#Chapter

[remanence-of-love]

[jorgeburgos8]

Well I won't have miniatures but I can draw, so here is my own Space Marines chapter the Dragon Knights

[classycookiexo]

Claim it.

[ry3breadl0rd]

some titles uncle rick deprived us of

”I Fall To My Death (Again)” for the fall into tartarus

“I Get Mugged by Monsters” that one chapter where leo’s tool belt gets stolen

“Jason Meets his Brother” hercules chapter

“I Obtain A Death Ray” the sphere thing

“Leo Makes a Great First Impression” when he blows up new rome

“I Scare Some Pirates With An Unofficial Sponsorship” that chapter where percy scares off the pirates with diet coke

“A Spider Hates My Mom” annabeth at any point with arachne ngl

“Scrawny Is The New Sizzling Hot” leo+hazel with narcissus

“We Get Slapped to New York” zeus smacking the argo ll to new york

“Nyx Gives Us A Tour” when they convince nyx to not murder them immediately by pretending they’re tourists

“My Evil Great-Grand Mother Wakes Up” self explanatory i hope

“Hazel Orders A Horse From Amazon” hazel meets arion

“I Get Blasted Out Of This World” leo goes to ogygia

“Fleecy Does Us A Solid” when they meet iris

“I Tame A Dragon” leo with argo

“I Vaporize Some Old Ladies” first chapter of son

“I Give My Dad Some Decor Tips” nico and hades conversation

“Piper Talks Her Boyfriend To Life” when piper charm speaks jason back to life

“I Play Roulette With A Blind Man” when percy drinks the gorgons blood

“Piper Sees Dead People (In Her Knife)” i might be remembering wrong but it’s that one where they try to trick piper by showing her how her friends were doing in her knife, like trying to convince her they were all dead

“We Use Adidas To Summon A Goddess” nike chapter

“Mudman, Hazel, and Frank Get Brunch” when they get to alaska

“I Learn The Power Of Positivity” percy and misery

“We Meet A Cool Girl (Literally)” khione chapter

“I’m Leo. You Killed My Mother. It’s My Turn” based on the funny comment:) it’s for when leo blows up gaea

“My Nosebleed Wakes Up My Great-Grandma” when gaea wakes up

“Mr. D Hates Ballet” when he helps percy and jason against the twin giants

“Frank Gets A Blast To The Past” when hazel shares her past with him

“Frank Sets Himself On Fire” with the firewood and freeing thatanos

“I Got A Girlfriend?” jason first chapter

”Why Did It Have To Be Poison?” that chapter with polybotes

“Jason Becomes The Oldest Demigod!” old man jason

“Game Night Goes Too Far” war games in son

“The World Hates Us, Literally” hoh when they’re low key attacked by like everything

“We Traumatize Frank” when percabeth gets caught together

“Lions, and Tigers, and Frank, Oh My!” when frank unlocks his shapeshifting stuff

“I Aquire a Misfortune Cookie” i might be delulu but didn’t nemesis omfg i knew that why did i put nike give leo a fortune cookie to open if he needed help?? but price would not be fun

“The Law is On My Side For Once” percy and terminus vs polybotes

“Being A Dumb Blonde Has Its Perks” annabeth when she drops the knife that one chapter

[light-yaers]

Take Care: Chapter Fourteen

Fic Masterpost | AO3 | Chapter List

Warnings: swearing, eventual smut, emotional themes.

A/N: YEEE FUCKING HAW WE'RE BACK AND LONGER THAN EVER. FEAST, MY PRETTIES.

Word count: 10k+

Chapter Fourteen:

Well, Arlo. It seems the Greyhounds have actually… done something right?

I know, Chris. If you’d told me they’d be in this position, not even in the Premier League, yet through to the FA Cup final, then well! I’d have eaten my hat!

But Arlo, you don’t own any hats. 

There’s lots that you don’t know about me, Chris. 

Oh. Well, I’d like to find out more one day, Arlo. 

Maybe one day, Chris. Maybe one day… But, moving forward– it seems AFC Richmond’s new coach, badboy Roy Kent, has well and truly shared the fabled ‘Roy Kent Effect’ once more. 

That’s certainly true, Arlo! Kent and his teammates have never worked so well, even when he was on the pitch next to them. I think this is the start of a blossoming season for the Greyhounds. 

I agree, Chris. So, you heard it here, folks. AFC Richmond are off to Wembley!

A few weeks after Roy’s return, you found yourself feeling the love. When you came to, you were screaming your head off. Everything was a giant blur of those familiar reds and blues, so you knew you were home. The locker room still looked the same as always, but the players within were so drastically separate from how they were a week ago that you could hardly fucking believe it. 

AFC Richmond were going to Wembley for the FA Cup final. The only downside– they were against Manchester fucking City. You weren’t about to dampen their joy, though. You suspected they all knew exactly what was at stake, but they deserved this. They deserved to feel like winners. 

Sam bound over to you as soon as he could. His embrace brought you back down to earth, and you hugged him back so tightly that it was a miracle neither of you passed out. “God, I am so proud of you,” you whispered into his shoulder. 

He reciprocated by squeezing you once more, before you tugged apart. “You still bring us good luck. You are part of the reason we have come this far.” He spoke so earnestly that you couldn’t stop your throat from drying up. 

You swallowed painfully, utterly overwhelmed. Sam went one step further, however, when he stepped onto one of the benches. “Hey, guys! Guys!” he yelled, bringing the sound in the room right down. Every player, and coach alike, turned to him and listened intently. “We wouldn’t have gotten to this position without the help of every single person in this room.” Sam looked down at you then, smiling like the golden sun. “Thank you, everyone! We’re Richmond till we die!” 

The room erupted into roars that no jungle could replicate. You soaked up their cheers, their happiness, their togetherness, and as you did you sensed someone close by: Roy. 

He stood in the doorway of the manager’s office, wearing a tracksuit that donned Richmond’s logo. He’d fallen into his coach position as if he’d always been here– assertively, strongly, respectfully. When you glanced around the room and saw him, you had to stop just for a moment to take him in. You smiled at him, even though he wasn’t looking at you. When he eventually caught your eye, you quickly looked beyond him, acting as if you hadn’t been eyeing him up for the better half of a minute. 

Roy liked it when you looked like this– happy, content, in the middle of a bustling and buzzing room yet perfectly fine with just existing and not speaking. You were good like that, good at listening and observing. You were also good at talking when you got to it, but Roy’s initial annoyance whenever you opened your mouth had quickly disappeared after a few weeks into your placement at the club. That sentiment had only grown over the past year and a half.

Jesus– eighteen months. It’d really gone fast, hadn’t it? Eighteen months, and you’d grown into your talent and only increased your work ethic (even if you secretly hated your current position). Eighteen months, and Roy had played his last game of football ever, but coached his first professional game since. 

Roy leaned on the doorframe of the manager’s office and crossed his arms. Dani had his hands wrapped around your neck lovingly from behind. The two of you swayed back and forth as the team continued rejoicing. Slowly, you latched your fingers onto Dani’s forearms and held them tightly. Roy knew what that felt like, having you close. He’d been there with you once, when it was impossible to keep your hands off each other in a crowded room like this. 

There was another thing that hadn’t happened in eighteen months. You and Roy. Roy and you. In truth, you’d thought about things more than he had. This was amongst one of the first times he’d allowed himself to think of you together, properly, and what it could have been like. 

He thought back to November, almost six months ago now, when he’d told you that he had no intention of fucking things up. To do that, you and Roy couldn’t happen– wouldn’t happen. 

Roy frowned when he thought about how awful he’d been, not even during that conversation, but afterwards. He hadn’t put up any boundaries, had continued acting the same as he always was around you. It wasn’t kind; he knew that as soon as he’d seen your face on Boxing Day, practically scrambling to get the fuck out of his house. 

The bad thing was, however, that Roy didn’t want to stop. Sure, he’d said things would never happen, and you’d graciously accepted that fate and tried to move forward over these past few months like any respectful and decent person would. But, he hadn’t. He’d said the words, but not followed them. 

Roy huffed to himself, only now realising– he was a fucking idiot. 

This was Roy’s more prominent disease, it seemed: delayed on-set realisation of selfishness. DOROS for short. Maybe he’d always known, but had pushed it all away in favour of keeping you close. Maybe he’d always known, but innately knew that he had never wanted to cut things off with you, so simply acted like he’d never fucking said a thing. 

Mentally, Roy added a new to-do box to his list. 

Fix things with you. 

He would. Oh, he would. 

“Roy!” Ted’s familiar accent called from behind him. Roy turned around and looked down at his fellow coach, sat before him with his feet on his desk. Beard was the same, and the two of them looked like peas in a pod. “How’re your first few weeks going?” 

Roy balled his fists instinctually. “Good. I think.”

“Well, you gosh darn thunk correctly!” Ted burst, jumping out of his chair in excitement. “And now, I need your help once again. This match next week, the big one.” He stopped directly in front of Roy, chin to chin. “How do we keep the guys like this?”

This meaning the ruckus behind him. Joyful, strong, ready to fight with all they’ve got even if the outcome isn’t in their favour. Roy knew that feeling well, having felt it too many times to count. 

He sighed. “It’ll be tough. Come tomorrow, they’ll all start to spiral.”

“How so?”

Roy shrugged. “It’s the hope that kills you.” 

Ted’s face soured immediately. “I don’t like your sayings over here.” 

“Yeah, well…” Roy turned around to look at the guys. “It’s easier than being fucking disappointed.” 

“Screw that!” Ted suddenly exploded. He grabbed Roy’s shoulders and urged him to look in his eyes. “We’re stopping that today. What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you look at those guys right there, acting like that?” Ted asked. 

Roy swivelled his head back around to look at them. “I… I dunno?” he said. 

Ted squeezed his shoulders abruptly. “Yes, you do! Say it. Say it!”

“All-fucking-right!” Roy yelled. “Her!” He pointed at you without hesitating. 

As if on cue, you laughed. You scrunched your eyes shut in happiness, giggling as Dani placed his chin atop your head. He squeezed you tighter, and you giggled even harder, gripping his arms stronger than before. Sam and Colin laughed opposite them, still overcome with the buzzing adrenaline of the win. They all were. You perpetuated that feeling, made the guys want it even more so you could join them at times like this. 

Ted moved next to Roy, looking at the same scene. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Ted whispered. “You’ve never been more right in your life.”

You had to suck in a deep breath as your laughter dissipated. Your lungs were empty of all reserves, but you’d never felt better about it. Dani gently removed himself from you to head towards Richard and Zoreaux. As he did, the most unexpected thing happened. 

Someone tapped you on the shoulder, and when you turned to greet them with a glowing smile, you stopped short. Jamie Tartt stood before you. “Hey,” he said. 

You kept things light as you perked your brow at him quizzically. “Hi.” You smiled. “Congratulations.”

Jamie laughed awkwardly, bringing a hand to the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. Thanks very much.” You’d never tire of his accent, secretly. You were fond of Mancunian. “Listen, can I talk to you for a moment?”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “Oh– sure.”

“Privately,” he added. 

You glanced around the locker room quickly, before nodding once. Jamie led you out to the corridor and beyond. He opened the door to the kit room and held it for you as you entered, then followed you inside and shut the door behind him. 

You didn’t know where to place yourself. Stood in the centre of the room, overwhelmed by the scent of soggy feet, you turned to the striker and waited. Jamie stood opposite you with the same feeling of being utterly out of place. 

“What can I do for you, Jamie?” you started, getting the ball rolling.

“I know we’re not really… er, close.” He clutched his hands together awkwardly, almost unable to meet your eye. “But I know how much you mean to the club and that.”

You huffed amusedly. “Sure,” you agreed. 

“Which is why I know you won’t laugh at me when I ask you this.” Tartt finally met your eye, and you were taken aback. Whatever was on his mind you now knew was a big deal. I mean, it had to be for him to approach you like this, surely?

“Okay,” you said sturdily. “Lay it on me.”

“It’s Roy.” You held your breath as he said it. Never in your wildest dreams did you think that Jamie would come to you about a Roy problem, yet here he was. “He won’t coach me. Not like the others, you know. I know I was a dick in the past, for lack of a better word, and that Roy was on the receiving end sometimes–”

“All the time,” you said, matter of factly. Jamie subtly exploded.

“Okay, fine– all the fucking time– but I’m back now, and I need a fucking coach. I want him to teach me the same way he teaches Sam and Isaac and the rest.”

