#Flooring west London

[ephcontractor]

[queenmycrofts]

Contemporary Living Room

[holllandtrash]

say don't go | charles leclerc

pairing: charles leclerc x reader

based off of taylor swift's 'stay don't go' why'd you have to lead me on? why'd you have to twist the knife? walk away and leave me bleedin'

word count: 5.2k tags/warnings: slight angst, mentions of being disloyal, this is kinda sad, mention of smut i guess but blink and you miss it

You weren’t one to let your past haunt you. It was the past for a reason, it belonged behind you, all you could do was grow into a better version of yourself.

But what the hell were you supposed to do when Charles showed up at your door after six months of silence? 

It was a week into December and you were reluctantly putting up Christmas decorations because you were tired of the comments your friends made, telling you to get into the holiday spirit. Now you had the silver tinsel gripped in your hand as Charles stood on your front step, light flurries landing on his coat only to melt immediately after. 

It was the middle of the day and you lived in a crowded area, but passersby on the sidewalk and those driving past had no idea there was a Ferrari driver only metres away from them.

But no one would guess that Charles Leclerc would be travelling to Bristol during his holidays.

“What? Were you in the neighbourhood?” You asked, flicking the tinsel off of your hand and shaking off any remnants. You watched it fall to the floor before looking up, “Felt like stopping by?” 

“Can I come in?” Charles asked, glancing behind you. Was he looking to see if you had company? If you had moved on? Regardless of what, or who, he was looking for, his shoulders relaxed when he could tell you were alone. All that was behind you was cardboard boxes labelled Christmas. 

“Give me three good reasons why I shouldn't shut the door in your face,” your demand was laced with your usual sweet tone, the same one that always intimated Charles because he never knew what to make of it. Never once did you raise your voice, you never yelled, never showed signs of anger. Even when you were annoyed, you always sounded calm. 

He sucked in a breath, “Well, it’s cold out.” He chuckled, but when you didn’t see any humour in his words he just nodded and moved on. “I was, in fact, in the neighbourhood- well I was in London, just figured I’d make a quick trip out west.”

Those weren’t good enough reasons and he knew it. You moved to grab the door and Charles reacted by holding his hand out to stop it from shutting, eyes trained on yours. 

His cheeks were red, not accustomed to the British winters. He wasn’t wearing mitts and you could see how his hands had responded to the dry air by cracking at the knuckles. His lips trembled, not because he was nervous but because this was probably the coldest his body temperature had dropped to in a long time. 

Which had you questioning how long he had been standing outside your door before finally knocking.

“There’s some things I’ve been meaning to say for a while now,” Charles spoke softly and you could see his breath with each word. “And you don’t need to say anything, but I’d love it if you’d listen.”

Maybe you felt bad that he was cold. Maybe you were curious as to what he had to say to you after so long. Maybe part of you still missed him and if these were the last few minutes you’d get with him, you weren’t going to let them pass.

Whatever the reason, you held the door open and he stepped inside. You watched as he ran his fingers through his hair and slid his coat off, hanging it on the empty hook on the wall. Your eyes darted down to the shoes he wore and Charles recognized that look, knowing better than to walk any further with his shoes on. He smiled, sort of, remembering the first time you asked him to take his shoes off when he entered your apartment. 

If this was six months ago, you would have had slippers waiting for him to put on, but instead Charles was left to just his socks. You, though, seemed quite cozy. The matching sweats and jumper was only a shade darker than the slippers you wore and Charles almost asked where you purchased the set from, but he held his tongue because now wasn’t the time for casual conversation.

“Tea?” You offered, glancing at the kettle sitting on the stove. It had started whistling only minutes before he showed up but you hadn’t had a second to pour yourself a cup, too caught up in trying to untangle tinsel.

“Don’t want to put you out,” he shook his head, but when you manoeuvred past him to step into the kitchen, he didn’t stop you from grabbing two cups from the cupboard. He watched, standing at a cautious distance, as you made the two drinks the same way you always did. 

Charles was brought back to the time he walked into his own flat in Monaco and you were kneeling on the counter, trying to find a suitable cup because all of his mugs were too big and bulky for tea. He held his hand to your back, worried you’d tip backwards, which you didn’t, but you were happy he was there to help you off the counter and greet you with a kiss. 

“I’ll invest in new cups,” he said. He never did.

He didn’t like the silence that lingered between you now, probably the first time it ever bothered him, so he cleared his throat, “I like your new place.”

You nodded, “Thank you.”

He glanced around at the decor and spoke up again, “So you’ve been well?”

“You don’t need to pretend to care about how I've been.”

“I do care.”

The slow yet icy stare you gave him as you peered over your shoulder had Charles wondering if showing up here was a good idea. Instead of opening his mouth again, Charles looked at the decorations littered on the floor. 

He was drawn towards the open box of ornaments that was placed on the couch. He noticed the tree in the corner, but all you had put up so far was a string of lights. Curious, he looked closer into the box and smiled to himself when he saw a vintage Formula 1 Ferrari, no bigger than the palm of his hand. He also spotted a racing helmet, but couldn’t recognize the driver it belonged to.

It wouldn’t have shocked him if the rest of this box was F1 inspired Christmas ornaments. Either ones you had purchased yourself or ones that were given to you as gifts. 

Charles was always amazed at your knowledge of Formula 1. With your father being a retired driver himself, he shouldn’t have been surprised when you swept him under the rug during a trivia night. He admired your passion for the sport and maybe that’s why when he met you in the Ferrari garage, he wasn’t as quick to judge you like he was to everyone else who had purchased VIP passes for the weekend. 

You were there for the sport, for the racing, you didn’t care who was driving the car, it wasn’t like you had favorite drivers.

You were raised to appreciate the history of the sport, the roots, the beginnings. Because of that, you were drawn to the older teams, the classics. Williams, McLaren and against your fathers wishes, Ferrari. So of course you wanted to experience the Ferrari hospitality during a race weekend at least once. To see the cars up close, to be in the garage, to see the race from an entirely new perspective.

It was Australia, the third race of the 2023 season. It was a race that Charles tried hard to forget due to his DNF at the first turn, but there were highlights he cherished before the incident. 

He remembered standing in the garage before the first practice session and turning his head to flash a smile towards the VIP members standing at the back. He paid no attention to any of them in particular, but you stood out. The way you were so focused on the screen, taking in the Tech Talk segment that was playing on F1TV. You hadn’t even noticed Charles looking.

He saw you again the second day, closer to the front of the group before the start of FP3. You were wearing a white set, arms crossed over your chest with the headphones resting around your neck. You weren’t watching anything this time, instead you were in the middle of a conversation with a few of the mechanics. 

At first, Charles thought they were flirting with you. But when you pointed at the rear wing, lines drawn across your forehead and eyebrows pinched together in studious fashion, Charles got the hint that this wasn’t just a casual conversation. 

And then you held out your hand to introduce yourself, your once serious expression turning soft. You smiled at the mechanics as you shook both of their hands, seeming truly grateful to have met them. 

Naturally, Charles was curious as to what sort of conversation just took place. He waited a few minutes before asking Mark, the one of two mechanics who seemed to be doing most of the talking. 

“What was that about?” Charles asked.

Mark looked over his shoulder at you, but you were too engrossed in the screen again to notice the few sets on you.

“You don’t know who she is?” Mark asked. 

“Should I?” Charles glanced your way. This time, you caught it. 

You were also the first to look away.

“Damon Hill’s daughter,” Mark chuckled, probably in disbelief himself over who he just met. “She’s also got her masters in engineering. You know what she pointed out- the activation time for DRS is delayed compared to everyone else on the grid. I don’t know how she noticed it, but we’ll take a look at the data and if she’s onto something we’ll fix it before qualifying.”

Damon Hill’s daughter. The 1996 world champion. He had made a name for himself, known for being one of Schumacher's rivals during his prime. Charles knew he had kids, but didn’t know who they were. 

He wanted to introduce himself, but he waited till after qualifying. 

Was he a little taken aback when you seemed to be paying more attention to Carlos’ side of the garage at the end of the day? Maybe, but you had been watching him all weekend so far so he didn’t like the sudden change. 

His P7 starting position was nothing to be overly proud of, but the congratulations was the first thing out of your mouth when he approached you.

“Thank you,” he nodded, suddenly feeling a bit more pride now than five minutes ago. He glanced at the car and then back at you, at the VIP lanyard resting over your chest, at your eyes that momentarily had him forgetting why he walked over to you in the first place. 

You held your hand in the same polite manner you had with the mechanics and you introduced yourself as Charles shook it slowly. 

“Damon Hill’s daughter,” he stated. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

You cocked your head slightly, “Is that a line?”

A blush crept up to his cheeks when he realised how flirtatious he sounded without trying to, “No- I mean,” he licked his lips. “I guess it could be but I wasn’t trying for that.”

“I only just graduated,” you answered his question, which wasn’t really a question. “Figured I’d watch a few races, check out a few teams before I decide if I want to dip my toe in the motorsports field.”

“Driver?” He asked, eyebrows raised even though Mark had told him what you studied. But you laughed and Charles was glad he brought up the idea of you getting behind the wheel. He could get used to your laugh. 

“Engineer,” you corrected. “To be honest, I think IndyCar might be more my thing. Plus I know Arrow McLaren is looking to expand, hire a few more performance engineers. Mind if I use you as a reference? I saw those mechanics working on your DRS set up, don’t let them take the credit for catching the activation error.”

It was his turn to laugh. He liked your humour, something else he could get used to.

“Mark mentioned you pointed it out,” Charles nodded, unable to keep from smiling. He liked the way you spoke. Not only did he find your accent endearing, but he liked how sure you were of yourself. You knew your talents, you knew what you were capable of. He admired it. 

“Good luck tomorrow,” you said, taking it upon yourself to end the conversation. You adjusted the purse over your shoulder and gave him a soft smile. “It was nice meeting you, Charles.”

And then you walked off, happily letting someone else from the team accompany you, probably an engineer. Probably someone who could match your expertise in a conversation.

Charles didn’t know when he’d see you again, but he took it upon himself to make sure it was sooner than later.

Following Australia, the drivers had a bit of a break. Almost an entire month.

It was only a few days into the break when he asked his manager to get Damon Hill’s contact information. 

Confused was an understatement when your dad called you and said ‘Tell me why I just got an unsolicited text from Charles Leclerc asking if he could have your phone number’. 

By the end of the week, Charles had flown you from Paris, where you resided at the time, to Nice. He was there at the airport to pick you up and drive you to Monaco. 

You spent that entirety of the break together. 

Charles was smitten. As were you. 

But you were cautious. 

You knew first hand that racing was at the top of his priority list. You weren’t about to get your hopes up and think that these few weeks meant anything. He just had time on his hands and you showed interest. 

However, it was hard not to fall for Charles. He treated you well when you were together. He was easy to talk to. He made you feel safe, admired, wanted. He asked all the questions he could think of to get to know you. He made you breakfast in the morning, or at least he tried to. The mornings when you woke up to the smell of burnt eggs were just as entertaining. Plus you figured you could get used to the way he wrapped his arm around your waist as you took over. The kisses he peppered on your shoulder that tempted you towards pulling him back to the bedroom.

By the time the season picked up again for round 4 in Baku, you were so used to being around him that you had to tell yourself not to be hurt that he didn't suggest you go with him.

You and Charles did a lot of things during those few weeks, but never once did you label what you were. That conversation never came up. Neither did the exclusivity talk.

He still called. He texted you daily. He treated you like you were special, but racing came before a relationship. Even your dad reminded you of that. He told you not to dwell on it, that Charles would come to his senses when he felt secure with the team, with the season. He didn’t need the support of a girlfriend, he needed the support of his team.

And then Charles informed you he was flying you out to Miami. He wanted you to watch the race again. He wanted you there. 

You didn’t accompany him to the track, but he greeted you with wide arms and the brightest grin when you showed up at the Ferrari garage. His hand stayed on your lower back for a bit as he showed you around, giving you a proper tour but when you came across Mark it was almost as if Charles passed you off. 

He said ‘Here, chat with Mark for a bit, I’m sure you’ve got some opinions about the car’ and then he walked away.

You tried not to think too much about it, maybe he had obligations, media, signings, something. He wouldn’t fly you out to Miami and abandon you the first chance he got. He was a driver, he had priorities. You weren’t one of them, not yet.

It was a difficult situation to be in. When Charles gave you his attention, he gave you every ounce of it. But when he was gone, he was gone. Distant, on his phone, sometimes he quite literally disappeared like at the end of the day on Saturday and you were left in the Ferrari garage wondering where the hell he got off to. 

But then he knocked on your hotel room door at a little after 10 and who were you to turn him away? 

Charles pulled you towards the bed, dragging you with him as he laid on the mattress. He asked about your day between the kisses he left down your neck. You answered as best as you could, but when his hands found the button of your trousers, it became a little more difficult to collect your thoughts. 

When he gave you his attention, he gave you every ounce of it. 

You had forgotten all about his disappearances earlier. They didn’t matter, he was here now. His lips trailing every inch of your skin as your back curved off the bed. You tried to remind him that he had a race tomorrow, that you both could just go to sleep if he wanted but Charles only smirked and raised his face back to yours.

He hovered his lips above yours, teasing you with a ghost of a kiss, “Ma chérie, I’m not going to sleep until I hear you scream my name.”

He kissed the corner of your lips and then trailed down towards your ear, adding a quiet, “At least twice,” to the end of the original statement. 

And Charles was true to his word. He had you seeing stars with just his tongue alone in a matter of minutes. 

Charles worshipped you, he took care of you. In a short period of time, he came to know your body and how to get the reactions he desired. He loved seeing you come undone, loving being the one to bring you to the edge and watch you spill over. 

Maybe it was a pride he was chasing, but you wouldn’t think of that possibility until it was too late.

When he climbed under the covers next to you at the end of the night, you could still make out the shape of his body, his gentle features, even in the dark. Your hand found his chest, sliding upwards until it wrapped around his shoulders, pulling yourself closer to him.

He traced his fingers over your cheek, pushing a strand of hair out of your face as he whispered, “Comment ai-je eu cette chance?” How did I get so lucky? 

That did it for you.

You weren’t just smitten anymore. You were in love. 

Another impromptu break after Miami meant you had a few more weeks with Charles before he had to give his attention back to racing. You didn’t spend it all in Monaco this time. After about a week, Charles suggested the two of you go back to your home. Back to Paris.

Paris with him was heavenly. 

The rest of the world didn’t matter when it was just the two of you together. Your days were spent taking in the city, your evenings were spent in a variety of restaurants, lounges, anywhere he could spoil you, it seemed. 

It was nearing your last few days before he had to leave when he suggested you take a midnight stroll. The weather was perfect, the streets wouldn’t be too busy. You had no reason to say no. 

And there was something about walking the streets of Paris with Charles at night, holding his hand while he spun you under his arm beneath the glow of a street lamp. The Eiffel Tower was sparkling in the distance. Charles’ eyes lit up brighter than it. 

There was something about him. About this moment. About the last few months. All of it led up to standing here with him now.

And you knew better, but that didn’t stop you.

“I love you.”

And just like that, you faded into madness. Slowly, silently, but it was inevitable. 

Charles didn’t say anything. His lips parted like he wanted to, like he thought about it, only to ultimately lick his lips and inhale a sharp breath. 

