#roy kent bowled over

[blue-bujo]

Bowled Over (Roy Kent x Reader): Chapter One

You work at a bowling alley and a young girl named Phoebe has a birthday party there. You catch her uncle's eye.

Roy Kent x female reader

Will try to update roughly every two weeks

Chapter One: The Other Beautiful Game

Words: 1.9K

Content: Kent-level language (you know what you're in for)

Cricket. Polo. The real football.

There were many popular sports in England, but the downfall of all of those was the fact that they were all at the mercy of the weather. That was why, in your humble opinion, the best sport in the world was bowling.

You were fully aware that the rest of the world definitely didn’t consider it a real sport, and that was fine. But to you, it was the best. No other sport could be enjoyed by 4 year olds and 94 year olds at the same time, all while having full access to a pitcher of beer and never being rained out. Nor did any other sport create friendships so instantly while in good natured competition. It certainly had for you.

You, the army brat, who had moved every year and always ended up being the new kid with the accent different from everyone else’s, had always found common ground in whatever bowling alley had been closest to base. Bowling was its own language, its own gateway into other people’s lives. When you���d finally stayed somewhere for more than two years when you were in high school, you’d made yourself a fixture at the lanes. You stayed in England for college – no, university – and worked your way through every beer league and youth camp you could. The bowling alley was your home, and you ended up staying even after your father retired from the army and returned to his hometown with your mother. Your place was here, behind the counter and coaching leagues.

It was a shallowly connected life. You had a few friends from your own league, as well as your coworkers, and some regulars that you absolutely loved, but mainly, you saw people for five minutes while they paid and figured out which size their rental shoes needed to be before they went to the lanes and you watched from a distance, telling yourself that it was fine.

One day, and especially lonely one, you were scheduled to work a children’s party. You were slightly hung over from the pitcher you’d shared at your league the night prior, and weren’t looking forward to all of the noise that children would inevitably cause. Taking a preemptive Excedrin, you pulled up your hair and braced for the worst.

The birthday child was a blonde girl who was all smiles, leading seven little friends and their adults behind them. You plastered on your best customer service smile and got through the chaos of check in, shoes, snack bar follow up, and lane assignments, then collapsed in your chair to stare into space for a while, until someone needed you.

The respite was brutally short.

You didn’t notice at first, but eventually you realized that you had somebody standing at the side of the counter. It was because of his shirt. Anywhere else, it would have stood out obnoxiously, but the red, orange, and yellow tie dye blended into the colorful walls. You turned quickly once you realized he was there.

“Sorry, I zoned out,” you blurted. “How can I help you, sir?”

The man – you recognized him from somewhere, you realized, but you couldn’t place where – startled at how quickly you acknowledged him. He had very expressive eyebrows, which shot up his forehead in surprise. He pointed at the lanes where the blonde girl’s group was bowling and grunted, “One of the little shits that my niece is friends with threw a ball right after another kid and hit the thing that pushes the pins out of the way, and now it won’t go back up. Can you fix it so their days won’t be ruined?”

You couldn’t tell if her was mad at the lane or at you; it seemed like he was angry in general, judging by the deep creases between his eyebrows. Best to take a cautious approach with him.

“I can’t fix it, but I can call the tech. Just a second.” You grabbed the intercom, but didn’t click it on. “It’s the gate on 15, yeah?”

“The what?”

“The black sweepy thing, on Lane 15?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Quickly, you called out, “Pete, I need a gate reset on Lane 15, please” over the speakers. Then you turned back to the tie dye man.

“Cheers,” he said. “Phoebe will be happy now.”

“That’s your niece? The blonde girl?”

He nodded. “Yep, that idiot.” He smiled and waved toward Phoebe, who was trying to get his attention. “She made me this shirt. I wouldn’t have picked it, but she made it, so I wear it to all her things.”

“It’s a good look. Matches the décor here,” you teased. “I almost didn’t see you, and you were right in front of me.”

A grunt was the only response you got. Fearing you’d been rude, you cleared your throat and continued. “Well. I’ll be here for the rest of the day, if you guys need anything else. You know where to find me.”

Another grunt, and eyebrow guy was gone, leaving you to put your head on the counter in embarrassment. That was so awkward!

You stewed in your awkwardness for another half an hour; nobody else came in to distract you. Distraction didn’t come until you got a call from the snack bar, signaling that they needed you to run the pizza to Phoebe’s group. Inwardly groaning, you picked up the tray and a stack of plates, and expertly balanced them as you walked to Lane 15. Phoebe and her friends were excited to see you, and their enthusiasm evaporated some of your self-pity. These seemed to be good kids.

“Okay,” you said, putting your hands on your hips and leaning down conspiratorially, “I only have two rules for you. Rule Number One: No pizza or drinks on the approach. Rule Number Two: I don’t want to see any pizza fingers in those balls, because someone will have to clean them.” You pointed at yourself as you said “someone,” which made all the kids laugh. “And Rule Number Three-”

“You said there were only two!” interrupted a young boy. Tie dye guy glared at him.

“Well, I lied,” you shrugged. That got a laugh from everybody. “Rule Number Three: Help Phoebe have a happy birthday!”

All of the kids cheered. Satisfied, you walked over to their grown-ups. “If you guys need anything, I’m Splits.” You tapped your nametag, bearing the kitschy bowling nickname that the manager had made you pick. “I’ll be at the counter.”

Your nickname drew a few chuckles and sympathetic smiles. One of the younger adults, who you also recognized in addition Phoebe's uncle, fixed you with a flirty look.

“Do they call yah that because you can do the splits, or…?”

“No, because I leave plenty on the lanes.”

He looked like he was trying to come up with another quip, but Phoebe’s uncle elbowed him in the ribs. “Shut up, Jamie. Not everyone loves you.”