“But, you don’t know how to ask him,” you said your thoughts out loud. 

Jamie nodded quickly, agreeing with you tenfold. “I know he’d tell me to fuck off.”

“Well, of course he’s going to do that.” You almost chuckled from how right he was in saying so. “But, I see where you’re coming from.” Your mind spiralled down different routes, unknowing of where you came into this equation. You could tell Jamie what to say, but you knew what Roy would reply simply because it was Tartt, not you. “Why come to me, though?”

Jamie’s face squished questioningly, like he couldn’t understand why you hadn’t put two and two together just yet. “Roy fucking listens to you.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh now. “Oh, please. Yeah, he listens. But whether or not he decides to do what I say is a completely different ball game.”

Jamie reached out to you suddenly and gripped your shoulders in desperation. “Please. I know I’m making up for lost time and bad behaviour and whatever else I did to the guys, or Lasso, or Roy, but I need to be useful here. I want to be useful here.” 

You regarded him thoughtfully then. It was hard not to take him into account when he was like this, bearing his soul to a person who had never connected with him beforehand. Reaching out to you was a shot in the dark for him, but he’d done it anyway because he wanted to succeed. It was commendable, when you put it all into perspective. 

You decided upon a middle ground. “I’ll plant the seed in his head to let you in, alright?” 

Jamie let out a clear sigh of relief when you agreed. “Well, fuck– thank you.”

“But!” you continued. “You need to go to him yourself. You need to apologise, and tell him exactly what you said to me. It’s Roy, so he’ll make it a fucking nightmare and will probably be childish and petty and whatever fucking else that grown man is capable of…” As you rambled, the cogs in Jamie’s brain finally understood the whole story– you liked him, didn’t you? “...but he’ll do it eventually. He has to. He’s a coach now, and if you’re here, you deserve to be coached properly.”

Jamie squealed and smiled at the same time, his eyes ablaze with boyish resemblance. He squeezed your shoulders affectionately. “I knew coming to you would work out. I just knew it.”

You scoffed in amusement. “Don’t make it a regular thing,” you joked. “There are only so many strings I can pull with Roy.”

Jamie raised his brows assumptively. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“What do you mean by that?” All your amusement reluctantly trailed off alongside your words.

“Well,” Jamie started. His grin dropped instantly. “I mean– don’t make me fucking say it. You already know, don’t you?” 

“Know what?” you pressed. 

“That Roy, y’know. That Roy–” Jamie flailed his arms around like a flapping seagull. “He– y’know…” 

You squinted at him. “Are you speaking some kind of secret footballer language that common people like me don’t fucking understand?”

“He likes you!” Jamie finally let out. 

“Oh.” You stepped back. Jamie’s arms dropped to his sides. “Stop fucking talking now.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t see it?” Jamie looked you dead in the eye, but all you were capable of doing was looking away from embarrassment. “Well, you’re more stupid than I fucking took you for.” 

“Hey!” you exclaimed. “There’s no need for that shit when I’m digging you out of the mess you fucking made last season.” 

He raised his arms up in understanding. “Alright, alright. Sorry, my bad.” You let out your own sigh of relief when you realised the conversation was over. 

You and Jamie headed back to the locker room soon after. As he made his way towards the guys, you stuck to the outer limits of the cinder block walls. Roy was still in the manager's office, his back turned as he spoke to Ted and Beard. You didn’t want to intrude, so you made the decision to cut back into the corridor once more; not to leave, but to wait until the guys were ready for a pint. 

You slowly trudged down the familiar corridor that you used to traverse every fucking day. Past the locker room, you approached the gym. Beyond that, your old office still sat. Keeley had recently upgraded to a larger room deeper underneath the Dogtrack, however, so the usual array of pink pillows and her cheetah statue were nowhere to be seen. 

You entered through the half open door and walked straight into darkness. The walls were the same, just pinker. The desk was the same, just empty. Whenever you visited this office space after time away you felt the same pull to return. You didn’t care if it had no windows; you’d managed to make it home for nearly a year without any hiccups. 

God, you wanted to be back here. Everyone knew it, even Rebecca, but you daren’t take favours. You would never. 

A small knock sounded from the door, and you turned back quickly. “Ready to g–? Oh!” you exclaimed. You’d been expecting Sam or Roy, but were met with the still slightly unfamiliar face of Nate. “Sorry, Nate. I thought you were someone else.”

“That’s alright,” he said, smiling. “May I come in?” 

“Oh,” you spluttered. “Yes, of course. This isn’t my office anymore.”

He stepped inside. “No, no, it’s not, is it?” he said, and the tone of his voice was erring on patronising. You opted to ignore it, knowing that he wouldn’t have meant it that way. Surely?

The silent pause that flittered between you was very awkward, there was no denying it. It wasn’t that you’d meant to not really know him, but your circle at the club had seemed to travel in one certain direction that you hadn’t been able to control. The guys, Ted, Roy, Rebecca. Not Beard, not Nate. You didn’t mean anything by it innately. 

If anything, you were happy that Nate was making himself known to you. You’d love to get to know him more– or more than what you barely knew of him from your time at the club. 

“What a great game today, wasn’t it?” you started. 

“Oh yes, fantastic game,” said Nate. 

“And that thing–” You mimed what had happened on the pitch earlier, which happened to be a middle finger of all things. “That all four of you did to Jamie. Classic, really fucking brilliant.”

“Oh yes, the good old middle finger.” Nate copied you in miming what he’d done less than an hour ago. All four coaches had signalled to Tartt what needed to be done, and that signal happened to be swearing at him full-frontally. Four middle fingers had stood up on end, and Tottenham didn’t know what had hit them when Tartt managed to make a goal from just beyond the halfway line. 

“You were all absolutely brilliant!” you exclaimed. “I’ve been seeing you in the paper as well, you know? The whole Wonderkid thing.”

Nate smiled forcefully. “I definitely said Wunderkind.”

“Either way, it’s fantastic you’re getting that recognition.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Nate said, taking your compliment graciously; or so you thought. “So, here’s the thing.” He plunged right into his words like he’d had them on standby the entire time. 

“Go on,” you urged him happily.

“You can’t come to Wembley.” 

“What?” you asked, not fully absorbing his words.

Nate stopped smiling. He looked at you sternly, or like you were akin to dirt on his shoe, or whatever else. Your smile turned to a frown instantly. 

“You can’t come to Wembley,” Nate repeated. 

Those five words hit you like a tonne of bricks. You didn’t understand what he was saying, or what he meant. For a second, you thought he’d got his words mixed up, maybe, but even if they were un-muddled they wouldn’t make sense at all. 

“I don’t understand what you mean,” you said smally, feeling multiple degrees of hurt even though you had no explanation. 

“Okay,” Nate replied. “I’ll spell it out for you.” He raised his chin and sucked in a deep and confident breath, “You cannot come to Wembley for the FA Cup final.”

You still didn’t understand, but you understood Nate’s words fully. Why he was saying them, though, you had no idea. Perhaps you hadn’t misinterpreted his patronising tone upon entering the room, but had picked it up perfectly. You didn’t know Nate enough to get mad– properly mad– but your blood boiled as you looked at him. 

“Why not?” you asked, swallowing sullenly to try and keep the butterflies in your gut at bay. 

Nate smiled. You hated that he smiled. It felt grimy and wrong. “Roy, Ted and Beard seem to think that you keep the team happy, and maybe you do. But, this is the fucking FA Cup final. They can’t afford any distractions, and you.” He looked you up and down like a blight. You’d never been looked at like that before in your life. “You are a distraction. You may think you’re helping, but the guys need clear minds and ready heads. You’re a distraction towards all of that.”

You laughed abruptly, at a loss for words. Nate’s smile turned to something much more condescending. Gently, he reached out and placed a hand on your shoulder. You froze on the spot. 

“It’s just better if you sit this one out, alright? Don’t worry, the guys won’t miss you too much.” 

You opened your mouth as if to speak, but all that came out was air. Your lungs collapsed beneath your chest, your heart pumped blood uncomfortably and incredibly fast into your limbs, your organs, your gut. It hurt. It really hurt. 

Nate squeezed your shoulder. You stiffened further. “Good talk. Let’s catch up after the final.” He removed his hand from you and left promptly, leaving you in the darkned seclusion of your old office. 

Realisation hit you like a double-decker bus. Nate had always been like this a bit, hadn’t he? Not before he became a coach, but afterwards, certainly. A shift had cemented within him as soon as he’d donned the Richmond jacket and owned a desk spot next to Ted and Beard. The whistle around his neck clung to him like a trophy of his authority. 

Nathan Shelley was not a nice coach. Good, smart, intelligent, but not nice. 

You wondered if Ted knew. You wondered if Beard knew. You wondered if Roy knew. If they did, you knew they’d do something about it, so perhaps not. Innately, despite the weak way your chest scraped air through your crippled lungs, you hoped it was just you that he had gripes with. You hoped he wasn’t like this to any of the guys themselves. Just the thought alone made you angry beyond belief. 

No one on the team deserved to be treated the way that Nate had just treated you. 

You sucked in a sharp breath quickly, feeling the beginnings and endings of tears behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not for this. If you twisted this entire ordeal on its head then it was borderline comical. Not to toot your own horn, but you knew that if any of the guys in the locker room next door found out about this, then they’d take your side. 

That was exactly why you couldn’t tell them. You weren’t about to be the reason that AFC Richmond’s managerial team broke apart. They’d come so far already after relegation. You couldn’t– wouldn’t– fuck that all up. 

Quietly, you swallowed away your pride and your feelings and left your old office. Silently, you headed back to the locker room and entered timidly. 

“There she is,” Roy muttered to Sam as you entered. As you approached him, you realised he’d picked up your bag and slung it over his shoulder to save you holding it yourself. “Ready to go?” he asked, face to face. 

Your eyes hit his. You struggled to keep everything at bay, but brushed it off as best as you possibly could. “Yeah,” you breathed. “Here.” You gestured to your bag on his shoulder, but Roy twisted himself away from you. 

“I’ve got it.” Roy frowned slowly, a sour feeling sprouted in his gut. “You alright?” 

You waved him off. “I’m fine. I just don’t feel all that good, if I’m being honest.” 

“Hm.” He reached out confidently and laid his knuckles against your forehead. Roy had done this to you many times. You were used to it, but still allowed yourself to silently indulge in his touch. Besides, you needed this. He didn’t know, but you needed him right now. “You do feel a bit hot, actually,” he said lowly. “Wanna skip the pub and go home?” 

Gently, you nodded. Roy’s hand dropped to your shoulder, the same one that Nate had held just minutes before. Quickly, you placed your hand over his. “Yes, please.” 

Roy stayed still. Something was wrong, he knew it. There was this look in your eye that coincided with you not feeling well, but that wasn’t all. The way you were standing; slumped, arms wrapped around yourself, as if you were desperately trying to make yourself smaller, invisible. The hand that rested atop his own didn’t feel strong. This wasn’t you, the real you.

Roy nodded at you in understanding. “Okay,” he whispered. Roy turned to the rest of the room and addressed the team. “You’ll have to catch us next week for drinks, boys.”

The collective groan that descended across the room made you feel awful, but there was nothing you could do about it. 

Roy sensed your unease. “Hey!” he yelled. “That’s fucking enough of that. Get some sleep after your well-deserved booze break, and I’ll see you all bright and early for practice on Monday!”

“Yes, coach!” 

You and Roy drove home in silence. Not the uncomfortable kind, but Roy could tell something was on your mind. It was rare that either of you evaded the weird sixth sense you had about the other now. Roy could read you as clear as he’d read your article about him. 

He stopped his Jeep outside your apartment building and killed the engine. You gathered your belongings and shot him a quick smile. “Thanks.” You went to leave. 

“Wait.” In one click, Roy had locked your door from the driver’s side door. “Tell me what’s wrong or I’m not letting you out.”

You huffed, slumping back into your chair in acceptance. “Really?”

“Really,” Roy repeated.

“This is childish, Roy.”

“I don’t fucking care. One moment you were happy as a daisy, and the next you look like you’ve landed on death’s fucking door.”

You sighed in exasperation. “Oh, for fucks sake.”

Roy twisted himself to face you more head on. He crossed his arms and waited patiently. “Go on.”

You rolled your eyes, wishing this to be over. “I’m on my period.”

Roy pointed at you quickly. “Don’t try and catch me out with a feminine problem that you assume men don’t want to hear about. I have a fucking sister, and I know all about how crazy her cycle made her. This isn’t that.”