By saying I love you, you plunged a knife into your own chest, opening yourself up to vulnerability, but his silence only twisted it in deeper. 

You backed up, hand dropping from his. Was that his doing or yours? He whispered your name, but only out of pity. He didn’t love you. He didn’t love you. 

Suddenly Paris didn’t seem so heavenly.

Charles left that night. Maybe he thought you were asleep, but you heard the door swing on its hinges. You heard the wheels of his suitcase being dragged out into the hallway. You turned over in bed, despite knowing you’d find his side empty, but you didn’t think it would turn cold so fast. 

A few days later, Charles was spotted walking into the paddock of the Monaco Grand Prix, but he wasn’t alone.

Next to him, the stunning Alexandra Saint Mleux. Even her name was beautiful.

You had heard whispers that Charles and her had a history, but you didn’t think anything of it. Why would you worry yourself with speculation when he was putting you on a pedestal when you were together? 

He had a way of making you feel wanted, but you weren’t the only one who felt that way.

Did she know you two were together? That he was with you in Paris? Was he seeing both of you or did he run back to her the second you told him something he wasn’t ready to hear?

You tried to move on, really. There was no relationship for you to cling to, Charles never said you were exclusive. He just knew the right words to say to make you feel like you were. 

You flew to Indianapolis for the Indy500. A rash decision, but the further away from Monaco the better. Your connections at Arrow McLaren gave you the chance to get a closer look at the inner workings of the team, had you momentarily forgetting about Charles. You wanted to be an engineer, not the girlfriend of a driver. You told yourself to get it together.

But then you returned home and seeing the slippers you had bought for Charles had you wondering why you couldn’t be both. You would have been both if he just said something, if he just told you he loved you. 

You should have distanced yourself from Formula 1, at least for a little while. You should have turned down the invitation from a partnering brand of Ferrari, enticing you to come to Spain for the race. You should have flown back to the states, reconnect with Arrow McLaren.

Instead you found yourself in Barcelona. The entire time you were there you knew it was a mistake and if you couldn’t figure that out on your own, seeing Alexandra chat with some Ferrari team members below while you sat up above in the hospitality was a painful reminder. 

Part of you considered talking to her. You wanted to know if she was in the same boat you were- and if she was clueless, maybe give her a heads up that Charles was going to say sweet nothings to her at night only to leave her in the dark. 

But Alexandra wasn’t the one you needed to talk to.

Between practice and qualifying on Saturday, you made your way to the paddock knowing that’s where Charles would be. You walked past Alexandra chatting to someone a few motorhomes down, so you felt better knowing she wasn’t currently with him.

Luck would have it, you ran into Mark outside of Ferrari. He invited you in of course, always happy to chat about the sport with someone who appreciated it on the same level and you assured him you would, you just had to talk to Charles first.

You knocked on the door of his driver's room, not even sure what you were going to say. You were hurt, you were saddened, you were angry but you hadn't had time to think about what you would say to him when you were finally face to face again.

The door swung open and there he was. Shocked to see you, first of all, but not upset. You stood in the hallway and watched as Charles took a breath of relief, a sliver of a smile creeping up on his lips as he held the door open for you to walk in.

Your heart jolted at the idea that maybe, he still wanted you. The look he gave you was almost enough for you to forget he hadn’t said a word to you since you told him you loved him. 

Almost. 

You stepped in and leaned against the door after it shut, keeping a safe distance as he stood back against the massage table. 

Your lips parted, but before you could get a word out, his phone started to ring. You both glanced at the contact, at who was trying to get a hold of him.

Alexandra.

You swallowed, waiting until he let it go to voicemail before your timid voice filled the room. “You love her?”

Maybe Charles didn’t know how to love anyone. You’d believe it, with the way he tensed the second the word passed through your lips. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no, either.

“I can’t commit, Y/N.” He tried to say, like that made up for everything. Like that’s the answer you were looking for. 

“No, you can, Charles, but not to me.” You stated, keeping your voice calm. You weren’t one to yell. Causing a scene wasn’t your thing. You were always so soft spoken. Soft spoken, but straight to the facts. “Were you seeing both of us at the same time?”

“She knows, if that's what you're wondering." Charles quickly slid that piece of information in there. “She found out- about us. Threatened to leave me if-”

“If you didn’t choose?” You raised your eyebrows. Once again, his silence spoke volume. “So did you make up your mind before or after Paris?”

Charles averted his gaze for a second, “I realised in Paris I couldn’t love you the way you loved me.”

“You probably realised that a lot earlier,” you pointed out.

Charles must have known you adored him. There was no way he didn’t see the way you looked at him, the way you worshipped him. He knew and still strung you along, making you think he could love you back if you were just patient.

“You didn’t need to lead me on as long as you did, Charles.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

I didn’t want to lose you, he says. Bringing light to the fact that he had you. You were his, in a sense. Despite never saying the words out loud. 

But he was never yours.

“So I was there, for what?” You asked. “As a backup? In case things with Alexandra didn’t work out?”

Charles was intimated by how calm you were. He would have preferred if you yelled at him, if you fought with him. It would make it easier on both ends to put whatever this relationship was to rest. Instead, you were serene. You came here to talk, to get answers, you didn’t come here to form a divide. 

Because if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t ready to let go. How could you let go when you hadn’t spoken? He hadn’t given you closure, he didn’t say I don’t love you he just…didn’t say anything. 

You weren’t going to beg for him to come back, but in the far corners of your mind you were hoping that your appearance here would make him question his decision. You were banking on the idea that when he saw you, he’d remember what he saw in the first place when you met in Australia. 

If he changed his mind right now, you’d put all of this behind you. You’d stay at his side, you’d be there for him, you’d be his for real this time.

If he, once again, said nothing, you’d go. You’d go and you’d stay gone.

“I loved you,” you whispered. The past tense striking Charles more than he thought it would, but he didn’t show it. Loved. You loved him, and you still could. 

Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Almost two and the only thing that lingered between you was silence. Heavy, loud, painful silence. 

You grabbed the handle of the door and decided enough time had gone on. You deserved better than this, than a man who couldn’t make a decision, than someone who played with your feelings because they couldn’t figure out their own. 

The second you pulled the door back, your name fell from Charles’ lips. You were one step into the hall, halfway to gone, and he stopped you. 

All he had to do was say don’t go. All he had to do was tell you he wanted you. 

With your back still to the Ferrari driver, you waited for those next words but they never came. You knew they wouldn’t. 

That was the last time you spoke to Charles. You knew how to stay true to your word too. 

So why was he suddenly here, six months later, sitting on your couch and looking at you like he was waiting for you to say something first when you made it clear a long time ago if you were gone, you were gone.

Charles only took a sip of his tea before putting it on the coffee table. He then moved the box of Christmas ornaments, not liking the divide it put between you as if he wasn't the one to create the wedge in the first place. 

You were stupid, to speak first, but you were tired of the silence. He came here for a reason and if he wasn’t going to tell you why in the next two minutes, you were going to send him back out into the snow.

“How’s Alexandra?” You asked, not that you were interested in knowing if he was happy or thriving in his relationship. You were, however, impressed to see that he could in fact commit, but you were right about that. He just didn’t want to commit to you. 

“Do you care?” He asked in return. 

You shook your head slightly, “I do not.”

Charles smiled at your honesty. Your gentle tone didn’t match the brutal truth.

“So let’s not talk about her,” Charles said and you nodded in agreement. He shifted in his spot, glancing at the decorations, the tea, really anything but you. 

And you weren’t about to wait again, not if this was going to lead to the one thing your silence always led to. 

You sucked in a breath, “Charles if you don’t tell me why you’re here…”

He nodded, knowing that this was all on him. He was lucky enough to even be allowed into your home, and he knew you were slowly regretting that decision the longer he just didn’t get to the point. 

Charles lifted his head, eyes finally meeting yours. He even flinched, like he was trying to reach for your hand only to decide against it at the last second, relying on just his words for a change.

“I shouldn’t have let you go.”

Part 2 - now that we don’t talk

[onsomenewsht]

Helpless to the bass and faded light

About when she bribes you and you dance with her like a filled stadium isn't looking

》 Leah Williamson x Reader

》 words count: +1k

》 she took my arm / I don't know how it happened / we took the floor and she said

You don’t like football.

It’s quite a boring game if you stop to think about it for a moment. Two dozen and counting people running around a ball trying to kick it into a huge net.

Not something you look forward to sit through for almost two hours.

Despite your father’s best efforts, you being his only kid and his only hope to pass down his passion, the sport never managed to interest you long enough to care.

You even found yourself in the stands of your dad’s favourite club’s home more times than you’re able to remember, going beyond yourself and cheering when the other people around you did.

The things you do to make your parents proud.

How you managed to have the English captain wrapped around your finger, regardless of your well-known dislike for her biggest passion and purpose in life, is still a mystery for your families and friends.

“Pretty please, just this one”

“Oh, shut up!”, you hit her arm and push her off you, both still naked.

You can’t believe your girlfriend is actually trying to bribe you with sex, not even waiting for you to fully recover before asking to go to the game.

“No, you ruined the mood”, you state as the blonde tries to kiss you again.

The huge grin of her beautiful face is quite dangerous, she can win you over so easily and you both know it.

Leah rises off the bed to retrieve a warm cloth from the bathroom and a clean shirt from the closet. You accept her attention, she’s always caring when it comes to you, but you’re pretty sure the extra effort has a not-so-subtle second purpose.

“You can’t buy me so easily, Williamson”

She can.

“It’s a really important game, my love”

“For who?”

“For me?”, she tries as she slots herself under your open arm, a grin hidden between your neck and the pillow.

“I barely bear you playing”

“You love watching me play”

“I love you, period”

Leah knows how much you think the sport is boring, going way out of your comfort zone just to cheer her. She feels immensely supported when she finds your big smile in the stands, wrapped in one of her jerseys.

It’s not that difficult for you to sit and admire your girlfriend in her element, focusing more on her movements and attitude than paying attention to the actual game.

What you find quite annoying is enduring Arsenal’s men’s team.

The defender’s fingers on your side are slowly soothing you in a compromising position, too relaxed and smitten to keep denying her anything. You know she doesn’t need much more to lure you into her trap and, unfortunately for you, she’s perfectly aware too.

When the blonde’s lips find the particularly sensitive spot on the base of your neck, you’re doomed.

~

You’re glad your father is already dead or you’d have killed him as you take your seat in the Emirates Stadium, surrounded by the Gunners’ colours. Your girlfriend’s name on your back could be the final nail.

The things you do to make your lover happy.

“You know I love you, right?”

“You better never forget this”, you quip back.

The English captain has been looking forward to this game for weeks now, you couldn’t have been able to turn her down in spite of it all.

She doesn’t need to know though, you didn’t accept to spend one of your date nights watching the North West London derby for free.

“Maybe you will enjoy it at the end”

Nice try, you will not.

“You know, my dad was a West Ham supporter”

“Could have been worse”, she smiles at you, reaching for your hand.

Talking about your father is getting easier as time finally moves forward and your grief keeps changing its shape. Compared to the abyssal black hole it felt like the first year and a half, its progress.

Leah didn’t meet him, crushing in your life a couple of months after his passing, but she managed to find a space in your heart that keeps growing despite all your fears.

They could have hit so well, bonding over their shared passion for the sport and their never-ending determination to make you happy.

You told her some stories about him, mostly memories to make your girlfriend understand how stubborn and passionate he was about the thing he cared about.

The one thing you all have in common.

“Yeah, he used to gift me a West Ham jersey every year on Bobby Moore’s birthday”

Leah’s laugh managed to overcome the buzzing atmosphere of the stadium, making you feel like she was the reason all the people around you were cheering. You sure think so.

“He sounds like an incredible father”

“Football obsession aside, he was good”

When you turn to look at her, the blonde’s eyes are already on you and the smile on her face is enough to warm your heart.

~

The first goal coming within five minutes has you quite engaged in what’s happening on the pitch, you even drag your girlfriend in a kiss as you both rise from your seats to celebrate.

Your commitment declined quite easily after that, more entertained by Leah’s reactions than the actual game. You nod in amusement every time she tries to talk you through one of her analyses, placing a hand on her thigh to stop her from standing up every time the ball is somehow close to the box.

The second half is more eventual, at least that’s what you can understand by the excitement the defender and the people in the stands around you seem to radiate.

You’re not clueless, you’re perfectly aware a five-nil win against Chelsea is quite the result. You care enough to think you can’t wait to go home - Leah is always in the mood for a private celebration when her team triumphs, especially over another London club.

“Can we go now?”, you ask as soon as the referee whistles three times, declaring the end of your and the Blues’ torture.

Leah’s happiness is contagious, so you’re not mad when she drags you in her arms to join her cheers and enthusiastic dance. It takes you less than a second to indulge her, letting the blonde spin you around and matching her excitement.

When she dips you and seals the move with a kiss the laugh that rises out of you is genuine and loud.

At first, neither of you notice the stadium’s camera pointed in your direction, recording your little moment of pure bliss in each other’s arms.

Looking back at it, as all your friends sent you the viral video, you know Leah saw you two on the big screen and went along with her little cocky display of affection and excitement for the victory.

You’re sure your father could be laughing at it too, despite the colors you’re wearing.

fine.

[wosoimagines]

Ausenals - Matildas/Reader

prompt: second part to You Didn't Know? but this time we see R with the Matildas after her move to Arsenal.

warnings: none

words: 2312

To preference again, I am not deaf or hard of hearing so if there is anything that I’ve gotten wrong, please let me know so that I can fix it (I tried to do as much research as I could). Anything that represents sign langue is in continuous italics.

I also ended up changing this prompt up quite a bit. It went from R talking about being born deaf to seeing R interact with the Matildas (and mostly the other Ausenals) while they're at national team camp.

(Y/N) POV

"Sit!” Steph finally snapped once I wrapped Kyra in a headlock. We both briefly froze as our eyes darted to Steph, who was glaring at us. “Both of you. Now!” 

I let go of Kyra as she gave me a small shove before we both scurried to sit down next to each other on Caitlin’s left side so we didn’t have to sit next to Steph who would surely ruin our fun. 

“(Y/N).” 

I whined as Steph pointed to the seat on her right. I wanted to sit by Kyra so we could at least play a game with each other to pass the time. 

“Now.” 

I sighed as my shoulders slumped forward, but I shuffled to sit next to Steph instead. I started to scuff my shoes against the floor. I knew the squeaking sound would drive Steph up a wall. Steph lightly swatted my arm causing me to look at her. Before she could say anything though, I pulled my processing units off so that I wouldn’t be able to hear her. I could see Kyra trying to stifle her laughter behind Caitlin as I gave Steph a triumphant grin.  

I was sure that it was a sight to see considering my processing units would just be hanging from my head since I didn’t pull the magnets away from my head while Steph was just glaring at me. 

I, however, wasn’t expecting Steph to sign to tell me to stop. I froze as I furrowed my brow because I didn’t realize that Steph knew Auslan. 

I grumbled as I leaned back in my seat. It didn’t take long before I crossed my arms and let my head roll back. This was going to be the longest layover ever. Maybe Steph would let me go get snacks. I perked up at that thought as I turned to look at Steph. 

