#roy x therapy

[destinationtoast]

@thetarttfuldickhead's tags just making me want to cry and to hug Roy (especially contrasted with Ted's squirrelly jumping around during his first session, you know? *sniff*):

#forever losing my mind over the look on roy's face here#so goddamned vulnerable#reinforced by the fact that he's sitting down and dr sharon is standing#like that'd be perfectly normal for anyone else waiting for the doctor to arrive#but here it very much feels like A Choice#both from a doylist perspective but also form a watsonian one#roy sitting down as a (potentially subconscious) sign that he is - in a way - surrendering to this#is open to it and willing to do the work#even if it scares him#i have never wanted to hug roy more#or been prouder of him#and the way dr sharon smiles?#she is so very very kind#maybe roy x therapy was the real ship otp all along

TED LASSO — 3.12 “So Long, Farewell”.

[hughiecampbelle]

Healing (Roman Roy Oneshot)

Character/s: Roman

Word Count: 1,576

Inapired By: Amusing by Genevieve Stokes

Warning/s: self harm, self harm scars, self harm mention

A/N: Just a silly little therapy fic. Back in my "Roman Roy is my husband" phase lol. I will get back to writing and posting and requests, my brain is just acting up and I think my meds need to be adjusted. Things are getting serious with the LSATs coming up and applying to law school. I'm taking a couple classes at the local community college with law and fiction writing (so my fics will hopefully get better lol). Scars are nothing to be ashamed of no matter what they come from and I hope you know that my loves 💕

Your love was bruise-like: healing, but oh so tender. Place your fingerprints atop it, apply the slightest bit of pressure, and an ache would form from the heart of it. Beating. Pulsing. Changing, too. Adapting. In its infancy it was pink and chewy, at times (in certain lighting) red and bloody. Crude, you used to call him. An anomaly. Strange, this stranger, with his defenses up, his walls built. His words are needy, but his body is repulsed by the idea of love, of holding. Gory, you used to think, before it settled. Settled into a deep blue, a purple, a dark, cool tone atop the skin. An irresistible want the way your tongue finds a gap between your teeth, playing with the gummy socket. Hurting, you’d think, but less so. Ripe, the word comes to mind with a certain sweetness. Give it time. Give him time. Shared moments between meetings, calls, emails. A joke here and there just to get you to smile. One or two dates. Casual. It was only meant to be casual. The tone warms into a green, a yellow, blooming under the flesh like a spill. Of what? You’re not entirely sure. Still nothing to cry over. An affection developing for it, for him, one you cannot quite name, but feel for regardless. More than friends, more than casual, that much is clear. Between here and there you became official. Introduced not as an employee, but someone to share dinner with, attend parties and vacations. Someone trapped in family photos where he is silly and unserious. Between here and there the yellow, so potent, so pigmented, fades until there is little sign of anything wrong. Moved in together. Move up in the company. Your clothes mixed with his in the washing machine, tumbling together in the dryer. Your things melded with his: indistinguishable. A life not of two, but of one. Together. You press, and wait, and sometimes you still want it to hurt, to throb, but mostly you are content with the way things have played out.

It’s the softness of his cologne. The sharpness of your hair dye. Toxic, you think, chemical, though you love it anyways. The dust from the heaters, off for so long it stirs up that familiar scent of time passed without even noticing. There are others, too. Fabric softener, various candles, soaps and shampoos. Hints of him, of you. The front door shuts behind you and you are enveloped in warmth. Outside the snow falls in fat, round flakes and the cold kisses your cheeks the whole way home. You consider yourself grateful. Every day. Every time you walk through this door, every time you are greeted by warmth and safety and security. Nothing bad has ever happened here. Nothing will. That is not a fallacy or lie you say to yourself like you used to, so many years ago. This is true. Whatever, and whoever is out there cannot get to you in here. They cannot scold you. They cannot sexualize you. They cannot strip you of your home or sense of security. In here, this place, this home, you are in control. You have a say. This place is your domain and you may do whatever you please. 

You hang up your jacket, dropping your bag. You can hear his patter far away, humming to himself, unaware of your presence. Quietly, you make your way to the bedroom, following the buttery light dripping into the hallway. He is a welcomed sight. A sight for sore eyes, you think. Softly you move, your socks lightly across the carpet. Hi, you say. Hey you, he says, startled only slightly. He turns to face you. The button of his shirt is undone, but only one. Instinctively, you reach out, your fingers moving automatically down his torso. His shirt, crisp and white, opens to a t-shirt beneath. Thin, you note, too thin for this cold, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He used to squirm, uncomfortable with the touch of another person, uncomfortable with the idea of being taken care of. You have been together long enough for him to grow used to it, accustomed, welcoming it even. He stands still, his breathing shallow, until you meet his gaze, a smile spreading across your faces. No need to thank me, you joke. Wasn’t going to, he shrugs, placing it on a nearby hanger. 

It is late. The sun has set, though it does so so early. You follow him. You stand beside him, facing your closet, large enough to throw a party from within. Prompt, he speaks about his family: something stupid his brother said, a joke his sister made, and his father. . . well, there were a few kind words. You share your day: meetings mostly. Kudos shared with how technical your work has become. He smiles, listening intently. Praise is given in rations at Waystar. It is not an easy feat to earn. Together you undress, tired from the day, welcoming the quiet of the night. You unzip your pants, letting them fall around your ankles. Your skin prickles in the open air. Scars, mostly, stare back at you. Old and new, healing and trying to. Patterned. Stitched, like that of a quilt. He does not take a second glance. They, like the rest of your skeletons, had been exposed a long time ago. In return, he plucked his bones from under the bed, scattering them out where you could look and touch and learn. He has never started. Not then, not now. Your words are muffled by your shirt, pulling it over your head. I couldn’t believe they actually liked. . . In nothing but your undergarments and yet, perhaps foolishly, doing so unafraid. 

More scars. 

There is nowhere else to truly look at them, see them as they are, except this place. Not just this room, though these walls have seen more of you than any other. The kitchen where you can cut up vegetables with your forearms out. The pool where you let the sun warm all of your skin, diving into the water, fearing only the cold and not what others might say. The couch you sit and work without pants on, your legs stretched and tangled with his. There is no person or place that offers the same kind of comfort, the same kind of radical acceptance as him. He’d noticed them, of course. A sleeve rolling down when you’d fetch printer ink on the top shelf, back when those kinds of things were part of your job description. The change from work to party attire, the transition daunting, at times impossible, as more skin was seen as acceptable. Back when the bruise was still gnawing. He’d stare, just as everyone else had, politely saying nothing, waiting until your back was turned. The more he sees, the more frequent you undressed in his presence, the less interesting they seemed until, finally, he could go from subject to subject without so much as a glance, choosing to poke fun at Tom and Greg, their odd yet delicate dynamic, instead. 

Hidden from the rest of the world, this is the only company you let them show. Shameful, or, worse, sickening. They wouldn’t understand. They don’t, and so you keep them beneath fabric. You do what you can to minimize the attention. Did I tell you what Kendall did today? Grab something warm to put on, to sleep in, just as he has done. You shake your head, grateful for the smooth fabric against your body. Your skin does not hum the way it used to, alive and breathing and begging. Loud, you think, screaming, even. Okay, so. . .  It whispers. That you cannot avoid, but you can ignore the best you can. When you are done you turn to him, wanting him to know you’re listening, plucking an eyelash from his cheek and making a wish in the process.

His hands move as he speaks and you cannot help but watch them dance. Frantic, you think, and you wish to soothe him, but for now you must listen. You will laugh as you always do. He paints a picture of absurdity and humor, fitting for his brother and all his intricacies. He’ll tell you he ordered takeout from that one place you like around the corner. You’ll take out plates and silverware, pour something old and red into two glasses. You’ll sit together and swap containers, praising the new recipes. You’ll feel full and warm and grateful, watching him instead of the television. The way his chest rises and falls. The brightness of his eyes. His laugh, like music to your ears. You will stay up and work, your computer screen blue and hazy. When it is late and he cannot keep his eyes open, you will go to bed. Sleeping soundly beside one another, just to repeat the cycle again tomorrow. For now, though, you listen. You watch his lips turn upwards as he pokes fun at his brother, the highs and lows he falls into, putting on a show before everyone's eyes. The bruise has healed. The color faded until you can no longer distinguish it. You brace yourself when you touch it, afraid, though there is little to fear nowadays. There is little to worry about, to anticipate, for it is you and him in your home, your life built imperfectly. Lopsided, crooked even, but better than you would have ever expected.

[starlightwoofwoof]

did some more scene drawings based off of my SM x MLB AU fic- (✨ Kevin edition ✨)

The first one is of when the Sweetener was defeated and Kevin was in the air and the weird cyan magic stuff helped him float down (cause it sounded cool in my head) and the second one is of poor Kevin being sick again :[

[youwillfindilluminating]

roy tells jamie he’s proud of him and jamie thanks roy for helping him the whole season and they’re so desperate to get their hands on each other that they start a fucking fistfight

[sp1cewr1tes]

“Of course though, that was all alleged. Regardless of this fact, Kendall had some ammo in the chamber, and for the first time in his life, he wasn’t going to shoot any blanks.”

Y’all I be so savage I forgot I wrote this MASSACRE of a sentence for my Kendall Roy Fanfic 😂

[lunar-years]

unfortunately I do think Rebecca and Keeley would both be "oh yeah I love therapy!...for other people <3 I don't personally need it though because I can fix myself <3" people even though they're two of the characters on the show who would benefit MOST from therapy....

[liesmyth]

“Amsterdam’s our thing, innit? It’s tradition. It’s like—the anniversary of when you learned to ride a bike. Your bikeversary.” One year on, and they're playing Ajax again, in the fucking Champions League. After, Jamie has plans.

A post-finale Roy/Jamie GET TOGETHER fic ft:

Local Man dealing with promotion at work he feels WILDLY UNDERQUALIFIED for and also A WORKPLACE CRUSH

Jamie Tartt: Star Footballer and Amsterdam TOUR GUIDE

Romantic nighttime BIKE RIDES

The worldwide appeal of Dutch EDM music

Doomed ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS of the 16th Century and the VODKA SHOTS they inspire

The inherent YEARNING of knowing your idol’s CAREER STARS by HEART

Rated M, 8k words, for a fuck-to-wordcount ratio of 1:63

[awentworth]

Y’all. Roman is spiraling so hard and just wants to be with his siblings and yet Ken is already in progress on destroying Logan (deserved) in a way that will no doubt lead to even more emotional/mental/spiritual/existential damage for Roman. Meanwhile, Shiv is a ticking time bomb who will have no problem dropping stories about the dead waiter and all the RomanGerri inappropriateness if she gets pushed too far (and it seems a safe bet that she’ll probably get pushed that far - that gleam in Ken’s eyes... the Mencken stuff...). Oh yeah and Connor is also out here just sending Roman pictures of their father’s dead body on purpose so uh... thoughts and prayers to my fellow Romangirlies. <3

[imsorryandthankyou]

This is the first pic I’ve ever written and actually posted on AO3, so please check it out!

Summary:

This is set post-canon, and I wanted to put Roman in a therapy setting. I desperately want him to get the help he needs, but as I was writing it, it became clear to me that he would just panic and run away. Or fall in love with his therapist, which is deliciously unethical, but fun to write!

[kizzer55555]

Phantom was a strange kid. There was no way around it. Roy (not Roy, the real Roy is missing) knew it the minute he crashed through a brick wall and landed onto his coffee table, breaking it with his head and oozing some sort of green glowing stuff from most of his body. Yet the only thing the kid did was look mournfully at the table and apologize for the mess before jumping out the window and continuing his ‘tussle’ with killer croc.

So after those red flags red arrow had to physically drag Phantom away from the fight and get him some form of medical attention. But when he asked where the boy was injured the kid just looked at him blankly and claimed killer Croc never landed a hit on him. When Roy- the clone tried to motion towards where his side was still bleeding that toxic green substance that was now covering his moldy couch, the kid just answered that those were injuries he got before the battle. As if that answered anything. Roy tried to patch the kid up as best he could despite the boy’s insistence that he could just sleep on it and he’d be fine.