“Fuck!” you exclaimed, raising your voice slightly. Your stress levels had grown exponentionally in the last minute and a half. You could feel your rapid heartbeat beneath your chest. “It doesn’t fucking matter, alright. If I wanted to talk about it then I would have told you by now.”

Roy perked his brow at you. “Is this about something football related, or something life related?”

“God!” you exploded finally. You wouldn’t mention Nate, but Roy’s incessant poking meant you had to say something real. Maybe this really was something you should have told him a while ago. “You really wanna know?” You turned towards him, eyes crazy and breathing erratic. “I hate my fucking job, okay. And everytime I go to the stadium for a game I’m reminded of everything I left behind and everything I continue to leave behind. The guys, Ted, Beard, you.” 

For the first tme since the car stopped, Roy shut his mouth and listened. 

“I– I wonder how much longer I can fucking do it. The commute every morning, the staleness of my work colleagues, the giant stack of papers and assignments that are always waiting on my desk to get done because no one else will fucking touch them. I don’t sleep at night properly, and I can’t even cook meals anymore. I feel like–” You sucked in a deep breath and finally looked Roy in the eye. “I feel like, even despite all of you including me in everything, I’m running on the spot behind you and will never be able to catch up. Like I’ll never be part of that world anymore. And it’s, it’s– breaking me.” 

Roy leant towards you instinctually. 

“Rebecca and Keeley know I hate it, but every time Rebecca talks about getting me a position at the club I freeze. It makes me feel sick that she’d so easily and without question hand me something because I don’t feel like I deserve it. And–!” Roy flicked his eyes over your face, at a loss of what to say. You laughed from a lack of what else to fucking do. “The game last weekend, when you showed up and finally realised your worth as a coach, I almost missed it because I couldn’t take being back there without thinking how much I fucking miss it all. I’m pathetic–”

“No, you’re not,” Roy interjected hoarsely. 

You laughed again, on the brink of tears. “Yes, I am. Who does that? Who cries before a fucking game because they can’t handle being there? Me. I do that now, apparently.” 

Silence descended inside the Jeep. You finally took a breath, and when you did you realised what you’d done. You leaned back in your seat and faced the windshield, utterly embarrassed that you’d burst at the seams. 

“So,” you said smally. “That’s that.” You turned towards Roy again. “Is that what you wanted me to say?”

Roy stayed as quiet as a mouse. That wasn’t his style. Glued to his spot, Roy kept his gaze on you thoughtfully. He regarded the look on your face and noticed the subtle embarrassment on your brow; you hadn’t expected to cave so easily when questioned about what was wrong. 

He looked down at your hands in your lap. Your fingers shook subtly as they brushed across your knuckles in worry. Roy hated that you were worrying after being honest about something in your life. It was only him, he thought. Surely you should know that you could tell him anything and he’d listen.

“Sorry,” you blurted out. 

Roy huffed, speechless. “What the fuck are you sorry for?”

“I don’t know.” 

“Fucking–” Roy moved closer to you. “Come here.” 

His arms were around you in no time. You stayed stuck in place, stunned, for just a second, until you found yourself hugging him back so fiercely that you couldn’t have thougth of anything you needed more. It was funny. You could count on one hand how many times you and Roy had hugged, and none of them had been like this. 

You’d been close before, sure, in proximity and in more. You were close even now, despite counting the conversation you’d both had in November. Everyone on the outside seemed to think of Roy as someone who wasn’t hands-on. He liked his space, he didn’t like to pry or poke, yet here you were– the air being squeezed from your lungs because he’d made you open up for your own good– because he couldn’t think of anything better to show that he cared than to embrace you. 

Roy Kent cared so much that it was a wonder he had energy to do anything else. 

When the two of you parted, you couldn’t help but laugh. You stayed close, foreheads almost touching. Roy smiled at you genuinely, fully, thoughtfully. 

“No wonder you’re going mental,” he said lowly. “That’s a lot to hold onto without letting it out.”

That’s not even the half of it. You wanted to say, but you didn’t. 

“You’re not running in place behind us,” Roy continued. “You’re what keeps us all together. You’re the reason I went back to Richmond.” You didn’t say anything, just took in his words. “I didn’t go back just for the game, or the guys– I went back because I knew you’d be in the box, looking down at me on the pitch again.” 

Your throat closed slightly, as the urge to cry hit you. You swallowed it away, not wanting to burst again in such a short amount of time. “Well,” you whispered. “I’m glad.” 

For a fraction of a second, Roy’s eyes dropped to your lips. 

You’d been here before, you thought. You’d been here with him like this so many times that you couldn’t even count them off the top of your head. If you had time, a few minutes maybe, you’d be able to pinpoint every occasion where the word almost screeched within your mind. 

Almost there. Almost on you. 

Perhaps you’d never get beyond the proverbial almost, but this time felt different. Something had shifted recently. You felt it. Roy’s stares lingered for just a tad too long. Electricity buzzed between you even when you weren’t touching. The joy you’d felt when he’d arrived at the Dogtrack and finally caved in had been second to none. In hindsight, maybe jumping the wall of the home box and running down the steps in the stands to him had been too much. 

Roy didn’t think so. He’d relished you being close. His stomach had somersaulted as soon as you’d yelled his name. Secretly, he’d hoped you’d react the exact way you did. He’d done it for you, had he not? He’d come back to Richmond for you. 

Without realising, you and Roy had inched closer to each other so much that you both hovered over the centre console of his Jeep. Foreheads almost touching. Hearts almost caving. 

You’d been here before so many times. 

Roy swallowed without moving a muscle, ready to speak. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

Instantly, you crashed back down to earth. You sucked in a deep breath and straightened yourself, leaning back towards the passenger side window. You thought the worst. Was this an ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do this’? It had to be, surely. 

“Oh,” you let out, flustered. “Don’t apologise, don’t wo–”

“No,” Roy cut you off strongly, unexpectedly leaning closer. “I’m sorry for being a fucking idiot.” 

Time stilled. That word– that almost– lingered in the air like dust in the desert. Heavy, dry, suffocatingly warm. 

Roy’s expression grew to frustration as quickly as you’d both fallen to silence. “I thought I was doing the right fucking thing, stopping–” He gestured between you both, not able to find words. “I thought it would be better for you, to not get you mixed up in all my shit.”

The penny dropped. You squished your face into a hurt smile involuntarily. “It’s okay, Roy,” you said softly. 

“And worse yet,” he continued. “I’ve been a… a fucking arse. Not changing how I acted around you, or what I said, or what I did. I must have made everything ten times fucking worse for you.”

You shook your head immediately. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Roy replied instantly. “It does matter. I never wanted to play with your fucking feelings or make what I did more difficult for you, but that’s exactly what I did.” 

“It’s okay,” you said. “It’s okay,” you repeated, just for good measure. 

Roy fell silent for a pause, taking in your words as if he really needed to hear them. In fact, you thought he really did need to hear them, straight from your mouth and no one elses. 

“You’re sure?” he asked, checked, wanted to make extra fucking sure. 

You nodded quickly. “I’m sure.” You smiled, trying desperately not to let the cropped up hurt on your face show through. That wasn’t on him; he hadn’t intended to damage you this way. 

“Okay.” Roy breathed out deeply, leaning back into the driver’s seat like the weight of the world had just been taken off his shoulders. “Thank fuck,” he whispered, before meeting your eye again. He smiled, accepting the silliness that one felt after being so vulnerable with someone else. “I really fucking need you, you know?” 

You laughed first, wanting to say so do I. Instead, you differed your response. “Of course, you fucking do. Who else is going to tell you what to do with your life?” 

Roy’s smile lit up all over his face. You remembered a time where you used to count how many times he looked at you like this; honest. Now, it was everyday. 

“Exactly,” he said. Gently, he stuck his hand out and laid it upon your cheek. “Fucking exactly.” His thumb swiped across your face warmly. You shivered immensely, but tried desperately to hide it. 

You glanced at the radio clock. Time ticked by, and you knew you had to leave this conversation soon. Innately, Roy knew it, too. 

“My mum’s coming to Richmond tomorrow morning,” you said softly. Roy’s hand stayed put. You didn’t mind. “I need to go and clean my flat, or she’ll start washing up mugs against my will.” 

Roy’s eyes flicked between your own. Affection seeped from within them, so far removed from when you’d first met. Slowly, he removed his hand from your cheek. His fingers skimmed your skin on the way back to his lap. “Okay,” he whispered; acceptance. 

Almost would stay the same. Almost had gone the furthest it had ever been.

You slung your bag over your shoulder. Roy unlocked the passenger side door with one button click. You gripped the handle strongly, but paused before you left for good. 

“Thank you for listening to me,” you said simply. “I mean– really listening to me.” 

Roy stayed still, not leaving your gaze for a second. “Always,” he said lowly. 

When the door to your building shut behind you, Roy was still reluctant to drive away. He watched as the light turned on from the window of your ground floor flat, saw your silhouette enter the living room– the room where he’d stood before a few times– and drop your bag to the floor in exhaustion. 

Roy drove away when your silhouette disappeared, the feeling of you still present on his fingertips. 

You didn’t tell anyone about Nate. You didn’t tell anyone that he’d warded you off or spoke ill of you supporting the team. Instead, you went to work. You encompassed yourself in your job, taking on extra responsibilities despite that being the one reason you felt spread thin. 

By Thursday, you were ready to crash. Your bed had been calling you every day, as soon as you disembarked from the train at Richmond tube station. Intentionally, you ignored texts from Rebecca and Keeley about times to rendezvous at Wembley Stadium. If they ever asked, you’d blame it on having too much of a heavy work week. That would be your out. 

Logically, you knew you wouldn’t be able to completely miss Richmond playing at Wembley. People would be expecting you there. The guys would be expecting you there. But, despite their cries and pleads for you to be present, you were prepared to keep them at arms length– for Nate’s sake. 

When Saturday came, you knew it would be hard for you to avoid everyone at the club. By ten o’clock in the morning, Keeley had already called you twice. By half past the hour, Rebecca had called you three times. 

On the fourth time she rang, you knew you had to pick up. 

“Darling,” she said quickly. “What the fuck?”

“I’m sorry,” you said (you lied), secluded in your flat. “This week has been insane. I haven’t been able to focus on anything that isn’t Pluto Press related.”

Rebecca made a guttural sound in her throat. “Bollocks!” she exclaimed. “I’ll send a car. It can be there in twenty minutes if need be.”

“It’s okay. I can get the tube. Don’t worry–”

“Oh,” Rebecca cut you off. Her tone switched instantly. “Actually, don’t worry about a car. I think someone is waiting for you out front.”

As if on cue, the horn from Roy’s Jeep sounded from your living room window. 

Quickly, you ran to the window. Between your sheer curtains, Roy’s obsidian black Jeep was stationed on the road by your front door. You couldn’t curse on your call with Rebecca, but by God– you wanted to. 

“Is that the cavalry coming for me?” you said down the phone, peeved. 

“Yes, it is,” Rebecca said smugly. “See you in an hour, darling.” She hung up the phone fast, so quick that you couldn’t give any excuse to get out of this match. 

Quickly, you gathered a bag of belongings and left your flat. Reluctantly, you descended the steps of your building and pulled the handle of the passenger side door of Roy’s Jeep. You settled quickly, without fuss, but words dangled in the air as soon as silence descended within the car. 

“Ready to go?” Roy said from the driver’s seat. 

“Yeah,” you breathed out. Roy didn’t push you, but he did push upon the accelerator and toward Wembley Stadium. 

Roy parked in the car park beneath the stadium, only for players or coaches, and killed the engine. 

You grabbed your bag quickly and left his Jeep, knowing what happens when you’re trapped inside with nowhere to go. The two of you made your way through the back entrance of the stadium. It was a miracle that Roy hadn’t asked what was wrong– you were being quiet and subdued, that was enough of a trigger for him to know something was up. 

You wondered if Nate had eyes on you. You wondered if he was watching you traverse the inner sections of Wembley, if he saw you freak out when going past the locker room, if he saw you retreat into yourself past the press rooms. 

Roy didn’t wonder. He kept his eyes on you through it all. 

Silence hung in the air uncomfortably as you passed office after office. These were the inner workings of a stadium; a world that you knew well, but nothing like that of the Dogtrack.

You finally broke the air. “I should really get to Rebecca and Keeley,” you said.

“And you will,” Roy said. “There’s just one stop we have to take first.”

