“It was a lot of fun. Morgan was full of energy,��� Watterson said.

“Nothing but good memories. You can’t help but want to see the Leafs do well and exciting things for Morgan.”

Despite the fact Rielly was the youngest player on the Warriors, his teammates never thought of him as a rookie. As players graduated and moved on, that stuck with them.

“He was just one of those guys that you wanted to play with, you wanted to be around off the ice. As soon as he came in, you could tell that the guy just had a characteristic that made people gravitate towards him,” said defenceman Dallas Ehrhardt, who now plays for the Manchester Storm.

“On the ice he was such a dynamic skater and player and off the ice he was such a good teammate.”

On a team where the blueline was built around big defencemen like Edmundson, Dylan McIlrath and Kendall McFaull, Rielly played differently.

“He’s a guy that really wanted to win,” Edmundson said. “He was just naturally so talented. You could see it. When he stepped on the ice, he just took over games. You knew he was going to be an NHL player just the way he could skate and rush the puck. He could go end-to-end like nothing.”

Despite standing out on the ice, Rielly made a point to fit in with his teammate off it.

“He was just one of the guys,” Edmundson said. “Whenever I see Chose, we definitely share some laughs.”

“Whenever I think of him in junior, it’s just him picking the puck up behind the net and just going through the whole team. In the D zone, he battled hard, too. When guys went to the net, it wasn’t easy against him. Even when he was 16, he was built like a man.”

Rielly left his mark on the Warriors’ staff too.

Dave Hunchak, Moose Jaw’s head coach during Rielly’s rookie season, remembers the moment he realized there was no holding the defenceman back. It was late in a game against Prince Albert when Hunchak, who’d relied on his veterans all season, turned to the rookie for the final shift of regulation. Rielly leaped over the boards, straddled the blueline and placed a shot top corner to tie the game.

Hunchak had always known Rielly was gifted. However, the Warriors were a veteran team and Rielly had only been getting regular minutes. That moment changed everything.

“He made a move that just dropped everyone’s jaw,” Hunchak said. “He was very quiet, very unassuming, very shy person. But he had a tremendous work ethic, he knew what he wanted to do and he was consistent in his work ethic every day.”

From then on, Rielly never let up.

“His skating ability was second-to-none at that point and it was a treat to watch. He would make plays that would make you shake your head at times, but they would work out for whatever reason for him. And if he made a mistake he wasn’t shy to go and get the puck back,” Hunchak said.

“He realized that he was a bit of a risk-reward guy at that time and we had to work real hard at 16 to convince him to play in his own end first and it took him time but then he just figured it out.”

It wasn’t always a straight path.

In his NHL draft year, Rielly blew out his knee. The Wattersons saw him go through those ups and downs firsthand. They saw the tears and heard the heartbreak in his voice. They sat in on conversations with his parents as they debated the risks of rushing back.

After seeking opinions from multiple doctors, Rielly was reading off a list of pro athletes who had come back from the same injury in six months and promising Watterson that he’d best it.

“He just kept saying, ‘That’s going to be me, I’m going to find a way to be faster than those dudes and sure enough he made it back for playoffs and he had the emotion and the heartbreak but it was short-lived with Morgan and it switched right to ‘What do I have to do to get back there?’” Watterson said.

“I couldn’t believe how it played out. You just can’t write that stuff. It’s just sheer determination and he outplayed all the odds in that situation.”

When the draft came around and the Leafs picked him fifth overall, the Wattersons were there to see his hard work come to fruition.

Longtime Warriors general manager Alan Millar will never forget Game 4 of the second round of the playoffs when Rielly, who was still doing strength and conditioning and hadn’t travelled with the team, was at their Medicine Hat hotel when they arrived back at 3 a.m.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. No down time, no pouting. After he got the surgery done, I don’t know, you’re talking days not weeks and he was back in the gym,” Millar said.

“I’ve never seen a young man work that hard on rehab. He wanted back in the lineup. He wanted to win a championship. That’s a credit to him and his character and leadership. It didn’t take me very long to realize that he was pretty special, both on and off the ice.”

Assistant coach Mark O’Leary remembers two things about Rielly. One was the regular phone calls he’d get on off-days when Rielly wanted to come in to skate or work out. When the team did skate, Rielly was always the first player at the rink and the last to leave.