I pointed over my shoulder where I knew that the little side stores were. Steph glanced over my shoulder before she shook her head as she said something. I deflated as I slid down in my seat again. 

I closed my eyes as I tilted my head back. Steph was starting to grate my nerves. Not only did she make us all leave early, but now that Kyra and I were awake, she wouldn’t even let us mess around. And now I couldn’t go get a snack. 

I didn’t open my eyes again until I felt a tap against my foot. I only cracked my eyes open to make sure that it was either someone other than Steph or our flight was boarding. It was Sam, who was standing in front of me. I glanced over at Steph who was already reaching to take the M&Ms that Sam was offering me. I, however, was faster as I snatched the handful from Sam and shoved them into my mouth. 

I only sent a triumphant grin at Steph before closing my eyes and signing, “I can’t hear you.” 

It wasn’t long before my foot was tapped again. I cracked an eye open again. I didn’t trust the others not to leave me behind. But it was just Sam who was sitting in the floor. She tapped at her ears when she saw me peeking. I raised an eyebrow at that but put my processors back into place. 

“You know, you could come join us on the better side of the North West of London. We won’t even mother you there.” 

I rolled my eyes at that, and it seemed that I wasn’t the only one who heard the comment. Steph had whirled to glare at Sam. 

“Oh, right! Like she doesn’t need someone to keep her in line,” Steph started. I had been forced to move in with Steph after the others on the team found out that I still hadn’t found a place to live. Steph had really taken on that role. “Wait for a few days after camp and then see if you still want to take her.” 

Sam’s eyes turned to me as Steph quickly delved into the mischief that I had been getting up to with Kyra lately now that my ear infection had cleared. I sent a smirk to Sam as I pulled my processors off again so that I didn’t have to listen as Steph lectured Sam. 

“I’m good,” I signed to Sam, who tilted her head, “You don’t have pretty Italians on the team.” 

I knew she wouldn’t understand but my eyes did catch the goalie who was sitting across from me. I didn’t miss the way Mackenzie’s eyebrows raised either. If there were any of my teammates who would understand me, it would be Mackenzie. She had proven that during the World Cup when she had found Theo and I having a conversation in Auslan and joined in. 

“Pretty Italians, huh?” 

I ducked my head at that. I had found myself spending a lot of time around Kyra, which meant spending time around Alessia and Vic. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” 

Mackenize held her hands up in surrender. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Kyra reached for my cup again causing me to slap her hands away. 

“Leave it alone,” I snapped at Kyra. She stuck her tongue out at me. “Kyra, stop it.” 

Steph moved in between us as she sent us both a glare. I turned my head before she started lecturing either of us to wave at the camera as we started up the stairs to the pitch. While I was, Kyra took my cup of water from me. My smile immediately turned into a frown as I followed behind Steph and Kyra.  

As we were getting near the sideline, Kyra stopped to take a drink causing Steph and I to stop with her. I reached out for my cup as Kyra pulled it away from her mouth. 

I huffed as Kyra hesitated to give me the cup before she pulled it back to herself and acted as if she was gonna spit the water back into the cup. I pouted as I took a hold of the cup. Steph slapped Kyra’s arm as the other girl finally swallowed the water in her mouth. I sent the camera a grin. 

“Don’t—” 

Steph’s warning fell on deaf ears though as I threw the rest of the water onto Kyra. Kyra froze as she blinked in shock. It gave me plenty of time to get a head start as I immediately headed for Caitlin. 

“Cait! Cait!” I yelled out when I realized that Kyra had finally moved to chase after me. While I knew that Mini would be the safer bet with the national team, Caitlin and Katie had been the ones to take Kyra under their wing. “Caitlin!” 

The other forward turned to look at me as I ran behind her. Caitlin held out her arms as Kyra rushed into her. I kept myself an arm’s length behind Caitlin as the forward didn’t allow Kyra to get to me. 

“What is going on?” 

“She threw water on me!” 

“She’s being a pest!” 

I was sure that was all Caitlin got from either of us as we both started to talk over each other. 

“Okay. Okay!” Caitlin yelled over us. Kyra and I immediately quieted down. Caitlin pointed at Kyra. “You, stop being a pest.” I stuck my tongue out at Kyra in victory. “And you,” Caitlin whirled around to look at me, “good job throwing water on the pest. But next time go to Mini or just deal with her yourself.” 

Caitlin started to move away from us, but I didn’t miss the glare Kyra was sending toward me, so I was quick to stay by Caitlin’s side. I didn’t miss how Mackenzie’s eyes caught mine. 

“No pretty Italian to save you?” 

I could only scowl at the keeper in response. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

I grinned as I wrapped up the interview before I headed to the locker room. I had already made my rounds to see the fans.  

However, going to the locker room might have been a bad decision considering water was immediately dumped onto me the second I walked in the door by both Kyra and Charli. Once the initial shock wore off, I shoved the two away from me. 

“Hey, we just had to cool you off after that performance,” Kyra snickered. 

“Assholes,” I muttered under my breath. 

Most of the team congratulated me as I moved to my cubby. I couldn’t help but grin as I finally checked my phone. I hadn’t been completely surprised by the text from Alessia considering we had been texting since the start of camp. I sent Alessia a text back asking if she liked my airplane arms before tossing my phone back into my bag. 

I turned once I felt something hit my back. My eyes quickly found Mackenzie’s. 

“Had to put on a show for the pretty Italian, huh?” 

I rolled my eyes at the question but shrugged. 

“Can you blame me?” I signed back to her. “You’ve seen her. Pretty isn’t enough to describe her.” 

Mackenzie shook her head at me causing me to chuckle at her. But I couldn’t help it. As I moved to change, Kyra joined me.  

“What does this mean?” Kyra asked, drawing my attention to her hands. “I’ve seen you and Mackenzie talking about it since the airport.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” I brushed Kyra off. I knew that if she kept learning Auslan she would probably eventually figure it out, but I was in no rush to tell her. “It’s nothing bad. Just an inside thing.” 

“You sure?” Kyra asked. 

I raised an eyebrow at that as I studied her. She didn’t look too worried, just curious. 

“Ky, if anything bad happens, I’ll let you know,” I assured her. I pointed my thumb over my shoulder where I knew Steph would still be. “Someone has to help you keep Steph on her toes.” 

“Maybe she’ll start calling you a pest too.” 

I nodded along with the thought that brought a smile back to Kyra’s face. I didn’t really think that Steph would call me a pest. At least, not around Kyra. Not since we knew it drove her up a wall to think that no one thought I was as annoying as she was. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

“So, you’re staying at Arsenal for pretty Italians?” 

I let my fork drop to my plate as I froze at the question. My eyes darted up to look at the person who had asked the question. Of course, it was Kyra. 

Once everyone else at the table had gotten over their surprise of the question, they turned to me. 

“Wonder how that would go if said Italian was told? I guess we’ll find out as soon as Alessia texts me back.” 

I didn’t miss the way Steph and Caitlin had tensed on each of my sides. They couldn’t be faulted, especially considering I shoved my plate away and tried to lunge over the table. I would have been successful too if the two hadn’t grabbed ahold of me.  

“I’m gonna kill you.” 

Kyra stuck her tongue out at me as she leaned back in her chair. 

“You, calm down,” Steph said, as she pointed at me. She took a deep breath before turning to look at Kyra. “And you, I really hope you didn’t text Alessia to tell her about (Y/N)’s feelings.” 

Kyra just slumped in the seat but didn’t say anything. She also decided to avoid all of our eyes. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I quietly said under my breath. I was well aware that most of the team was already looking at us due to my own display. I didn’t need the rest of them knowing about my crush either. “Forget it. I’m never going back.” 

“Kyra—” 

“What?” Kyra cut Steph off. “It’s not like it’s a lie. I saw her and Mackenzie both signing about it. So, I asked Theo what the signs meant because (Y/N) wouldn’t say.” Kyra had to have been paying attention to Mackenzie and me in the airport and yesterday at practice. “She gets to throw water on me and get away with it? But I just text a teammate and I’m in trouble?” 

“You didn’t just text a teammate, Kyra,” Caitlin scolded this time. Kyra’s eyes turned to Caitlin. Caitlin’s grip on me loosened as I leaned my elbows against the table so I could hold my head in my hands. “You broke the trust of a teammate.” 

“It’s just a joke.” 

“Kyra, it isn’t just a joke. (Y/N) didn’t even tell you—” 

“I didn’t even text her.” 

I slowly lifted my head to look at Kyra. This was all some stupid prank? 

“I just wanted to get back at (Y/N). So, I thought telling her that her crush knew about her feelings would be harmless.” 

I had a heart attack for nothing? 

“Is everything okay here?” 

I didn’t have to look over at Mini who had made her way to our table. I knew that she had the most experience with Kyra, so it didn’t surprise me that she came to check on her. 

“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” I assured Mini. Kyra finally looked up to meet my eyes as I slowly started to nod, my own plan forming. “Kyra’s just being a pest.” 

“I don’t think everything’s fine,” Kyra shook her head as she turned to Mini. 

My own eyes didn’t leave Kyra’s. But I waited until Kyra went to get up before I lunged over the table. This time I was successful as neither Caitlin or Steph had seemed to think that I would possibly make a move to get to Kyra again. But, honestly, they’d quickly figure out that I wasn’t one to let things go so easily. Especially when I was trying to get back at someone that I considered family. 

[soleilnewspaper]

Broken promises

Series masterlist

Summary: Regulus reminds you of a promise you made to him in childhood and how you have broken it. You return from a weekend trip to find Remus in the hospital wing. Sirius knows he can’t hide Remus’s condition for you any longer.

Pairing: platonic Regulus x fem!reader, poly!wolfstar x fem!reader

Warnings: Angst, fighting with friends, feeling inadequate, cliffhanger, talks of blood and bruises (from the full moon)

Word count: 1.9k

AN: I’m terribly ill and doc ordered me to say in bed, so sleep and write is all I have done today lol. Sorry it’s a little short. Thank you for your time :)

December 24th, 1970

Number 12 Grimmauld Place, North West of London, hidden from the eyes of muggles. The Black family took pride in the fact that they were hosting the Yule Eve dinner party. They were Pureblood royalty after all.

The house was decorated in festive decorations for the upcoming Yule celebrations custom of the sacred 28 society. The food alone could surely feed an entire orphanage.

A young Regulus, at a mere nine years old yet dressed far better than most adults. The scratchy material of his dress robes had been bothering him from the moment his mother had forced him into them. His black locs were combed back with magical gel to ensure he remained perfect for the night.

Clasped his small hand, you ran along with him. The frills from your pink dress made it difficult to much. It overwhelmed your body. You thought you looked like a large ball of cotton candy. Which your mother had scolded you for even thinking such a thing.

Trails of pristine white ribbons once worn in your hair now lay tossed on the freshly polished floors of the manor. Your house elf had been ordered by your mother to ‘tame’ your hair earlier that night. Hours of work had been in vain as your locs had bounced back only moments ago. Sliver jewerly adorned your neck sparkling in the candle lit hallway.

Kreacher had turned a blind eye to your ‘escape’ from the dinner. Neither of your mothers had noticed your absence yet. Something which both Regulus and you were beyond grateful for. Merlin knows what your punishment would be for daring to participate in such childish behaviour. For, being a pureblood meant you never were a child. You were simply an investment.

Regulus was the spare, the second choice, a precautionary measure that his parents had taken should Sirius prove to not be eligible. You, on the other hand, were born a girl. Which meant you were to be married off the moment you were of legal age. Although you had heard the stories of girls who had been forced to marry long before that. Your potential husband would be most likely related to you in some way.

Your mother would often gossip about how the Black Family ‘kept things in the family’ in reference to how cousins married each other frequently. However, truth be told, all pureblood were related in some way or other. Pureblood had been facing excitation for centuries. In order to keep their lines ‘pure’ they needed to dip their toes into the pool of incest. The sacred 28 all crossed over if you were to look close enough. Which is why you thought your mother to be a hypocrite.

Regulus pulled you into a nock in the attic. Whilst you were still in a fit of giggles.

“My lady.” Regulus pretended to bow, taking an old feathered hat on and then off his head.

“Why thank you, kind sir.” You responded through a set of giggles. Giving him a curtse in return, just as your mother had taught you.

Regulus took your hand and guided you to sit down with him on the floor, placing his suit jacket down to avoid you getting your dress dirty. You picked up the ends of your dress to try make it easier on you to sit down. A proof sound was heard the second you touched the floor. As you quite literally fell on your ass from the sheer size of the dress. Your mother was a beautiful woman but her style was eccentric to say the least. She had dressed your sister and brother in a similar fashion, both of who were being good children and still in the dining hall.

“Will you consider promising me something, Y/N?” The boy’s language was far better than most adults you knew. Pureblood society doing of course. You were both already fluent in Latin and Greek while Regulus knew French as well. It being his family’s main language after all.

“Whatever do you mean, Reggie?” You asked in the same tone. Frowning your small brows in confusion.

“Would it be to much to ask, if you could promise to be mine forever.” His statement confused you at first causing him to explain further. “We both know our mothers will marry us off one of these days, but please choose me, your friend first.”

“As long as you promise to choose me always and forever.” You smiled back at him.

“Best friends before lovers?” Regulus asked you unsure of himself.

“I would rather have live a life with no love, than live one without you as my friend.” You took ahold of his hand gently.

“I do not wish to condemn you to a love of loneliness, Y/N.” He dropped his hand from yours, fearing he was asking you too much with your friendship.

“Reggie, with you by my side, I could never be lonely.” That had earned you a smile from him, a one larger than you had ever seen before.

Present time

Regulus Arcturus Black would never be your lover. No, your bond proceeded that of romantic expectations. Your bond would always be platonic, but it would be the deepest bond you would ever have. For your souls wore bind together in no way a lover could understand. Even if it was a childish desire to ask for your loyalty forever. To chose him over everyone else in the world. You knew, that in truth, there was only one person he had asked you to never choose over him. His brother. Which is exactly what you had done. The one thing he had begged of you all those years ago, you had done without hesitation. Breaking his trust doesn’t even cover the cost your newfound relationship had taken to your oldest one.

He was not angry nor was he upset with you. Regulus felt hurt, betrayed even. In all his life, he had lived with the expectation that he would always be second best. Only this past summer had his parents began to pay attention to him after Sirius had left home. Officially disowning their eldest, made Regulus their heir. He was only valued once Sirius was gone. For once in his life, people had began to look at him instead. It had been a long time coming, since the moment Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor. The light slowly began to shift to the younger brother. Yet, never completely, not until now. Within the span of a few weeks he had become the star of the family. A fact which had only served to make him bitter because he knew the care of his family was conditional. For they had hardly offered him a look before he was proved to be their last hope of salvation.

The worse part was Sirius believed Regulus was the first choice. When in fact he had never been someone’s first choice in anything. That is excluding you. Regulus had always been your first choice. It was something which he had come to held dearly in the span of his fifteen years of life.

Despite being a few months younger than Sirius, and almost a whole year older than Regulus. You had chosen to be his friend. As children, your mother urged you to make connection with Sirius, but you never did. Regulus was who you chose to spend your time with. Up until Hogwarts neither one of you had any real friends besides each other. Barty did not run in the same circles as the two of you before Hogwarts. The rosier twins didn’t form a friendship with you until Regulus’s first year at Hogwarts which had been their first too.