Ro- the clone was not having it. And it really shouldn’t be harder to bandage a teenage…meta? Alien? Than it was to bandage superboy, Wally on sugar, and Wolf at the same time. And yet, he was once again proven that no matter what, the world hates him. Good to know.

Because he could have sworn that the bandages were just going through the kid’s torso. Add onto the ice powers, heat vision, shields, flight, super strength, clones, invisibility, and whatever the world that thing where he split his torso and head in half was, this kid had way too many powers. And Roy would like to believe, for his own sanity, that the kid does not also have intangibility and just chose to get punched into multiple buildings.

After some struggling, he finally gets the kid semi bandaged. Does he look like a mummy? Especially with his pale skin, whispy white hair, and thin, almost skeletal, frame? Why yes, yes he does. But he’s a bandaged mummy so it’s good enough for now.

But the clone should probbaly find out where this kid came from.

If would be helpful if the boy gave him any information other than the name Phantom.

Meanwhile, Danny is confused at this adult…teenager? Adultish teenager with a beard? His head hurts, he’ll think about it later. Yeah, he doesn’t know what to make of him. He didn’t shoot. So was that a declaration that Danny was welcomed? Or was it a warning that Danny should stay away? He was getting mixed signals. Sure, all those times he was hit by his rogues usually ended with friendship so was no attack a declaration of war? Or was the arrow guy just really friendly?

Danny was right and his injuries healed up by morning. So he left after a metal thank you to his savior. But he had to get back to Amity. Vlad had done some damage with his lastest attack but thanks to a good nights rest it seemed he was back to 100 percent. All Roy woke up to was some empty bandages left on his couch. Completely untouched (Danny wasn’t just going to leave perfectly good bandages covered in his ecto blood. Besides, he was used to phasing gunk and stuff off bandages to reuse them). And no other sign that someone had been in the apartment. Even the hole in his wall was patched up. Roy was pretty sure he somehow got drunk last night and hallucinated the whole thing. That would have probably been the end.

Only…they kept running into each other. Over and over, it was the same thing. Whenever Danny got injured (mostly from Vlad) he would start fleeing the area. And he was drawn to the city Roy/not Roy made his base. And over and over, without fail, Roy would patch him up.

The clone was starting to think he was hallucinating. That the lack of sleep and accumulation of stress had him seeing a boy who wasn’t actually there. With his young age and undead appearance, the clone wondered if maybe he was starting to hallucinate the ghost of Roy Harper himself. Like taunt at how he couldn’t find his original no matter how hard he searched. Sure they looked nothing alike but when was the last time the clone even looked in a mirror?

Well, as far as hallucinations were, this one wasn’t all bad. It gave him someone to talk to and almost acted like a conscious, telling him to clean up after himself or get more groceries. Sometimes even nagging him until the clone did so. It became more obvious that this was a hallucination when the Phantom started talking about his home life. About everyone trying to kill him, his parents and their threat of vivisection, a secret government agency the clone had never heard of after him, and oh yeah, that the kid was a ghost. Not a meta or alien with ghost like powers. A legitimate, foot in the grave, ghost.

So he was hallucinating a dead kid with trauma. Perfect.

Why his mind decided on that, the clone would rather not figure out. It was nice hearing stories of another clone out there though. One who was accepted by their original. The clone knew that wasn’t how things worked in the real world. Superboy was a perfect example. It was a nice story his mind made up though. So he listened to the boy and let him trauma dump, probbaly a side effect of the clone’s mind to make him feel better. If someone with a worse life than him showed up it would make him feel better about his own circumstances right? Besides, there was no way some with this tragic of a past existed. Especially not one who would smile so brightly.

So Roy let him keep his delusion to himself. He never spoke about it with the other heroes he sometimes ran into. He never talked to the ghost boy unless they were alone. (Because sometimes the kid would walk alongside him in the streets wearing a hoodie to hide his gravity defying white hair, chatting the clone’s ear off about anything and nothing). And the clone even gave into his pestering about a healthy diet, grocery shopping, sleep, and showering. It was a win for all! The clone noticed Phantom showing up more and more, often with no injuries for the clone to tend to (with all medical supplies ending up clean and refilled the next morning as if never touched) and the clone just got used to it.

That is, until one day when he was cornered by green arrow who tore into him about his unhealthy habits (hey! He’s been doing better, give him a break!) surrounded by the other teens and Phantom just popped in to add his two cents to the argument. The clone easily ignored his hallucination and would have continued doing so until Wally looked at the glowing floating teenager and asked those 6 damning words that changed everything the clone though he knew about that last 6 months.

“So…anyone gonna explain the kid?”

“Wait…you can see him?!”

“… so basically just about everyone in my life has tried to kill me at least once, it’s kinda become my go-to way of making friends, just striking up a conversation with anyone who shoots me. It’s worked with just about all of the rogues in my hometown, including my clone-turned-sister who I had brunch with just last week. Even my parents used to shoot at me, but that was only for like a year or so and in their defense they didn’t actually know it was me, haha. It’s kinda funny, the only person who ever managed to actually kill me was a friend of mine who didn’t technically kill me the first time, and then only did it a second time to fix some rewritten timeline stuff, and I still dated her for a while after that. Oh, speaking of dating, my first girlfriend tried to kill me WHILE we were dating, but again, in her defense, she didn’t know it was me haha. But yeah, that’s kinda why I kept talking to that guy while he was pummeling me, just a bit of a pattern I’ve wound up developing. Anyway, what was the question again?”

“… How did you get in my safe house, and do you need medical attention.”

“Oh! I crashed through the window, and probably. Also, I’m gonna pass out.”

And then Danny passed out.

[hughiecampbelle]

Disfavor (Roman Roy Oneshot)

Character/s: Roman

Word Count: 1,330

A/N: I love my family, I do, but sometimes I think I'm better off on my own. I'm humiliated and embarrassed and sexualized and my every flaw is made up to be some sort of joke. I'm scrutinized for being too quiet, too in my shell, but when I speak up, I'm laughed at or ignored or made fun of. It makes me feel like there is something innately wrong with me, like I'm a failure and a weirdo and I don't deserve the same kind of love my brother and cousins get. I've made mistakes, of course I have, but it seems like they're put on blast compared to my cousins. I sobbed in the bathroom bc my mum was going on and on about me not having a license or a plan or anything, like I'm some huge burden on her when all I do is try to help, when all I do is try to make myself smaller and easier to digest. I thought I escaped it with my stepdad, but sometimes they're just as bad. It hurts so much more knowing she thinks like this and feels the need to tell my aunt and uncle and grandparents. I know I'm too sensitive, I know it's my fault for crying and overreacting. I just thought I was safe from it with this side of the family when the other side has never cared about me. I thought that they took me in and accepted me, faults and all.

I’m a mess, you laugh, but what comes out is pathetic and sob-like. Wiping your eyes, attempting to present yourself, half-heartedly, together. In one piece rather than fragmented, serrated edges held together with desperate hands, holding yourself, mimicking the kind of love you know you’re undeserving of. He moves from the doorway, the light bright and blinding. Slowly, he shuts it, the two of you left staring at one another. The tears keep falling despite your best efforts. Rubbing your eyes, hoping he won’t notice the redness, the bloodshot, the gleam and extra shine. Hoping he won’t notice you’ve disappeared from the gathering, carrying yourself up the stairs, seeking asylum in a place without people. A bedroom. How cliche. A place you can throw yourself into and cry like a child. It’s, but the word can’t come out. You can’t manage to finish the line. It’s what? Hard to explain. It’s something you created for yourself. It’s your fault, you think, and the ending feels right. It’s all your fault. 

You make yourself smaller. Quieter. Less opaque. You hide yourself, hoping it won’t draw attention to you. Your life. Your body. Everything you’ve ever done and everything you will do. You listen and smile along, watching others receive praise, watching others receive accolades and approval. Hoping, stupidly, that they will acknowledge the effort you have put in, the thought and intentionally behind your life. Hoping, like a baby, an idiot, a fool, that they will show you the same kind of tenderness. Why would they, though. Why would they when you have done nothing for them to celebrate. How selfish you are for thinking you deserve it. How naive you are for thinking you could be on the same level as them. And so, you drink a little more and you eat a little less and you blend into the background. You place yourself among the wallpaper, holding your breath, watching your skin turn colors you have never seen in order to camouflage yourself. In order to protect yourself. They still see you, though. Predators and prey, you can run and hide, but their teeth will always find you. They will sink their incisors in the fleshiest parts of you and call it love. Affection. Adoration. They will tear you limb from limb, play with your tendons and chew through your muscles. They will chew on your bones. They will do all of this and wonder why you’re hurting. Why have you flinched? 

Your heart was not made as others are. Something is missing. A wall, a kind of shield or armor. Something vital to survival has been lost. The bone across your breast has ceased to exist and all that protects you is a flap of skin. Perhaps it was never there in the first place. It doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s not there and now you watch it, feel it, beat outward, thumping vulnerable where anyone can press and play and squeeze. Where anyone can poke and prod and laugh when you pull back, tears stinging your eyes. It was made sensitive. Too sensitive, you correct. Not equipped for the life you have, the blood you come from, the family you derive from. It is not made for the harshness of reality. The blame is put on you, then. It is your fault you cry. It is your fault. You take things too seriously, you hurt when you shouldn’t, you overreact. You repent. You fall to your hands and knees and beg for forgiveness. You are ashamed of the way you act, doing everything in your power not to let them get to you, not to let yourself feel too deeply. You take it out on yourself instead. It is better this way. The bruises will heal eventually. Let them degrade you. Let them point and laugh and hate. Let them humiliate you. Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to put up with? You’re the problem, not them. 

When it becomes too much, when it stings a little too much and you can no longer keep yourself together, you excuse yourself. You disappear into the house, doing a poor job of concealing your emotions. You find the nearest refuge and shut the door and pretend this isn’t happening again. Pretend that you are not at fault, that you are not wrong. He has learned to follow you. Quietly, so that you do not take off running. When he cannot find you, when they shrug off your absence, that is when he goes searching. He cannot rely on sound alone. You have learned to sob quietly so as not to disturb anyone, so as not to ruin the night for anyone else. Eventually, he finds you. Sniffling, the water running, any attempt to hide. Knocking quietly, he comes in before you can let him. Before you can play pretend and beg him to go back, afraid of getting caught. A deer in the headlights. You have tried, in the past, to move further into the body, the house, locking yourself in a bathroom, splashing cold water on your face until you feel ready to rejoin society. To hide, your back against the locked door, where you can finally let go of control and sob. He must be gentle in his movements. He must be soft so that he doesn’t spook you. 

You don’t say anything, just watch him move towards the bed, laying on his side, looking up at you. Again you try to feign happiness, abiding his eyes, realizing what you must look like. Hiya, he says, and you can hear their laughter from outside. Muffled, subdued. Hi, you whisper back, searching his face for his thoughts. Roman has always been unreadable, though. Do you, you start, but realize how silly it will sound. Instead you sniffle, playing with a loose strand of thread on the quilt. Do you think I’m being too sensitive? Those brown eyes. Puppy dog. So sad and sincere and hurt, as if you had just slapped him. Stinging. Of course not, he says quickly, then with a smile: Do you think they’re being fucking idiots? You shrug, your fingers tracing the string. They’re not bad people, you justify, as you have justified before. As you have repeated in your head over and over. They don’t mean it, you reinforce, and you can tell he is thinking, choosing his words carefully. He opens his mouth, but closes it, deciding against it. Do you want me to beat them up? You laugh a real laugh this time, your fingers moving from the bed to his shirt. A distraction. Necessary. You play with his cufflink. That’s okay, you smile, and he smiles back. 