Your heart stilled as soon as he turned to the right, entering into the final office on the long corridor you’d traversed. You were hit with the nervous gazes of Ted and Beard immediately, but you didn’t care for the way their expressions faltered softly—

You cared for the way Nate’s eyes bored into you with no remorse. At the back of the room, he glared at you ten times worse than he’d done the week before at the Dogtrack.

“Writer!” Ted exclaimed, filling the tension in the air with his enthusiasm. “Oh, thank God,” he added in a whisper. 

“Hi,” you said smally, accepting a hug from him suddenly. 

You hated this. As you removed yourself from Ted’s grasp, you could feel the steely eyes of one Nathan Shelley staring you down, like a child did to an ant before he crushed it with his shoe.

After you left Ted’s embrace, you stepped back so quickly that you almost tripped over Roy’s feet. He steadied you instantly, keeping his hand at your lower back.

“Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Ted said, gaining some colour back on his face.

You laughed nervously. “I should really go and find Rebecca and Keeley. I shouldn’t be here.” 

“Poppycock!” Ted exclaimed. “You’re exactly what we needed. The guys are in the locker room just down there, why don’t you go and say—,”

“No!” you burst suddenly. 

The room went quiet instantly. Beard looked at Ted quizzically. You could feel Roy’s stare on the back of your neck.

“They need to focus,” you stuttered. “I should just go and find my seat.”

Nate stepped forward a few paces, coming between Ted and Beard silently. “I think that’s a good idea. Let her go and find her girlfriends.” 

You hated the way words fell from his mouth. You knew he had you exactly where he wanted you— uncomfortable, vulnerable, everything in between— but you were in no situation to open this can of worms with Ted, Beard and Roy. 

You gripped your bag on your arm tightly and turned to Roy. “I’ll see you on the pitch,” you said timidly. Quickly, and without thinking, you pressed a chaste kiss on Roy’s cheek, and left promptly.

You had no idea where you were going, but knew that you couldn’t stop as you made your way down the inner corridors of Wembley.

All you knew was that you needed to be where Nate Shelley was not, as soon as humanly possible. 

“Have a glass of wine,” Rebecca said sternly from the internal bar by the VIPs box. 

“I’m okay,” you said, keeping yourself contained.

Her smile turned to a frown. Oh, she knew you far too well for you to get out of this one.

“Take the fucking wine glass, darling.”

“Okay.” You took the glass of wine instantly and downed one, two, three gulps. You breathed out. “Oh, that’s better.” 

“Mhm,” she hummed, satisfied. 

“Sorry,” you said between gulps and sips. “It’s just been a long week.”

“I can see that,” she said, looking you up and down. “Are you sure that’s all it is? Your job?” 

Shit. She knew something else was up. They all fucking did, and it drove you insane. Innately, you cursed yourself out for being so well-known, so well-loved. You were surrounded by the people who knew you most in this world, but also by the people that didn’t want you around. It was a double-edged sword of inescapable proportions, and you were tired.

“That’s all it is,” you said, trying to adopt as much sincerity as you possibly could. 

Rebecca’s frown stayed put as her eyes roamed your face. Gently, she reached out her hand and ran her expensively manicured nails through your hair softly. 

“You’d let us know, wouldn’t you?” she said, and you froze with your wine glass to your lips. “You’d let us know if it was something else, too?” 

Keeley shoved a mini sausage roll in her mouth and approached you both quickly. “It’s Roy, isn’t it.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not Roy,” you groaned. 

“Then what is it!” Keeley exclaimed, launching pastry crumbs across the bar. 

Before you could respond, applause broke out from the crowd immensely. You gulped down the rest of your wine quickly and dropped the empty glass on a side table by the door to the stands. 

“That’s kick off,” you said, already on your way to take a seat.

The conversation went unfinished, as Rebecca and Keeley followed you out of the door towards the pitch. They didn’t attempt to pry during the game, too caught up in the song and dance of yelling chants for Richmond, of being present, of supporting.

You knew you’d dodged a bullet, as you screamed your lungs out from the stands. But, you knew your silence was on a time limit. If anyone would get something out of you, it was Rebecca and Keeley. 

And you knew it would only be a matter of time before they broke your silence (for the better). 

When the full-time whistle blew, you felt helpless. You could only imagine how the guys were feeling, knowing that they’d lost so spectacularly against none other than Manchester City. 

The person who your heart went out to the most, however, was not normal. It wasn’t Roy, it wasn’t Ted, it wasn’t even Sam or Isaac or Colin— it was Jamie Tartt. 

You knew he’d be hurting the most from this immense defeat. His old team, his past life, and at Wembley fucking stadium no less. He’d be in bits.

“Well,” Rebecca said, standing up and wrapping her scarf around her neck. “That’s that, then.”

“The guys will be crushed,” Keeley said sadly.

“Jamie will be crushed.” The pair of them looked at you as you spoke. Their sombre faces were enough for you to know that they agreed wholeheartedly.

“Come on.” Rebecca passed you and stepped out of the stands. “Let’s go and commiserate with them.”

You tensed instantly, watching silently as Keeley stood up and followed Rebecca. The two of them waited for you at the end of the row. 

“I should really head home,” you said finally, trying to keep your expression neutral. 

“What?” Keeley.

“Why on Earth do you need to leave now?” Rebecca.

“It’s just— I don’t want to crowd them, you know?” The pitch of your voice had risen. You sounded like a mouse, a lying, cheating mouse.

The two of them stared at you like you were mental. Neither said anything, their expressions spoke a thousand words for them— what the hell is up with you?

You faltered first. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

“Oh no, we absolutely will look at you like this,” Rebecca said threateningly. “What’s got your knickers in a twist? You look like a labrador that’s shit all over the carpet!”

“I really hope you haven’t shat on someone’s carpet, but if you have, you can tell us.” Keeley leaned down and laid a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“I haven’t shat on a fucking carpet!” 

“Then come on!” Rebecca exclaimed. “Your team needs you.” Her words stung you internally. “They need you.” 

Rebecca’s commanding nature jumped out tenfold. You were stuck at an impasse, between a rock and a hard place, whatever other metaphor you could use for being trapped. One side of your brain projected a sad picture of the guys in the locker room, begging for a friendly face to come and lift them up; and the other— Nate was glaring at you like you’d just done something terribly wrong. 

God, you hated this. No one knew the way he’d talked to you, or what he’d said. And the worst part was that you couldn’t tell them— wouldn’t— from how much drama it would create. 

Football was supposed to be your safe space. Watching matches with your girls, cheering or crying in the locker room with the guys, urging Ted, Beard and Roy on whenever you could.

Nate had taken that all away after one simple conversation. 

You didn’t know how to tell them no. If it was up to you, you would have sprung out of your seat and ran down to the locker rooms without any hesitation.

But, it wasn’t up to you. Nate’s words rattled around your mind like beads in a maraca. 

Rebecca sucked in a deep breath. She leant down and grabbed your hand swiftly, warmly. “We’re here with you. Whatever you need, we’re always here. But, those boys need us the most right now. You know them better than I do—,”

“And me! You know them better than me, too!” Keeley joined in supportively. 

“They don’t want us without you, and that’s a fact.” 

You let out a shaking breath, then nodded quickly. Nate would have to move to the fucking side.

“Okay.” You nodded again, strongly. “Okay— let’s go see our boys.” You stood up quickly, not letting go of Rebecca’s hand.

“Your boys,” Rebecca said sternly. “They’re all yours.”

Navigating the lower levels of Wembley was nerve wracking, you couldn’t lie. Scenarios raced through your head of things going terribly wrong; Nate stopping you in the corridor; Nate forbidding you from entering the locker room; Nate this, Nate that. 

Fuck this shit.

Rebecca was right. They were your boys, your team. You knew them on levels that didn’t revolve around football, you knew them as people. And by God, they needed that. This time, they needed someone to make them feel something other than defeated.

The corridors were clear when the three of you turned the corner to the locker rooms. Only a security guard stood at the door of Richmond, and he very easily let you all in when you approached.

You held your breath when you finally entered. The guys sat in their respective cubby holes sullenly, elbows on knees, heads in their hands.

You’d seen this before at Roy’s last game. Silence even deeper than when you both sat in the Dogtrack locker room alone littered the air at Wembley. You could only imagine what the guys were feeling, like history was repeating itself on so many levels for the team.

You caught eyes with Jamie first. He looked broken. 

Rebecca and Keeley headed towards the coaches, but you felt stuck in place by the door, frozen by the sad atmosphere in the room.

Roy saw you before you saw him. He strolled over slowly and reached out to grab your forearm. “Hey,” he said softly. 

You flashed back to reality and gazed up at him. “Hey.” Quickly, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders tightly. He clutched you back strongly, and you knew that he’d been needing a hug with the same fervour as yours. 

You didn’t need to say you were sorry. He’d probably heard it enough already. He knew you felt the sting of a loss this big just as much as he did.

When you went to pull away, he squeezed you tighter. Evidently, he wasn’t done just yet. 

“Well, guys,” Ted said to the room. Roy finally tugged away, but he kept a firm grasp around your waist as the two of you turned to listen to Ted’s address. “We lost. You don’t need me or anyone else to say it, because the look on your faces says it all.” Ted’s southern drawl felt like therapy. Within seconds, the team felt acknowledged, and that was all that mattered. “We all knew this was going to be tough, and for just a moment I want you all to forget the score, forget the goals and whatever else, and just think of how you all played like a proper team.” 

Ted had a way with words that you knew was the main reason his career was so vast. You didn’t know a thing about American football, but you knew that Ted was a stellar coach whether it was football or soccer in his eyes.

“You played as a team today,” Ted continued. “And sure, you’re allowed to be sad about the outcome, I’m not about to tell you you can’t feel that sting, but—.” Roy squeezed your waist. You wondered if he was doing it subconsciously. “But you all need to know that you were a unit today. One that has got us up through these ranks and back on the radar of the Premier League, even if the FA Cup wasn’t ours this time around.” 

His words settled over the room and brought back a sense of self to all the players. Next to you, Roy breathed out softly and in understanding. You could feel the tension within him dissipate ever so slightly. 

And then, that all went away. 

“Knock knock!” a voice sounded from the door to the locker room. A second later, a face you didn’t recognise turned the corner and into the room. “Awh no, sorry for the loss, lads,” he said, as your eyes darted quickly around the room, trying to find any semblance of familiarity. You found it in Jamie’s eyes instantly. “Though, not fully sorry. Because Man City fuckin’ won!” His Mancunian accent reverberated throughout the room.

You understood immediately, as you watched Jamie’s hands ball into fists. The rest of the team stayed back, as if glued to their cubbies. This was Jamie’s father. It had to be. 

Jamie’s dad pottered further into the room, towards his son. Jamie stood up as he did, sucking a deep breath into his tired lungs. “My boy, my boy. You bottled it didn’t ya?” 

Your entire body tensed as everyone observed, not saying a word. Jamie’s dad only kept coming, not paying any mind to the other players in the room. Roy’s grip on your waist tightened suddenly, as if he could feel your anxiety rising. You could feel the same from him; every muscle in his body tried desperately to hold back. 

Jamie’s father lunged towards his son’s face, so close that Jamie couldn’t look anywhere else. “You hear me, boy? You fuckin’ bottled it, didn’t ya?” he repeated. 

“Don’t speak to me that way,” Jamie said quickly, seething. 

“Wha?” his father faked not hearing him, getting even closer. 

“Do not speak to me that way,” Jamie repeated. His father looked up to his face, catching his eye lethally. 

Your gut lurched as his father kept going, kept repeating wha?, kept getting closer and closer to his boy’s face. This was vile, and you could hardly believe no one was doing anything.

“Wanna say that to me again, boy?” 

Jamie stood his ground, puffing out his chest to be bigger, straightening out his spine to be taller, and better, and whatever else he hadn’t learned from his shit-bag of a father. 

“Huh?” he said again, louder. “Huh!” he exclaimed. Alongside his voice, his hands bombarded into Jamie’s chest– hard.

Something within you snapped. Your chest compressed, your intestines warped, and your legs started moving. Roy’s grip disappeared from around your waist as you rushed forward, not giving a shit about the audience, or about the guys, or about Nate. Nate, who was standing behind Ted and Beard, saying and doing nothing. 

Inside, you stopped caring. You didn’t give a fuck if he hated you being around, you didn’t give a fuck if you’d get in trouble from this outburst, but you had to do something– anything. Jamie Tartt was being publicly abused by his father in front of your eyes, and you couldn’t fucking stand it. 