He had only asked one thing of you, and you could not give him that. You now understood his anger. Yet you still felt defensive as you were in a vulnerable state.

“You do not get to held a childish promise over my head!” You yelled, your voice reaching across the common room.

“It is not about the promise, Y/N.” Regulus stated with lips pulled into a thin unreadable expression.

“Then what is it about, Regulus?” Anger severed through your throat as you spoke.

“Rage does not consume me for the mere fact of your entanglement in a romantic relationship. As one of your closest friends, I comprehend that it is beyond my jurisdiction to dictate the auspices under which you choose to allocate your precious hours. Yet, I implored solely that you not date my own brother.” Regulus paced around the room, his hand running through hair multiple times before he turned to face you directly.

“For it is your preference that leans towards him, and no longer me. He is accustomed to being selected first and foremost in all things. I am not. Barty, Evan, Pandora and you were mine; untill you chose me over me. The one thing you promised, swore, you would never do.” Regulus voice no longer held anger, it was filled with hurt. He pointed a a finger towards your chest to further his point. Breathless as he spoke.

“Reg…” You moved towards him but he flinched away from your touch. “My relationship with him does not change the friendship I have with you.”

“Liar.”

“You say that, yet you continue to be with him. To chose him.” Regulus walked away from you but you followed without hesitation.

“You are being over dramatic.”

“Am I, so am I to just discard the only person who truly understands me. In order to allow you to satisfy your desires.” Regulus used the boot of his shoe to kick the table lightly.

“You do not mean that.” Tears were beginning to form in your eyes.

“What other choice have you given me?” Regulus breathed out barely forming words.

“I never intended to lose you, Reg.”

“Oh, well then everything is sorted. Is it not. Far be it that I have feelings and reactions to your actions.”

“Please, stop, I beg of you.” Your voice was pleading with him now.

“Would you do one decency?”

“Anything.”

“Tell me why did it have to be him.” You heard the crack in his voice as he spoke. Arms at his side and legs planted on the floor.

You squeezed your eyes shut at his question. Knowing whatever your answer would only serve to hurt him further.

“I fell for him. I tried not to. Believe me I did, but I cannot ignore my feelings anymore. Please forgive me.”

“Forgiveness does not come easy, Y/N.” Regulus eyes roared with anger, but you knew there still lay hurt behind them. “But I don’t want to lose you.”

“Does that mean…” The steps you took towards him were careful and precise to not spook him with your actions.

“I would could never live without your friendship. It pains me so, but I know I have to forgive you, but do not ask me to forgive him.”

Tears pooled in your eyes as the words left his cold lips. Before another moment could pass, you wrapped your arms around his torso. To your surprise he accepted your affection. He had never been one to allow affectionate gestures, it simply was not his way of expressing himself. Yet, in the rare moments when he allowed himself to let another in, his warmth would be unlimited.

“Can I assume I have my best friend back?” Your voice was muffled by Regulus’ green Qudditch jersey.

He pulled away from the hug but kept physical contact with you by placing both of his hands on your sides.

“You never lost me.”

Sounds of students began to fill the common room as they returned from the pitch and great hall. Undoubtedly complaining and/or talking about the lack of victory Slytherin had acquired in today’s events.

“One last thing, Y/N.” Regulus spoke in a hushed tone to avoid being interrupted or ease dropped on.

“Anything.”

“If my brother hurts you, there’s not a place in the world he’d be able to hide from me. Blood may be thicker than water, but my loyalty for you will always outweigh my loyalty for him. Never doubt that for a moment.”

“I appreciate it, but that’s not necessarily-“

“Believe me when I say, negotiation is not an option here. You will lose this argument.” Regulus’s dark eyes were completely serious and his face showed no signs of amusement.

“Is your plan to treat me like a child of divorce?”

“Mmm, we’ll work on the arrangements later.” Regulus smiled at you, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You know you will always be my best friend, right?” You asked taking his hand in yours.

“Don’t tell Barty that, he might kill me.” Regulus leaned into you.

“Well we would’t want that, now would we.”

The life of a pureblood had taught you many things. None of which had seamed to prove helpful in any way shape or form for your current situation.

While you might have seamed to patch things up with Regulus for the most part. Although you still were treading in dangerous waters. At least you could sleep soundly knowing he was willing to come around to the idea. In time, of course.

Yet, you still faced another dilemma; your relationship. Secrets were being kept from you, that was obvious enough, but what the secret was remained a mystery to you.

It didn’t help that Sirius and Remus seamed to have no intention of letting you in on it anytime soon. Taking into consideration how much history the two had, you continued to feel out of place in your own relationship, and feared for how much long you could take it.

For the past three days, you had to be condemned to visiting your oh so loving family. Torture did not even begin to cover it. Though you knew there were pureblood children in worst situations. The Blacks were a prime example. Leading you to appreciate your dysfunctional family because at least they had never used an unforgivable curse on you. To say the bar was low would be an understatement.

So as you walked through the castle walls having returned from your trip. Your mind began to wonder. However, your moment of peace was short lived as you passed the Hospital Wing.

You couldn’t see much but you could see Sirius who was walking towards the door. Through a series of lies, excuses and distractions, the boys had managed to occlude you from Remus’s condition. Yet, your weekend away just so happened to be a full moon. A particularly horrific one in fact. No chance were they going to be able to hide it from you now.

Sirius’s sliver eyes were accompanied by purple eye bags from staying up all night with Remus. Hair fell in disarray and tangles were visible in his usual elegant locs. He appeared gaunt, almost as if the life had been drained out of him.

Upon seeing you, a serge of panic ripped through his entire being.

“Oh Salvar.” You rushed towards him in panic searching his face for signs of injury. It only worked to make him feel more guilty than he already was.

“S’m nothin’.” Tiredness and worry were evident in his voice.

“Sirius, do not take me for a fool.”

“I’m not, honestly, just-“ Whilst barely finding the energy to form words, you interrupted him with rage already approaching.

“What’ll be this time, huh?” Hands fell from his face leaving a cold chill. You crossed your arms in front of your chest, you were beyond rage, you were done.

“It’s not like that, baby.” His voice begged for sympathy but you refused to show the effort he had on you.

“Where’s Remus?”

Sirius’s eyes widen at the thought of you seeing Remus in his current state. You stepped forward to enter the hospital wing causing him to plant himself in front of you. Using his height to block your view. Your flight or fight activated. Making use of the large space of the room you tricked him by making him believe you were headed one way and then pushed past him in the other.

As soon as you had escaped his gasp, Sirius ran after you in panic. However, with our tired he was, he didn’t have the strength to carry through.

Remus lay curled up on the hospital bed. Bandages surrounded his body in multiple places. Most seamed clean but others had large red stains from blood. Bruises and cuts decorated his body like Christmas lights. The beautiful brown eyes that you had come to cherish so dearly had taken on a dull hue. With dark circles surround them and bloodshot eyes. His hair stuck up in all different directions filled with dirt and a sneer of blood.

A whine escaped the thin werewolf when he turned on his side to see who had entered. His eyes struggled to focus for a few moments to depict your figure, but when he did, he swore he felt just like he did before people knew about his secret. Ashamed, scared, horrified all mixed into self loathing.

“Remus?” You managed to choke out through the tears that had began to form in your eyes upon seeing him.

“Hey, dovie.”

Taglist: @maraudersforlife2005 @xlxnq

[captainfantasticalright]

Sir Terry Pratchett: on why he co-wrote Good Omens with Neil Gaiman, how long it took, and the loss of the first 5000 words, but saved and later recovered.

You can read more about that last bit here:

From another STP interview:

When Neil Gaiman and I were doing the Good Omens tour it was great fun because I was suffering with one other person. We were actually interviewed by a very well-known interviewer in that particular city who hadn't even read his notes, let alone the book. You may recall that the subtitle of the book was "The Nice and Accurate Predictions of Agnes Nutter." He thought that this was the real title of the book -- that it was a nonfiction book about predictions. He had no idea it was even fiction. Neil and I could see the engineer in the booth doubled over with laughter, because he happened to be a fan. We looked at one another, and the unspoken thought was, "We'd better not wipe the floor with this guy." So we had to find a way of giving answers that would be technically correct, but somehow sending the message that the host was conducting the wrong interview. We did emerge fairly unscathed. Then, there was another one where we were at a public broadcasting radio station somewhere on the West Coast. The director of protocol came out to see us before the interview. She looked us up and down and said, "You're English, aren't you? Now, you're not going to swear on the air are you?" We replied, "Well, we hadn't intended to…" But, of course, now that was all we could think about! We were passing each other notes saying, "Be sure not to say $#@!" Many public broadcasting stations are hounded by people looking for any pretext to get them off the air, so I suppose that's why this station was so worried about swearing. We did find out that Americans don't think that the word "bugger" is swearing, because they don't know what it means. I mean, it's not like the London Times or the BBC are known for the amount of swearing they allow. But to be told not to swear, well, it just made it impossible not to think of it. The words would just bubble up. But we acted like gentlemen.

[ktkellart]

Good Omens London Trip 🐍💞🪽

It's my Birthday today and I treated myself to a trip to London last weekend to see my favourite actor Michael Sheen in Nye at the National Theatre. I made the most of my weekend by combining it with a Good Omens filming location self-tour and I'd love to share it with you all. So, are you ready for the tour?

Here we go!

Starting off with Soho, and the inspiration for Whickber Street, where Aziraphale's bookshop, Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, The Small Back Room, and the Dirty Donkey are located.

It’s Berwick Street and a record shop that is very similar in shape to A.Z Fell & Co. Bonus points for spotting Duck Lane!

Next is Berkeley Square, a short walk from Soho. The first two photos are of the real Berkeley Square gardens in Mayfair, and the last two photos were taken in the filming location of Tavistock Square across the other side of central London near Kings Cross. I’m sitting on their ‘body swap’ bench in the last photo!

As you can see, the benches are turned around facing inwards now but are the other way, facing outwards in Good Omens.

Oh, and I can confirm that there were no nightingales singing in either location 😭

Heading up the road a few minutes from Tavistock Square to The Enterprise pub where I met a fellow fan who kindly took photos of me posing (I bet the staff thought we were off our rockers!). This is where Crowley drowns his sorrows in Talisker Whisky whilst waiting for the world to end after thinking he'd lost Aziraphale. Omg that poor poor demon, he was really just gonna die along with the world.

Also, one of my favourite moments of season 1 is Crolwey's line: "I heard that. It was the wiggle-on..." then shrugs. 😆 So many emotions in such short a time.

Onto the Ritz. The first two photos are of the real Ritz (a stone's throw from Berkeley Square) and the last one is inside Masala Zone in Piccadilly Circus where the ‘Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol’ and ‘To the World’ scenes were filmed.

I ate in here alone to get the photo and was so lucky with the table I was given! Perfect discreet snap whilst eating my curry! Haha!

Next up is Battersea Park and the Bandstand. It was a bit of a faff to get there, it's an 8-minute walk from the Battersea Power Station underground and we walked the full length of the park to find the Bandstand, but it was so worth it.

Also filmed here was Gabriel and Aziraphale’s run/jog. Poor Angel is soft scene.

The trees were a little leafier with it being mid-May and the park was very busy because the weather was glorious. They also have a beautiful lake here with herons!

The Heaven & Hell staircase escalators are right over the east side of London in Broadgate Tower, Bishopsgate. I got the overground to Liverpool Street station to get there. It is in a private business building so I politely/awkwardly asked the receptionist if I could take a photo and had to explain about the scene from Good Omens… eek! But he kindly let me snap a photo anyway! (Phew)

The Windmill Theatre was three minutes away from my hotel in Piccadilly Circus, so I wandered up the road to take a photo of where Aziraphale ‘performed on the West End stage’ as Fell the Marvelous. And wasn’t he just?

The scenes weren't filmed here but it was fun to find it anyway.

St James’s Park is up next! I sat on their bench and got my friend to take photos of me posing and had fun editing the first photo. Haha! We enjoyed walking through the park, watching the ducks on the lake and had a nosey at Buckingham Palace while we were there.

The Duke of York Statue steps are at the other end of St James's Park and were fun to walk up. I smiled to myself as I thought of the scene where Crowley says ‘Well let's have lunch? Hmm,’ and Aziraphale turns around, as it was the first time I realised that these two were more than just friends.

Heaven’s top floor, the Sky Garden in Fenchurch Street near Monument is a very tall building with a botanical garden on the top floor. You can visit the sky garden for free, but you do need to book in advance so it’s best to plan ahead for this one. The views of London are breathtaking from the 35th floor and the tropical plants are fun.

My last stop for this visit was Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre. I booked a tour on the morning I was due to go home. The first tour is 10 am and lasts an hour, so I dashed off as soon as the tour guide was uttering his last words about the gift shop, across London back to Kings Cross to pick up my suitcase from luggage storage and get the 11:48 am train home!

One I missed and could have easily gone to is St Margaret Street where Newton and Shadwell meet, and Shadwell fleeces Newton for a cup of tea with nine sugars and pockets the change. A bit gutted I missed it to be honest – I love Jack Whitehall (I’m back in London with the family in June so I’ll swing by and update then!)

There are also some other locations a little further afield that I might try to visit on a later date, such as Shadwell's and Madam Tracy's flat down Hornsey Road in Islington, Crowley's Flat exterior in Eastfields Avenue, Best Cafe on Garratt Lane where Crowley meets Shadwell, Crystal Palace Dinosaur Park where the ineffable husbands watch Warlock defacing a dinosaur sign and Antonella's Cafe and Bistro where Crowley and Aziraphale are thinking of ideas to track down the antichrist whist Aziraphale eats cake.

Okay, I’m gonna finish up with the man himself. The very kind, very charming, and VERY patient Michael Sheen The reason for my London visit in the first place. Nye was spectacular OBviOUsLy, but he was super generous with his time at stage door for us all. I got a hug and asked him to pass it on to Aziraphale (that angel really needs a hug) and it made him laugh, which made my night!

Check out my reblog for extra locations when I visited London again a month later, and for a hilarious bonus photo of.... Gabriel??!

Here’s the wonderful map I used -

from this website:

[gunnerfc]

🎄WOSO FICMAS: Dec. 12 - Fridolina Rolfö 🎄

Fridolina Rolfö x Reader (Arsenal & Sweden) | WC: 745

Dec. 12 prompt: cuddle during the team's christmas movie night

-> any translations come from google!

-> woso ficmas masterlist can be found here!

With the holidays approaching and clubs giving players time off, you and your Swedish national teammates could spend time together away from the pitch. With the club seasons picking up and certain players rehabbing injuries, it made it hard for almost everyone to see each other. The captains of the team decided that there needed to be a team movie night before everyone went back to their respective clubs after the break.

This is how you found yourself in Caroline’s home surrounded by most of your teammates, still waiting on the arrival of some of them. You were in the middle of an intense conversation about the past London Derby with Zećira and Johanna, neither wanting to accept that Arsenal did in fact win that match. Too preoccupied with the conversation with the two Chelsea players, you didn’t notice when Fridolina and Stina joined the three of you on the couch. 

“man kan inte alltid vinna, vet du? (you can’t always win, you know?)” your Arsenal teammate teased interrupting whatever excuse the goalkeeper was trying to say. Stina was especially happy with the Gunners’ win after scoring the late game-winner. 