You sit like that for a long time. Not saying anything, just enjoying one another's company. Outside, through the walls, you hear laughter and heated debates and jokes you can’t make out. He will give you as long as you need. When you’re ready, you stand, smoothing your clothes, wiping your eyes for the last time. You ask if you look okay and he keeps the comment to himself, though you know it must be crude, vulgar even, probably something like liking you better when you’re naked, and you roll your eyes. You grab your drink and his hand, bracing yourself for the worst. He stands by your side, saying very little, biting his tongue as he has learned to do over the years, respecting your wishes. The feeling after crying never leaves you, unshakable, but you will get through the night. You will be relieved when it is over like you always are. Do you want me to beat them up? Yes, you wished you had said. Yes. Hurt the way you have hurt. And then, a small voice speaks up: you will undo the damage. You will not inflict that kind of ache on anyone else. They don’t deserve it, but neither do you.

[starlightwoofwoof]

GUYS CHAPTER 3 IS OUT NOW AAAAAA ❤️💙💛

also didn’t do a pic for this one but here’s something else-

hatz eatin some donuts

If you read it, enjoy!!

(tags may have spoilers cause I wanna yap about it lol)

[discokicks]

EYE TO EYE (FOR AN EYE) - ROY KENT.

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

PART FIVE OF ACES AT THE WATER'S EDGE.

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

summary: well, you've been parent trapped. forced to talk about things you swore you'd never speak of again, you and roy sit down for a chat to appease your fellow coaching staff. meanwhile, in 2012, the english men's team have lost, and you and roy have a chat that leaves you on an... unforeseen note.

word count & rating: 10.2k, R (we're heating up but we ain't there yet)

chapter warnings: swearing, allusions to sa and harassment, some sexual innuedoes, majorly charged eye contact and tension-filled pauses (these fucks are damaged and yearning), WHOLE LOT of dialogue i apologize there's a lot to talk about

author's note: well hello. for those of you familiar with the show victorious, i've been affectionately calling this chapter the 'take a hint' chapter since i outlined this series. there's also a fuck ton of dialogue in this one and can read like a shitty script sometimes, so apologies on that front. sorry this one took a minute, got stuck with it then got busy. hope you enjoy, love you tons! -mags

PRESENT DAY, MID-AUGUST, 2023.

There are approximately four straight minutes of uninterrupted silence between you and Roy before either of you say a word.

The first minute, you believe, is just the two of you actually processing that this is happening. You’d heard the jokes about Richmond being a family, about work-life lines being crossed, about true professionalism being thrown out the window at the sake of having better, stronger connections with your team. However, you never imagined that something like this was on the horizon.

The next minute is spent unpacking the reality of it all. You were here with someone you’d previously sworn to never speak to again, expected to talk about something you swore you’d never speak about again. And it was to be done against your will, at a random pub in Richmond, with your two coaches watching you through binoculars through a window like it was a Three Stooges movie.

The next, you realize exactly what it is you two are expected to talk about. Your Stooge coaches want you to have the conversation-- the conversation you swore to yourself you’d never, ever have with Roy. They want you to just talk about it, like it’s simple. As if it’s some silly little dispute you had eight years ago, not one that could take days to fully get through (and frankly, should probably have some sort of third party involved. You’re not suggesting a version of couples therapy but you’re not not suggesting it). Nothing about this is simple. Nothing about this can be solved in just one conversation. But, you figure, if Roy’s suddenly game to start to get into it, you suppose you should be too.

That leads you to the final minute, which is spent attempting to find the right way to start this conversation, because, truly, how the fuck do you even start a conversation like this? While you and Roy were never inclined to beat around the bush, this is different. It's so, unbelievably different and you don't know how you're supposed to do this. Especially not now.

Throughout this time, you’ve glanced over at Roy periodically, who you think may physically hurt himself with how hard he’s trying to avoid eye contact with you. He’s focused on the TV at the bar broadcasting the highlights from the Richmond-Chelsea game. He’s staring at the bar top. He’s looking up at the ceiling. Anywhere but you and at anyone but you.

After those four minutes, you feel the tension in the air shift. It may just be your frustration at both him and this situation, it might be his own, but you suddenly can’t take it anymore. And to your surprise (and Roy’s, for that matter), you manage to get out the first word. 

“So,” you say lamely, trying your best not to cringe as it lands. “Uh…”

Roy glances over at you, expecting something else to follow. When nothing does, and he sees your mouth open and close, he huffs a laugh. “I bet you’re happy you signed with Richmond now, huh?”

You place your elbows on the bartop, face falling into your hands. “This is actually insane,” you say, words muffled by your palms. “I hated West Ham, but at least Shelley wasn’t Parent Trap-ing his assistant coaches.” You raise your head to look at Mae as she places two pints in front of you and Roy. “Thank you.”

Mae nods at the both of you, eyes narrowing at Roy as she notices his silence. “The offer for double the pay is still on the table,” he tells her.

“Richmond can’t win this year if their coaching staff is fighting like cats and dogs,” Mae replies. “Your money is as useless as your arguing here.”

The bluntness of her statement has you chuckling despite yourself. As Mae walks away from a now scowling Roy, you take a sip of your drink. Then another. Then another.

When you feel Roy’s gaze on you, you turn to look at him. “What? If we’re gonna talk about this, I can’t be sober.”

“We’re not talking about it,” is his immediate response, and he makes sure to keep his voice low, eyes shifting to where Mae is at the other end of the bar. 

Relief rushes through you at the idea that he seems to be on the same avoidance wave. You want to have this conversation even less than he probably does. However…

“They’re watching us,” you say, throwing your thumb in the direction of the window. “If we’re just sitting here in silence, they’re never gonna let this go.” You glance over your shoulder at your fellow coaches watching you. “And something about Beard gives me the vibe that he’s like, really good at reading lips.”

A familiar growl of annoyance escapes him. “Then we’re going to keep our backs turned and pretend that we’re talking to get those fucking muppets off our backs and get on with our fucking lives.”

Your lips purse. "What are the odds I get you to chug this with me?”

Roy huffs into his glass. “About the same as the odds of it coming right back up because of my new fucking acid reflux.”

Your nose scrunches up in a weary sort of agreement. “Ugh. Fair. Where’d that shit come from anyway? It sucks.”

“We’re fucking old, Fourteen,” he mutters. “That’s where it came from. We’re far from what we used to be.”

“Yeah, but you were ancient when I met you,” you reply, earning a deep scowl in return. “I used to be so young and full of life.”

“If by ‘full of life’ you mean doing boat races in a shitty pub in London with a bunch of degenerate athletes—”

“Oh, my God. Grandad. The kids got off your lawn in 2012, stop bitching,” you say as you bite back a laugh. When Roy rolls his eyes, you point at him. “And by the way, I vaguely remember you joining us in one of those boat races, so I don’t want to hear it from you.”

Roy scoffs. “I did it to shut Rivera up,” he replies, shaking his head. “Terrible fucking influence.”

A fond smile grows on your lips at the mention of your friend, remembering the state she’d been in that night. It was the night you’d won the Gold at the Olympics, and Mel had taken it upon herself to peer pressure your entire team not just to go out, but to start at a pub and start the celebration with that godforsaken game. To this day, you’re still not sure if she remembered leaving the pub.

“She’s the worst,” you agree, though your tone says differently.

A beat passes between you, a question hanging in the air as if Roy’s unsure if he should ask it. If he’s allowed or entitled to know the answer. He asks it anyway. “Where did she end up?”

You answer after you swallow the sip of beer you’d taken. “She and Paige are somewhere in Surrey. And I’m still trying to figure out the geography of this place, but I know that it’s kind of close to here, which is nice. They’re supposed to come for our first home game with their son.”

“Fucking crazy that they’ve got a kid,” Roy says. “I remember when she was making a fucking fool of herself in front of that girl.”

“You’re telling me,” you grin. “Luckily it worked. It helped that Paige was in love with her the entire time.”

That comment is met with silence as Roy seems to only be able to offer a nod in response. The following quiet is less awkward, but everything still hangs in the air. It weighs down the space that stands between you two and makes your chest ache. You don’t know how to continue. You don’t know what to say.

You feared this exact situation with him. Just the two of you, sitting in a room with each other, running out of talking points. No team to comment on, no coaches to add input, nothing left to expand on. Only the memories of your past and a million unspoken paths to go down— ones you had no interest in uncovering.

The TV in front of you transitions to Zava’s press conference, and suddenly, thankfully, you’ve got another thing to talk about. “You’ve never said your opinion on Zava.”

Roy’s brow pinches. “What’s there to say? He’s fucking good. He’ll help us be better. I didn’t think he’d go for us but I’m happy he did.”

“Yeah, I figured that,” you say with the roll of your eyes. “I’m asking for your opinion. Not Coach Kent’s PR response.”

He takes a brief pause, then scowls and looks down at the bar top. “I think he’s a self-involved, strange little prick. I think the shit he does and wears fucking odd, and I think the hero-worship our team’s got for him is going to be a problem.” Roy shrugs. “But he’ll help us win games.”

You find yourself nodding along. “Do you think we actually need him?”

Roy’s gaze slides to yours in interest. “I take it you don’t?”

A sigh escapes your lips as you turn your body slightly to face him. “I think he’ll help us win,” you agree, putting your chin in your hand as you look up at Zava (who’s holding a Richmond jersey with a smile) on TV. “But I’m afraid he’ll mess up the team dynamic.”

“How so?” he asks.

“Well, I’m assuming all future plays are going to be made around him,” you say. “Pass to Zava, get it to Zava, put Zava in a position to score. You guys have never done that before. You’ve never just focused on making everything work around one person.”

Roy’s eyes narrow. “We’ve done it with Tartt.”

“You’ve made plays for Jamie. But you’ve never relied on Jamie to be your focal point in every play of every game,” you explain. The intrigue on Roy’s face is something you haven’t seen in a minute. You continue, “Jamie’s your best player. Every team needs to have their best player. But that’s why, I think, Richmond works. Because you’re a team. You’ve got Sam, you’ve got Isaac, you’ve got Dani— everyone’s good at what they do and they know how to fill their role to work together.” You shrug and reach for your pint. “That’s how you’ve won in the past. I just think it’s dangerous to have the team play around someone else instead of playing as a team. I don’t think it’s sustainable.”

These points of yours are met with a quiet that tells you he’s considering your words. Not so much evaluating as he’s just… taking them in. It feels good to be heard. Not to be dismissed or waved off, told that your input would be considered as it had been for the last three months. 

You’re not sure if Roy’s going to respond to any of your points until he says, “Stop saying ‘you have.’”

You blink at him, not expecting that at all. “What?”

“You keep saying ‘you’ve.’ ‘You guys.’ ‘You’re.’ You’re distancing yourself from the team.” He shakes his head. “You’re a part of this now too. Richmond’s yours as much as it’s mine.”

“Oh,” you say. A strange mix of embarrassment and pride wash over you. “I didn’t realize I was doing that.”

Roy sighs. “You should have said something if that’s how you felt.”

“And what? Ruin the fun of the Zava train? Potentially be the reason we don’t pick up one of the best players in the league?” You scoff. “Pass. I don’t have the seniority to make a move like that.”

“You still should have said something,” Roy presses. “Ted would have listened. We would have listened.”  

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done now.” You wave him off, shrugging. “He’s with us and I’m sure he’s going to be great and help us win. I’m just being weird about it.” Roy looks as though he has about a million things to say to that, but he chooses to bite his tongue instead. At his silence, you add, “Be nice to Jamie if he asks for extra training.”

The scoff that leaves his lips is loud. “I’m as nice to Tartt as he deserves.”

“I’m serious,” you say through a chuckle. “Don’t shut him down if he asks. He needs someone in his corner.”

“And it can’t be you?” he asks.

It’s an innocent enough question, asked with a bit of levity and a teasing glance. But it makes your stomach churn. The memories of West Ham, the sessions you did, Tom’s new comments, everything— and it all hurts. You’re not sure if it’ll ever stop hurting.