Maybe this is what Roy meant. You were the glue. You kept everyone together, you brought Roy back to the team. Maybe this is what you’d always been meant to do– protect these boys from whatever you fucking could, when they weren’t able to for themselves. 

As Jamie recovered, ready to strike, you were already one step ahead. In a fraction of a second, you were already beside his father, fist raised. When your knuckles hit his skin, you finally came back into the room. There were two crashes; one from the impact of your fist on his father’s cheekbone; the second from him hitting the floor unceremoniously. 

Quickly, Beard approached you and hoisted Jamie’s dad up by his armpits. The two of them backed out of the door, clambering over stray shoes and shirts and whatever else that lay on the floor. Without any warning, two large arms wrapped around you from behind and pulled you off the ground. You knew it was Roy as soon as you smelled his cologne. You smiled inappropriately, and then you chuckled to yourself deviously. 

You’d just punched Jamie’s piece of shit dad in the fucking face. 

And it felt fantastic. 

Clatters sounded from the outside corridor. Beard breathed heavily as he made his way back into the locker room, and the door slammed loudly behind him. The air felt heavy as eyes darted around the room. The guys looked at each other, then to Beard, then to you. Roy still held you tightly, dangling you above the ground as you tried your damned hardest not to burst into laughter. 

You couldn’t feel your hand. Your knuckles were red when you dropped your gaze to look. Your hand shook, finger bones stuck in place as they contemplated what their owner had just done– thrown a punch for the first time in her fucking life, and very haphazardly at that. 

When Jamie looked over to you, Roy finally dropped you to the floor. He leaned in close to your face, surveying your eyes suddenly. This was a look you’d never seen from him; fear. Roy Kent wasn’t one to be afraid, but the way his eyes poured into your own had your chest crumpling beneath your skin. He was worried– he was frightened– for you. 

“You ok?” he whispered. 

You nodded quickly. “I’m not the one you need to be asking that to.” Your gaze moved over to Jamie in a heartbeat. 

Roy stood up straight once more, puffing out his chest as he inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. He started walking without warning, fists balled, towards the Richmond striker. Everyone held their breath, knowing that him and Jamie together were not a good combination. You, however, smiled to yourself without question. 

When Roy reached Jamie, he wrapped his arms around him immediately. Coach and player hugged in silence, as the gravity of what Jamie’s father had just done stuck to every wall in the room. He needed this– hands on help, a real show of love and affection.

You were happy that Roy was the one to breach contact. That’s exactly what Jamie had needed. 

“You ok?” Roy asked him, pulling away from the embrace. 

Jamie breathed out slowly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“It’s not me you should be thanking,” Roy muttered. 

Both men turned back to face you. You held your wrist with care, not wanting to jolt your now fucked up hand. You smiled at the two of them knowingly, as everything settled back into place. 

Behind you, Nathan Shelley grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. On the way out of the locker room, he rushed past you harshly. You yelped to yourself as he pushed into you, jolting your wrist painfully. He stopped before you for just a second; he smiled. Your heart skipped a beat. 

“Watch yourself there,” he said, in some kind of fake honey-toned pitch. Then, he turned on his heels and left the locker room as fast as he’d bumped into you. 

Another threat. What a fucking joke. 

Your face soured immediately, you couldn’t help it. Inside your head, you imagined a world where you’d told Roy all that Nate had put you through recently. You could see it clearly– his whole body would tense, his fists would ball, his nostrils would flare, and he’d yell I’ll show that little fucker! 

Deeper within the indulgent part of your mind, he kissed you passionately before he went to confront Nate on your behalf. You swallowed quickly, trying to pat away those thoughts from the unexplored crevices of your mind. It was futile. Besides, you knew you still couldn’t tell Roy about Nate’s behaviour, for the sake of the team. 

One day, rest assured, you would. When Nate left Richmond, or something else happened to change things around here, that’s when you’d lay it all out for him. 

You were counting down the days.

“Hey,” Roy said, alerting you back into the room once more. Stood before you, he looked down at your hand. His brows furrowed. “Hm,” he growled gently. 

“It’s fine,” you lied. 

Softly, Roy laid his fingers atop your red knuckles. A sharp pain bombarded through your flesh instantly, forcing you to suck in a gasp. The pain spread to the rest of your hand, down your fingers, and twinged into your wrist. You couldn’t help it– you had to scream. “Motherfucker!” 

“Just as I thought,” Roy said. “You’ve fractured the shit out of your hand.” 

You squirmed on the spot, trying desperately to alleviate the pain you felt. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you rattled off, purely as a way to expel what you felt. 

“Come on.” Roy bent down to the floor and picked up your bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “Let’s go to the physio.” You hardly heard him, too focused on your hand. Roy gently wrapped his arm around your shoulders, leading you out of the room. “See you in a bit, lads!” he exclaimed to the room. 

The two of you turned into the empty corridor ay Wembley, walking slowly as you tried to hold onto the last of your composure. 

“God,” you hissed. “Why the fuck did I punch Jamie’s dad?”

“Because someone had to,” Roy replied. “And besides.” He glanced at you unknowingly, as you remained preoccupied on your self-inflicted injury. “It was fucking hot.”

You groaned immensely, dropping your head onto Roy’s shoulder. “It doesn’t fucking feel like it,” you whined. Roy couldn’t help but smile. 

“Oh, believe me,” he said lowly, indulging in you being this close to him. “It was.” 

Roy held you all the way to the physio. Secretly, he’d never been happier that you’d decided to be so reckless. Perhaps, he thought, he was rubbing off on you just as much as you’d changed him for the better.

Tag list: @atjamesbbarnes @20th-centu-fairy-girl @royalestrellas @weakmoony-stuff @ironmanmagnetfridge @lemonpiegurll @hellomagicalsouls @her-fandom-sanctum @gothicwidowsworld @old-enough-to-know-better73 @djarindroid @afraidofshrimp @respondingtoshowerthoughts-blog @queen-of-dumbasses @sogoodtoheritsvicious @lznnph1l @crav1ngc4ke @onceuponaoneshot @jamieolivia27 @dadbodfanatic-x @kelp-dreaming @harrypedro465 @lonely-escape-artist @abeeabeeabee @nicklet94 @libsybum @cha0sdreaming @toomany24s @kashee-h @infinetlyforgotten @secretnook @cluelesslilsharkie @callmecasey81 @deepdarkvelvet @twiceinabluemoon @cardeegans @golden-hoax @kingleahhh @hoalkk1 @sunderland-6 @ellouisa17 @thesestrangerslikeme @elissaaa @scrumptiousroadponymoney @confessionsofatotaldramaslut @ysmmsy @seacactusplant @pedritosgirl2000 @loveslide @ryleyrooroo @hanybunch @tweasley20 @witchyanya-7 @sareim123122 @jaymum @lwritesstuff @kravitzwhore @preciousbabypeter @blue-bujo @dark-academia-slut @imsupposedtohaveaname @tigolebittiez @strawberry07cake @eugene-emt-roe @dd122004dd @marjorieisreading @kissmekent @trashcanfullofdork @rmwarn90 @nerdgirljen @secretsicanthideanymore @sortzz @a-asterias

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Chapters

Chapters are essential because they help you control the pace in which your story is experienced.

But remember that there are no hard and fast rules when it comes to writing chapters. Follow your gut to decide when to start and stop each chapter.

What to Include in Each Chapter

Think of a chapter as a mini-story.

Of course, none of the chapters in your book can stand alone because they’re connected in one large arch.

However, a chapter usually has at least one scene (and sometimes several, related scenes), and each scene contains a beginning, middle, and end.

So, in this way, a chapter has a mini-arc.

Chapters are like unresolved mini-stories that are interconnected.

To find out what happens, the reader must read them all.

Because every chapter in your book should have at least one scene, each chapter should have at least the following:

A setting

Character(s)

Motivations (external and internal)

Conflict

Cause and effect (or action and reaction)

Source ⚜ More: Chapter Outline ⚜ Chapter Endings Writing References: Plot ⚜ Character ⚜ Worldbuilding

[redux-iterum]

Charred Legacy: Epilogue

(AO3 counterpart here.)

The sky arched over the earth in an impressive display of colors. Cinderpaw was situated outside of the Mother in a way where the massive legs kept her from seeing the horizons on either side of the world, but the sun’s glow was fighting hard to retain its gold and red, while on the other end stars crawled into the sky higher and higher in the deep blues and purples of night.

Cinderpaw’s eyes drifted between the stars she could see, connecting them with invisible lines and forming inexact silhouettes. She wondered if the stars ever made the shape of a cat or some other animal. Maybe that would make StarClan a little self-centered, to actually make a cat out of cats, but what else was a feline, really? At least, that was what Yellowfang had always said.

“Oh!”

She looked back down. Several cats were approaching, two of them crossing the road together. The smallest of them, a pair of patched cats, were coming around the corner of the Mother’s left leg. The older one, grey-and-white, was the one who had spoken.

“I did not expect you to be here so early,” he said in his soft, slightly creaky voice. “Apologies for making you wait.”

“Hi, Fognose.” Cinderpaw waved her tail and stood up. “I actually got here yesterday. Firestar had his ceremony and we thought I should stay here to save myself a trip.”

“Good idea,” said WindClan’s seer, a handsome dark brown tom named Buzzardface. He looked just as impassive as the rest of his Clan, but his words were kind. “Sorry about your mentor. Heard after the Gathering.”

“Yeah…” Cinderpaw sighed. “Thanks. I’m just glad the stars let me help name Firestar.”

“They know you’re not a fool.” Mudcloud said, another patched tom (this time dark brown) from RiverClan. His pleasantly round face squished in a bit with amusement. “If Yellowfang herself didn’t come down to swat you, I’m sure you did it right.”

Fognose and his apprentice, Littlepaw, both chuffed.

“She didn’t, luckily,” Cinderpaw said with a purr.

Fognose reached Cinderpaw. She saw a dim grief in his eyes. “I do hope she watches over us tonight. Her best apprentice ought to receive her name with her mentor present.” Before a heavy pause could rest between the seers, Fognose cleared his throat. “Now, I am to give you your name, and I know we have more than one option for you. You could be a -belly, and you could change your name entirely to honor your leg. I remember that you talked about that, once…”

“Well, actually—” Cinderpaw lifted a paw. “I have a different name I’d like, if I’m allowed.”

The toms all fell silent, looking at each other curiously. Fognose tilted his head.

“I know it’s a weird request, but I’d like to be given -pelt.” At the slightly confused squint from Buzzardface, Cinderpaw hastened to add, “Yellowfang’s old name was Murkpelt when she was in ShadowClan. I want something to honor her with for the rest of my life, and I think having part of her name with me is the best I can do.”

Mudcloud blinked. “You want your name to not be your own?”

“I do,” Cinderpaw said with a firm nod. She added to Fognose, “Please.”

Littlepaw looked up at his mentor, gauging his reaction. Hesitantly, he offered, “I think it would honor your mentor, sir.”

“It would,” Fognose murmured. His eyes warmed as he regarded the taller Cinderpaw. “Very well, then. At your request.”

“Best get started.” Buzzardface started off for the mouth of the Mother, the other seers following him.

The walk inside those tunnels, with the absolute lack of sensory input, alarmed many apprentices and warriors. Cinderpaw herself strolled along with confidence, having a faint impression of being gently held in the belly of a queen, even if it was absolutely freezing in here.

The party reached the cave of the Moon Stone in what seemed like no time at all. Fognose turned and stood with his back to the Mother’s heart, while the other seers sat to the side and Cinderpaw stood across from him.

I know my lines, she thought. I know them. I do. I just wish they weren’t so long. Warriors don’t have to deal with this…

“Mirra, the Three, and StarClan,” Fognose began, startling her. “I ask that you bear witness to our ceremony tonight, and bring blessings to this young seer.” He looked at Cinderpaw. “Why have you come to our Mother’s heart?”

Cinderpaw straightened up. “I ask for my name promised to me in the light of the moon and stars.”

She got that part right; Fognose looked pleased. “What have you done to earn your name?”

“I have been taught to read the mysteries of leaf, feather, and light, in the stones of my soul,” Cinderpaw replied. “I have learned the law of our mothers’ mothers. With everything I see in the light of the stars, I shall earn my name.”

“How will you use your name?” Fognose asked.

Cinderpaw felt a warm glow in her chest. “I will guide my cats in the path of starlight. I will speak what I see. With this, I shall use my name.”

Fognose leaned a little forward. “Who do you ask to honor your name?”