Jamie, unperturbed, elbowed him back. “Whatever, Coach. It was worth trying. Sorry, Splits.”

You realized where you had seen him before. AFC Richmond was the local football club, and the young man was none other than Jamie Tartt. And now that you had figured out who he was, you had to ask, no matter how much it pained you…

“Can I get a quick photo? The owner likes us to whenever we have a celebrity guest.”

Jamie’s chest puffed out before he looked at tie dye man; you got the feeling his coach had lectured him before about showboating. “Sure, yeah, if that’s how it’s done here.” He checked his hair and grabbed a bowling ball. “Where do you want meh?”

“Uncle Roy should be in the picture, too!” piped Phoebe, shooting her uncle a pout. “He’s more famous that Jamie!”

The man you’d talked to at the counter, who you recognized but didn’t know where from, was named Roy? And Jamie had called him “coach?” Was he Roy Kent? How had you not realized?

It had to be the tie dye. Had to be.

“Fuck no, I’m not getting in a picture with that prick.”

“Please, Uncle Roy?” pleaded Phoebe. “It is my birthday.”

A grunt. You were beginning to think that they were his primary language, in combination with swearing. Roy Kent stood up, rolled his eyes, and got next to Jamie Tartt, glowering.

You reached into your back pocket and took out your phone to check how things looked. Bowling alley lighting was never great, but it was especially bad today. Jamie popped, because of course he did, but Roy melted into the wall, his obnoxious shirt effectively camouflaging him.

Thinking quickly, you went to the racks, grabbed a bright blue bowling ball, and brought it to Roy. He just stared at it.

“And what am I supposed to do with this? Throw a fucking strike on camera?”

“No, I just need you to hold it,” you huffed. “The camera can’t see you; your shirt blends in too much. Just take this, please, and this can be over.”

Without giving him a choice, you pushed the bowling ball against his arm. He took it awkwardly, his fingers brushing yours. You thought he shrank into his shoulders after that, but it could have just been him settling the weight of the ball, so you couldn’t be sure.

You took the picture and sent it to your manager, who started freaking out and texting a sentence at a time, but you retreated back to your counter after that. The rest of the afternoon went quietly. Phoebe’s party ended, and you watched as Roy and Jamie gathered all of the kids’ rental shoes and brought them up to you to return.

Sorry for flirting with yah earlier,” said Jamie, dumping an armful of footwear. “Old habits and all that.”

“It’s no problem,” you replied.

He gave you a wink and sauntered off. Then Roy deposited all of the shoes he was carrying.

“Thanks for being cool. Phoebe enjoyed it.”

“My pleasure. Sorry for the picture.”

“It happens. People are weird about fame.”

“Sorry all the same. Hopefully it wasn’t too awkward.”

Roy Kent wouldn’t look at you, and instead focused on a spot on the counter. Then he gave a last grunt and walked away, sticking out a hand to hold Phoebe’s. You watched them leave before grabbing a bottle of disinfectant to spray down the shoes. As you did, you mused that, for being a football manager and a player before that, Roy Kent was really awkward when it came to being recognized.

The sound of running feet tore your attention away from your thoughts. You looked up, ready to shout at some kids for horseplay, but it was Phoebe, running back to the lanes and grabbing a jumper that she had left. Then she jogged back to the desk, stopping on the way out.

“I had a really fun time,” she said.

“I’m glad,” you replied warmly. “I hope to see you come back.”

Phoebe smiled. “I think I will. I overheard Uncle Roy telling Jamie that he shouldn’t call strangers ‘fit,’ even if they are, and I think they were talking about you. Bye!”

She pranced off to rejoin her uncle where he was waiting for her at the exit, taking his hand once more. You could see them talking, and something she said made him look up abashedly at you. He held your gaze for just a moment, then threw Phoebe over his shoulder and stomped away. You had the rest of the night to ponder the fact that Jamie Tartt and maybe Roy Kent had considered you attractive. It made up for the awkwardness of the photo. Almost.

[blue-bujo]

This is painfully accurate

“How’s your WIP going?”

"Have you made any progress?”

“How close are you to being done?”

[danistartt]

Jamie Tartt's Awful Breakfast and Lovely Morning

pairings: jamie tartt x reader, roy kent warnings: reader is not a very good cook, fire?, language a la kent about: a request about reader not being a very good cook and jamie kind of liking it, and a request about touchy jamie <3

“You don’t have to get up with me ev’ry day, babe,” Jamie insists, his honesty doubted when he rests his chin against your shoulder.

“I don’t mind. I miss you when you’re gone.” You shrug, trying your best to keep the motion identifiable but unbothersome for the man gnawing at your skin. You laugh at him, shimmying your shoulders to get him away. “Jamie, what are you doing?”

“Y’smell good,” he hums. 

“It’s the batter,” you say. Jamie disagrees. “Can you get some butter, please?”

Jamie raises a brow and looks over to your hands, busy with the flour. Clumpy yellow bubbles trap more white into sticky goo. “More, love?”

“Yeah.” You wrinkle your nose, scraping gross residue off your index before sticking it back inside the mix. “I don’t think I used it right. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to melt it?”

“What’d the recipe say?” Jamie asks, opening the fridge.

“Soften. But there are different levels of soft, right?” You grimace at your concoction, but take your free hand and wrap it around the stick of butter he hands you. 

He watches you settle into your position, microwave ignored. “What’re you doin’?”

“Softening,” you murmur, concentrating on your mixture.

“Don’t ya think we’ve advanced a little further than that as humanity?”

“You’d think, huh?” Your fingers squeeze a little tighter.

He stares at the jutted bottom lip, the little lines between your brows, and decides you must be right. With only a chunk of your attention, you’re trying to figure out a way to rush heat into the stick of butter through your palm. He bites his lip. “We have mix,” he offers.