Any trace of humor drained from your face and in an instant, Roy knows he said something wrong. Stupid, he thinks. Fucking stupid. You’d gone quiet when he last asked you about this. He should have known better. Watched his words more carefully.

“No,” you reply softly. You take a long sip. “I’d prefer that it wouldn’t be me.”

Well, now Roy feels like an asshole. Once again, he wants to ask. He wants to understand exactly what happened, understand who or what has affected you like this. He has his assumptions (ones that go into dark places he never even wants to consider for you— seriously, he’d fucking kill someone and wouldn’t blink), but if you can’t or won’t talk about it, he’s not entitled to know. He’s not entitled to know anything. Your relationship’s never worked like that, even when you were on good terms. There was no pressure, it all always seemed to come out when you were comfortable. It had never been like that before. That’s originally what drew him to you. That’s why he stuck around.

Roy knows if you do decide to talk about it, it’ll be on your terms. And while he doesn’t like it, he respects it. He respects you.

It’s why he chooses to move on to some other topic instead of pressing you. “Whatever they say about your press conference,” he begins, shaking his head, “fucking ignore it.”

It’s a clunky transition and it catches you slightly off-guard. The leap has you suspicious that Roy might know more than he lets on about your situation, but you don’t dare say anything about it. “They?” you ask.

“The media,” he expands. “The football fans. The pricks online. They.” He shakes his head again. “They don’t fucking matter. If they knew any better than you did, they’d be where you are.”

They’re kind words filled with a rough reassurance that he’s mastered. To hopefully get rid of (or procrastinate) the heavy feeling in your chest, you wave him off. “I’m used to it,” you say. Roy frowns at you and you shrug, “I commentated a little bit for ESPN after I got hurt. I did one Men’s game and made a joke about how much you guys overreact when you get fouled to get a call. Twitter ate me alive. I still get threats about it.”

Roy inhales ruefully, humor written across his expression. “What’d you say?”

“Nothing I haven’t said to you a hundred times,” you reply casually, hearing him huff once more. “I think it was something about how you guys have to be getting paid extra by the Club if you promise to make a scene when you’re hit.”

“You weren’t far off," he chuckles.

“And I still stand by it,” you tell him, leaning in as his lips pull into a small grin. “Though I’m not sure I should be talking to you about playing up a penalty.”

Roy’s brows rocket up. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that i’m sitting next to the only person in AFC history to ever get two red cards in a game,” you reply, and the instantaneous scowl that forms on his face makes you chuckle. “I don’t think there’s been a question about if you’ve ever actually hit someone.”

“Those calls were bullshit,” he mutters.

“Roy, you tackled Man City’s best midfielder and took out both of his legs. And then you kicked a different guy in the chest.”

“He ran into my foot.”

“There is literal video footage of you looking him in the eye and saying, ‘that wasn’t an accident, I kicked you in the fucking chest.’”

He stares at you for a moment, then shrugs. “At least I broke a record.” 

You nod at him. “And we’re all incredibly proud of you.”

That smile of his returns and you can tell he has to refrain from rolling his eyes. “You weren’t so fucking innocent out there either.”

A faux affronted sound leaves you. “I was an angel.”

“Right,” he draws out. “You never got into it with anyone, Mean Fourteen.”

Your nose crinkles. “I liked it better when you hated that name as much as I did.”

“It’s grown on me. Mainly because it’s right.” When your frown gets deeper, he continues. “Even before the Cup at those Olympics. You were fucking tough out there. They could never get you to stay down.”

You rub your finger against the rim of your glass as you glance at the the highlights of the recent Arsenal game on screen. “Damn right. Got tackled into oblivion by Caroline Singer at the 2012 Semi-Finals. Launched me ten yards and dislocated my shoulder. Got up the second after and had my shoulder set in time for overtime.”

Roy chuckles lowly. “I remember that game. You hit a full fucking Locust in the air when she sent you flying,” he says. “You deserved that one. You were a fucking menace to her all game.”

You gape at him. “I deserved that?”

“You did. If I’m Singer and I’m being marked by someone like you during that game? I’m breaking your fucking jaw.”

While you scowl at the idea that you ‘deserved’ that, you find yourself having caught something much more interesting. “Also, rewind. Full Locust?” you ask with a leading sort of intrigue. “Like… the yoga pose?”

Roy’s hiding in his pint again, trying his best at indifference. “Is that what that is?”

But you know him better. A wide, disbelieving grin pulls at your lips. “Roy Kent, do you do yoga?”

“No,” he immediately replies, but you’re already laughing.

“Oh, my God. You so do yoga.”

The scowl on his face is deep. “Fuck off,” he says. “What the fuck is wrong with yoga?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” you respond, laughter dying down despite the smile that remains on your face. “I love yoga. I just never imagined you’d agree.”

“Well, I fucking do.” There’s a beat, and for a moment, you think he’s going to end it there. But then, “I do it once a week with some local mums in their sixties.”

Your mouth begins to part as you stare at him, grin widening. Your laughter starts back up in an instant. “This is the best day of my life.”

(Roy can’t exactly understand what compelled him to admit that, or why he’s indulging in this conversation with you, but there’s a small, suppressed piece of his brain that knows he did it to hear you laugh some more.)

“I have—” you pause to breathe. “—so many questions.”

Roy’s hand shoots up as Mae passes by to ask for another round. “No, you don’t.”

“How did this… come to be?”

He’s scowling, but chooses to answer with, “I was newly retired and borderline suicidal. I found their flier and called Maureen instead of the hotline.”

Your elbow’s now perched on the bartop, chin resting in your hand to stare at him in awe. “Is this, like, at a gym? Is it at one of their houses?” You gasp. “Do you host yoga?”

Roy looks as though he’s regretted every decision that’s led him to this moment. “We alternate weekly,” he mutters. 

“Shut up. Tell me you guys hang out after. Like you grab drinks or do a book club or something.”

His hand goes up once more in Mae’s direction. “Yeah, gonna make that two, Mae.”

“Shut up,” you repeat. You don’t think you could be smiling any harder. “Do you drink rosé and read Colleen Hoover?”

“No,” he says, pointing at you like you should know better. When your brows go up, he shrugs. “We drink rosé and watch Lust Conquers All like respectable fucking adults.”

You do the math in your head and gasp again. “Does that mean you watched Jamie’s season?”

Roy’s lips twitch upward. “Yeah. Watched him be a proper fucking twat,” he says, then glances over at you in curiosity. “Didn’t realize you got that over in the States.”

“Jamie’s season was when it started getting popular there,” you reply with a shrug. “All my friends were in love with him.”

Roy’s brows shoot up. “Not you?”

A snort escapes you, and you shake your head. “Uh, no. ‘The island’s top scorer, sexually’ wasn’t exactly my speed.” Roy’s smile grows at your poor impression of Jamie. “But they were into it. They freaked out when they realized I’d be working with him.”

“Not your speed,” Roy repeats, taking a long sip of his pint. His interest appears to be piqued. “And what speed is that?”

You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, and you try to play it off with a roll of your eyes. “You know what my type is.”

That smile of his stretches into something more resemblant of a smirk. “It’s been eight fucking years,” he replies, feigning innocence. “Types change.”

“I guess you’re right,” you say, fully ready to play along and be just as much of an annoying jerk as he’s being to you.“Right now, I’m regressing to my French swimmer phase. Going pretty well, actually.”

“Oh, is that right?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you answer, biting back a grin. “Actually been talking with Luca for the last couple of weeks. It’s like we never left London.”

It’s Roy’s turn to roll his eyes, but it’s only half directed at you. “He was a fucking prick,” he says. 

“He was not a prick,” you reply. “You just didn’t like him.” Your eyes narrow, turning to face him with that same sort of feigned innocence he had. “Remind me why you didn’t like him again.”

“Because he was a fucking prick,” he repeats. “Fucking twat wouldn’t even watch your games. Couldn’t handle you winning something when he wasn’t.”

The scoff that escapes you is loud. “I forgot about that,” you mutter. “He was a prick, wasn’t he?”

“Fuck yeah, he was.”

You shake your head, raising your glass to take a small sip. “Whatever. Wasn’t like I ended up spending much time with him anyway.”

Roy’s lips quirk up into that same smirk, but there’s more behind it. “No, you didn’t.”

Warmth rises to your cheeks at that, and you continue to hide in your glass. Asshole.

Luckily, Roy seems to have more to say on the topic of Luca. “He was never your speed,” he tells you. It’s a matter-of-fact musing. “He wasn’t in your fucking race.”

You spare a glance in his direction. “No?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” he says as if he can’t believe you even had to ask. “You were riding light years ahead of him. He couldn’t keep up.” With a soft scoff, he adds, “Not many people can.”

That warm feeling returns and it spreads down your neck. You suddenly feel yourself getting shy. “Maybe I should slow down,” you attempt to joke.

Roy’s shaking his head before you can even finish your sentence. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

You don’t mean to do it. It’s completely unconscious, almost like an instinct. But you ignore the way that that makes your entire body go ablaze and look at him. You hold his gaze for a long while, longer than you have since you started at Richmond. And he stares right back at you. 

It’s hauntingly familiar and paradoxically comfortable. You don’t know if he meant to say that or if it just slipped out in the moment, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at you. Even if he didn’t mean to let something like that out with that sort of sentiment, he’s owning it. It warms your heart and makes your stomach flip upside down.

It’s so fucking confusing. But then again, this entire thing has been confusing. You had been sitting here for just about a half an hour, and half of those minutes were spent going back and forth in the way that you used to. You didn’t think it’d be so easy to fall back into that with him. To talk to him like that again. To banter with him. Even to fucking laugh with him.

That realization makes you feel as though you’ve been dunked in a pool of cold water and allows a weird, foreign feeling to settle in your chest. You’re angry at yourself and at him for slipping back into it so effortlessly. You hate how easy it is and always has been with him. But you also miss it. You’ve missed this. You missed him.

It’s an absolutely horrendous, life-altering realization and it slants your world sideways. You despise yourself for it. It’s something you force deep down into yourself, hoping it dies a quick and painless death, but you know that it won’t be the case. Not if he’s still around. And not if you two continue like this.

Luckily, for both of you, the television at the pub chirps out a loud noise as a penalty is called for the game on-screen. You two snap out of it, promptly tuning in to distract yourselves from whatever the fuck that was. Old habits were easy to fall into. They were dangerous. You couldn’t wait to pretend like that never happened.

However, something still lingers. Something sits upon your tongue as you watch the scene unfold on-screen, as the medical and physio team run out to help the injured Arsenal player who’s clutching at his knee. You can’t explain your motive and you don’t completely understand why you feel the need to keep this conversation going, but you want to extend that same kindness to him, with something you’ve been holding back for years. So you do.

“I almost called you,” you tell him. He glances over at you, brows raised in question. “The game you got hurt. I was watching. And I sat on my couch for two hours trying to figure out if I should call you.”

Roy blinks, absorbing this, then turns away. He swallows thickly before bringing his glass to his lips. “Glad you didn’t.”

It stings. Like, really stings. You nod, trying not to show just how much, but your voice still comes out dejected. “Oh,” you say. “Right.”

Roy sighs at your tone. “No, it—” He wipes a hand down his face and the pint in his other lands on the bartop with a thud. “If you’d called that night, it just… It would have… complicated a lot of fucking things for me. And I might have—” There’s a brief moment where he meets your gaze, but he quickly drops it. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Oh,” you repeat, but it’s quieter. Your focus is drawn to your glass. “Right.”

That dreaded silence returns and it’s unlike anything you’ve experienced with him. What did he mean? What would he have done? What would you have complicated for him? The way he speaks gives you a pretty decent idea of how drastic his actions would have been, but you can’t figure out what he means. 

Would he have lashed out at you? Would he have wanted to see you? Would he have even picked up the phone if you had called? What did he mean?