Here came the big one. Cinderpaw took in a deep breath. “I ask the Endless Watcher for the courage to bear my name well in the light of the sun. I ask the Pathcarver for the discretion to bear my name well in the light of the moon.” The glowing warmth intensified. “I ask the Twilight for the voice to bear my name well in the path of starlight.”

Fognose turned his head to look at the other seers, who were all watching intently. “Do we agree to bestow this apprentice with the name of a seer, and all it entails?”

“I agree,” said Buzzardface.

“As do I,” Mudcloud said.

Littlepaw simply nodded. Apprentices didn’t have a voice in the ceremony, but he had an eager look on his face when he watched Cinderpaw, like he was imagining his own naming.

Fognose turned back to Cinderpaw, his big eyes crinkled. “Blessed apprentice of the stars, that which you ask for will be given. In the heart of the Mother, under the eye of the lady Suriin, in the light of our lord Rokhar, I call you by your name.” He bowed his head. “Welcome, Cinderpelt. May StarClan light your path.”

The chant had less voices in it, but they echoed in this cavern enough to drown out a warrior’s cheer. “Cinderpelt! Cinderpelt!”

The warmth flared into heat, just for a moment, before softening and fading entirely. Cinderpelt bowed her head to Fognose in turn as the other seers gathered closer.

“Blessings and congratulations,” Littlepaw said to her. “ThunderClan will be proud of you when you come home.”

Cinderpelt ruffled his head-fur. “And I’ll be proud of you when it’s your turn.”

“With that,” Mudcloud said, “we ought to dream now.”

Cinderpelt went up with the others and touched her nose to the Moon Stone—she’d never get over the blast of ice flowing through her body as soon as she made contact. She backed up and sat down, facing the stone, while the other seers laid down around her and shut their eyes.

As Yellowfang had instructed her so long ago, she shut her own, but didn’t go to sleep. Instead, she breathed in and out slowly, the world around her seeping into her body. Every hair on her pelt was touched by something different: a swallow taking flight from the Barn’s entrance, a doe raising her head from the grass and watching a distant bush suspiciously rustle, the wind carrying the scents of far-distant lands down the moor and into the forest. She followed that wind, racing without moving a whisker, and entered the forest, listening and seeing from the darkness of the Mother.

---

It’s just not fair.

She walks aimlessly, her path indiscriminate, stepping one direction and turning in another. Pain and hunger and ennui cling to her essence, dragging her down by her long, blue fur until she’s fighting with everything she has (and it isn’t much) just to keep from sinking to the ground and lying there until she fades.

She’s a failure. She devastated her Clan, forced them to struggle amongst themselves without a leader. She had sworn so long ago that she would never wrong them again, that the kits were gone, that she wouldn’t even look at Oakclaw. She had done so well for so long, and then…

And then this—this form of hers now. Skeletal, her fur greasy and matted, her eyesight agonizingly dull. She can hardly make out a bush in front of her.

How could she have let this happen? What is wrong with her?

Here is the end of her legacy: a shriveled-up bag of bones that left her charges with no one to protect them, no one to lead them.

It took her days to come to her senses; she thought she was still alive, just sleeping, when she opened her eyes and realized her body wasn’t there anymore. She wandered into camp, and only the young and old remained. The warriors were gone. Were they fighting each other for the leader’s spot? Where were they?

And then she saw them walking back into the forest, auras dark and haunted and exhausted. They said nothing to each other as she watched them. She didn’t follow. She was afraid to.

The weights tighten their grip on her soul and yank her towards the earth. She’s forgotten what it was to feel pride and joy at this point. What is there but regret, shame, failure? She used to be someone, and she died as no one. No, worse - as a disappointment.

Maybe… maybe lying down wouldn’t feel so bad for a bit. For forever.

Then heat rests on her shoulders. She blinks, her despair momentarily forgotten, and looks around in confusion. The heat grows, and with it the forest brightens as a form of sunlight steps past ThunderClan’s border.

She stands straight, bristling her matted fur… but, as she squints and strains her eyes, she realizes she needn’t bother.

The form is smaller than usual, quiet and serene, ginger fur smooth and soft. She recognizes the wiry build, the verdant eyes, the gentle, loving aura radiating off of him. He walks calmly, his head high and tail higher, determination setting his face into something nearing majestic.

She knows that light.

“They chose you,” she near-whispers. “You’re… you’re…”

“Firestar now.”

She looks up. On the edge of the forest, standing in the grass of the neutral grounds, is a familiar form: a handsome, tall, warm brown tabby with merriment in his starry eyes. She stares at him. Her paws move without her instruction.

“Sorry to interrupt your descent into wraithhood,” he says as she steps closer. “You were taking a while to get to us.”

“Oakclaw,” she breathes. With that single word, and with every step, the weights begin dropping off of her, one by one.

“Bluestar,” he says, casual and amused, but with that underlying tenderness she remembers from so long ago. “I’m glad I got to you in time.”

The former leader of ThunderClan feels her posture straighten, her knots untangle. “I was worried about my Clan. I couldn’t leave without knowing that they’d be okay.”

“They’ll be okay.” Oakclaw brushes his muzzle against hers, purring. “They made the right choice, and he’ll take care of them just as well as you did. Maybe even better.” He pulls back to look at his beloved with fondness. “You’d be amazed at what they’ve gotten up to since you’ve been gone. I can tell you all about it, if you come with me.”

Bluestar hesitates, just for a heartbeat… but the pull of the material world is gone. She glances back, noticing her form filling out again and fur glowing, just to watch the firelight fade into the woods, before turning back to Oakclaw and saying, “Happily.”

Oakclaw presses his forehead on her neck, their spirit-energy flowing into each other with the simple contact, and starts walking with her, heading for a rising path of starlight coming from the Gatheringplace’s center. Bluestar’s steps are stronger, more deliberate, more regal, like she remembers, like others remember her. She doesn’t look back again as they head for StarClan, tails twined together. She doesn’t need to.

They’re going to be just fine.

[cesiousblue]

Here's the piece that I did for @hieronzine the Friends at the Table Hieron zine! I really wanted to do something that showed off Chapter and what Chapter was trying to build in Aubade.

This particular piece is inspired by vintage etchings!

[the-once-ler-in-superjail]

Thought I would draw some sketches of the most recent chapter, because some parts still live in my brain and I wanted to see them visualised ;w;

Any chance to draw an angry protective Oncie I gotta take it, and we live for sad Warden's.

(You can read the chapter these sketches are from here)

---

BTW I'm releasing an announcement next week so stay tuned!!

[narrans]

A Small and Tall Collection | Chapter Ten | Battle Scars and Boundaries

Chapter Ten | Battle Scars and Boundaries

Her entire body shook violently. Unable to keep anything down and running on a completely empty tank was obviously taking its toll on her, but Ashlynn didn’t care. She had to get out of there – and now.

Trapped in a drawer just a few inches taller than she was, the Borrower woman knew she had maybe a minute before the human man named Soren showed back up with something that was either going to contain her or maim her so she couldn’t escape. She drew her injured arm close to her chest, afraid to use the tender limb, and glanced up at the edge of the drawer.

On occasions where she had to jump and catch herself, she would use her right arm or both arms to support her weight. This time was going to be different, and she only had the one shot. Her heart was starting to thump louder and louder, creating a roaring sound in her ears while her head throbbed.

Jump. Catch. Swing. Get away.

Ashlynn stood on the socks to give her a minute boost up and, bending her shaking legs, sprung up with as much energy as she could muster. Her fingertips barely cleared the top, but her grip didn’t last. The edges of the drawer were rounded, something she didn’t account for, and her weakened body couldn’t maintain her hold on it.

No! Curses! Come on… one more time. You’ve got to get out of here.

Ashlynn gritted her teeth and crouched again before jumping as high as she could. This time, she felt a groove in the wood as her fingers slid over the side of the drawer. She latched onto it. Even as she felt a dull throb begin in her palm as her nails bent backwards, she held on as tightly as she could. Her instinct and sheer will to live helped drive her leg upward, heel snagging the edge of the drawer.

Yes!

Ashlynn had just barely managed to drag herself up onto the edge when she noticed her surroundings within the human man’s room – and it wasn’t good.

From her vantage point, she could see there were two closets at the far end of the room next to the door. There was some kind of large cabinet she remembered him getting not too long ago and a bedside table that was at least a foot from the bed, which was where she was. The drawer she’d been carried here in was on the bed in the dead center. The good news was that if she fell now, it wouldn’t be the end of her.

The bad news was that there was no clear way down.

If she were on the bedside table, she could’ve used the weird looking lamp cord to belay down to the ground, but that was too far away for her to jump in her current state. Perched up high where she was, Ashlynn could see that the blankets on the bed draped over the edge, but she couldn’t remember if they went all the way to the ground.

Did she dare risk the climb and the potential drop down for the chance at freedom? And, if she made it to the ground, could she make it to a loose electrical socket in time before Soren got back?

All of this thinking was making Ashlynn’s head spin, but every dizzying thought came to a screeching halt when she heard a soft, “Oh,” of surprise come from the door.

She’d been looking all around the room instead of the one place that really mattered most – the door. Standing there was Soren holding some kind of red case in one hand and a clear plastic container with a turquoise lid in the other. It startled her so badly that, out of sheer instinct, Ashlynn leaned backwards to try and duck away from being seen by those almost golden eyes.

It was a mistake.

Her already poor balance sent her off of the edge of the drawer. She didn’t fall far, but her lack of balance and slowed reaction times left Ashlynn landing directly onto her injured arm. The squashy blankets did nothing to cushion the fall. A scream of agony erupted out of her before Ashlynn even had time to fully register the pain. Like hot coals being shoved beneath her skin, the burning throb in her arm reminded her of how little she could do now.

Fresh tears sprung to her eyes and she shoved her free hand into her mouth to prevent another vocalization; but did it really matter at this point? Did it count as talking to a human if they heard you scream? The shock of the weight of the body slamming into her injured arm sent a ripping shock wave through her body and, all at once, the nausea returned and the gag she’d suppressed came out of her.

What little bile was left in her spurted out onto the comforter, making Ashlynn burn hot in embarrassment and shame, but also fear. The one oldest human seemed reasonable, but would he have the same kindness now that she’d gotten sick on his bed? No coherent thought surfaced as Ashlynn lay there on the bed cradling her injured arm, the smell of her stomach acid permeating through the air.

This is it. He’s going to come over here and grab me. It’s over. I can’t get away. I can’t escape. I have to be a pet. All that stuff Soren said was just for show. Real person… yeah…

Those two words rang in Ashlynn’s head.

Real person…

He called me a real person. And… and he’s not over here.

Ashlynn’s concept of time was discombobulated, but what she did know was that some time had passed, and Soren wasn’t hovering over her handling her and picking her up to put her back into the box. Even with her eyes stinging from the salty tears, Ashlynn realized she had to look. She reluctantly let her eyes travel from where she was toward the door where she had seen Soren.

To her surprise and utter relief, he hadn’t moved. Not even an inch.

His jaw was locked, and his hazel gold eyes were transfixed on her. The expression on his face was a hard one to read, but Ashlynn knew she didn’t see malice. Concern? Worry? Unease? Eagerness? She wasn’t sure, and her blurring vision wasn’t helping.

What else wasn’t helping was the fact she didn’t know what Soren was thinking; and she wasn’t alone in that feeling.

Soren had stepped away just for a second to grab his medical kit as his mind scrambled to comprehend what had happened over the past ten minutes. A small woman was found in his brothers’ bedroom, and she was sick and injured. His brothers were upset, but they also needed a lecture about the importance of asking for help and also the importance and value of life, no matter how small. He’d just woken up. Part of him wondered if all of this was just a dream.

Then, the moment he made it back to his bedroom to tend to the first of many objectives he needed to tackle, he was greeted with the scene of that same small woman balancing precariously on the edge of the drawer he thought she was contained in before she fell onto the bed, landing harshly on her injured arm. Guilt riddled his mind as he realized he had made some sound of surprise, which probably surprised her. His heart lurched when he heard the woman scream in agony followed by the sound of her gag and subsequent vomiting. The instinct to rush over and make sure she was okay had never been stronger in his life. It was ingrained into who he was. So often he’d rush to his brothers’ sides when something was wrong, but now he forced himself to wait.

She’s hurt.

She’s scared.

She’s sick.

She’s probably alone.

She doesn’t know me.

I have to treat this like ground zero for anyone else. I’ve done this a million times. This is just a million plus one… a very… very… small… one.