The Chelsea players switched their attention to Stina, once again voicing their displeasure with losing. Frido could only laugh at the four of you, finding the argument amusing. 

“Frido, hjälp oss här! (Frido, help us here!)” the youngest of the two West London players whined, hoping the blonde would come to their defense.

“Nej, jag gillar när Chelsea inte vinner. (No, I like it when Chelsea doesn't win.)” the forward joked, earning a loud laugh from you and Stina while the Chelsea players rolled their eyes. 

The conversation shifted to how Frido’s recovery was going back in Spain and then to how everyone planned on spending the summer now that Sweden was out of the Olympics. You moved your hand to hold your girlfriend’s as she spoke about her recovery, knowing how much she missed being able to play for both Sweden and Barça.

Once everyone had arrived at your captain’s house, the team was instructed to write down the title of a movie to be drawn out of a bowl to make it easier to decide which movie to watch. You were quick to scribble down the title of your favorite Christmas movie, tossing it in the bowl before finding a seat before you were forced to sit on the floor. A slight shiver ran down your spine, the Swedish cold affecting you more than you thought it would. You knew you should have listened to Frido when she told you to wear a long-sleeved shirt or at least take a hoodie, but you refused, saying something along the lines of being used to the cold.

The blonde was quick to join you on the couch, a knowing smile on her face as she watched you slightly shake from the cold. You were waiting for her to say “jag sa det till dig” (I told you so), but it never came. Instead, she picked up the blanket that was thrown over the back of the couch, moving it across the two of you. Your teammates soon followed after putting their suggestion into the bowl, some racing each other to a spot on the couch to avoid the floor. 

You were too focused on the warmth your girlfriend was providing to pay attention to what movie Magda picked from the bowl but you could hear a few groans from your teammates, letting you know they were not thrilled with the selection. With everyone now settled in front of the TV, Caroline had the opening credits to the movie rolling. You were hardly paying attention to the movie, more content with being wrapped up with your girlfriend, the cold no longer affecting you. With a quick kiss on the blonde’s cheek, you settled into the couch, eyes now focused on the bright screen in front of you.

As the movies continued, Frido moved closer, wanting to be as close to you as possible. With a new movie now starting and your girlfriend fully tucked into your side, you let out a small content sigh, having missed spending time with all your national teammates. You caught some of your teammates’ eyes, teasing smiles on their faces at the sight of you and Frido cuddling, but they knew to keep their comments to themselves for now. However, you knew their silence wouldn’t last long and the first chance they got to tease you, they would take it.

[ingravinoveritas]

So came I came across this repost from Al that a fan posted yesterday to which she reposted and to have her say and ad I much I can see she trying to defend ms with the radio getting his name wrong it a common thing for poor ms and I don't think this personally was the guys fault and I think they was reading from a script which I think most radio presenters have I think.

But the thing I noticed also was yes she was trying to defend her parter but also seems complaining that she and the children have to endure listening to the station in the car all the time and that like a another red flag like they literally have nothing in common and I'm still wondering why they still together. Cos I've noticed since michael been London he seems alot happier and heathly cos he closer to his best friend and beaming also. Can we have him stay permanently in London and not go bk to Wales in May.

What ur thoughts on this repost for Al I would to hear

(Grouping these together for ease of answering.)

I had this sent to me a little while ago and I'm...well, it takes a lot to floor me these days, especially in this fandom, but...I think this did it. Because there is so much going on here, and almost none of it is good.

On the surface, I know this very much looks like AL defending Michael, but I do not think that's what this was about at all. I think she saw BBC Radio 6 tagged in the original tweet and saw an opportunity to gain attention due to the proximity of a high-profile account. The way she did it, however, was by making something related to Michael about her. Again. And again, the wording of this retweet takes it from AL defending him to something else entirely.

Saying that she has to "endure" Michael listening to this radio show in the car is just a terrible look, as if listening to something he enjoys is so unbearably awful, and that she only puts up with because she's stuck in a car with him. It feels like she's literally complaining about Michael under the pretense of defending him, and I don't know how she (or anyone else) thinks this is okay.

The thing is, the whole "Martin Sheen" thing has become a running joke precisely because Michael has been dealing with this not just for his whole career, but his entire life. It's something he has frequently talked about, and I can imagine that it has been challenging on so many levels, but Michael also knows that Martin Sheen has been in the business for 60 years, and more than that, he is also a fan of Martin's. He's even talked about being introduced to him at a party years ago (I can't remember by whom, but Michael described the person as saying "Mr. President, meet Mr. Prime Minister"--referring to Martin and Michael's roles in The West Wing and The Queen, respectively).

So yes, the overarching point is that Michael doesn't blame Martin Sheen for these repeated mix-ups, and actually respects him as an actor and person. And when he has felt annoyed about this happening (as he did in 2020 when an ITV announcer called him the wrong name prior to a new episode of Quiz), Michael has had no problem calling it out himself on his own social media. Which speaks to your point @thetardisisblueandroseistoo about her trying to speak on Michael's behalf, and again doing a miserable job of it.

Also, what Michael hasn't done--and I suspect would be horrified at Anna doing--is go after the hosts of a show that he just appeared on yesterday. Particularly a show with hosts he is a tremendous fan of, as he spent a good portion of his appearance gushing about them and how much he enjoys listening to the show. I think he would more than understand the one host making this mistake--given his age and how much more embedded Martin Sheen is in pop culture--and would certainly exercise a lot more graciousness than to write a nasty tweet like the one AL did above.

That's the best way I can describe it: Shades of what we saw in the Insta story from last week, with that same self-aggrandizing, passive-aggressive (and now also kind of bitter) tone. There are a hundred other ways she could have responded to this, yet what she chose was to get in a dig at Michael, plus QT a fan tweet so that it could be misconstrued as her yelling at the fan. And again, in the cases where Michael has called out announcers or others for getting his name wrong, it's because he felt he deserved to have his name said correctly. In this case, however, it seems that AL wants the presenter to get Michael's name right because not doing so is an inconvenience to her.

Those were my impressions of AL's tweet, at any rate. All I can say is that from my perspective, if this was her attempting to defend Michael, it could not have been more backhanded. Glad to hear from my followers as well about your thoughts on this. Thanks for writing in! x

[thefisherqueen]

I was wondering about what the bathroom and toilet situation would likely have been like when Sherlock Holmes and dr Watson moved into Baker Street in 1881 (for fanfic reasons, obviously). An in-house bathroom and toilet have long been luxuries. My own parents have stories of not having a bathroom yet at home when they were young, and both grew up in the '60 in the Netherlands. They either had an iron tub filled or went to a public bathhouse, and the toilet was located in the garden. Both of them grew up working class, however. I imagine that Holmes and Watson's combined income would have made them middle class, so the Baker Street rooms would perhaps have been more luxurious.

Doyle thought it probably not appropriate or relevant to really directly discuss it in the stories, but there have been a few mentions of the possibility of taking a bath at Baker Street in the stories, for example when Holmes asks Watson why he would prefer to go to the Turkish bath over taking a bath at home in The illustrious client. I found this interesting article that discusses the likely bathroom situation at Baker Street!

"After 1870, a system of constant water supply began to be introduced to London, although it took over 20 years and a huge amount of pipe retrofitting to bring the “constant” to all of London. The West Middlesex Water Company supplied water to the Northwest section of London, including Marylebone (and thus Baker Street).  By 1891, 43 percent of the houses supplied by this company were on constant.  The change to the constant system involved the water company reworking its water main system under the street to each house and it required each homeowner to redo almost all of the piping system inside the house. The constant water system involved a much higher pressure of water, which the older pipers connected to a cistern could not handle. New fittings and faucets were also required inside the home when the conversion was made.

Thus, by the time that Holmes and Watson rented their rooms on Baker Street from Mrs. Hudson in January 1881, they almost surely had access to piped, running water and to a water closet in the building. More than likely, a room had been converted to a bathroom by the time they rented, but the “constant” water supply was probably introduced to Baker Street later during their tenancy.  The Canon suggests there was a bathroom on the second floor of 221B.  The precise location of the water closet(s) is not known."

Also, look at this victorian contraption! A hip-bath it was called. It just looks so funny

[discokicks]

FOX IN THE BOX — ROY KENT.

PART TWO of ACES AT THE WATER’S EDGE.

(series masterlist!) (AO3!) (series playlist!)

pairing: roy kent x fem!reader (no use of y/n!)

summary: back in 2012, you and roy meet for the first time. in 2023, you sign a one-year contract with richmond and have to work with roy for the first time. both go about as well as you’d expect.

word count & rating: 9.6k, R (roy kent says fuck and does fuck!)

chapter warnings: swearing, light sexual innuendos and light references to sex, mentions of alcohol and partying (the olympians get DOWN in olympic village) minor allusions to what happened to reader at west ham, major football talk, roy kent is rich, original character intros and plot (author really likes a plot, woo boy), angst, and of course, fluff.

author’s note: ok wow, thank you for all the love on the first chapter! wildly unexpected but much appreciated. this one’s got a bit more to it— jumping timelines, original characters, lotta soccer/football talk, reader and roy don’t know how to act (in more ways than one). also did crazy research into the 2012 olympics for this, so no one tell me my timeline’s off or i’ll cry. also also, is roy's sister named molly or is that just evidence that i've read too many fics? whatever it is, her name's molly! thank you again for the love and i hope you all enjoy! love you all tons! -mags

LONDON OLYMPICS. (LATE JULY, 2012)

You meet Roy Kent for the first time at midnight, in a rookie’s dorm room in the Olympic Village.

It’s a seemingly unlikely place for a football phenom like him to be. You’d expected all of those guys to choose to be elsewhere, exploiting their home-country advantage to hang out in their posh flats. But there they were, carrying out their team bonding efforts to prepare for their game tomorrow. 

Knowing what you know about Roy now, it’s fitting for him to have been there. But in this moment, you’re shocked to see the likes of him in Olympic Village. 

It’s a place that’s convinced you that your college career was only good for preparing you for it. And you’re not even talking about the sports aspect of it. You’re talking about the shit-show, chaos-menu of athletes from around the world, acting as though it’s the first week of freshman year.

Despite the fact that alcohol, drugs, and any other traditional party favors are completely off-limits on-premises, it doesn’t seem to deter your fellow Olympians from running the dorms like it’s a frat party. You’re half-convinced you’re going to get a classic ‘who do you know here’ from the trust-fund-looking Australian swimmer you pass getting into your building, but he just sends a heartbreaking smile at you and your teammate as you walk in.

Your team’s fresh off the bus from Glasgow, having just beat France at Hampden Park. It was a hell of a way to open, despite the Opening Ceremony not taking place for another two days. As a younger player who’d proven herself in last year’s World Cup, you were the starting striker in your first Olympic game ever, scoring the second goal of the match and assisting the fourth. The adrenaline of it all hadn’t quite worn off yet. 

It’s clear that your teammate’s feeling the same way. Melanie Rivera, your left winger and for all intents and purposes, best friend, is straight-up vibrating. You’d met during World Cup training, where you two had instantly clicked and she’d taken you under her wing to show you the ropes and what it meant to play at this level. Despite this being her second Olympics, the feeling of a win never goes away. Or at least, that’s what she tells you.

The two of you are practically bouncing off the walls as you arrive on your floor, giggling to yourselves about different things that had happened during the game. Your fluent-in-French full-back telling off a French forward when she got too close to your goalie. The mid-game mishap where some French girl’s cleat went flying. The ‘bullshit’ yellow card Mel had received right before the half (Mel knew it was a fair call, she’d totally pushed that girl). 

“She was asking for it, though,” Mel insists, collapsing onto your bed as you enter your shared room. “Pulling on my shirt the whole game. I have two rules. Two. Don’t—”

You roll your eyes, having heard these rules a million times. “—touch my goalie, and don’t—”

“—touch my fucking kit,” she finishes, throwing her hands up exasperatedly. Her eyes shut with a huff.  “They’re pretty simple. Don’t know why people can’t follow them.”

“Yeah, it’s a travesty,” you reply dryly. Your lip curls into a grimace as you look at her. “You wanna know what my rules are?”

One of Mel’s eyes opens with a knowing smile. “Don’t be sweaty on your bed?”

“Oh, so we do remember,” you say, falsely cheery. The faux smile falls from your face. “Get off. Or at least shower. I want to go to bed and I don’t want to like, smell you.”

Mel rolls off your bed with a dramatic sigh. “Fine,” she relents. “But you can’t go to bed.”

Your expression remains unamused. “And why not?”

“Because the British men’s team is hanging out upstairs,” she states as if the answer’s obvious.

“Right. Of course,” you reply. “So, we’re crashing their team bonding?”

“No,” she says, pointing at you. “Their women’s team crashed. And then Jack texted me to tell us to come up.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “Uh-huh. Is Paige there?”

Mel shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “Maybe.”

“Oh, great,” you say sarcastically. “So, you’re forcing me to stay awake so I can wingman you?”

Mel flops on your bed once more. “Please,” she cries. “Dude, I like her so fucking much. We’ve been texting since the Cup and I don’t know, this year I think I’ve got a chance.”

“Why can’t Jack wingman you? He’s clearly down to set you two up,” you say, sounding a bit whiny. “Also, why are they hanging out here? I thought they’d rent a place or stay at their own houses.”

“They make the rookies stay in the Village their first years. It's for the experience, or whatever,” she answers. That’s brushed to the side quickly. “Also, Jack is a fucking awful wingman. The only type of scoring he’s good at is on the field.” She looks at you expectantly. “And I can’t go up there alone. I’ll look like a loser.”

You gape at her. “You are twenty-seven years old.”

“And I’ll look like a twenty-seven-year-old friendless loser!” When she sees the expression you’re wearing, she tilts on her side. “Say yes or I’ll roll around in your bed.”

You cover your face with your hands, an exhausted laugh echoing into your palms. This clearly is a losing battle, and you decide you’re going to be a good friend tonight. “Fine,” you groan, hearing your bed squeak as she launches herself off of it with a cheer. “An hour. That’s it. And then I’m going to bed and never talking to you again.”

“I can live with that,” she yells, bounding for the shower in your room. “I’ll text Jack that we’ll be up in thirty!”

“You owe me so big!” you reply.

You can hear Mel’s grin when she says, “I love you, too!”

Thirty minutes later, you’re freshly showered and up three floors, standing outside of the rookie’s dorm room. You can hear just how loud it is from outside and you suddenly really feel like you’re back in college again. 

It takes Mel a solid three minutes to work up the courage to knock on the door, something that you’re sure would have taken longer if you hadn’t reached out and done it yourself. She scowls at you, but the door opens before she can cuss you out.

Jack Wilson, Tottingham sweeper and three-time Olympian, answers the door with a wide smile. You’d met him a handful of times due to his friendship with Mel and he was just as lovely as everyone had said. There was a charming sort of awkwardness about him despite his status as a professional footballer, but it made him all the more endearing to you. 

“Glad you finally decided to show,” he said to you two, opening the door wider for you to enter. “Congrats on the win.”

“Thanks,” Mel said, eyes already scanning the small dorm living room for Paige. “What’s up with the team bonding in the dorms?”

You’re also looking around the room, sending smiles to the handful of girls you recognize. “Game tomorrow. Coach wanted us to do dinner as a team, so we ate in that big hall. And we--” he says, pointing to two guys on the couch, “--wanted to see the Village this year. So here we are.”