You have millions of questions you’re too scared to ask, and you bite your tongue for fear of actually speaking them aloud. Roy doesn’t seem to like this and really doesn’t seem to like your answer, or lack there of (but truly, what exactly were you supposed to say to something like that?). You’re not sure if he thinks he upset you or made you uncomfortable, but when he speaks again, he’s taken on a bit of a softer tone.

“Just so we’re clear,” he begins. “I’m… happy you’re here.” He says it slowly, as if he’s testing out each word. “I’m happy you joined Richmond despite… well, fucking everything.”

You swallow hard, awkwardly shrugging. “I didn’t have a lot of other options.”

He gives you a look that tells you to stop being a smartass. You know it well.

“I’m happy you’re here,” he repeats, more sure this time. “I’m happy to see you again. But it…” Roy trails off, eyes locked on the bar top. “It’s fucking… strange. It’s strange to be here with you after I swore you off for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “It is.”   

“And I— I’m trying to be better at this,” he continues, still refusing to look at you. “Talk like this with someone. Be fucking open, or whatever. So, this is me being open.”

It takes him a minute to collect his thoughts, and you give it to him. 

He scratches at the inside of his wrist. “All of my past… relationships were…” He trails off like he can’t find the right word.

“Fleeting?” you try, earning a glare in response. “Transactional?”

That look in his eye doesn’t falter. “I’m trying to be open here, for fuck’s sake,” he grits, though the slight whine in his voice makes you chuckle. However, before you can apologize, he sighs. “But, for lack of a better fucking word, yeah. That. Nobody stuck around and there was no… love lost or-- fucking whatever. And if it did end poorly, I didn’t have to worry about seeing them. I could ignore them or get a fucking drink thrown in my face and it’d be… done. It’d be over.” Roy shakes his head and takes a long sip of his beer. “I didn’t have to be around them, I didn’t have to see them, and I certainly didn’t have to fucking work with them.”

There’s a beat between you. It’s brief, but it gives you time to absorb this, and for him to take a breath. He shuts his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, he’s looking at you. It’s a gaze that’s warmer than before, but there’s still that distress there. The confusion. Sadness.

He continues, “I really thought I was never going to see you again. And I had, I don’t know, fucking resigned myself to that idea? I’d come to terms with it. So, being here?” That’s when he decides to meet your eyes. “I don’t know what the fuck to do. I don’t know how to act around you. Not when I’m still so… fucking angry with you. Not when you’re so angry with me. I’ve never done anything like this—” He motions between you two. “—and I don’t know how the fuck to do it.” 

It’s a lot to take in, but you do so while nodding slowly. He doesn’t know how to do this? He doesn’t know how to act around you? This is confusing for him? 

It wasn’t a contest, but you’d argue that, given everything, you were in the worse position. You were joining his team, a team he’d clearly nested into and made a life for himself in. You had been forced to ignore everything he’d done to you for the sake of your career because you truly had nowhere else to go. How the hell did he think that you were or would be doing any better than he was? Did he really think you were dealing with this in a healthier, more stable way?

After you’ve collected your thoughts, you ask, “You think that this is easy for me? I’m fucking drowning here, Roy.” Your voice is gentle, and almost immediately, you can see the tension in his body resolve into something more open. “I think we’re the first people ever on earth to be put in this fucked situation. It’s like some sick psychology experiment.” 

“Sad fucking excuses for lab rats we are,” he mutters. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips. “What does it say about us that we agreed to it?”

“It says we’re masochists, Kent,” you say, and that smile grows as he shakes his head. You motion to the window where Beard and Ted still stand, taking turns with the binoculars every so often to check in on the two of you. “Who else would just go along with shit like this?”

Roy turns to the window. “Fuck. I forgot they were out there,” he mutters in disbelief.

You salute to Beard and his binoculars and he pulls them down to nod at you in response. “We’re sick, sick people who’d rather be uncomfortable than give this sport up.”

Roy huffs a laugh. “Cheers to that.” 

He tilts his pint to yours and it feels like a peace offering. It’s like you’re finally on the same page about something for once. When you clink your glass against his and sip with him, it ratifies that agreement. You bite back a smile.

“But there’s some truth in that, I guess,” you continue. Roy’s brow pinches. “I couldn’t give this up. I would rather be uncomfortable with this than let go of this opportunity. Because, I…” You take in a deep breath, scoffing softly as you release it. “I really thought I blew it. I thought my career was over after West Ham fired me. I didn’t think anyone was going to want the girl who couldn’t even last three months at an AFC club.” You can feel yourself getting choked up and you blink away the telltale burning in your eyes. “And then out of the blue, like a fucking miracle, Rebecca’s at my door asking me to join Richmond. So… yeah, Roy. This is so fucking weird. And you’re right, I’m still mad at you. I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for what you did. And I don’t expect you to ever forgive me.

“But this… this job, West Ham… I couldn’t allow my career to end like that,” you say, and your chest starts to tighten again. Fuck, was it always going to be this hard to talk about this? “You were right when you told me I couldn’t let them take what I love away from me.” Your voice is quieter when you say, “I can’t allow someone to dictate my career for me. Not again.”

You see Roy’s eyes close out of the corner of your own. His head bows ever so slightly and as he mutters, “Yeah. That shouldn’t happen again.”

Now you feel like the asshole. You know it’s deserved, but the somber, regretful note in his voice makes your perpetual guilt complex rear its head. You’re getting emotional whiplash from the highs and lows of this conversation and you wonder how much time has really passed by. You can’t tell if it’s been twenty minutes or an hour. 

But, however long it’s been, you think it’s a miracle that you’ve been able to get to this point with such little time.

“I’m not…” The words get caught in your throat and then escape like a sigh. “...ready to talk about what happened yet. I don’t know when I’ll be able to, but it’s certainly not now. I… It’s too hard to, I don’t know, look at you and talk about that.” You look wearily over in his direction. “And I don’t think— I can’t be your friend,” you tell him softly, watching as he bows his head. “Or be whatever our coworkers want us to be. I’m not… I don’t think I can do that yet. And I think you feel the same.”

There’s a long, pregnant silence, one that drags out and makes everything between you two feel heightened. Then, Roy nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Not yet.”

You figured as such. It’s almost reassuring to know that you’re at the same point. However, after this conversation, after sitting here with him, forgetting about everything for just a moment to laugh and joke around with him for the first time in years, you’re comfortable enough to say your next words.

With a deep breath, you tell him, ”But, whatever comes before friends. Whatever that is, I’m willing to give it a shot.”

Roy’s eyes meet yours. He lets that statement sit with him, absorbing it, then stares at you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. It’s as if he wasn’t expecting you to say that and can’t believe that you did. 

You’re not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing until he clears his throat and says, “You are?”

It’s something soft and sincere, asked with an uncharacteristic hesitance. “Yes,” you say. “Are you?”

You’re sure you’re imagining it, but you swore you could have seen the beginnings of a smile twisting at his lips. “Yeah,” he replies. “I’d really fucking like that.”

Unconsciously, you feel yourself copying the smile you’re positive was an illusion. “Good,” you say gently, turning back to face the TV above the bar. “Would have been really awkward if you’d said no.”

Roy’s laugh is one of surprise. “God-fucking-forbid things were awkward between us.”

“I’m just saying,” you insist with a shrug. “I wouldn’t have known what to say if you’d said no. Finish my beer in silence and just get up and go. Hand in my two weeks and head back to America.”

“Leaving two teams in under a month would have been a league record,” he notes, lips quirking as you narrow your eyes at him. “And don’t act like you wouldn’t have stayed just to spite me.”

“You’re right,” you agree almost immediately. “I’m much more vindictive than that.”

It’s then that Roy grins at you, and the look in his eye sends you right back to 2012. “Damn fucking right you are.”

You toe the line between hatred and acceptance as a familiar warmth spreads across your chest and makes a home there.

This, you know, will be impossible to shake.

LONDON OLYMPICS, EARLY AUGUST, 2012.

so sorry to see you boys lose, says the text you send to Roy after their penalty-kicks loss against South Korea. devastating way to go out. not sure if this is a bad time, but i do believe there was a standing deal that whoever lasted longer in the tournament got whatever they wanted from the other?

It’s a rather brutal text, especially after a loss like that, but you don’t care. He was so sure that your team was going to be knocked out before he was. It felt good to be better than him at something for once.

You’re sitting in your Olympic dorm room, perfectly happy to be alone for the night. After your win against New Zealand last night, you’d spent the night celebrating (or what constituted for celebrating in the Village, which was just staying up with your girls and watching bad British made-for-TV movies) and had not had a minute to yourself since. You were unfortunately a person who needed their alone time and having a career as time-consuming as soccer made it virtually impossible to not have people around you at all times.

Mel was out for the night, having gone upstairs to find Paige (the UK women’s team had lost in a gnarly game against Canada last night), taking advantage of the circumstances to ‘comfort’ her. Or, whatever Mel constituted as comfort.

(“She just so sad,” Mel had said, lacing up her shoes. “I told her I’d come up and cheer her up.”

“And how exactly are you doing that?” you asked skeptically from your bed. “You have horrendous bedside manner.”

“I’m going to figure out a way. I hate seeing her sad,” Mel said innocently. “Do you think restaurants deliver here? Maybe I can get her something to eat.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, she’s gonna be eating something, alright—”

You’re cut off by a memory foam slide slipper being chucked straight at your head.)

There was no way Paige didn’t see through her or what she was doing. However, it helped that everyone could see that she was totally into Mel, and you were thankful that your best friend’s mega crush wasn’t unrequited. Extremely thankful. Mel did not take rejection well.

Speaking of rejection, you think, as you feel your phone vibrate on your chest. The text from Roy stares at you from your phone screen and you can practically hear his words as you read them.

That was the deal if one of us won the tournament, he tells you. You’ve still got two games to go, Yank.

It’s the type of response you expected, but you’re unsure of the validity of his claim. i recall that deal differently.

His reply is lightning quick. Of course, you do. Your memory’s as shit as your jokes.

someone’s sounding bitter, you answer. i can hear you pouting all the way from chelsea. 

You don’t get a response for a moment, and for a minute, there’s a small part of you that thinks you actually may have pissed him off. There’s no way that he’d get upset about something like that, would he? You know how much he cares about football, but the Games are mostly just… fun. For the men’s side, at least. It means leagues more to the women.

However, before you can get too in your head about it, your phone starts ringing in your hand, Roy’s name popping up on your screen. You press your lips together to keep yourself from smiling too hard.

“Hello?” you say, the humor in your voice evident.

“I don’t fucking pout,” is his greeting, which earns him a soft chuckle.

“The fact that you’re calling me to whine isn’t making for a compelling argument,” you reply. 

“You know,” he begins, and the sudden accusatory inflection in his voice has you pushing your lips together again, “you’re being really fucking mean to someone who’s got the power to run you until you pass out tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, I’m terrified. Tell me, are you going to be breathing down my neck now that you’ve got nothing to do?”

“Thin fucking ice, Fourteen,” he warns, but you swear you can hear his smile. “One more fucking word and I’ll replay footwork day.”

That has your mouth shutting almost immediately. “Okay, now you’re actually scaring me.”

It’s then that Roy laughs, and the sound sends a rush through you. It’s such a rare occurrence that every time you hear it, it feels like an accomplishment. 

“I’m sorry you lost,” you finally say. “That was a tough game to watch.”

“Tough fucking game to play,” he replies through a sigh. “We shouldn’t have let it get to that point.”

You tilt your head back against the pillows stacked up behind you, attempting to get comfortable on your horribly uncomfortable, tiny bed. “If it makes you feel any better, I thought you played well.”

There’s an uneven beat of quiet and the line crackles. “Yeah?” he asks. His voice is calmer and slightly warmer. You’re not expecting it. 

“Yeah,” you say. “You had a couple of good shifts in the second half. That last pass you sent up the field would have been an insane assist if Lowell didn’t miss.”

You hear him sigh. “That wasn’t Lowell’s fault. That sweeper was a problem for all of us.”