Soren felt some switch in the back of his mind flick on and, just like that, his facial expression neutralized. He felt his pulse slow and his mind quiet. For several minutes, Soren simply froze in place and waited as the small woman shivered. It was when his impulse was to take a cautious step forward that the small woman opened her eyes after averting her gaze from him all this time and slowly let herself look at him.

There was no way to know what she was thinking, but Soren knew he needed to start working on her arm as soon as possible. He had to risk saying something to her first. The words usually came to him when he was out in the field working on one case or another. Trusting himself, he took a slow, deep breath and cleared his throat.

“Hey there, little miss. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare or startle you,” Soren stated gently. His heart started to quicken, but he let himself continue. When there was no response, Soren continued. “And… I’m sorry for the way you were treated. Dorian and Rey are young. Just kids. They’ve given me plenty of battle scars too, all from being careless kids. They should know better, but I’m sure they didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s not like them to do something like this on purpose.”

Ashlynn wasn’t sure where Soren was going with this apology, if that’s what it even was, but now she felt like the conversation was being tossed back to her. Was Soren expecting a response? Should she respond? Would saying something help her or hurt her?

No. It’s a trick. I’ve got to refrain from speaking. A scream of pain doesn’t count, right? Don’t all creatures make sounds when hurt?

“Well, I’m here to… I guess… try and make it up to you? You don’t look like you’re feeling well, and your arm is either broken or dislocated. I couldn’t tell which from a glance. I know how to fix stuff like that. So, I’m asking if it’s okay for me to help you.” Soren’s words hung in the air for several, long seconds while Ashlynn processed them.

Do I want a human grabbing and poking and prodding me? No. No! Of course not!

Ashlynn glanced from Soren to her arm as her fingers tingled numbly.

Then again… do I really have a choice?

I can’t get away like this.

I’m sick.

I’m hurt.

I’m alone.

Ashlynn looked back at Soren and then back to her arm.

He might be my only chance at fixing what’s wrong with my arm. I might have to trust him…

The thought was a nauseating one, and one Ashlynn was uneasy to accept. At the same time, what other choice did she have?

The expression must’ve been easy to read on her face because Soren cleared his throat again before asking, “Why don’t we start fresh, yeah? You don’t know me. I don’t know you. So, let’s start at ground zero. My name is Soren. I’m twenty-two years old. My favorite color is pale mint green. I have a sixth sense. Finally, I have a knack for helping people. There. Your turn.”

Ashlynn’s heart raced. She wasn’t sure what to do. The Borrower woman was in the same precarious situation as she was before, but now time was running out. What would happen if Soren wanted the answers now and wouldn’t help her unless she responded? Would she suffer because of her silence?

Soren’s light chuckle drew her attention back to the human across the room. “Well, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I mean, the point is for you to get to know me, right? Earn trust, not just give it away?”

Ashlynn couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This had to be fake, right?

“Tell you what. If you want me to leave… no, that won’t work either because I don’t know if you can understand and because you might not feel like talking,” sighed Soren. “Okay, new plan. I’m just going to talk this out in case you do understand, which I believe you do. Regardless of how you feel about me, it doesn’t change that your arm is hurt. So, slowly, I’m going to come over there and I’m going to fix your arm.

“If you don’t want that, say something. Back away. Squeak. Throw something. Anything. If you do understand, just… be patient with me, and I’ll do the same. Right? We’ll make some boundaries from there.” Ashlynn had to give kudos to Soren. He certainly was direct and thinking of every scenario. Was this what happened when you had kids? Especially two rowdy boys? There were obvious flaws with Soren’s plan with trying to communicate with someone who didn’t want to talk, but no one was perfect. If Ashlynn was being honest, it was the best case scenario.

She clenched her teeth and, as her head swirled, forced herself to hold still as Soren slowly took the first step forward. He took another. Then another. Each step felt like he was right there on top of Ashlynn, but it wasn’t until he was actually there beside the bed kneeling that the Borrower woman started to lose her nerve. The true moment she felt like breaking was when she craned her neck to look up into the human’s hazel eyes and swore she saw tiny flecks of green mixed in with those pools of gold.

Her whole body was shaking. Thoughts raced around her mind while being sucked into the void like dust bunnies succumbing to the vacuum cleaner hose. Only now did she register that Soren was still speaking to her, saying the same thing repeatedly.

“You’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise I’ll keep you safe.”

Now merely a foot or so away from her, Soren could see minute details of the tiny woman’s face. The way her features twitched and shifted from resolved to absolute panic. The glistening sweat from her forehead. Every shiver and shake as she obviously fought off every impulse to run. Most importantly, he could see even beneath her oversized clothing that her arm was dislocated and not broken.

Heavens… she’s so human. I can’t imagine being that small. What does the world look like from her eyes? What do I look like?... probably some kind of monster.

Soren’s brief thought let him reflect momentarily on what he wanted to say next. Already, his practical mind was switching into high gear again. He’d helped do so many things in the field before like popping in dislocated shoulders and reviving people who had lost consciousness. He’d never felt so nervous to do what had always come so natural to him.

Get it together. It’s just like all the others. Just smaller. Just take a breath.

Soren followed his advice before setting down the medical supplies he brought with him and focusing on the miniscule woman in front of him.

“Okay. First things first, yeah? Let’s get your arm taken care of?” Soren asked. He received no response, but he didn’t really need to. All he needed to do was inform and perform. “Right. So, I’m going to walk you through this first, okay? What I need to do is slip your arm back into joint. It’s dislocated, not broken. It’s a good thing. Now, I’ll need to touch your arm and your shoulder to get everything back into place. Okay? It’s going to hurt, but after it will feel much better.”

Ashlynn didn’t like the sound of any of what Soren said. Touching. Hurting. Joints. The only acceptable parts were that it wasn’t broken and that it would feel better.

Ashlynn watched as Soren’s fingers crested over the edge of the bed, fingers slightly splayed in a surrendering motion and hovered there for several long seconds. The Borrower woman choked back a sob as she saw Soren’s immense fingers beginning to approach her. Every horrible scenario filled her head and flashed before her eyes. Those fingers wrapping around her, crushing her with as much ease as breaking a cracker. Her fears surrounded her, making the Borrower feel small and powerless. She had no voice. She had no way of escape.

“Hey, little miss, it’s okay. I promise.” Soren’s voice, deep and soothing like a summer rain, was so close that it sounded all encompassing. Unlike her fears of being contained in the fleshy digits, however, the sound of the human’s words was like that of a stack of blankets on a cold winter day. Comforting. Warm. When he said she would be okay, Ashlynn felt like she could believe him.

“Please… will you let me fix your arm?” asked Soren in a tone Ashlynn could only describe as earnest and pleading. Perhaps it was desperation. Perhaps there was something pleading in Soren’s eyes that was just enough to convince her. Ashlynn glanced from the human inches from her down to her cradled arm before, after several agonizing moments, she held out her injured appendage.

It was with increasing difficulty that she felt the tips of her fingers. Even stretching out her arm made her wince. She felt a whimper in her throat, but kept it down as she kept her arm extended. Ashlynn could’ve sworn that she saw Soren’s eyes flare with curiosity and wonder, which he clearly kept at bay as he slowly reached out toward her.

The tips of his fingers easily dwarfed the small woman’s entire arm. Soren knew he had to be careful to not cause more damage, and he hoped she could forgive him. Based on the way it looked and the way she was moving, Soren recognized the injury – a dislocation. Before, he wasn’t sure, but now he was. The pads of his thumb and index finger gingerly grasped the woman’s forearm, making her lean away as her chest rose and fell rapidly.

This is crazy. This is crazy. Both thought silently at the same time.

“So, good news and bad news. Bad news is this is going to hurt a lot. Good news is that your arm isn’t broken, so your recovery time is going to be a lot shorter,” said Soren. Ashlynn’s eyes flicked up to Soren, down to her arm, and then back up to the human whose fingers now practically encased her limb.

Okay. Not broken. I can work with that.

“Okay, there’s two parts to this,” stated Soren as he placed his other fingers by her shoulder. Her eyes, which Soren could see now were a stormy blue gray, were wide open while she continued to suck in beath after breath. I need to be quicker so she doesn’t freak out. “First, I need to get your arm into the right position. Second, I’ll need to pull up and toward you to get your shoulder back into joint. Don’t be afraid to pass out or scream if you need to. It’s going to hurt. Now, lay back on your back and I’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

Ashlynn hated this. Every moment the human man’s fingers were on her was one more second she could feel his steady pulse surrounding her limb. It was one moment closer to her screaming at him to get away. It was one more moment of agony she was subjecting herself to. She hated that, with no effort, he was able to guide her body backwards onto the bed.

The faster he does this, the sooner he’ll leave, and you can get out of here. Ashlynn thought over and over.

“Don’t tense up, and I’ll go on three. Ready?” asked Soren. Ashlynn gritted her teeth as she braced herself. “One… Two… Thr-…” Ashlynn didn’t hear Soren finish the last word. Everything happened so fast. She watched as Soren rolled her arm with ease in between his fingers as he pulled her arm ever so slightly away from her body. The twisting sensation made her head spin, but the distinct *crack* was what made Ashlynn cry out as her vision darkened.

Her ears were ringing, clouding all other senses she possessed, when her vision started coming back. Reverberations in the air shifted and fluctuated around her. There was a slight pressure on her shoulder before it subsided again. The pressure and pain were gone, and sweet relief had replaced it. Ashlynn clenched and unclenched her fist and a smile spread across her face as no stabbing pain ripped through her.

The Borrower woman blinked a few times, vision clearing up, and she could see the blurry face of Soren leaning slightly over her. Something was in his hands, which were eclipsing her returning vision. Her instincts returned and she attempted to sit up and push herself away when she felt another twinge in her arm.

“Hey… hey there… little miss. You passed out on me there for a second. Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Soren’s voice still sounded a bit muffled, but Ashlynn popped her ears a few times as he spoke, and his words became clearer with each word. He held up something that looked like a white cloth diamond. “I know your arm probably feels a lot better right now, but it’s going to be really tender and sore. Okay? So, you need to not use it and put it in something called a sling. It’ll keep your arm still while it heals.”

Ashlynn didn’t like the sound of that. Holding still? Not being able to use her dominant arm? Was this a trick? Or was this real? Soren’s fingers were fast approaching, and Ashlynn suddenly found herself scooting back until her back was pressed against the wood of the drawer that was her confinement the night before. Soren stopped and retracted his hands, sighing only for a moment as he thought about how to best address the issue. He saw distrust and unease as clearly as the sun peeking through the wintery clouds looming in the sky.

What would I do in her shoes? A massive person tells me I can’t leave and that I need to get better.

He looked earnestly into her stormy blue gray eyes and offered a look of sympathy, muttering, “Yeah, I’d have a hard time believing me too.”

This got Ashlynn’s attention. In just a single look, Soren was able to figure out what was causing the issue. He could place himself in her shoes with such ease that it almost felt unnerving. If a dull throbbing wasn’t starting to intensify in her previously dislocated shoulder, Ashlynn would have dismissed Soren’s words instantly.

Seems like he’s telling the truth. I can’t lift myself like this, especially if it’s going to be more painful than this. Ashlynn interrupted her own thought with a round of coughing before focusing back on Soren, who had the same look of concern in his eyes as he did when he first entered the room and saw her fall. He’s been right so far…

“Tell you what. Um… why don’t we… set some boundaries, yeah? Things I’m allowed or not allowed to do. Sound good?” Soren asked. Ashlynn thought about it. It wasn’t the worst idea he’d suggested. The real question wasn’t about boundaries though – it was how she was going to tell him what she did or didn’t want. It required her talking to him.

Do I talk to him? To keep from talking to him? To keep him from touching me?

“I get it. Lots of stuff happening all at once. You might be feeling the symptoms of shock as well as you being sick, but we’ll start with no touching or approaching without some kind of indicator. You seem to be the most scared of that,” muttered Soren. “And, with that being said, instead of me helping you with the sling, I’ll show you how to put it on and you do the rest. Okay?”

Ashlynn swallowed hard, feeling the nasty gloss the mucus had coated her throat with, and glanced from Soren’s hazel gold eyes to the small diamond cloth in his fingers. What on earth is this guy? A mind reader?

Soren wished he could read the small woman’s mind. It would be so much easier than guessing based only on body language and facial expressions. Whether for better or worse, Soren had delt with a lot of people of all ages in circumstances very similar to the miniscule woman currently curled up on his bed. He’d helped children, the elderly, and one too many drunks as well as a collection of everyone in between. Having two young brothers who sometimes struggled with their words didn’t hurt either.