Two was how popular he was with his teammates and members of the community. People at the high school, O’Leary said, still talk about Rielly and the way he would help kids he didn’t know. O’Leary said he still hears people talking about the defenceman at the local Tim Hortons.

“There was no doubt inside the walls of our rink in terms of what kind of player he was going to be,” said O’Leary. “Not just the skill that he had, but probably what doesn’t get talked about enough, which is his work ethic. There was nobody in better shape. He did things outside of what normal people would do in terms of getting better.”

When he was replaced as the star rookie on the team by Brayden Point, Rielly grew into a leadership role naturally.

“He was a big part of our team, a high profile guy who I looked up to a lot,” Point said.

“He would dominate games in our league and he was fun to play with. You could see back then that he was going to be the player he is today. He was always so good. We’ve both come a long way since then. He was a great guy and still a friend today.”

Ehrhardt has paid particular attention to Rielly’s career. Part of it, he said, was a matter of the small-town nature of Moose Jaw (they all went to the same high school, Vanier Collegiate) and the way it forced them together. But there was something else about Rielly, too.

On a recent trip to Texas, Ehrhardt caught one of the Leafs’ games against the Stars and noticed Rielly was doing all of the same things he did in Moose Jaw.

“I think everybody who played with him at that time kind of knew. The way he was able to move the puck out there, at 16, he was already miles ahead of everyone around him,” Ehrhardt said.

“And it wasn’t just his skills, it was the way he was thinking through the game. He was already two steps ahead of everyone. It was one of those things where it was fun to watch. And nowadays he has just really taken off with it.”

There’s also a maturity about Rielly that was evident even when he was in high school but has since turned into a leadership role as the top defenceman with the Leafs.

In hindsight, Edmundson said he knew, too.

“Thinking back on it now, it does not surprise me one bit. Especially compared to any other D-men in our league at that time, he stood out. He’s always been that talented. He’s always been that guy that’s had high expectations and he’s meeting them right now,” Edmundson said.

After more than a half a decade in Toronto, Rielly is back to being the star he was in junior.

For that, his modesty ought to turn into pride.

“I never imagined this,” Rielly said. “I think I have been able to reflect on it now, but when you’re a young guy, you’re a prospect who is supposed to be good, and the older guys used to make jokes about me playing in the NHL one day and I kind of dismissed them because at the time you’re not there yet, you don’t think it’s realistic.

“The injury made it tough to think about where we’re at now, but man, those were fun times.”

He thinks about his time in Moose Jaw and credits his teammates for turning him into the player and person he has become.

He remembers that first Christmas break visit with Hamonic and the Wattersons. He still keeps in touch with Millar, O’Leary and all of the “really good friends” he made along the way.

“Just the relationships that we were able to build, a lot of characters,” he said, with a laugh. “We all had a lot in common. It’s strange. It really was a unique group. We all got along. We spent a lot of time with one another.”

There are a lot of Leafs games on TV in the Watterson home these days. At the end of February, Rielly welcomed the Wattersons to Toronto for a pair of games against the Canadiens and the Capitals and took them out to dinner.

“Everyone else sees a star player, but I have to admit I still just see Morgan,” Watterson said. “Even though I’m well aware of what he has accomplished on the ice, it’s a far second to just missing him as a person.”

In that moment, his journey came full circle. It was special. But he’s still not quite ready to fully give himself full credit.

“I was lucky enough to have one of the best billet families in junior hockey. They really had an impact on me, so I feel very lucky to have had that,” Rielly said. “That’s what makes the experience that much better.”

But as another season wraps up, Rielly has a coach who is happy to give him the credit. Mike Babcock, like everyone before him, says you must understand where Rielly started — and who Rielly is — to understand the season he has had.

“You’ve got to go back a number of years. He was a real high-end player drafted, you come to the National Hockey League, everyone expects you to be good right away. As a defenceman in the National Hockey League, to be good defensively right away, you don’t see it very often,” Babcock said.

“And so it has taken him some time. He’s had a great year for us. He’s a big part of our team with his energy, his preparation, his professionalism, but obviously with his play.”

Soon, that play might result in a Norris Trophy nomination.

Just don’t expect Rielly to brag about it.