Your head swivels toward him, features scandalized. “I’m doing good!” you defend.

“I know,” he says. “You’re doing great, I can see that.”

“I wanted to make them from scratch. With love.”

“You are.”

“They’re easy,” you insist, turning back to your task with a distressed look on your face. You squeeze the butter a little harder, the wet noises of your mixing speeding up. The butter’s wrapped ends crinkle. “It just needs more butter.”

Very suddenly, you drop the bar inside the bowl, holding its greasy wrapper between your middle and index. Jamie winces as it plops in, some of the mix drooling onto the counter.

Nodding happily, you shove both hands inside the too-small bowl and look at him over your shoulder with a grin. “See?” You wince when your nails glide into the cold middle, recovering quickly in a facade of surety.

He nods, eyebrows uneven in light concern, but encourages you anyway, trying not to shudder at the sound before you decide you’re finished and begin pouring it onto a hot pan already smeared with more butter.

It’s both too runny and too thick, creating a wavy circle in the center of your pan. You frown at it, looking at your batter again. “Jamie?”

“Yeah?”

“That doesn’t look very right, does it?”

Jamie loops an arm around your waist and presses a noisy kiss to your cheek. “I like it. Like a flower.”

“A wobbly flower,” you comment, leaning toward it, “that’s not bubbling.”

“I don’t think they’re supposed to bubble, love.”

“Inverse bubbling,” you explain. “Nothing is happening, is it on?”

Jamie turns the knob very gently, satisfied when it rotates easily. “Yeah. Give it a second.”

“It’s not doing the thing!” you exclaim, grabbing the spatula and flipping it too early. Jamie watches as it splatters part of the stove and streaks a thin line across the counter. He breathes in, about to say something, and decides against it.

“It’s bubbling,” you say optimistically, sheepish at its ends.

You’re correct. Thin, popped-bubble circles peek out from the edges of the lump-petals. “Huh,” Jamie says inquisitively, leaning in. “That’s interestin’.”

Your brows knit. “I think that’s good.”

Jamie is inclined to disagree, but he refuses to.

“It’s browning really quickly,” you observe, turning it over. It’s splotchy, but it should be fully cooked. You plop it on a plate, lips pinching and face struggling to stay proud.

“It smells edible. Could even say good,” Jamie comforts.

“It’s the bacon.” You say solemnly, poking at it with your spatula, its sizzling soft and barely beginning.

“No,” he says stubbornly, edged hair poking the curve of your arm. 

You pluck a fork from your cupboard and cut a neat square of pancake, popping it into your mouth. Jamie watches you chew amusedly, raising an eyebrow when you look down at your flapjack forlornly, a defeated realization on your face.

“What’s wrong, babe?”

You swallow solemnly, meeting his eyes. “I forgot the sugar.”

Jamie inhales, the air stuttering in his throat before shifting into a laugh. You look so sad, and he wraps you up in his arms, kissing your temple through soft laughter. You slump into his chest.

“It was not good,” you admit. “It was really gross.”

“I love ya,” he tells you, still chuckling. “You—” he snorts, “You’re great, you know that?”

“This is awful, Jamie,” you moan, making him laugh harder against the crown of your hair. 

“It’s not,” Jamie insists. “We still have the bacon.” He giggles and you watch him, pointy strands of hair prodding his cheekbones.

“Where’s your headband?” you ask, lowering the heat on the stove to turn to the man next to you. You cup a side of his jaw with your hand and pull hair away from his face with a frown.

“Broken.” He mimics your motions, both of his hands flat against your cheeks and squeezing with a careful mischief.

Breakfast failure forgotten, you huff, dropping your fingers to circle around his wrist and pulling him to your bathroom. You lead him inside and push his shoulders to sit him down. He watches as you pull little boxes out of the cabinet, hooking an index inside and pulling out random colors of bands, big and small.

You find a yellow-lined one that seems appropriate and turn to him again. “This should fit even you and your big head,” you murmur affectionately, gently combing his hair back to tug it on. He shuts his eyes when you drag it over his face, pinkies keeping it from brushing against even the highest of his pretty features. You use your index to fix his sliced brow, marriage fixing the band to fit his face. You drop a sweet kiss at his hairline, wiping it away as if it left a mark. “Perfect.”

“Thank you,” he says very quietly, light eyes constellating along your pinched lashes and pursed lips.

“I don’t know what you keep doing to these,” you scold playfully, slipping two others, a glittery blue one and a speckled pink, out of your tray to hand to him.

“Me big head,” he reasons, the left edge of his lips quirking up at your laugh.

“Probably,” you say.

He stares at you for nearly a second before realizing he has no reason to hold back, the heat of his palms grazing your ears when he kisses you.

You hum, delighted, and hook your arms around his waist. “Jamie,” you murmur, nudging his nose with yours.

He laughs against you, pulling away to see your confusion. “You taste like batter.”

You grimace. “Not very good?”

"You always taste good," he rebuts easily, stealing another kiss. He smiles at you when he pulls away, that wonderfully insolent lid to his eyes. You are putty in his hands. He knows this too well.

You twirl a blond strand of his hair around your finger. “Did you use that hair mask I got you?”

“A li’l while ago. Worked great.” He presses his lips against the hard hill of your cheek.

“You’re supposed to use it regularly.”

“Can you do it?”

“Right now? You don’t have enough time, babe.”

“Then when I come home.”

“Sure. We can use those cucumber things I’ve been meaning to try out, too.”

“Can’t wait,” he tells you, crushing you in a sudden hug. You laugh in surprise, going limp in his arms.

“What has gotten into you?” you ask, wriggling in his hold when he presses open-mouthed kisses to the thin skin of your neck.

“I can’t touch ya now?” he teases, a cruel finger digging into your ribs. You squeal, twisting away from him. He only catches your cheek, biting above your jaw with just enough pressure to sting. 