Your eyes follow his finger to the men, one of which isn’t familiar. The other, you immediately identify as Roy Kent. And his eyes are on you.

He’s easily recognizable, curly hair a bit more tame and managed than the iconic, half-assed mullet he’d had when he first signed with Chelsea. That ever-present scowl only lifts a little when he sees that you and Mel have arrived, but you honestly can’t see much change in his expression due to his drawn brows.

While you’d relied on Mel for the majority of your connections to this new world of football, she’d never really seemed to hang out with the likes of Roy. From what you’d gathered, despite his rather high status, he was a bit of a recluse. Yes, he went out constantly, and yes (if the tabloids were right), he’d certainly dated around, nobody really seemed to know much about him. 

When he’d come up in a team game of ‘Fuck, Marry, Kill’ with famous footballers, Mel had told the group that he was a guy of few words, and of the words he did say, ‘fuck’ seemed to be his favorite. Your friend and teammate Katie O’Connor was ready with a terrible impression of him when she answered with ‘fuck,’ especially after Mel also confirmed that the Gina Gershon news was true. 

You try to ignore this as you go over to introduce yourself to them, despite the fact it’s currently setting up camp in your brain. “Nice to meet you guys,” you say to Roy and the other boy on the couch. Jack takes a spot next to you on the floor as you take an empty chair next to the couch. Paige waves at you from her spot when you sit.

Roy nods at you in acknowledgment. “Good showing out there.”

Jack points at you. “Bloody insane goal you had,” he says. “I think I’d break my back if I tried to do a scorpion kick like that. It was fucking class.”

You grin. “Well, lucky for Tottenham, they keep you on the other side,” you say, then quietly add, “Not that it would make a difference.”

You see Roy’s lips twitch up from the corner of your eye, and you bite back a laugh as Jack physically deflates before you. Mel’s heard your comment and runs over to sit on the arm of your chair, which is conveniently close to Paige. “Ooh, is it shit on Tottenham time? Because I haven’t seen your ass in months, so I got a whole list, man.”

As the two of them begin to argue in the way they do, you sit at watch them with a smile. They’d had this type of relationship since you’d met them back at the Cup, when Jack had flown into Germany to see your final games. Despite the loss, those were a wild couple of weeks.

The moment your brain starts to recount them, you can feel a pair of eyes on you. It snaps you out of your haze completely. Especially when you realize that it’s Roy Kent who’s staring at you once more.

You blink at him, slightly confused by the attention. “Hi?”

He nods at you again. He seems to take a moment to evaluate you, and then, “You overthink.”

“W-What?” you ask. The word comes out clunky and confused.

Roy motions to the TV that’s on across the room, one that’s showing highlights from your game. “Out there,” he says. “You overthink.”

The two of you stare at each other for a moment. You, feeling unbelievably out of sorts and unsure of what brought this on, Roy, secure and casual, like he just stated the weather. 

Before you can question him, he nods at you for a final time, then stands up. “I’m going home,” he tells the group. “You lot better be fucking ready for the game tomorrow.”

Roy’s out of the room before anyone can say a proper goodbye to him, but no one bats an eye. No questions follow. 

Except you, of course. You’ve got a fucking million.

You overthink on the field? Where the fuck had he gotten that from? How had he seen it? While there were some times, yeah, you got a bit in your head, you’d never considered yourself an overthinker. And even if you were, the overthinking produced results, right? You liked to think you were just three steps ahead of everyone else out there. Not an overthinker.

But what made him say that? What had he seen? Was it your hesitation outside the box in the first fifteen that resulted in you losing the ball? Was it the switch you’d made to get to the goal when your right winger had it on the side? Was there a look on your face when you’d taken that free kick in the second half? You were pretty in your head then, but hey, it led to Mel scoring.

Overthinking. Pfft. He didn’t know what he was talking about. 

But then again, what the fuck was he talking about?

The thought of this unknown bomb dropped on you without any sort of answers quickly and completely took over your mind. Criticism about your playing had never bothered you (you were a twenty-five-year-old female soccer player, and you’d had more horrendous coaches than you could count), but this? This was something that literally made you itch. And you weren’t going to be able to scratch it until you knew what the hell he meant.

Before you knew what you were doing, you found yourself practically chasing Roy out of the room, whipping your head around to figure out which way he’d gone. Lucky for you, the dorm’s slow lifts were on your side. 

Roy stood by the elevator, checking something on his phone as he waited. He clearly doesn’t hear you coming because he nearly drops it when you ask, “What do you mean I overthink?”

“What the fuck?” And now he’s staring at you like you’re the crazy one.

“I should be asking you that!” you say, then motion back to the direction of the dorm. “You tell me I overthink, stare at me with no follow-up, then leave? Who does that?” You’re way too animated for past midnight, but you don’t care. “Because even if I was an overthinker, which I’m not, that sort of stuff is probably the worst thing you can do. Not leaving on a note like that is like, rule number one.”

Roy’s brows shoot up. “I wasn’t aware there were rules.”

“Yeah, well, there are,” you reply, crossing your arms over your chest. When he continues to just stare at you, you make a face that you hope will cue him to go on. “So, go ahead. Please explain yourself.”

“Explain the overthinking thing?” he asks. “I thought it was pretty fucking simple.”

You roll your eyes. “No, what made you say that? Was it a play I had? Was it something I did? What did you see? I’m just curious as to—”

“You came up the field toward the end of the game,” he says, effectively cutting you off. “And you made a pass to Rivera that led to another pass, then a goal.”

You nod at him, not seeing his point at all. “Yeah? So? It was a great goal by Katie.”

Roy’s expression turns slightly frustrated, as if he’s annoyed that you don’t immediately catch on. “It was a great goal. But the fucking second you saw Rivera next to you, you started thinking ahead,” he tells you. “So far ahead that you didn’t notice how slow and fucking awful your mark was and that you could have had a better goal if you’d stopped thinking.”

There are approximately fifteen seconds of dead air between you two as you attempt to take in what he just said to you. “So, let me get this straight,” you begin. “You’re saying I’m bad because I think too much about teamwork?”

For a moment, you think Roy’s going to slam his head into the elevator door. Instead, he just turns to the buttons and presses them once more. “Fuck’s sake, could these be any fucking slower?”

You’re too far gone at this point to even be offended. “Uh, it doesn’t matter. You started this. You’re not going anywhere until we finish it. Why does me not being a selfish dick make me bad?”

“I didn’t say you were bad. You’re not. Clearly,” he responds. You note a bit of the classic ‘Roy Kent’ anger laced within his words and it makes you snap your mouth shut. “I’m just saying. You’re at your best when you’re not so fucking nice and when you don’t fucking think.”

Unconsciously, your arms cross over your chest. “I’ve got twenty-two years of playing time and about ten coaches that would disagree with that.” 

Once more, you see the corner of his mouth slide upward as he glances at you. “If that’s the case, then your coaches were all idiots. They weren’t smart enough to let you loose.”

An unexpected warmth rises to your cheeks. But instead of acknowledging it, you ask, “What, like you’d be a better one?” Before he can respond to that, you’re talking again. “And even if all of that were true, I wouldn’t know how to do that.”

Roy’s brow creases. “Do what?”

“Not… think ahead,” you say. “Or not think at all. That being three steps ahead thing is kind of, well, my thing.” You offer a shrug. “The generous, teamwork thing too. I like that. It’s what makes me good.”

Roy continues to look at you, but says nothing. For a moment, all is quiet as he just… stares, almost as if he can see through you. Like he’s privy to something you’re not, or he’s had some sort of revelation about you. You’re not sure anyone’s ever looked at your this hard. It’s a bit unnerving and you have to fight to not avert your eyes.

Before you can begin to further overthink that (god fucking damn it), he’s holding his phone out to you. You stare down at it blankly. 

“You’re showing me your phone,” you state, but it’s almost a question.

Roy rolls his eyes. “Put in your fucking number,” he says.

Your lips purse as you hesitate, but you find yourself reaching out for it. “Is this how you typically do it?” you ask, typing your name into his contacts. “You neg a girl for five minutes straight and then ask her for her number?”

Roy rolls his eyes again, but there’s humor amongst the annoyance this time. “I’m going to text you a time and an address,” he tells you. You hand him his phone back. “Be there on Friday after the Opening Ceremony.”

The elevator had finally arrived in the middle of his sentence and you eye him wearily as he steps in. “Just… show up to this address?” you ask. “Do I get context? Like, what to expect? What am I dressing for?”

“Overthinking,” he reminds you as he presses the button for the lobby. “Just fucking be there.”

Before you can object further or tell him that you were not in fact overthinking, you were just a woman in a foreign city concerned for your safety, he leans forward to stop the doors from closing. He’s got one hand up and has a small smirk on his face.

“And just so we’re crystal fucking clear,” he says. “If I were trying to chat you up, you’d fucking know it.”

Your eyes immediately fix into a glare and the doors close before you can say anything in response. “Asshole,” you mutter to yourself, but you’re already flipping your phone over to see if he’s texted you.

(You won’t know this until much, much later, but Roy Kent let out a loud and regretful ‘fuck!’ as soon as he was five floors down, absolutely cringing at the idea that he used a line like that on someone like you. It plagued him for three years straight.)

PRESENT DAY. (EARLY AUGUST, 2023)

On a day when Roy not only had the strangest interaction of his life with Jamie Tartt in the Boot Room, but he also found out that Trent fucking Crimm would be lingering around all season, he was sure that he was done with surprises at Nelson Road.

That quickly proved to be false, as he soon found that Ted was rounding the team up in the media room for some sort of meeting.

Roy saw Beard as he was leaving the Coaches’ Office and sent a questioning look his way. “Did I miss film on the agenda?”

Beard shook his head. “Nope. Impromptu. We just heard back.”

“Heard back?” Roy asked, watching Beard go to leave the room. “The fuck are you on about?”

Beard smiled at him in the doorway. “We got her,” he said and left with a skip in his step that Roy wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before.

They’d gotten her? Got who? 

Then it hit Roy. Oh. You. They’d gotten you.

You’d said yes. You were joining Richmond. He’d helped convince you. Despite everything, despite all that had happened and everything you two had done, you’d said yes. You were willing to work with him. You were now going to be back in his life for worse or for better. And not just back in his life, but a fucking constant in it.

Then that hit Roy. The reality of it all fucking bodyslams him and it makes his heart race. After eight years of cold-turkey no-contact, he was going to be seeing you every day. After everything he’d done. After everything you had done.

Roy realized then that he didn’t exactly consider this feeling. That he was so blindsided by Rebecca’s request and by seeing you that he didn’t even think about this. It had been hard enough to work up the nerve to confront and speak to you once. Would it feel like that all season? Had you considered this?

But then, he remembered you and how you think about every fucking angle of every situation. You definitely had thought about this. And if you were willing to push the discomfort, the awkwardness, the whatever in order to have this job, he supposed he had to be too.

Roy swore under his breath, turning away from his desk to get his head back on straight. The team was waiting for him. He could mope about this in the comfort of his own home later.

He arrived in the room just as the rest of the team was getting in. The boys were buzzing. Between the news of a potential Zava acquisition and the Trent Crimm book development, as well as whatever this was, they couldn’t seem to stop talking. Roy didn’t blame them. It was a lot for one day. 

(It’d been a lot for him too. With everyone now knowing about his break-up with Keeley, to fucking Trent Crimm, to you, he was surprised he hadn’t gone outside to scream yet. But he presumed that was coming.)

“Alright fellas, listen up,” Ted said from the front of the room, holding his hand up to get everyone’s attention. The team quieted down after a moment. “I know there’s been a lot of talk going around this week. And I know y’all are excited. But I’ve got some more news.”

“I don’t know if I can take any more,” Dani said, sending a wave of agreement through the group. “It’s hurting my head.”

Ted chuckled. “I know. Mine too. And we’re the ones who have to manage all this,” he said, motioning to Beard and Roy who stood against the wall. “But this is good news.”

Good news? That was something the team could manage.

“So, how many of you are familiar with the Women’s World Cup that happened back in 2015?” he asked, eyes scanning the crowd.

A murmur went through the team. “America won?” Colin offered. “Crazy final game that was.”

Isaac pointed at Roy. “You did some shit for Sky Sports for this Cup, right?”

As the boys began to recall this, Jaan Mas said, “Why they gave you another pundit job after that completely blows my mind.”

“Yes, Roy did do some TV work over here,” Ted answered after the laughter died down. “And yes, America won. But does anyone remember what this Cup started to be called?”

It seemed as though no one had an answer. That is, until Beard cleared his throat said, “The Summer of Fourteen, baby!”

Ted snapped at his best friend. “That’s exactly right, Coach. And despite it being the 2015 Cup, they called it that because of this woman right here.”

Ted had brought up what is perhaps the most iconic photo of you to date. It’s one of the first things to come up if you were to Google yourself, a picture that’s haunted you for the last eight years. It’s from the 2015 quarter-final. You’re mid-penalty kick against China, scowl on your face as your foot collides with the ball, blood dripping down your face from the broken nose you’d received moments before. 

(It’s certainly not the most elegant or flattering picture of you that exists, especially when your fellow teammates’ search results yielded photos of them at the ESPYs, but you still think you’ve never looked like more of a badass.)

Ted said your name smoothly as he pointed to you on the screen, annunciating all syllables. “Wildly prolific USA Women's athlete despite her rather short time in the league. And while she was always good, y’know, starting striker since she began and all that—” He chuckled, turning to look at his other coaches, who had knowing smiles on their faces. “—I don’t know. There was something in the water in 2015. Because she just became…”

Ted trailed off, looking for the word. This time, Roy found it before Beard. “A nightmare,” he said, with a suppressed yet fond sort of smile. “She was a fucking nightmare out there.”

“In a good way, of course,” Ted cleared up, earning a nod from Roy. “But, yeah. A nightmare. Wonderful teammate and fantastic playmaker, but man…” Ted trailed off with a low whistle. “We were all glad she played for our neck of the woods.”

Jamie’s hand went up. “Didn’t she just get like, hired and fired by West Ham?”

“Wonderful segue there, Jamie,” Ted said. “Because yes, that is true. She was with West Ham for a couple months. First female coach in the league. Pretty impressive stuff, and it was a pretty big deal. And then something went wrong, and they let her go.” The team made a noise of acknowledgment, all of them having seen it in the news. “And I don’t know what happened, and we probably won’t know what happened, but we knew she was too good to leave the league. Lucky for us, we need a new coach. And she needs a new job.”

There was a wide smile on his face when Sam asked, “So she will be joining Richmond?” 

“That she is, Sam,” Ted replied, earning yet another eruption of chatter amongst the group. “She’ll be joining us on Monday. And while I know you fellas will do everything you can to make her feel welcome and will show her the same level of respect that you show us up here—” Ted pointed to his coaches once more, glancing down at the computer in front of him. “—I’m going to show you why she deserves it more than us.”

A YouTube video of your highlights appeared on the big screen, going full-screen as the quick ad ended. Ted stepped back from the computer, sitting down on the stool behind him to watch along with the rest. 