“Well?” Soren prompted. “Sound okay?”

Ashlynn bit her lip and looked between Soren and the cloth again.

“Well, just in case you change your mind about me helping you, here’s how this goes.” Soren proceeded to show her using a pillowcase from his closet how to tie the top of the cloth around his neck in order to support his arm. He demonstrated everything as simply as he could before offering the cloth to Ashlynn.

Ashlynn, head throbbing slightly, leaned forward and snagged the cloth once Soren’s fingers were far enough away. It took her a couple of tries, but she managed to tie a knot in the end and tightened it with her teeth before sliding it over her head and lifting her sore arm into it. The whole time, Soren watched in wonder as the small woman followed his instructions perfectly, even remembering to tuck in the flap at the end to make sure her arm didn’t slide out as easily.

He decided not to make a comment about it, fearing he would make her self-conscious and shut down from future understandings and instructions, and instead grabbed a bottle of water from his kit and filled the lid with water.

“Thirsty?” he asked as he balanced the lid onto the tip of his finger. Ashlynn looked eagerly at the clear plastic cap and the clear liquid it contained. Every part of her craved water except for her throat, which felt swollen and slick. She’d tried keeping water down before but hadn’t had much luck. The Borrower woman knew she needed to try again though, regardless. So, when Soren’s finger approached slowly, she fought the urge to shy away and hauled the cap into her lap where she took small handfuls of water from her unbandaged hand.

The cool water offered little relief and, in fact, made her feel colder. The threat of nausea returned after a few seconds. Soren, however, seemed to have a plan for that. He had already placed a cracker onto a piece of tissue after crushing some of the corners and middle parts before sliding it across the bed.

“You probably need something to eat too, huh?” he asked.

Ashlynn stared eagerly at the broken saltines. She could practically smell their freshness even through her stuffy nose. Soren’s hand approached and, for the first time, she managed to clearly see some of the scars scattered about on his fingers. Some were scrapes and others were cuts, all varying in age. Most of them looked like burns.

Battle scars? Ashlynn thought quietly. What from though?

Ashlynn didn’t feel like spending the energy on trying to figure out what those marks on the human’s hand meant. For now, eating and drinking something and then keeping it down was her primary focus. The moment his fingers were far enough away, Ashlynn leaned forward and snagged a few of the fragments. She nibbled cautiously, drinking a few sips of water after each bite and waiting a moment to see how her churning insides would react. She hadn’t had a proper meal in days, and now she felt like she could finally keep some of it down.

After she finished a few fragments of cracker and part of the cap full of water, she felt her eyelids beginning to droop. The adrenaline that was keeping her upright was now completely depleted, and staying awake wasn’t an option anymore. The unease of falling asleep in the presence of a human also was a fleeting thought that Ashlynn was quickly losing her battle to.

A flicker of movement caused her to open her eyes once more, but what she saw made something in her chest and cheeks warm. Soren had another fragment of soft, fuzzy cloth he’d pulled from the other side of the bed and had set it near her side.

“Alright then, little miss. Looks like you’re getting sleepy, yeah? Okay. I’m going to leave and make sure the boys don’t bother you. I’ll be back in a bit to check on you. If you need anything, you let me know. And don’t hurt yourself getting down or anything, okay? Just get some rest and we’ll talk arrangements… well… I’ll probably talk arrangements, and you’ll probably listen. Anyway, sleep well,” said Soren gently.

Ashlynn didn’t need to be told twice. Before Soren had even left the room, she’d pulled the blanket over her injured shoulder and had laid down on her side, sleep dragging her into darkness in a matter of seconds. The Borrower wasn’t sure if trusting the human was a good or bad decision, but there was no going back now.

Desperation brought her to the brink, and now holding onto the word and a few kind actions of a being she thought would treat her inhumanely was all she had.

She hoped it would be enough.

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Continue

Previous

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A Tall and Small Collection | Original Story

[express-rehiring-project]

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welcome to my multimedia mouthwashing / 17776 au!

i started writing this very soon after finishing (and falling in love with) 17776, and swore to myself that i WOULD make something of it. writing fic in a way that isn't just narrative chapter storytelling has been something ive wanted to do for the better half of a year now, but i haven't had the motivation or way to do it. 17776 added fuel to that fire and inspired me to finally, FINALLY, write something.

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i can't say for sure when new chapters will be updated, and i absolutely cannot promise anything consistent long term. i have a full time job and cannot write every day, but i will do my best to update this as often as i possibly can.

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***DISCLAIMER: real people, companies, and events will be featured in this story, but not every event will be real. what does this mean? stories like the one featured above, are entirely untrue, and are not trying to pass as true. this a dystopian, futuristic, fiction story, i am not attempting to slander or spread rumors about anyone/anything, they are simply ways to convey the story i want to tell.***

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content warnings: mentions/descriptions of rape/sexual assault, emotional abuse, murder, suicide, and artistic depictions of gore.

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this will not feature any romantic pairings, as i don't think that will add anything narratively, and i don't really ship any characters anyway...... if you read any dialogue/interactions as something romantic, that's fantastic! you can think, do, and make anything you'd like with my work.

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id like to give a special thanks to:

soph, @sarcasticscribbles, for illustrating visual aspects of this story. i absolutely could NOT do this without you, thank you for being part of it. (will also be tagged in chapters where her art is featured).

dannie, @lys5ophobia, for beta reading!! i would scream cry and shit myself if i posted typo

tristan, @good--merits-accumulated, for beta reading, as well as being my biggest supporter in anything creative i do. i wouldn't have the confidence to do this if he didn't push me to do it.

monty, @sirwormbell-the4st, for being my bestest friend and always cheering me on no matter what i do (except if its stupid)

freddie, @marlboro-freds, for showing me 17776, still being around, putting me first for over a year, literally everything.

ralphie, @anhonest-puck, for always being around during the biggest change in my life in the past while. you're so beyond lovely and im so lucky to have you.

i love you all so so much, and i will until i die and have my consciousness forcefully shoved into a spacecraft <3

- @desire-mona

[notsoblackandwhite101]

NSBAW Ch 43 Early Arrivals (Baby Arc part 2) is now live!!

[nagarenu5]

Dead by Daylight x Resident Evil.   Chapter 1 and 2 (PROJECT W) I've been playing for a long time.

[awkwarddaryl]

There is Only Now - Chapter 1

Daryl Dixon x FtM!Reader Pronoun used ➤ "You", same age as Daryl, about late thirties. Song AO3 ➤ here Next Chapter

TW (general story) ➤ transphobia, homophobia, abuse, alcohol and drug abuse, mention of suicide, death.

Word count: 1.1k

You were highschool sweethearts, fled your abusive homes together, married. Then, Merle came back into Daryl's life and played a big role in your divorce. For the last three years, during Merle's death anniversary, you kept finding Daryl drinking in this bar. Today was Merle's fourth death anniversary, would you come for him this time? Or did you move on?

So this is something that's been brewing in myself for a while. I've been writing a couple of chapters already, and I have a couple of ideas that I'd like to implement, but I'm not planning anything on the long run, so whatever happens will happen. There will be a lot of angst because obviously there are a lot of regrets and pain in this story.

He was hoping… Like each year, that you would come. On the same day. In the same place. A habit that installed itself between you two, despite the fact that you were now only vague acquaintances, but it was your ritual. This little thing belonged to you both. He was seated so that he could observe the door, to catch your eyes as soon as you would come inside the bar, on a booth bench against the wall. He could count approximately six or seven tequila shots, four or five glasses of whiskey.

Like every year since this began, the barman had confiscated his motorcycle keys, had advised him to call someone, had kept an eye on him as he was serving his other clients. Like every year since this began, there was this dreadful feeling that maybe this time, you would forget.

That this time, you would not come.

That this time, you had definitely put an end to the story you shared with him, to the mistakes he had made.

That this time, you were seeking something else, maybe someone else.

He wouldn’t blame you for it, no. But the thirst, it dug inside his throat, whispered to his ear, and the barman only brought him a tiny glass of water. He refused to give him anything else to fill the emptiness in his heart, despite the fact that Daryl craved it like fresh air, each second passing without you making it worse.

“Ain’t your friend gonna come this year?” His voice resonated in Daryl’s already painful head, but he shrugged, feeling his anesthetized tongue difficult to move inside his mouth. “Dunnow.”

Maybe it was because of shame, or maybe because of his ego, but Daryl refused to call you. To send you a message. There had been a time Merle had advised him to erase everything from you, from pictures to your number, but he had never committed to it. After all these years, after all of his pathetic life, he still could not move forward. After the divorce, the whole group had scattered away from him – another regret – and Daryl never thought to socialize or meet anyone else.

None of that interested him. None of that measured up to you, and every pair of kind eyes made him think of yours. Every laugh made him grieve for yours. Each passion animating people was another reminder of your burning passion that pushed you to reach the stars and grab them, even when everyone else thought it was impossible. Except him, of course he had always known you were special, had always known you were one of a kind.

How many years now? He thought, looking at the glass of water, wiggling it around with his fingers without spilling. Since your divorce, maybe eleven or twelve years. Since Merle’s death? This was the fourth year. Merle had come back to your lives after your wedding, discovering with horror that his little brother was a faggot, going out with a man who used to have a girl’s body. A man who probably brainwashed Daryl in his trans pedophilic cabal since high school. For Merle, this had proven all of his conspiracy theories to be true, from flat Earth to the deep state, that the lives of real men were in peril, that the country itself was getting destroyed, that the elite had caught his little brother’s heart and soul.

Merle had promised himself he would free his little brother from this trap, and Daryl had been too afraid of being abandoned by him once more to not try to follow him. He had never believed in any of those theories, but the shame Merle and his group inflicted on him grew with each passing year. In the end, you paid the price of his cowardice.

But didn’t he owe it to Merle, after all? Him, who took all the beating from their father? Him who taught Daryl how to survive, how to fight bullies despite being all scrawny? Wasn’t it thanks to him he kept you safe, had fought to make sure no one would disrespect you at any point when you came out? Each year, Daryl asked himself these questions, finding no answer. Now Merle was dead, and maybe you wouldn’t come this year.

What would be left of Daryl Dixon, then?

A stool at his place, a rope. A cruel way to die, but Daryl thought he deserved it. Suffering, breathless, feeling each of his muscles twitch, hoping to get a bit of air, gasping like a dumb fish out of the water. Maybe then he would free himself from his torments, finally.

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He looked at the clock on his phone, showing almost five a.m., and you were still nowhere to be seen. The barman was slowly cleaning up the empty tables, his feet sticking to the ground because of spilled drinks. He looked at Daryl with pity, but the man was far too wasted to give a fuck about it. “I’m gonna close soon. I’m sorry.” Daryl’s throat tightened. He felt his eyes burn, realizing that, this time, this year, you wouldn’t come. Four had been the limit. You moved forward, and this was probably not a bad thing at all. “‘Tis fine.” He cleared his throat. Outside, the light was hard to see, but the first ray of dawn was starting to shine.

This was probably the best day to die.

And when Daryl finally decided trying to get up, his head still spinning from all the alcohol, not feeling his hands nor his legs, he heard the door open.

You.

Your red cheeks betrayed the fact that you probably hurried to come here, breathing quickly, still wearing your scrubs and your white coat from your time at the hospital. Daryl refused to think about what it meant.

You didn’t need a long time to catch his eyes, not even a couple of seconds, Daryl awkwardly half standing between the table and the booth bench. You knew it was the same thing, every year, the same spot, the same bar. This little habit that has been going on for four years. And this smile on your face, digging furrows in the corner of your eyes, it was like seeing you for the first time, with the same feelings. Feelings he had no right to have.

“I was afraid… I wouldn’t catch you.” You said between two laborious breaths, your eyes catching the sight of the drinks on the table, then seating next to him in the booth. The barman warned he had to close soon, and you nodded, thanking him, before looking back at Daryl. Those fierce eyes were almost too much for him. It was impossible to keep up, and so he avoided it. He didn’t know what to say, his soul fogged by the tornado of feelings in his heart, the alcohol numbing his body.

[acourtofquestions]

The Assassin and The Princess

a Crown of Midnight exclusive scene

from the Throne of Glass series by Sarah J. Maas

This story belongs to its writer Sarah J. Maas & the many affiliates it may concern. I claim NO ownership of this story, and give full credit to said parties.