“When has that ever happened?” you challenge, turning your face to finally catch his lips.

“Does right now count?” he asks against your mouth, diving back in to press a harsh kiss to your bottom lip.

“Right now is not an example,” you laugh, quiet. His palm smooths over your cheek. 

“Agree to disagree,” he offers with one last kiss. “‘Cuz I like ya.”

You snort, pushing him away. He doesn’t let you, dragging his hands down to your waist and keeping them there. “I’m honored.”

He shakes hair away from his eyes, giving up when it does little. You raise an index finger to do it for him when the fire alarm shriekingly cuts in. It bumps harmlessly against the rise of his eyebrow, landing very sorrowfully in sorry circles on his temple when you and he flinch.

You turn your face away from him and toward the door. It only takes you a moment to realize what is going on, the smell of burnt bacon sudden and harsh.

“Fuck,” you say, scrambling to the kitchen.

Your breakfast is but a dark chunk of coal when you arrive, plumes of smoke gathering at the ceiling like a flipped waterfall. You turn off the stove and wince at your tragedy while Jamie shuts off the alarm and opens the doors, pulling you away from the worst of the fog after too long of your lingering.

“You’ll inhale smoke,” he warns.

“It's the only edible part of our breakfast,” you say mournfully.

“Not anymore.”

You snort and lean against him, pouting at your little garden still clothed in the residue of pale moonlight. The flowers haven’t even opened their petals yet. “I’m sorry you won’t get bacon for breakfast today. Or flapjacks.”

“S’okay.” Jamie shrugs, genuine pleasantry leaning delight. “I’m distractin’. You got distracted.”

“So did you,” you oppose.

“You’re distractin’ too.” He grins at you, dropping a swift kiss along your forehead.

“I’ll drop you something off today,” you amend.

“You don’t hav’ta do that, love.”

“I want to. I’ll go to that cafe and get you one of those sandwiches you like. And cookies.” Your smile goes gooey. “Maybe a cinnamon roll.”

Jamie raises an amused eyebrow. “Alright, then.”

You inhale deeply, face contorting at the smoky vignette it comes with. “Do you think the smoke went up to our room?”

“Probably. Stay out here for a little after I leave.”

You moan at the stars. “It’s like five AM. It’s cold out here.”

A loud noise erupts from the opposite end of the house; Roy has arrived.

“He’s earlier than usual,” Jamie muses.

“Give him some of the leftover eggs,” you urge. “And apologize.”

Jamie stares at you quizzically. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I told him I’d send breakfast today and because none of it is fit for human consumption, I’m sending something we bought yesterday.”

“You talk about my breakfast with Roy Kent?” Jamie sputters.

You glare at him, rushing inside to collect the container. “I feel as though you’ve missed the point.” The smoke that continues to linger rushes hatefully into your throat. “Not your breakfast. His breakfast.”

“What? Why?” Jamie asks no one, staring at the little case of eggs you shove into his hands.

“Because I thought it would be nice for him to have one.” You give his dazed face his goodbye kiss before opening the door. Roy stands in your doorway, clearly impatient. He gives you a tight smile.

“Hello.” You smile, some smoke rippling from behind you. 

“Hello,” Roy says, slanting two fingers in greeting. He watches the plumes swirl around you with an upturned bushy eyebrow.

You wave it away. “Sorry, we had a little incident.” 

You shove Jamie out the door. Roy watches him stumble beside him. “No rush.”

Jamie turns to him, nose wrinkling. “Right. The poundin’ of the door really says that.”

Roy rolls his eyes. “You haven’t seen me impatient, Tartt.”

“Will I?” Jamie dares, glancing at you. “By the way—totally unrelated—lovely, lovely y/n’s sent you some breakfast today.”

Roy follows his line of sight and growls. “No,” he answers.

Jamie steps closer to you with a cheeky smile and kisses you goodbye. “Love ya.”

“I love you too. Have fun. Be nice,” you tell him.

“Tell that to Kent!”

“I’m nice,” Roy grunts. “I’m like a fucking golden retriever.”

“I can see that,” you nod supportively. 

Roy juts a thumb toward you.

Jamie shakes his head, lips parted. “I don’t like this.”

“And I don’t fuckin’ care,” Roy buts in. “Let’s go.” He ducks his chin at you respectfully. “Y/n.”

You mimic his motion. “Roy.”

Jamie looks between you two, an index gesturing lazily. "Stop that."

“How about you stop blabberin’ and start runnin’?”

“I’ll see you later, Jamie,” you assure, pulling him in for one last kiss. “I recommend you run, babe.”

“Me too,” Roy barks, a few steps away. “Babe.”

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

Call It What You Want (Superstar Chapter 2)

'Cause my baby's fit like a daydream

Walkin' with his head down, I'm the one he's walkin' to

So call it what you want, yeah, call it what you want to 

 Sequel to Superstar where the Reader and Roy Kent have their first date.

Roy Kent x Reader

5.7k words

Warnings: language (because Roy Kent), adults drinking adult drinks

Note: We’re in a parallel universe where Roy & Keeley never date and Keeley is in a healthy relationship with Jamie. Also, this came out a bit longer than I expected but dang it was fun to write!

The tension came to a head during lunch that Friday, our office door closed as we both sat at my desk, eating falafel out of the foil containers Roy had smuggled in past Ted and Beard. As I took a bite, I snuck a glance at Roy, who was gazing at the orange sticky note he’d stuck above my computer the day before:

~

It had been a week since Roy Kent had discovered the shrine to himself in my childhood bedroom. The following days had been sprinkled with autographs left on any papers that didn’t look too important, teasing pleas for no pictures during work hours, and one particularly mocking offer to save his beard trimmings the next time he shaved. But it was also filled with lingering stares in the hall, chocolate muffins left on my desk each morning, lunches shared in our tiny office, and the occasional smile and wink on the pitch when no one else was looking. A few times, Roy even brushed his fingers against mine when we squeezed by each other in doorways. With each small touch or moment of longing eye contact, I felt myself wondering how long it would take for one of us to break.