Your famous 2012-France-Scorpion-Kick goal just so happens to be the first thing up and Roy’s heart nearly stops. It’d been years since he’d seen this clip and he was immediately transported back to the night you two met. A ghost of a smile unconsciously made its way up his face as he watched your body contort to flip around, and the ball soar into the net. It was a goal of pure and utter instinct. You hadn’t thought about it. You just ran in there like a maniac and knew what to do. That one gets an immediate reaction from the team.

The next one is a play you’d set up in the Quarter-Final New Zealand game, with a bunch of quick passing in the box to confuse and rattle the defense. Melanie Rivera had sent you a world-class assist for an even better goal, one that earns you the title of ‘Fox in the Box’ from the past commentator on screen. The next, an impressive goal scored after an injury you’d had in the Semi-Finals against Canada. Then, and perhaps most famously, your assist to Katie O’Connor from midfield to win the Gold. 

And they hadn’t even gotten to the World Cup yet.

The World Cup footage made up the other three-fourths of the video. It was a completely different side of you, one that had thrown caution to the wind, one that had a huge fucking chip on her shoulder, one that was just… insane. In all the best ways and meanings.

Roy’s shock of the day, though, comes after a highlight of you completely blowing past three Colombian defenders. You’d broken the fourth’s ankles with your footwork in the box for a quick goal. Footwork of yours that had been massively improved, Roy noted. And he would know, he’s the one who did it.

Arlo White’s voice filled up the room. “And yet another breakaway goal from USA’s Mean Fourteen!” The clip said. “It’s just remarkable to watch her work this year, don’t you think, Roy?”

Roy felt all eyes on him when he heard his own voice on the speakers. “I don’t know what USA would do without her,” 2015 Roy Kent said. “I’d hate to have her against me.”

It was strange for Roy to hear his own voice mock him like that. And as the team began to cheer for him, he felt a pit form in his stomach. They didn’t even know.

The highlight reel continued for another couple of minutes, and it seemed with each play, the boys became more excited about the prospect of being coached by someone like you. Beard and Ted were evidently just as ecstatic about the development, and Roy knew he had to get on board. Warp his feelings and nerves and whatever else into something resembling his team’s attitude.

After all, he was the reason you were joining.

The lights came up as soon as the video ended, snapping Roy back to reality. Ted smiled at the team. “Alright, fellas. Now, let’s get to work on the welcome party.”

The boys hooped and hollered, each of them getting up to join in whatever Ted had planned. Beard looked over at Roy as the rest filed out. 

“You think we’re ready for her?” he asked.

Roy hated the weird fucking sixth sense Beard had when it came to… well, everything. He made Roy feel like he was completely transparent. “We’re ready for her,” he replied.

Though, he wasn’t sure if he was assuring Beard or himself.

PRESENT DAY. (EARLY AUGUST, 2023.)

You sign a one-year coaching contract with AFC Richmond that Monday in Rebecca Walton’s office.

The news broke that you’d been picked up by Richmond on Friday, something that had completely come alive in the press world. Your face was plastered over all of the papers yet again, newscasters seemed to mention your name every time you turned on your TV, and social media was set on fire. Everyone had something to say about this move and the majority of it wasn’t too positive.

You tried to keep your nose out of it, knowing just how much you did not need to see people talking about you like that. The majority of the negativity was from West Ham fans, wishing Richmond ‘luck’ with the likes of you, others wishing you good riddance. 

If they knew how happy you were to be out of there, you’re not so sure they’d be as excited to let you go.

Though signings on every level in this league were typically more public affairs, ones with major press conferences and coverage, you’d requested this to be quieter. Just a few statements from the people who mattered and a pen and paper. You’d been in the media a bit too much for your liking over these past couple of months, and if you could get some exclusivity, you’d take it. 

Rebecca, thankfully, was more than happy to comply. You’d been in contact with her practically non-stop since you’d called her, and she’d been nothing but lovely to you. Each interaction with her made you feel better about this job, despite the cloud of anxiety that still hung over you.

You’re sitting in a chair opposite Rebecca’s desk when a message from Mel comes through. i always liked richmond better than west ham anyway, she says. paige and i bought shirts and will be at every game. 

A photo comes through shortly after of her three-year-old toddler, decked out in a Jamie Tartt jersey. oliver’s already got his!

You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face, fingers tapping against your screen with a quick response. adorable. give him and paige a hug for me. and i’ll be freaking out so bad at every game that i’m gonna need you there anyway, so i’m holding you to that.

you’ll be incredible. knock ‘em dead, kid.

Rebecca re-enters her office before you can respond with a thank you. She’s got Coach Ted Lasso in tow, who could not be grinning brighter at you. The second you see him, you think about everything Nate had told you during your short time at West Ham, and something within you just can’t believe it. The energy of Richmond had been different as soon as you walked through the door. The good kind of different. And their manager appeared to not be an exception.

Ted greets you immediately with an outstretched hand. “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” he says after your introduction. “I gotta tell you, we’re all mighty excited that you’re here.”

“I think I might be more excited,” you reply, and it’s an honest answer. Or at least, you’d been able to shift your nerves about the job into excitement. You’d only anxiety-thrown up once today. You figured that was an accomplishment. “Seriously. Thank you both again for the opportunity.”

“We’re just grateful you said yes,” Rebecca says. You can tell she means it. “The team’s been buzzing all week.”

The nerves return at the mention of the team, but you mentally scream at yourself to get over it. “Well, I’m just excited to get started.”

“Speaking of getting started, we should probably head downstairs,” Ted says to Rebecca. “I wanna show our new coach around a bit before practice gets going.”

“Of course, don’t let me keep you,” Rebecca responds. “I’ve got a couple more things for you to sign before you leave today, so just make sure to stop by. If you have any questions, my door’s always open, or you can ask Leslie, who you met earlier, who’s always wandering around somewhere.” Her smile gets warmer as she puts a hand on your shoulder. “And we really are pleased to have you joining us.”

You wonder for a moment how a woman like her could have ever been married to an asshole like Rupert, but you suppose that’s a story for another day. “Thank you,” you say again, a bit of that anxiety washing away. “I’m happy to be here.”

Ted leads you out of the office, his tour starting from the minute you exit. He offers a bit of insight into himself and his time at Richmond, his past two years working with Rebecca, then launches into what he knows about the history of the place (and you don’t have the heart to tell him that Rebecca had already done that when you’d arrived). 

The facility is gorgeous, but it feels a bit more lived-in and welcoming than what you remember about West Ham. Everything there was so manicured and monochromatic and sterile. Nothing about it felt like a place you’d want to work.

Richmond is the opposite. It’s bright and colorful and you can hear people laughing as soon as you step down into the lower level. While your nervousness about the team still lingers, you can feel it easing. You’ll see how long that lasts.

You’re stepping into the Coaches’ Office before you even realize it, mind too occupied with taking in your new surroundings and trying to keep up with Ted’s story. You resent the overwhelming amount of relief you feel when you realize there are only two men in the office, and neither of them are Roy. 

One is sitting with his feet crossed up on his desk and a book in his face. The other is writing on a notepad at a separate desk. You’re surprised by the speed at which both of them jump up to greet you as you and Ted enter.

“Alright, Coach, this is Coach Beard,” Ted says, and you meet Beard’s hand for a shake. “He’s one of the guys you’ll be working with this season.”

“Nice to meet you,” Beard says, nodding your way.

“You too,” you reply. Your eyes are drawn to the book he placed down on his desk and you allow yourself to grin. “I love Merlin Sheldrake.” When his brows shoot up in surprise, you shrug. “I’ve got a lot of time in the off-season.”

Beard’s eyes light up. “We’ll get along just fine.”

Your grin grows and you hear Ted’s voice from behind you. “Is that that mushroom book?” he asks. “I don’t think Beard’s ever found someone who reads that stuff too. I guess we’ve now got two Fun-guys in the group.”

You glance over at Beard. “Now it's a Fung-us.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Ted’s hand come up to his mouth as he looks over at his best friend. For whatever reason, it’s clear that the two of them are trying to contain their excitement. Before you can question it, Ted places a hand on your shoulder. “Oh, you’ll fit right in here, Ace.”

The nickname catches you off guard. It’s something that you haven’t heard since your playing days, something that the commentators and pundits loved to call you. It was always a compliment when they said it, but something about the way that your new manager says it makes it sound more like a title than a name. Like that’s what you are. 

It immediately makes you feel welcome and you can feel yourself warm into their excitement.

The other man in the room, who’s been watching this interaction in amusement, steps forward to hold out his hand to you as well. “Trent Crimm.”

Now, it’s your turn to raise your brows. “You’re the writer who keeps calling me?”

A smile that could also be a cringe appears on his face. “Guilty,” he answers. “Just trying to cover all the bases for the book.”

“I get it,” you tell him. “If you still want a quote, I’d be happy to give you one. But I can’t guarantee it’s going to be clean.”

Trent chuckles. “I’ll take what I can get at this point.”

There’s a moment where you almost question what he means by that, but you brush it off. Especially now that Ted’s started talking again. “Roy's running a little late, but I’ve heard y’all already know each other, so we’re not technically missing an introduction.”

That makes you pause. You’d figured that when Roy had appeared on your doorstep he’d told at least Rebecca about your past, and that the probability he’d told the staff was high too. But exactly how much had he told them? Did they know the basics or did they know everything?

You then realize it’s Roy you’re talking about. There was no way in hell he’d told them anything more than what Ted said. That you knew each other. Maybe that things hadn’t ended smoothly. But that was it.

That, at least, gives you a bit more confidence. Ted turns to you and leads you back into the small, adjoining room you’d walked through, pointing at an almost empty desk. “That’s yours,” he tells you. “Feel free to dress it up with whatever you want, and get yourself unpacked. We’re starting practice in about fifteen minutes and Coach Beard and I gotta set some things up, but I’d like to introduce you to the fellas before you start shadowing. That all sound good?”

You grip the strap of your backpack and nod at him with a smile. “Works for me, Coach.”

Ted grins, patting you on the arm. “Glad to hear it.”

And with that, he returns to his desk, making sure to leave the door open as he leaves.

You plop your backpack on your desk and begin to empty out your things. You grab your laptop first and place it on your desk, followed by a couple of knick-knacks and photos you brought along, ones that never felt at home at your desk at West Ham. There’s a rational piece of you that knows you should stop comparing the two places, but the pettier, more aggressive side of you tells it to fuck off.

(You like to listen to that one when you can these days.)

You’re holding a photo of a baby Oliver dressed in a Women’s USA onesie when you hear someone else walk into the room. You glance over your shoulder and immediately regret it.

Roy Kent is standing in the doorway, staring at you like he completely forgot your signing day was today.

Of course, Roy hadn’t. He’d been pacing around his flat all morning because of it. It was actually why he was late to work. But he hadn’t expected to see you as soon as he walked in. In his office. Now, your office too, he supposed.

The two of you just stared at each other for a moment, much like you did when you saw each other again for the first time last week. However, it appears that you’re both acutely aware of the three sets of eyes that are on you two from the other room.

Like you’re snapping into a scene in a play, Roy’s expression rids itself of all surprise. “Coach,” he says stiffly, nodding at you.

Coach. You suddenly remember your previous conversation. It’ll be professional. Civil. I won’t let there be any issues. 

Well, if he won’t let there be any issues, you’re sure as hell not going to give him the satisfaction of causing any.

So, instead, you return his nod. “Coach,” you greet him. As he puts his things on the desk opposite yours, your heart falls into your stomach, “A-Are we…”

“Sharing an office?” he finishes for you. You nod weakly. “Yeah.”

“Oh,” you say, then awkwardly add, “Fun.”

“I’m over the fucking moon,” he deadpans.

You bite your tongue, trying not to retort too quickly to a comment like that. You look away from him and to the keys in his hand and you prepare for the small talk you’re about to force yourself to engage in. “Tough ride in?”

It seems to take him a moment to process the question. The awkwardness of it all lingers. “Something like that,” he answers. However, his gaze is stuck on the picture in your hand. “What the fuck is that?”

Your brows furrow and you glance down. So much for small talk. “This?” You hold up the photo. “Oh, this is, uh, Oliver. Mel and Paige’s son.”

“Fuck off,” Roy says in a way that’s almost inquisitive, though the relief in his voice is palpable. You try to ignore that. “I didn’t know they had a kid.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself, and a bit of weight falls from your shoulders. “You clearly don’t follow Mel on anything,” you reply, then pause. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You don’t do social media.”

“It’s a waste of fucking time,” he says, reaching out to look at the photo. When you hand it to him, he mutters, “I think Rivera would have me blocked if I did, though.”

“Yeah, you’re not wrong,” you say honestly. You take the picture back from him and place it on your desk. Your next question comes out casual, and you can’t help but be proud of how nicely this is all flowing. “Speaking of kids, how’s Phoebe doing? And how’s Molly?”

You’re not expecting the hint of shock on Roy’s face when you turn back to him. It’s as if he can’t believe you’ve remembered his sister’s name, or his niece that you met when she was no more than six months old. You want to slap him upside the head for looking at you like that because, of course, you fucking remember that, but a knock on the door from the other room interrupts your conversation.

Trent’s standing hesitantly in the doorway, notepad in hand. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, and he appears to be avoiding eye contact with Roy. “But if you were serious about talking, would you be free to do it tomorrow?”

You offer him a warm smile, hoping that’ll contrast Roy’s crossed arms and hard stare directed at him. “Sure thing.”

“No,” Roy immediately says. “You’re not fucking talking to him.”

Confusion takes over. “Why not?” you ask.

“Because no one’s fucking talking to him,” is Roy’s answer, firm, with no room for argument. His eyes never leave Trent. “And don’t try to fucking weasel your way into this team through someone who doesn’t fucking know any better, Crimm. You’re fucking better than that.”

You’re gaping at Roy as Trent nods at you kindly and retreats into the locker room. When you look back into the office to see if you can get some clarity from one of your other new colleagues, you notice that they’re both missing. Ted did say they had to set some things up.

You suppose that just gives you the ability to talk freely to Roy now.

“I’m sorry,” you say, whipping back to Roy who’s already facing his desk. “Has he not been given the O-K to write a book about this team?”

Roy grunts. “He has. But it doesn’t mean we’re fucking talking to him.”

“Well, doesn’t that, like, defeat the purpose of him writing a book?”

“You’re catching on.”

You lean back against your desk, folding your arms to take on Roy’s previous stance. “Oh, I see,” you say in understanding. “This is a Kent Rule.”

He doesn’t have to be facing you for you to know he rolled his eyes. “No, it’s not.”

“Oh, it’s totally a Kent Rule.” You stare at his back as he shifts his shoulders in discomfort. “You hate him, so you’re forcing the team to hate him. Enemy mine is enemy yours? That’s Kent Rule number three, if I’m remembering correctly.”

“It’s a team rule,” he states. “I’m just enforcing it.”

“Right,” you agree, though your voice says differently. “Each person here hates him so much that they allowed him to write a book here.”

Roy shakes his head with a scoff. “Fuck’s sake, I forgot how fucking irritating you were.”

“I’m not being irritating. You’re being evasive.” You only get another grunt in response. Fed up, your frustration at his lack of an explanation starts to seep into your tone. “So, what? I’m just supposed to ice that nice guy out because you say so?”

When Roy finally looks at you, he’s scowling. “He’s not fucking nice,” he says. “And you don’t know anything.”

“I don’t know anything because you won’t tell me,” you argue. 