“Didn’t say it was his fault. We all miss,” you state. “I’m just saying if it had worked out. That would have been crazy.”

“It would have been,” he finally agrees, which you know is the closest you’re going to get to him complimenting himself. “You play Monday, right?”

“Yup. Canada. I’m supposed to be in charge of taking care of Caroline Singer which should be, y’know, a joy.”

Roy snorts. “She’ll start swinging at you before the half.”

“That’s the goal. I’ve been told to piss her off as much as I can.” Before he has the chance to make the layup joke you’ve just handed him, you beat him to it. “Which shouldn’t be too hard.”

“I’ve seen her play,” he says. “She doesn’t do well when she’s flustered. You’ve got a talent for getting in people’s heads. We can work more on that tomorrow.”

You grin. “So, no footwork?”

His voice is a low growl with a lilt of a chuckle. “Don’t push it.”

There’s a moment that passes between you two where you know you’re both smiling, sitting on the phone in your respective make-shift Olympic homes (one, much nicer than the other, you’re sure), knowing that this conversation is probably over for the night, but finding that you don’t want to hang up. It’s an odd, giddy sort of feeling, one you haven’t felt in years. You never expected to feel it again here, of all places, with fucking Roy Kent, of all people.

You don’t know exactly what possesses you to ask, but the question floats out of your mouth before you can stop it. “Are you really going to stay in London to train me until we’re out of the tournament?”

It was something he’d implied during your practices and once joked about, but he’d said it enough to make you think he was serious. When you’d once questioned him about it, he’d said something along the lines of making sure he saw through his investment or wanted to see your deal through. He’d called himself a man of his word, which you also had questioned, but again, it felt like he was incredibly serious about this. 

His answer catches you off-guard, but you suppose you shouldn’t have expected anything less.. “I thought you were winning the fucking thing.”

An abrupt laugh leaves your lips. “Roy.”

He sighs again and then replies with something more in-line with what he’d said previously. “I made a deal with you. We’re seeing this fucking thing through.” There’s a noise on his line that sounds as though he’s shifting. “And besides, you’ve got what? Two games left if you make it to the Gold round?”

“When we make it,” you correct.

You’re nearly positive that he rolls his eyes. But, he says, “I’m sticking around.”

The sentiment of it all fills you with a warmth that travels down your body. You’re still not sure what this is. You’re not sure why he’s doing this. You don’t completely understand why he seems to like you, why he’s sticking around to train you, or why he chose to train you in the first place. Everything about this is so out of left field and nothing about it makes sense. You couldn’t have predicted this if you’d tried.

There’s nothing about this situation that you completely understand, but you know one thing: you’re starting to become grateful it did.

You don’t question him. You don’t ask the things that are swirling around in your head, and you don’t verbalize anything you’ve started to feel the last couple of days. Instead, you just say, “Well. I suppose if you insist.”

He makes a low sound, something that you may think is a laugh of disbelief. He’s quiet for a second as if he’s going to say more, but he clears his throat instead. “I’ll let you get to bed.”

There’s a brief moment where disappointment swells in your chest, but you quickly shake it off with a silent scolding. “Yeah,” you agree. “Probably a good idea to be asleep when Mel gets back.”

“Back?” Roy questions. “Where’s Rivera?”

“Consoling Paige,” you say, air quotes implied. Roy huffs. “She’s consistent if nothing else.”

“She’s fucking relentless is what she is. I’ve never seen someone pine so hard for someone who clearly fucking likes them.”

You shrug, but then realize he can’t see that. “Mel’s not the make-a-move type. She’s more of a let-me-stare-at-you-and-telepathically-tell-you-I’m-in-love-with-you type. Which I get. But it’s still frustrating.”

There’s a beat between you, one that has you raising a brow. “You're not the first-move type, huh?”

Blood rushes to your ears and it spreads down your neck. His tone is leading, and it sets off every siren in your brain. “No,” you get out, and thankfully it’s more casual than you thought it’d be. “Never been my thing.”

“Huh,” Roy muses. “Good to know.”

Your stomach churns in anxious anticipation, once again not completely sure what he means by that. You’ve got an idea, but Jesus, he loves to be vague. You would have never pegged him to be coy.

Before you can respond, he’s speaking again, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Goodnight, Fourteen. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He then hangs up on you, leaving you stunned with your phone in your hand, mouth slightly ajar, and the best kind of nerves coursing through your body. 

You can’t help but laugh at it all.

PRESENT DAY. (MID-AUGUST, 2023)

You awake to your phone ringing on your bedside table next to you. It’s a call that’s earlier than your alarm, one that has you throwing your arm to the table, slapping your hand around blindly to find it. 

Once it’s in your possession, you crack your eyes open to see Mel’s name on the screen. Your interest is piqued enough to answer. “Hello?”

Your greeting comes out as more of a groan, but you think Mel gets the message. Either that, or she doesn’t care. Because she leads with, “You want to tell me why I’m getting Twitter updates about you and The Dark Lord hanging out at a bar like it’s 2012?”

You open your eyes, squinting at the sun that’s peaking through your window. “Roy and I are relevant enough to be getting Twitter updates?”

“After that press conference you gave? Uh, yeah. You’re a bit of a celebrity to the football side of Twitter,” Mel says, sounding only slightly incredulous that that’s what you choose to respond with. “You’re relevant enough to have people spamming this picture someone took of you two last night.”

You hum. “How do I look?”

Mel scoffs. “You look incredible. The Dark One looks scary.”

“Scary how?”

“Well, he’s smiling for one, which is always a jumpscare,” she says. “And you’re smiling back at him which is even more horrifying. So, you know, just a scary photo all around.”

A huff of a laugh escapes you, and you put your arm over your eyes. “You wouldn’t believe why we were there if I told you.”

“It better be some fucking Twilight Zone, cosmic occurrence, because that’s the only explanation I’ll accept as to why you’re laughing with each other.”

“Will you take Coaches Ted Lasso and Beard Parent-Trapping and holding Roy and I hostage until we talked out our issues?” you offer.

You’re met with approximately thirty seconds of silence before Mel responds. You can picture the perplexed look on her face as she asks, “Do they understand the depth of your issues? And that trapping you at a bar without a neutral third party and law enforcement present is an outlandish and potentially fatal situation?” 

“We were actually very civil,” you reply casually. “Found out he does yoga now. Watches Love Conquers All.”

“Hmm,” Mel hums. “Does he do that before or after his day job of kicking puppies and burning down orphanages?”

The laugh that escapes you is involuntary. “Mel,” you whine.

“I’m glad you’re laughing. Because I’m certainly not,” she says, and the tone of her voice tells you you’re about to receive the scolding she clearly called to give you. “Because it sounds like you’re back on the Kent Train and I’m going to have to pick you up when he inevitably fucks you over again.”

“I’m not ‘back on the Kent Train’ or whatever the hell you just said,” you mutter, turning to lay on your pillow. “You knew that working at Richmond meant us working together. I knew that. Our coaching staff is insane, but they have a point. We can’t work well together if we’re fighting and not getting along.”

Mel scoffs. “You can work with people you don’t like. It’s called being professional. The only thing you have to be on the same page about is the team.”

“Richmond isn’t like that,” you tell her. “It’s unlike anywhere I’ve ever played or worked. These people are a family. And not in like, a corporate ‘we’re a family here’ way. They all really care about each other and spend Christmas together and do karaoke together. It’s actually really sweet.”

“And what? You’re scared they’re not going to accept you if you don’t join the cult and sing kumbaya?”

You shut your eyes in frustration at her words. “No, Melanie,” you say, and the edge to your voice has her scoffing again. “It’s not about joining the cult. It’s about the fact that I refuse to lose another job. Especially not this job. I can’t imagine any other club being as warm and accommodating as they’ve been. And frankly, no other club wanted me after the shit show that was West Ham.” Mel’s gone quiet and you exhale in resignation. “So, yeah. If that means I have to be friendly with Roy and sing their song, then fucking… hand me the guitar, I guess.”

Once again, Mel’s quiet. You think she’s hung up on you until you remove your phone from your ear and see the call time’s still running. It takes a moment, but she finally, finally releases a long and heavy sigh that lets you know she’s back on your side. “I just don’t want to see him hurt you again.”

“He won’t,” you say without hesitation. “I won’t allow him to. I’m never…” You shake your head. “I’m never going back to that. We’re colleagues. Nothing more, nothing less.”

You can hear her shake her head against her phone. “I really wish I believed that.”

“I mean it,” you insist. “You have full permission to kick my ass if anything else happens.”

Finally, you get something like a laugh from the other line. “Gleefully holding you to that.”

“I know you are.”

“Haven’t kicked your ass since 2015,” Mel says, sounding almost rueful. “I miss it. You’ve ignited a fire in me and it’s burning.”

“Does Paige know about your thirst for violence?” you ask. “I can’t imagine she wants Oliver exposed to that.”

Mel scoffs. “Not only does she know but he knows. I passed it on to the little fucker,” she mutters. You note the hint of pride in her voice. “Speaking of Roy, Oliver’s finally old enough for the baby leagues and he pulled a very Kent versus Man City move in his first game. Scuffed up the poor kid’s leg and everything.”

You snicker and roll on your back, eyes cast up to the ceiling. “I cannot possibly imagine my sweet baby boy doing anything of the sort. It must have been someone else,” you tell her. Then, you chuckle again. “Roy and I actually just talked about that game. He still refuses to admit that he did anything wrong.”

“Glad to see nothing’s changed on that end.”

You suppress a smile, but your voice comes out as a warning. “Mel…”

“Hey, you can be nice to him all you want,” she replies. “Never said anything about me having to.”

Fair enough. You know that this is the best your going to get from her, so you let it slide. “You’re still coming to the game this week, right?”

“Recent events have given me second thoughts—” Her response is cut short by your groaning, and you hear her sigh on the other end. “Of course, I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss your first home game for the world. Or any home game for that matter,” she says. “I do draw the line at away games, though. Don’t love you enough to drive that much.”

“Understandable. And we’re still on for dinner after?”

“If you’re paying. That AFC coaching salary better join us at the table.”

You roll your eyes. “Good to know where your priorities lie.”

“I’m joking,” she says, but the way that the volume of her voice increases tells you that she’s not saying that for you, but for her wife, who must be in the room. When she speaks again, it’s much lower. “I’m not joking.”

“Oh, I know,” you respond. “Tell Paige I say hi.”

“I’ll do it when it’s less suspicious.”

You grin, shaking your head. “I’ll see you on Saturday, asshole.”

“See you then,” she says. However, before you can hang up, you hear her voice calling your name once more. When you put your phone back up to your ear, she says, “Please. Please be careful. I mean it.”

Her soft worry holds a certain weight that makes your eyes screw shut. “I will. I promise.”

“Okay,” Mel replies, a little more certain. “I love you, kid.”

“Love you too,” you say. “See you Saturday.”

And with that, you hang up on your best friend, letting your phone fall onto your chest with a strikingly heavy thump, letting each and every one of her words sit with you as you pretend that the new pain in your chest doesn’t exist.

The next morning, Ted Lasso gets to the Richmond Coaching Offices early. 

He’s even earlier than you, something of which has proven to be a difficult feat, as you’re typically stationed at your desk reviewing film before anyone else has even considered coffee or put on a shin guard.

But today, he’s done it. He has no idea when you’re going to be in, but to be on the safe side, he figures he should be quick. The wrapped book is carefully grasped in his hand, making sure not to fold or crease the bow he tied around it as he opens the door to your and Roy’s office.

It’s only when the book is placed on your desk that he realizes he forgot to write the message he’d planned on the outside of the wrapping paper. His face scrunches up as he scans your desk for a pen or some other writing utensil, but comes up empty. 

He then turns to Roy’s desk, hoping to find something there. Sliding over, he gives the tabletop a once over, frowning as he realizes Roy’s got nothing too. It’s then that Ted remembers something.