To my biggest fan

XOXO Roy Kent

“When’s your mum’s birthday?”

God, would I ever get used to his out of nowhere questions? “Why, d’you want to crash her birthday dinner too?”

A snort flew out of his nose as he turned his attention back to his lunch. “No. Just wanted to make sure you’re not busy tonight before I ask you out.”

Look up the signs of a heart attack when you get home, you might be having one. “Oh, really?” I tried to keep my breathing steady. “You think I’m the kind of girl who has no plans on a Friday night?”

Roy rolled his eyes and stuffed another bit of falafel into his mouth. “I think,” he said between bites, “you’re the kind of girl who’s gonna be really fucking annoying on our date tonight.” He paused to meet my gaze. “Unless you’ve already got plans with David Beckham? Or Lionel Messi?”

Another one of his recurring jokes that week was asking about my interest in other football players. I narrowed my eyes. “Unfortunately Becks was busy tonight,” I played along. “So, I guess I’m all yours.”

“I like the sound of that.”

A heat filled the air as Roy used his foot to roll my chair towards him, opening his knees slightly so I could come close to him. My knees hit the inside of his thighs and our noses practically touched; the back of my neck prickled. This was the closest contact we’d had since our kiss upstairs at my parents’ house. His eyes searched mine, thick eyebrows raised. My heart hammered as I leaned forward-

“Roy? Hey Roy?”

My chair was swiftly kicked back into place before Ted opened the office door, his head bent over his phone. We both quickly turned our attention back to our lunches, as if eating falafel took a lot of effort. By the time Ted looked up, Roy and I looked like we’d just been eating in silence- which was actually completely believable.

Ted’s face lit up when he saw me. “Oh, there you are. Was wondering where you’d gotten to.” He turned his attention to Roy, then paused when he saw the food in our hands. “Aw, you’re already eating.” He snapped his fingers. “I was gonna invite y’all go get some fish ‘n’ chips with me ‘n’ Beard.” He shrugged. “Well, enjoy your…” He studied the bowls a moment. “Meat? Whatever it is, looks tasty.” With an oblivious wave he turned on his heel and left, calling out for Coach Beard to follow him.

After a moment of listening to the sound of their receding footprints, followed by blessed silence, Roy finally looked back at me. “Well, he fucking ruined that moment. So, I’ll get you at seven?”

“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “I’ll text you my address.”

“No need.” Roy grinned. “Don’t forget, you’re an easy stalking target.”

I stuck my tongue out at him, amazed at how comfortable I had grown with Roy “he’s here, he’s there, he’s every fucking where” Kent over the past week. “I turned off my Snapchat location, thanks to you. So be nice or else no address.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Fine. Then you can just meet me at the restaurant, and we can miss out on the whole ‘you open the door and my jaw drops when I see you’ moment.”

We narrowed our eyes at each other for a moment before breaking out into matching grins.

“Pick you up at seven,” he repeated.

~

From the moment I got home from work until the moment I heard a knock on my door, my hands shook and my heart hammered. I was incredibly grateful that Roy had used the word “date” in our conversation that afternoon; if he hadn’t, I probably would have spent hours agonizing over what the evening ahead meant. Even with the confirmation that this was indeed a date, I was a mess as I agonized over the perfect outfit and fought with my hair, desperate to look special compared with what Roy saw each day at work. When the sound of knocking reached my ears at 6:59, the tremble in my hands spread to my whole body.

Relax. You know he likes you. He wouldn’t have kissed you and asked you out and tried to kiss you again if he didn’t.

An involuntary gulp escaped when I opened the door and saw Roy standing in front of me. He looked really good in his fitted black slacks and black button-down shirt. He looked even better when he smiled at me, his brown eyes traveling down my frame slowly.

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyebrows raised. “You look great. Really fucking great.” He held his hand out to me, his eyes sparkling. “Are you ready then?”

We walked out to his car, neither of us saying a word. When we got to the car, he opened the door and helped me in before climbing in on his side. I shifted in my seat and cleared my throat.

“So, what’s the plan, Kent?”

“Figured we’d go sit in our office and eat takeaway,” he answered as he started the car. “Y’know, same shit we do every day.”

“Romantic,” I snarked.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, he took my hand, interlocking our fingers. “Fine, nix that plan then. How about drinks and then a late dinner? Just no fucking work talk please.”

I stared at our hands, wondering if he could feel my pounding pulse through my fingertips. “Sounds great,” I agreed, giving his hand a squeeze.

It was a somewhat quiet drive, but a comfortable one. I’d turned on the radio to some pop station, and Roy drummed out the beat with his fingers, tapping the back of my hand rhythmically. With his attention on the road, I allowed myself the opportunity to unabashedly stare at him. He was still Roy Kent: grizzled, dark, something of a brooding aura surrounding him. But he looked different that he normally did in the office, more like he had that evening at my parents’ house. His shoulders were relaxed against the driver’s seat, and his mouth was curved ever-so-slightly upwards, a shadow of a smile. As if he could feel the heat of my gaze, his eyes shifted off the road and towards me, causing his mouth to curve even further upwards.

“Admiring something?” he asked, clearly amused.

A bit embarrassed to be caught staring, I turned my eyes back to the road. “Just… taking in the sights.”

“The sights,” he repeated, nodding his head. “I’d say to take a picture since it’ll last longer, but I think you’ve got enough fucking pictures hanging at your mum’s house, wouldn’t you agree?”

My embarrassment deepened. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

Roy gave my hand a squeeze. “Nope. Only because I like seeing you blush so much.”