“My word’s not good enough?”

You glare at him. “Your word hasn’t been good enough in eight fucking years.”

Roy shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “Definitely not telling you now.”

“Okay, enough,” you say, scanning the room and the hall to make sure no one’s watching the two of you. You put a hand up before he can retaliate with anything. “Look, if this is gonna work, you have to tell me things, okay? And we can’t argue here. Not here.” You motion to the office around you. “I can’t work with that shit. Alright?”

For a moment, it’s like you can look into Roy’s mind. You watch him appear to recount last week’s talk, just as you did minutes ago. Professional. Civil. No issues.

“Fine,” he finally sighs, knowing you’re right. 

“Fine,” you reply. You take a breath. “So, if he sucks and you don’t want me to talk to him, you need to tell me why. You can’t just order me around like I’m one of the guys, especially not in front of people. I’m your equal here, Roy. Whether you like it or not.”

Roy shakes his head. “You’ve always been my equal,” he says, though it’s a bit softer. “You fucking know that.”

His words leave a lump in your throat that you’re not anticipating. “Well, you’re not acting like it.”

His head tilts back, eyes falling shut. His shoulders tense up. Heavy sigh. Dear God, he really doesn’t want to tell you, huh?

And then it hits you. Oh, fuck does it hit you. He doesn’t want to tell you. 

And you get why.

Roy’s talking as soon as you open your mouth to apologize for pushing him. “The others don’t know either. I’ll tell you when I tell them,” he offers. “That’s the fucking best you’re getting from me.”

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, so you offer a nod. “Fine,” you say softly.

The nod is returned. “Fine.”

The conversation feels finished, but there’s still one more thing you want to say. “And can we agree right here that we’re not going to argue in front of anyone? Just like you said?” you ask. “Like, if you want to pick a fight, just like, pull me into the Boot Room or something. This shit can’t affect the way we do our jobs.”

Humor slants Roy’s expression. “Boot Room fights?”

You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean. Not in front of the team.”

“Yeah, I got it,” he says with a nod. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

From the outside of the office, you can hear the team start to file into the locker room from their gym facility, laughing just the same as when you heard them earlier. The alone sound makes you tense up. Roy narrows his eyes at you. 

“Speaking of,” he says cautiously. “I think it might be time for your introduction. Hope you like primary school-level art done by grown fucking men.”

That takes you out of your headspace immediately. “I’m sorry, what?”

LONDON OLYMPICS. (LATE JULY, 2012.)

Mabley Green. Friday. 23:30.

Wear some training gear.

I can send a car for you so you know you’re not being murdered.

You’d read the three messages you’d received two days ago from Roy Kent about a million times. While you’d replied to him that his sending a car felt very mafia boss and definitely doesn’t eliminate the murder possibility, you’d still gathered up the courage to dress up in your nicest sweats, escape from the Village after the Opening Ceremony festivities, and meet his driver on the outskirts.

(Of course, you said yes to the driver. Roy Kent was fucking loaded and if he were going to be strange and summon you places, you were going to take his free transportation.)

You’d confirmed your whereabouts and situation approximately thirty-five thousand times to Mel, who had nothing but questions for you. 

“Roy Kent. Like Chelsea’s finest, here, there, every fucking where Roy Kent?” That’s the one.

“Is sending a car for you to go to where?” I don’t know, it looks like a soccer field. 

“To do what?” Battle Pokemon. I don’t fucking know, Mel. I think he wants to train me.

“Train you or train you?” Why are you saying it like that?

“Because this has to be a weird hook-up thing that famous footballers do, right?” He made it very clear he had no interest. Also, pause. What about me says I’d fuck on a pitch?

“He could bring an air mattress.” Oh my God, I’m leaving.

But as you arrived to this completely empty field, with nobody but your overly friendly driver, Roger to back you up, you couldn’t help but feel a little nervous. This was weird, wasn’t it? You were meeting up with this guy you barely knew at an abandoned location just because he told you that you were an overthinker? Your mother would be absolutely horrified if she knew. You’d broken just about every Stranger Danger rule she’d set.

However, the second that you stepped out of the car to see Roy illuminated by the field lights, standing with his hood up and a bag of footballs thrown over his shoulder, you knew this was legit. And the anxiety washed away. But a few of the nerves stayed.

“Glad you showed,” he greets, turning to walk to the field as you fell into step with him.

You look over at him expectantly. “So, you are coaching me.”

“No, I’m fucking not,” he says. “I just want to get you out of your head.”

You nod in faux agreement. “Right. Because that’s not coaching.”

Roy rolls his eyes. “No, it’s not. It’s called being a nice fucking person.” 

“Right,” you say again. “Because Roy Kent is known best for his kindness.”

He turns to you. Something sparks in you when you notice that he appears to be humored by all of this. “You should be thanking me.”

“Of course. I’m sorry,” you apologize, sending him a wide smile as you two make it to the field. “Thank you, Coach.” Roy rolls his eyes again and you chuckle softly. “I’ll thank you when I know for a fact you’re not gonna murder me.”

He watches as you plop yourself down on the pitch to stretch a bit. “If I was going to kill you, I wouldn’t have brought a fucking witness.”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “Roger could be your Ryan Gosling.”

Roy actually laughs at that one. It’s a sound that you’d never expected to hear, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to hear it again. “I wouldn’t trust him to do that kind of driving. Chatty prick can barely get around London.”

“Hey,” you chide. “He was very nice.”

“He’s fucking incredible. Been with him since my Sunderland days. Still a chatty prick.”

You can’t help but smile at the fondness that’s crept into his voice, but you say nothing about it. You bring your knee to your chest in a stretch and look up at him. “So, what’s the plan here, Coach?”

“Not your coach.”

“Right, sorry. What’s the plan here, Zodiac?”

Roy shakes his head, fighting to keep his lips even. “I want to make a deal with you.”

“A deal?” you ask. “What kind of deal?”

“I’ll train with you until your team's out,” he says. “Whenever our match schedules align, we can figure out a time to do shit until you need to go home.”

Your smile turns cocky. “And if we win?”

He practically snorts. “You’re not going to win.”

“But if we do?”

“Then we’ll train until then,” he replies. “And I’ll give you whatever you fucking want.”

You’re not sure what that entails, but anything you want from Roy fucking Kent? It’s an offer that may be too good to pass up. But still, one question lingers. “In exchange for what?”

“What?” he asks.

You stand, lifting one of your feet from the ground so that you can pull it up behind you in another stretch. “A deal works two ways. Exchanging goods or services and all that,” you tell him. “What’s in it for you?”

Roy shrugs. “I need to train too,” he answers. It's a bit simple, a bit evasive. “That’s what’s in it for me.”

“Oh, c’mon,” you say, “you can’t be serious. You want to train with me just to train?”

“What’s wrong with that?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“Nothing,” you respond, slowly realizing he’s serious. “I guess I just kind of assumed when I heard ‘deal’ that you’d want something in return.”

“Well, that’s all I fucking want,” he tells you. “If I think of anything else you can do for me, I’ll let you know.” 

A mix between a scoff and a laugh escapes you. “I’ll be anxiously anticipating your demands.”

He’s turned to his bag of footballs and crouches to grab one, glancing up at you as he rises. “So?” he asks. “Do we have a fucking deal, or what?”

Your foot goes down as you look at him, evaluating him and his offer. You shift your gaze to the field, to the big lights around you, then to the night sky that tells you it’s almost the next day. 

You have a game in Glasgow again tomorrow against Colombia. You’re out past curfew and know your team would both kill you and congratulate you if they knew where you were. You have to be on a bus in less than eight hours. 

But here’s Roy Kent, standing with you on an abandoned pitch in London, offering to train with you. And what kind of idiot passes that up?

“Deal,” you agree, taking the ball from his hand. “Now, where do we start?”

(mini!) TAGLIST: @tegan8314, @csigeoblue, @confessionsofatotaldramaslut

[michael-svetbird]

THE BRONZES OF SAN MARIANO Exhibit: A collection of Etruscan bronze artefacts dating 6 BC, discovered in 1812 in the municipality of Corciano, San Mariano, 13 km west of Perugia, combined and displayed together [for the 1st time] in -Museo Archeologico dell'Umbria. The bronzes are from: - Museo Archeologico Nazionale dell'Umbria, Perugia - Staatlichen Antikensammlungen, Monaco - The British Museum, London - Staaliche Museen zu Berlin, Berlin - Thorvaldsens Museum, Copenhagen - Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris - Musée du Louvre, Paris

Museo Archeologico Nazionale dell’Umbria, Perugia | MANU [Floor 1]

Web : https://www.musei.umbria.beniculturali.it/musei/museo-archeologico-nazionale-dellumbria

FB : https://www.facebook.com/MANUmbria

IG : @ museoarcheologicoumbria

👉 Pic 01: Zeus defats a giant [gigantomachia] Fragment of Etruscan chariot external decorative plate covering, Bronze with paint overlay, 530-520 BC.

👉 Pic 02: Griffin and Leopards-? Fragments of Etruscan furniture or box decorative plate coverings, 550-520 BC.

👉 Pic 03: 2 Leopards [close-up] Fragment of Etruscan furniture or box covering, 550-520 BC.

👉 Pics 04-06 | Fragments | Close-ups: Heracles fights with Ares and his son Cycnus [in presence of Hera-? behind them]. The Amazons, daughters of Ares, arrive at a gallop [on the right]. Another interpretation - Amazonomachy: Heracles fights with 2 Amazons in hoplite armour, other Amazons on approach [the 9th Labour-?]. Fragments a chariot [probably] external decorative plate covering, 520 BC. [Pic 05: ©MANU | The image is not in public domain].

👉 Pic 07: The group of 3 vertical plates with mythological figures: Chimera and Hermes; Artemis-? and Demeter-?; Paris-? and a goddess. Furniture, altar or throne coverings, 520-510 BC.

👉 Pic 08: Sphinx or Griffin, Furniture Covering-?; Winged Goddess Bronze Statuette [1 of 2], 550-500 BC.

👉 Pic 09: Sphinx, Fragment of a chariot covering, 530-520 BC; Lion's Head, Fragment of a chariot or furniture covering, 560-500 BC; Fragment of a female statuette [Kora-?], 550-540 BC.

👉 Pic 10: Research drawings by Walter Briziarelli [1913-1975], a Perugia-born Architect, Museologist, Illustrator and Designer, study 1953-57 https://www.briziarelli.it/walter-briziarelli/walter-briziarelli-biografia.html ©MANU | The image is not in public domain

MANU | Michael Svetbird phs©msp | 07|07|24 6300X5200 600 [I.-X.] The photographed objects are collection items of MANU and other Museums mentioned above [Non-commercial fair use | No AI | Author rights apply | Sorry for the watermarks]

📸 Part of the "Small-Format Sculpture and Miniature Artifacts" MSP Online Photo-gallery:

👉 D-ART: https://www.deviantart.com/svetbird1234/gallery/69450077/small-format-sculpture-and-miniature-artifacts

👉 FB Album: https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.859777984390780&type=3

.

[daddymilker691]

In the executive and most exclusive offices of the west end of London anything can happen James goes up to the 110th floor as his boss goes down his boss loves a high hemmed dress and James gets the promotion he always dreamed of , what goes on in corporate lifts stays in corporate lifts

[someonecomegettheirchild]

Do any other london phanies spend way to much time speculating about where the fuck Dan and Phil live.

And I ask this in the least stalkery way possible, I don’t mean like….their address, just like…. What side of London they live in.

Cause I remember when someone posted on here that their first London apartment sold and the adress listed on it was in ISLINGTON???? and I was floored. Like never once in my mind did I picture them in central. I think it’s because their brand is so “we don’t leave the house and don’t go out ever” that the idea of them paying central prices to not do any central things never even occurred to me.

They’ve always read more west London to me personally but hey maybe I’m just loud and wrong

[kydrogendragon]

I'd intrigued by BtoA Hob or Prayers, for the wip game. Mysteries are so compelling.

Yessss okay, so! BtoA Hob being Beta to Alpha Hob. It's a planned expanded version of this. I don't have much else written for it other than some notes here and there and a snippet or two.

Prayers was a fic idea I had where Hob stumbles across Dream's God/Worshipped kink? I don't know what it would be called, exactly. But Hob's half heartedly "praying" to him. More things like "wish I had your imagination now, love" or "wish you were here" but more prayer-ish?

Anyways, have some snippets!

BtoA:

"Hob?" Dream asks, his scent curling towards something sharper and Hob nearly cries again because he can smell that! He can detect the changes in Dream's scent for the first time. It's as clear as day to him and he shoves his face further into Dream's neck in response which only makes Dream more frantic. "Hob? What is wrong? Are you in pain?" "No," he manages, opening his mouth to better taste and smell Dream's scent as he nuzzles against the mark at his neck. "Only good. So good. So, so good. Mine. My love, my mate." And then he's giggling, his laughter shaking the both of them. "I can smell you. All of you," he says reverently, the words, the realization, holy. Their own personal gospel. And Hob knows, as he takes another breath in and drowns in Dream's essence that this is right. This whole journey, this emotionally taxing time was worth it and was right because Dream is his true mate. And suddenly Hob can't envision a world where that wasn't true.

Prayers:

“Really could use your brain right now, my Dream,” Hob’s voice calls out once more. Dream rests on his throne, listening to Lucienne’s latest reports concerning the West most skerries when he hears it. The words caress him, trailing over his arms with a more genuine wish than the last. “Send me a good dream, if you can hear me. One that’ll figure out how to finish up this damn paper.” Hob’s voice winds to a close, ending on an aggravated sigh. He turns his mind towards the dreamers of London and finds most of them well within the borders of his realm. It is late there. Hob should be asleep by now. Dream frowns. Standing, he turns to his librarian with a nod of his head. “Apologies, Lucienne. But there is a matter I must attend to.” Dream reaches into his coat pocket and pulls forth his sand. “Inform the Duke that he can expect a team send over to address his concerns with the island.” Lucienne bows, holding her clipboard against her chest. “Of course, my Lord. Might I ask where you are headed?” Sand spills between his fingers. “The Waking. I will not be long.” Dream slides between the worlds and lands on the hardwood floors just outside the door to Hob’s flat. The sky is dark, the moon high above the city, yet light streams out from under the front door. Dream knocks twice and waits. Before, he had simply appeared within Hob’s flat, however after startling Hob in the middle of his cooking, causing hot oil to spill over his lover’s hand, Dream has taken to the standard human entrance. He would not see Hob injured again due to something so simple. There is the gentle padding of footsteps from within and then the door creaks open. Hob’s hair closer resembles Dream’s own than it does his usual appearance. Strands fly out at every angle, clear signs that he has been running his hands through it rather aggressively. And though Hob’s eyes shine as they land on Dream, the droop of them is unmistakable. “Well, speak of the Devil,” Hob quips. Dream raise a brow which earns him a small chuckle as Hob shakes his head. “Nothing, nevermind you. Come on in.” He steps back, holding the door open. Dream steps inside, resting his hand atop Hob’s hip as his lover closes the door, locking it behind them. “It is late.” Hob sighs, stepping closer into Dream’s arms. He rests his forehead against the Endless’s shoulder, tucking his nose against his pale neck. Hob is warm against him. Dream cannot help but tilt his head to rest against Hob’s own.

Wip List