Roy kept pens and dry-erase markers in his top drawer. Ted only knows this because three days ago, he saw Roy pull one out to chuck at Jamie as he barged into your shared office unannounced. He figures he can let that one slide if Roy forgives him for going into his desk.

Ted pulls the drawer out to find Roy’s neatly organized stash of utensils, grinning as he picks up a pen. However, before he can shut the drawer, something catches his eye.

There’s a frame shoved into the back, showcasing a photo Ted had seen from afar on Roy’s desk a million times but had never looked at close up. It’s of Roy, who’s wearing the closest thing to a smile that Ted’s seen on him, his sister, and… you.

You’re positioned in the middle, grinning from ear to ear with your arms tight around both Roy's and his sister’s shoulders. It’s an older picture, one taken at the high-top table of a bar. Both you and Roy are younger, and while Ted can’t figure out the exact time period of which this was taken, something else catches his eye.

It’s something small, probably something that would seem insignificant if he didn’t know you two. It’s your hands. While your arms are draped around Roy and his sister, his hand is covering yours.

It’s something that could be considered friendly, but Ted gets the feeling it’s not. It’s only then that Ted feels as though he’s looking at something he shouldn’t and closes the drawer.

With the pen he was looking for in hand, he returns to the book he’s left for you and scribbles down the message he wanted.

No— I must keep my own style and go on in my own way. —Jane Austen.

He only hopes Persuasion isn’t too on the nose for your situation as he slips out your office door and into his own.

TAGLIST: @dark-academia-slut @tegan8314 , @csigeoblue , @confessionsofatotaldramaslut , @thatonedogwithablog , @hawkeyeharrington , @jamieolivia27 , @seatbacksandtraytables , @luvr-bunnyy

[loveandthings11]

Here it is! A finale followup/fix-it fic, featuring the immediate aftermath and a time jump to a hopeful future ❤️

Founder

He thinks he’ll sit on the bench forever. He thinks it might be forever. Hope was in a different life. A marker has been laid. The Waystar CEO is dead and so are all his heir’s aspirations. His life is dead.

He needs a new one.

Colin keeps a distance. A kept man, his mouth kept shut. Kendall told him to talk to him, but he knows he never will. He can’t blame him.

He thinks he’ll be haunted forever. There’s nothing left. He left the haunted house but it’s haunting him. All he can see are his worst fears that became real memories. He’s blind and he feels watched in his own mind. He wishes it would stop. The water looks inviting. Cold. Freezing, almost. Like it could make it all stop.

Betrayals echo in his ears.

“They are a pair of randos.” 

Kendall doesn’t fight on the floor for a pair of randos. He tries to remember the last time he’d fought anyone. Age… no. He can’t remember. It was never. He feels like nothing. Nothing he does makes any difference. His whole life. 33 years of one goal, and it failed. It’s gone now. He’s out.

He’s out.

The only thing he has is the conviction that he was right. He could have done it. And they are his kids no matter what Roman thinks. 

Roman has no idea what he and Rava went through. The way they were there for each other. How when he couldn’t look at her she’d cupped his face and told him she only wanted him no matter what. He’d felt like he was denying their dream. He’d felt terrible, inadequate, and Logan’s constant interrogations weren’t helping. But he’d made sure it happened for them and she’d done everything to make sure he knew that in her mind, the kids were 100% theirs. Hers and his.

He glances at his phone and sees eight texts from Stewy.

“Fuck, Ken I’m sorry man” “It’s gonna be okay.” “Tom’s a puppet with two masters” “Kendall” “Come on” “Fuck. Are you okay dude? Seriously.” “Where are you?” “Can you just fucking like this if you’re alive?”

Kendall sighs. It takes too much energy to sigh. He holds down the last text to give it a thumbs up. One person stuck with him.

His phone vibrates again. Connor. Huh. Two people.

“Hey. I’m sorry to hear it, Kenny. But that place was bad for all of you. Full of toxic gas. Breathe easy. Ice cream when you’re ready.”

He’s a good father figure.

Kendall’s mind wanders back to Sophie and Iverson. 

“You don’t have any kids.”

Yes he fucking does. He has to see them. He didn’t think he could get off the bench, but somehow he feels himself being pulled up. It’s a force bigger than him.

It’s dark when he rings for Rava. He didn’t call first, he couldn’t bear any more rejection. She had a feeling he’d come as soon as she saw the headline and sighed a tragic sigh. She can feel the pain before she sees it. The elevator opens and she lays eyes on a former twenty-five-year-old full of hope and excitement and love. So much love. He’s forty and he’s full of pain.

He can’t even look at her. 

“I’m so sorry, Ken,” she whispers.

He barely nods and opens his mouth to speak and closes it again, taking in a quick breath.

“You didn’t come to the funeral.” It’s not what he meant to say. She looks down. “You- you should have come to the funeral.” He wasn’t even thinking about it. Where did that come from?

“Well- it was safer-“ she starts.

His voice is low and soft.

“That’s bullshit. I would have kept them safe.”

“Did you come here to talk about that?”

His face falls further and he shakes his head, dropping his gaze.

“I really am sorry,” she says, trying to look into his eyes. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now. This whole week… Jesus. Your dad, and- this…”

“Wouldn’t want you to imagine it.” He stares at the floor ten feet in front of him. “I’m sorry. Can- can I see the kids? Please.” Usually she’d say no this late, but she knows he needs them.

“Of course. If you don’t mind them being asleep.”

He walks quietly to the door of Sophie’s room and pushes it open just a tiny bit. Seeing her sleeping peacefully, safely, in her own soft bed plants a seed in his heart. He hopes it can grow there. He walks over and leans down to kiss her forehead. He tiptoes next door to Iverson��s room just to get a glimpse of his son. His son. He’s breathing quietly and Kendall goes close and listens for a minute while he re-learns how to breathe himself. He brushes the hair off Iverson's face, careful not to wake him. Maybe there will be a ray of light if the seed grows a leaf.

He gently pushes both their doors closed and turns to go back to the great room. Rava steps toward him as he walks back in and wraps her arms around him. He drives her insane but he’s still her Kendall. He’s still the same man she’s always loved. At first, he’s still stiff, trying to remember how to do and be. This can’t be a true situation. He’s not here in life. He stays put with his chin over her shoulder for a minute. She worries about how cold he is. He pulls back only a bit, staying close enough that her arms are still draped around him. He sniffles and she looks at him. She can feel the sadness falling off him in waves. She reaches for a blanket on the armchair and wraps it around his shoulders.

“Roman said the kids aren’t real.” He struggles to get the words out.

She closes her eyes.

“Okay… can I finally say something I’ve not been allowed to say?”

He nods.

“I think you are better off without them. Roman and Shiv. They just… they kill you. Look what just happened. You don’t ever have to go through that again. They want to go? Let them.”

She doesn’t relish the pain on his face and squeezes his hand.

“Well… they’re gone.” He’s almost disturbingly still as he gazes at nothing. “I’m gone.”

He finally looks up at her. Allows her to see the shining tears, the bags under his despair-filled eyes, the empty void he’s falling into. She reaches her hand out and touches his cheek. The same one nestled into her for so many years, creased with laughter, kissed every morning.

“No,” she says softly. “You’re on your way back.”

She gently pulls him toward her again and lets him fall apart as she leads him to the couch. Numbness gives way to heart-wrenching sobs and she silently cries for him too. She knows. She hugs him in that spot for as long as he needs. It’s a long time. She squeezes him tightly because they’re not reading into things tonight. She’s keeping him safe. 

He’s the father of her children. 

“I could have done it.” It’s choked out. He just needed her to know.

“I know,” she nods. She means it. “But now, you can do anything.”

Eventually, his tears run out. Tears always do. They give way to his slow breathing and sipping water. She keeps her arm around him and walks him into her coziest guest room. There are still boundaries, she reminds herself. She gets a pair of sweats out of the dresser drawer and he puts them on. He feels like he can barely move as he climbs into bed. She tucks him in before leaning down to kiss his head. He needs to remember what kindness without any motive feels like. He closes his eyes while she runs her fingers through his hair for a moment from the side of the bed where she’s standing.

“Can you…?” he trails off. She had a feeling. He keeps his eyes closed so he can’t see her reaction. “Please?”

“I’ll have to get the kids up early.” 

“Okay.”

She’s never seen him so defeated, so empty, and she can’t walk away. She brushes her hand over his hair again and climbs in next to him.

“We’ll all have breakfast. Okay? You, me, and the kids,” she says reassuringly.

He nods, the most movement he can muster. His eyelids flutter open to look into her eyes for a second.

“They are real,” he whispers. She sees him in there, buried deep inside.

“I know.” She holds his hand. “And you are their real dad.”

Three Years Later

Kendall glances at his new sneakers and nods approvingly as he strides down the hallway amid the pulsing background beat. They’re the focus of his ensemble. Obviously. Kendall mostly wears his own designs these days. Jess pops out of her office, the sleek Royco Records sign on the wall reflecting her heels as she clicks down the hall. She’s traded her pencil skirts for five-hundred-dollar jeans to match her new company culture and salary, but the stilettos have stuck.

“Ken. You have a visitor in the conference room.”

“Yeah? Catching me before I even get to the door. Are you sure you don’t want to go back to being my assistant?” He smiles.

“Actually, I think I’m better as your executive VP,” she answers with a small smirk. “Also, this company would fall apart without me.”

“Uh huh. Whatever you need to tell yourself,” he says. “Who’s waiting for me?”

He peeks through the door and nods. Stewy swivels around in his sleekly padded armchair, suave as ever and full of news. Kendall swings the glass door open and walks over to clasp his hand and pull him up for a hug.

“Come to beg me for a job?” Kendall smirks.

“Thought you might need some more of my money,” Stewy returns.

“Oh, I don’t need your money. Things must be getting even worse than I thought over there, though.” Kendall grins with some darkness in his eyes.

“Tanking,” Stewy confirms. “This month is disgusting. Or delicious. Tom’s fucking it since Matsson got bored.”

“Still keeping ATN the focus with tech eating the world,” Kendall says disapprovingly, shaking his head and resenting his own knowledge. He can’t help reading the headlines. Or the articles. He’s rebuilt the house, but the foundation is still there. His therapist tells him to quit reading about it, it’s not good for him. But he’s quit so much since the fateful board meeting. There’s no scotch in his office anymore, he tells her, exasperated. It’s a big improvement after the first six months. Things were not good for a while, but he feels a tiny bit better every day now. Sometimes he allows himself just a little bit of self-sabotage in what he reads. A little less every month. He goes back and forth between hoping Waystar succeeds and hoping Tom fails.

“That’s right. I wonder how you know about ATN’s business plan,” Stewy says sarcastically. He knows about the not-so-secret readings. Kendall nods and looks away for a second. “Sorry. I’m- sorry. I actually do have a reason.” He opens his arms. “I resigned from the board.”

Kendall looks more cheerful at that.

“Oh- yeah?”

“I mean, do I look like a charity? I’m not seeing growth on that.”

Kendall knows it should still be profitable for at least a while and smiles to himself.

“Finally out of there, huh? Well… welcome back from the dark side.”

“Yeah…” He glances at Kendall to gauge him before continuing. “I just couldn’t handle any more of the Puppet and his sickeningly tall Sycophant running things.” Stewy’s careful. There were no Waystar mentions allowed here for the first couple of years it was open.

Kendall scoffs and shakes his head.

“Right, well… yeah, no surprises there. And how’s- uh…”

“Your sister? Whispering strategy in Tom’s ear in the car I guess, she doesn’t come to board meetings anymore.”

Kendall nods.

“Well, Roman said he wants all the sibs to get together at the mausoleum for the three-year anniversary of- of Dad,” Kendall says, waiting for the reaction.

Stewy raises his eyebrows and his eyes widen.

“Wooooow,” he draws it out and looks a little concerned. “You gonna go?”