We finally arrived at the pub, with me refusing to look at Roy’s smug face for the rest of the car ride. He quickly got out of the car and jogged to my side, opening my door, and holding my hand to help me down.

“D’you really need such a massive car?” I teased as his hand settled in the small of my back.

A playful huff came out of Roy’s mouth. “Oi, don’t make fun of a man’s car. Otherwise, you’ll be walking home.”

“Aww, but how will you walk me to my door and kiss me at the end of the night?” I asked with a pretend pout, crossing my arms to give the full bratty effect.

Roy gave a hearty chuckle as we entered the dark pub. “You’re a presumptuous thing, you think you’re getting a kiss on the first date?”

I rolled my eyes as Roy guided me to a secluded corner booth, letting me slide in before following me into the seat. “Oh, I’m sorry, can you only kiss a girl when you’re surrounded pictures by yourself? Because I stopped carrying your photo in my wallet ages ago. Might still have a couple saved on my mobile though, would you like me to check?”

Roy stared at me hard for a moment, his dark eyes practically drilling holes into my brain. “You talk way too fucking much, anyone ever tell you that?”

Before I could come up with some clever response, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against mine. I could only squeak weakly in response as my eyes fluttered closed. This kiss was a bit rougher than the one we’d shared a week ago, with my lips parting to mirror Roy’s own slightly open mouth. It ended entirely too soon, with Roy smirking at me.

“That ought to shut you up for a fucking minute,” he chuckled as an older woman in an apron approached, a knowing smile on her face.

“How’re you Roy?” the woman asked casually, although her eyes were on me.

Roy grunted in response, suddenly reverting to his usual monosyllabic self. “Fine. Usual, please.”

The woman hummed and raised her eyebrows at me. “And you sweetheart?”

I quickly ordered my drink, offering up a couple of pleases and thank yous. With drink orders out of the way, I finally let myself look around the pub. It was dimly lit, with a couple televisions above the bar. There was a mostly older crowd, with most other customers having at least a decade on my parents. There were darts on a far wall and a foosball table near another wall. A jukebox in one corner played a Vann Morrison song that I vaguely recognized. The place was a far cry from the loud, crowded, sweaty clubs my mates usually tried to drag me to. If I had to pick between the two, I’d take this pub any day of the week- especially with Roy Kent by my side.

When I turned my attention back to Roy, he was already staring at me, his mouth in a straight line for the first time all night. “Is this alright?” he asked bluntly. “You weren’t expecting champagne and caviar, were you?”

Behind the hard expression on his face, I could see anxiety in his eyes. My mind wandered to the women I’d seen him with in magazines and online… models, influencers, a couple B-list actresses, none sticking around for more than a couple months. I’d even read one blog post about a woman who stole his watch before ending the relationship. It dawned on me that most of the women he dated would probably not be okay with a place like this. Despite the almost-scowl on Roy’s face, I felt myself melt at the realization that he was nervous about what I thought of the place.

“I think,” I said after a moment, “that this place is great.” I laid my hand on his, feeling him relax instantly beneath my touch. “You must come here a lot if you have a usual?”

“Couple of times a month,” he admitted, his facial expression softening. “The old geezers know who I am, but they leave me alone for the most part, sometimes give me shit about Richmond when the team fucks up. Never have to worry about them posting pictures of me on Twitter or some shit. And the barkeep, Rose, she doesn’t always tally up all my beers correctly and undercharges me all the fuckin’ time.” His smile returned. “So at Christmas I like to clear a tab or two, to make up for the free shit I get.” He nodded to himself. “It’s nice to just come here and have a beer, not have to worry about being Roy Kent, y’know?” He squinted at me for a moment. “Alright, now you kiss me, because I’m talking way too fucking much.”

I laughed as the older woman- Rose- returned with our drinks. She smiled at me as she set down my glass. “He must like you,” she mused, her eyes darting to Roy. “Never brings his dates here. ’less you count that pretty-boy soccer player. Went on that bloody reality show. The one they sing that stupid shark song about?”

“Jamie Tartt?” I offered, eyebrows raised. I turned to Roy, whose eyes were practically behind his head. “Do I have competition? Because Jamie Tartt is definitely hotter than me.”

Roy dramatically threw his head back and let out a massive, growling sigh as Rose walked away, her chuckles echoing behind her. “Don’t ever call Tartt hot, I swear I’ll cut my ears off.”

“Relax, van Gogh,” I scoffed. “I won’t get jealous of Jamie if you don’t.”

“Hmmf.” Roy eyed me carefully, taking a sip of his beer. “Who’s hotter, me or Tartt?” he challenged. The tiny upturn at the corner of his mouth assured me that he was teasing.

“Definitely Jamie,” I deadpanned, taking a sip from my own glass. “I’m only here because he and Cristiano Ronaldo didn’t call me back.”

Roy shook his head and smiled, sliding his hand out from under mine and placing his on top. “Just so you know,” he murmured, leaning in close. “Ronaldo’s a fuckin’ prick.”

Before I could laugh, he pressed his lips to mine, mirroring the kiss from earlier, but gentler, slower now, full of affection. My eyes fluttered closed as I kissed him back, the little voice in my head unable to form a coherent sentence.

Roy Kent kissing me it’s Roy Kent he’s here he’s there he’s kissing me Roy Kent

~

“Fuck.” Roy gazed at his phone. “We were supposed to be at the restaurant a fucking hour ago.” He grimaced as his eyes met mine. “Had a reservation and everything.”

My fingers traced the rim of the glass in front of me as I shook my head. “Roy, it’s fine,” I laughed.

We had spent the last couple of hours- and rounds of drinks- cuddled in our booth, cracking jokes and sharing stories. Roy told me about his sister and his little niece and reluctantly explained his workout routine with Jamie Tartt, while I shared stories about my ridiculous brothers and gave a detailed ranking of Jane Austen’s leading men. The way his arm wrapped around the back of the booth and his hand grazed my shoulder made missing the reservation worth it.

Roy wrinkled his nose. “I should feed you,” he argued. “’d be a shit date if I didn’t.” He glanced at his phone again. “D’you like pizza?”

Twenty minutes later, we were sitting across from each other, sodas in front of us, Roy’s pensive expression tinted red by the neon glow advertising Fresh Pizza.

“Can I tell you somethin’?”

I nodded, sipping my Coke through a straw. “Hmm?”

“This is the most fun I’ve ever had on a date,” he murmured. “And the first time I feel like I’m with someone who’s interested in being with me, not just being seen out some fucking footballer.” He gave a small nod. “So, thanks. Really, thanks.”

Heat rose in my cheeks as his eyes bore into mine. “Honestly, Roy,” I breathed. “Sharing an office with you is the best part of my workday.”

A grin flashed on his face. “Oi, we said no work talk.”

“Oh, shove off,” I mumbled, giving him a soft kick under the table as a young man in a red polo shirt brought us our pizza. I grabbed a slice and began to nibble on it as the teen employee did a double take at Roy before going back behind the counter. “Take a compliment, Kent.”

“Compliment,” he repeated gruffly, grabbing his own slice. “Is that something I’ll have to get used to? Being complimented?”

I tilted my head and swallowed a bite. “What d’you mean?”

He shrugged and took a sip of his Coke. “Gotta know what dating you involves. Spoiler alert, after tomorrow’s game I’m going to ask you if you’d like to go out again sometime.” His eyes darted away. “Hope that’s alright,” he grumbled, that nervous look in his behind his expression again.

I gave another kick under the table, much gentler this time. “You better ask me out again,” I teased. “Because this is the best date I’ve had in a long time.”

“You must’ve been on some fucking shit dates,” he joked, his eyes meeting mine. “Guess I’ve got to make up for that.”

For a moment, we just sat there, smiling at each other under the buzz of the neon light, slices of pizza in our hands. If two months ago someone had told me I would be on a date with Roy Kent, sipping drinks in a small pub, eating pizza in a hole-in-the-wall shop, I would have never believed it. But there I was, unable to look away from the brown eyes I’d spent years dreaming about, making him laugh and smile. And honestly, having the best time I’d had in a while.

The sudden preoccupied look on Roy’s face brought me out of my dreamy bubble. “Oi, there is something we should talk about.” The air suddenly felt heavy.

“Hmm?” Good, stay cool, don’t act nervous.

He took a deep breath, exhaling with a tiny growl. “Don’t take this the wrong way- I feel like a fucking prick saying this out loud-” He groaned, shrugging in defeat. “Would you be okay with, I dunno, not telling anyone about this-” He gestured between us. “-just for a bit?” A grimace now completely covered his bearded face. “It’s not like I’m embarrassed, or like I want to date anyone else-”

“That’s a relief,” I teased. My cheeks turned warm seeing him so flustered; it was endearing. “I thought you were completely ashamed to be seen with me and wanted to see if you had a shot with Jamie Tartt.”

That smile finally returned. “Come on, I’m being fucking serious.” He reached across the table and grasped my free hand. “Look, I really like being with you. I feel less pissed off at work when you’re around. And I want to see you outside of our fucking office. But you’ve seen the muppets we work with. They’ll never leave us the fuck alone once they find out we’re seeing each other. And I’d like to be in, I dunno, a little fucking bubble or something for a bit. Just while we’re getting to know each other and seeing where this goes.” His thumb stroked my hand. “Is that okay?”

The earnestness in his eyes nearly stopped my heart. “Of course,” I assured him, nudging his foot with mine. “I like the idea of being in a bubble with you.”

~

It was nearly midnight when Roy walked me up to my flat, his arm wrapped around my waist. After pizza we had gone walking around aimlessly, neither of us quite willing to say goodnight to the other. But my gentle reminder to Roy that Richmond had a game the next day was enough for him to sigh dramatically and agree to call it a night.

We paused in front of my door, turning to face each other as I fiddled with my keys nervously. Despite all the hand holding and flirting and shared kisses, I still felt a flutter in my stomach when I saw the fondness in his eyes as he gazed down at me. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw such warmth aimed in my direction; the fact that it was Roy Kent was just a bonus.

“Think I could give you a ride to work tomorrow?” he asked softly, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.

I grinned up at him. “What happened to keeping things quiet at work?”

He shrugged, his hand still lingering beside my face. “Do I sound like a fucking prat if I say I just can’t wait to see you again?”

“Just a little,” I teased, leaning my cheek into the palm of his hand, not caring that he could feel the warmth of my face. “But I like it. Pick me up at 10?”

“How about 9? I’ll buy you tea and a muffin.”

I laughed and pressed myself a smidge closer to him. “Bribery works wonders on me. I’m in.”

A small kiss landed on my forehead. “I love that you’re easily bought.” Another kiss on my cheek. “Guess I should let you head inside before some nosy fucking neighbor sees us.”

“We’d be trending on Twitter within the hour. Roy Kent and Random seen outside flat the night before Richmond game.”

“The fucking press’d definitely blame you if we lost tomorrow.” A kiss on my other cheek. “So, we better say goodnight.”

I nodded, not bothering to hide my smile. “Guess we should.”

His mouth found mine for the millionth time that night, assuring me that this would not be the last time he’d be walking me home. A wide smile filled his face when he finally pulled away. “Good night then.”

“Goodnight, Roy,” I answered, planting one last peck on his lips.

~

Roy’s car now felt familiar as we rode to the Dog Track. I leaned my chair into a comfortable position and fiddled with the radio until I found a station playing an hour of 90s hits. I ripped off a bit of the giant chocolate muffin that sat on my lap and tossed it into my mouth, reveling in the brief domestic bliss before we had to act professionally in front of everyone.