“Uh, yeah. I think I will. Connor’s going, so… I guess it’s- it’s the right thing to do. For Dad.”

Stewy nods.

“Well, if you need an escape-“

“Yeah. Thanks,” Kendall says genuinely. “Hey, if you want, we have that new rapper from the Bronx in two weeks at MSG. It’s gonna be fuckin’ insane. I discovered this guy and he’s, like, next-level shit. Mind-bending, like- you- you just gotta see him. Backstage? You and me?’

“Hell yeah! There gonna be a better spread than the old company’s bullshit?”

“Yes, Stewy. I will make sure the food is refrigerated.”

“Glad to hear it.” He smirks and Kendall shakes his head.

“Okay. Good!” Kendall checks his watch. “I gotta go. I’m swinging by to pick up the kids. And- Rava,” he grins without meaning to. “We’re actually taking them to Rava’s parents house for the weekend.”

Stewy gives a smile of disbelief and raises his eyebrows.

“We?”

“Uh, I mean, trial basis. For her,” Kendall laughs. “I don’t know. Kind of a fuckin’ miracle, we’ll see.” He turns and starts walking out of the conference room. Stewy looks endlessly amused and follows him out.

“Did you go to one of those love potion ladies in the park? A psychic? Did you find a genie, Ken? Like, I can’t even conceive of a world in which-“

“Okay. Fuck off,” Kendall smiles. 

“Dude. Seriously. It’s good to see you like this.” The smile was elusive for a very long time. 

“Yeah.” Kendall nods. “If you fucking say I told you so…”

“Nah. You already know. It’s good to be out of the shitshow. Freedom is always gonna trump the guilt-laden lead shackles of that place.” Kendall looks at the floor and Stewy senses the emotional wave. They happen occasionally- much less over time, but he tries not to cause them. “Sorry.” He pulls Kendall in for a real hug and lets it pass for a moment. Kendall takes a deep breath as Stewy looks around.

“I always say this, but this place is fucking cool.” He rubs his back. “Hey. You built this shit,” Stewy says approvingly as Kendall pulls back with a happier expression on his face. He nods.

Kendall glances up the hallway as they start walking through it, noticing its unique lighting fixtures hanging from the ceiling, bricks on one side and glass offices overlooking the city on the other. The walls are adorned with his favorite records, his top clients’ music, the design team’s most popular sneakers in lighted display cases. Kendall picked every detail with the best designers Jess could find. The pride comes back as he takes it in. This place is his.

“It’s- yeah, it’s pretty amazing.”

Stewy looks down at Kendall’s colorful sneakers.

“Yeah. But your new design is- what is this? This is ridiculous,” Stewy says, gesturing at the shoes. Kendall chuckles.

“Must be hard not to have taste,” he says dryly. “Maybe the concert will make you feel better. See you in two weeks?”

“That’s right,” Stewy agrees and pats Kendall’s shoulder. “Go get your kids.” He makes his way out the door. Kendall turns toward the corner office and pauses before going in to get his favorite suede bomber jacket. He nods with a feeling of peace as he looks at the gilded lettering on the glass underneath Royco Records.

Kendall Roy

CEO

Founder

A/N: Thank you to @capricornmuffins for the brilliant idea of Kendall designing sneakers and having lots of hope and potential in the future 💖

Not sure if you take requests but a follow up fic from Ken after today going home to his family………it would mean the world…please…

🥺💕 A ray of hope in this devastating moment~ I do take requests, especially this one. I’ll work on this for you! Brokenhearted Ken girls all need a fix ❤️‍🩹

[vclvetfleur]

Obedient

Pairing ▹ Roman Roy x Fem! Reader

Synopsis ▹ After graduating college, you had a hard time finding anything. You were living paycheck to paycheck, until your old college roommate tried to help out with getting you an interview at her job, Waystar Royco. After a mix up, you find out that you were interviewing for Kendall's little brother, Roman. The more time you spent with him, you realized his whole facade of being the weird noisy arrogant douche was just to cover up really dark issues. But how much of it can you take til it just becomes way too much for you? You had your own stuff to deal with.

Notes ▹ I decided to finally start a series about Roman. There is not enough fan fictions about him. There's going to be talks about past traumas and unhealthy coping mechanisms. I plan on making the character have deep rooted trauma as well, but hiding it a lot better than Roman, not as well though. There will be triggers for past child abuse, implied (c)SA, mentions of EDs and some substance abuse. Regardless of the heavy tones, I hope you have fun reading. This is mostly a therapy writing thing.

.・。.・゜✭・.Playlist ・✫・゜・。.

Chapters ▹ Chapter 1 , Chapter 2, Chapter 3 , Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20

[planetwaynez]

FLOWERS AND GOLDEN STRINGS

CHAPTER TWO

Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

Soulmate AU!

Chapter Synopsis: Jason can't stop thinking about the flower shop girl, and beacuse of that he takes matters into his own hands. Y/N feels like she is being watched.

WARNINGS: stalking, mentions of crimes and drugs, mental health talk. If there is more let me know.

WORDS: 1,5k

TAGLIST: @27drunkdeer @solarrexplosion @mariam12344 @nyxisnotok

NOTES: This one is a shorter one but it's a important one!!! hope u all enjoy <3 take a look at the tags! every chapther will have a different type of flower in the tags, representing the feelings of Jason and Y/N!

Jason takes a deep breath after he finishes telling Roy about the encounter with the flower shop girl, and how that gave him an uneasy feeling. He is sitting on the couch and Roy is standing in front of him, arms crossed, hair tied up in a man bun and furrowed eyebrows, deep in thought. 

“Just a weird feeling?” he asks, now looking Jason in the eye. To Roy there is only one explanation to Jason’s uneasiness: He found his soulmate, but they didn’t touch, therefore, they are not properly linked to each other. However, Roy also knows his best friend and if he says his theory, Jason is going to close himself off. So he keeps it neutral. 

“Yes” the brunette answers, not quite looking at his friend, thinking that he is probably just with another crush, like it happened before. To Jason, the idea of finding his soulmate is impossible. To him, after he died, there is no more link, after all, he was gone. There is no way.

Roy disagreed. But he kept to himself, after all, every time they had this conversation, they ended up not talking for several months. 

“Ok, it could be a crush, you know?” Once again the redhead tries the safe line of conversation, not pushing Jason’s limits. 

“Yes” but his answer doesn't sound genuine, not even to him. Roy arches an eyebrow, looking at Jason as if he's full of bullshit. And he is, and they both know it.

“What? You think that the flower shop girl is some type of rogue?” Roy jokes but he sees it in his friends eyes when Jason finds an excuse.

Since he came back, Jason is always finding an excuse to do things, especially to his feelings, so it’s not a surprise that he is trying to associate a normal, kind flower shop girl to some crime scheme. 

“She could be” he gets up, as if he just got a revelation and Roy is shocked with his friend, even though he expected it. “That’s probably why I got this weird feeling towards her, it’s my gut telling me she is a rogue”

Jason is looking at Roy with arms open and a sort of crazy look in his eyes, but the redhead doesn’t say anything too out of the line, after all, he knows that Jason already made up his mind. This is Jason’s excuse to watch over the store and find out more about the girl that picked up his interest. 

“You are unbelievable” 

Roy leaves to his bedroom, not wanting to continue the talk or he would end up telling Jason to go to therapy, again, and that’s always a complicated subject. So he leaves his friend alone and, in his loneliness, Jason can’t stop thinking about her, a tight feeling settling in his chest, like a rope ready to snap any moment. It’s uncomfortable and weird and makes his breath uneven. She is just too adorable and kind and so not deserving of having a crazy crime lord vigilante on her back.

However, Jason is too curious.

He is going to find out more about her. 

….

Y/N always loved the idea of soulmates. Someone destined to be with you, someone that will always understand you and support and love no matter what, this gravitational force that is so strong and out of this world that makes two people in love, their souls linked in this life and many others. To her, soulmates exist to bring some type of comfort to people and she feels comforted by the idea. Since she was a little girl, she has dreamed of the day she will meet hers, and deep down she already loves them, because she can feel it. The string moving and adapting, looking for its other half. 

As another client leaves the shop, she moves her shoulders, trying to break the tension. As much as she loves love and seeing people in love, after some time it gets tiring hearing all those beautiful stories while selling flowers, while waiting for her turn to be gifted. She can feel the tension leaving a bit, but not enough, as if her body kept alert because of something lurking in the dark.

It's been weeks since she started feeling this way, as if she is being watched. Rationally, Y/N knows she works in a considerably dangerous zone, but the Sunshine Flower Shop, owned by Mrs.Sullivan was never a target, after all, it's been open for years and Mrs.Sullivan knows everyone and since the Red Hood took over the most fragile parts of the city he made sure two rules stuck. 1. Never swelling drugs to minors and 2. Never taking from theirs; The second rule basically tells minor criminals that they can’t take away from their own people, from their one neighborhood. So she knows that they wouldn't risk it. At least that’s what she likes to think. 

“You seem a bit off, dear, what's wrong?” coming from the back of the shop, Mrs.Sullivan asks, her kind brown eyes looking at her with worry.

Y/N smiles, once again trying to get rid of that tension settling on her shoulders. “Nothing, I am fine, Mr.Sullivan” 

The older woman doesn’t believe her, and Y/N knows it, but they don’t talk more about it. Mrs.Sullivan let the subject go with an arched eyebrow and worry filled eyes and Y/N pretends to not see it. 

After that a few other clients come and go and they keep their harmony in the shop, making beautiful bouquets and giving free smiles to everyone. When the time comes, they close up and once again she feels it. That unsettling feeling, the one to be watched.

But, at the same time, she can feel in her chest the way her string dances, the way it seems it’s looking for someone. It almost takes her breath away, especially because she doesn’t understand this. How can she feel so scared and so safe at the same time? 

She walks home, her hands closed in tight fists and her eyes roaming around but she can’t find the source of her weird feelings, not in the dark alleys and in the full moon shining in the sky. When she gets to her building and gets inside, it’s like everything fades away. There is no more fear and no more string dancing in her chest, it’s an emptiness, it’s an almost numbing feeling and it hits her like a punch to the face. 

It’s unexpected and cold. Y/N hates to feel scared, hates the way the fear makes her legs weak and the way her veins feel like steel and adrenaline is pumping all over her body but she can’t ignore the fact that the fear this time came along that thing in her chest. The string dancing, almost as if it was calling it’s equal. That feeling she didn't hate, she just hated that she had to feel afraid to feel the string again. 

After so long, she felt it again and she can’t quite believe it or understand but it's there. It's alive and it’s dancing and singing and looking for its other half. 

When she is inside her apartment, she sits on her couch and takes a deep breath. She needs a shower, and to think and to sleep.

….

With fascination, Jason watched the girl from the flower shop go home. She seems so scared but so pretty at the same time. He knows it's not healthy to think like that but it’s almost as if a stronger thing inside him was controlling his thoughts that night. 

He made a deep dive into the girl's life. He knows her full name, her parents names, knows her address, her blood type, where she studied and where she is currently studying at. What she likes and what she doesn’t like. He couldn’t help himself, he went on a spiral; Jason promised to himself it was going to be only the basics but when he realized, he was too deep into her life. 

He feels guilty about it but in all honesty, he doesn’t regret it.

She is fascinating.

She is everything he is not and everything he wishes to have. It’s a pearl walking around, being danglend on his face. 

He tells himself it’s just a crush and a little bit of paranoia but Jason knows it's none of that, he knows it's something deeper. There is this thing on his chest, moving like a bear after hibernation, with caution but with a strange ferocity. He can’t ignore it but to his sake he will. 

The last thing Jason saw of her that night was her face in the moonlight, looking over her shoulder. The knit brows, the half open lips that seem so soft and the pink cheeks. He had to almost physically restrain himself as he watched her get inside the building and when she did, he immediately left.

Jason knows that he shouldn’t keep this, but he won’t listen to his logical mind for once. He will follow his wants. And he wants more of Y/N.