“Gimme a bite,” Roy mumbled, eyes on the road. I ripped of another piece and popped it into his open mouth. “Thanks,” was his muffled reply as we pulled into the still empty parking lot. “And thanks for riding here with me,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “It was nice.”

A smile crept across my face. “Thanks for offering,” I answered. “We should probably head on in, I’ve got some things to do in the office before everyone comes in.”

The halls were eerily quiet, only a few cleaning crew milling about, offering nods and soft “good mornings”. I flipped on the lights in the changing room and coaching offices, quickly setting to work as Roy leaned on Beard’s desk, watching me with that thoughtful look on his face.

I started my Game Day routine: leaving our report on the opposing team neatly on Ted’s desk, right next to the playbook that I pulled off his bookshelf, updating the league standings on the whiteboard next to Beard’s desk, noting the possible rank changes based on game outcomes, setting up the coffee maker to their specifications so all they had to do was hit the Start button when they walked into the office. Between tasks I paused for the newest addition to my routine: stealing kisses from Roy, taking full advantage of the empty building.

He followed me into our office so I could organize my things; Game Day had quickly become my favorite part of my job. During games, I would stand by the coaches with my tablet, keeping track of different statistics: goals, passes, saves, anything and everything the coaches could analyze later to improve their plans. Ted kept repeating something about me “putting the Excel in excellent” when I first presented my detailed spreadsheet to the coaches, so I knew this was valuable data to them. It was the part of my job I took most seriously.

And I loved that it allowed me to be on the sidelines with Roy all game long.

“Are you going to be able to focus out there today?” Roy teased softly, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind me.

“Are you?” I shot back, leaning into him as I tapped away on my tablet, setting up my new spreadsheet. “I’m working, all you’ve been doing is staring at me.”

He laughed and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “Trust me, as soon as those pricks show up, I’ll be my usual grumpy self.”

As if on cue, the sound of Coach Lasso’s voice echoed from down the hall. Roy immediately released me and threw himself into his chair, planting his feet on his desk and pulling out his cell phone; to anyone who just happened in, it looked as though he had been completely ignoring my existence, rather than holding me close. I shook my head and grinned to myself as Ted and Beard entered their office.

“Mornin’!” Ted called, poking his head through our shared door. “Look at you early birds. Y’all are just a couple of peas in a pod.” He pointed at me, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “Thanks again for figuring out the Keurig. You’re a k-cup K-Pop star.”

I smiled and nodded, still unsure about what to do when the man complimented me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Roy smirking behind his phone.

Ted noticed too. “You’re looking downright chipper this morning, Roy. Anything special you wanna share with the class?”

Roy’s smirk faded, his eyes still on his phone. “No.”

“No worries, I’m just happy you’re happy.” Ted was completely unphased; the guy was truly remarkable. He turned back to me. “Say, could I bother you to run some papers up to Rebecca’s office? Get some steps in before we head to the field.”

“Sure,” I agreed, setting down my tablet. “And it’s ‘pitch’, Coach.”

Ted nodded. “Right, right. ‘Pitch’.”

After a few more Lasso-isms, I was on my up to Rebecca’s office, carrying a folder filled with papers. I had shot Roy a wink before I left our office and was awarded the smallest of smiles, which was enough to make me practically skip down the hall, past the players making their way to the changing room. I smiled and waved at each of them, feeling excited to have a small role in this special team.

“Come in,” Rebecca called when I knocked on her door. She and Keeley Jones were sitting on her couch, Keeley adorable as ever in pigtails and a fluffy sweater, Rebecca the picture of class in her dress and heels. The women smiled and waved me in.

“Hey!” Keeley called, jumping up to give me a small hug. “How’re you doing? I tried to call you last night, but you didn’t pick up.” Within two days of me starting work at Richmond, Keeley had decided that we were meant to be friends, an offer I was more than happy to accept. She pouted at me playfully. “Were you out getting some?”

My ears burned. “Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “My phone’s been acting up lately, sorry about that.” I reached around to hand Rebecca the folder. “From Ted,” I told her, trying desperately to avoid the topic Keeley had brought up.

Rebecca opened the folder and glanced at it. “Shit, I should look at this,” she muttered to herself. She nodded towards Keeley. “Why don’t you head to our seats to watch warm up? Just don’t wolf-whistle at the boys too much, hmm? Save some for the game.”

Keeley gave a salute to Rebecca and linked her arm with mine. “Shall we?”

We strolled down the hall, Keeley talking a mile a minute about the party she had tried to invite me to the night before. “There were lots of real fit guys there,” she gushed, knocking her hip into mine. “Some of them were even worth talking to. Come on, what’s your type? I need to know what to look out for.”

I cleared my throat. “I don’t really have a-”

“Oi. You forgot this.”

Roy appeared out of nowhere, holding up my tablet, its case covered in Richmond stickers I’d bought the day I had gotten this job. My cheeks were warm as I accepted it, careful not to touch his hand. I could feel Keeley eyeing me curiously.

“Thanks,” I murmured, avoiding Roy’s eyes; I knew that any contact would tempt me to kiss the man.

He seemed to understand completely. “Keeley,” he greeted, giving a short nod to the blonde. He nodded to me now. “See you out there.” He turned and walked towards the doors that led to the pitch.

Once he turned the corner and was out of view, Keeley squealed and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Fuck, you should ask out Roy!”

My eyes widened. “What?”

She nodded, her pigtails bouncing. “Come on. He’s fit, he has a good job, and if anyone ever messed with you, they’d never find the body.” She wiggled my shoulders, waggling her eyebrows. “And the man looks good shirtless,” she added.

As if there wasn’t a shirtless picture of him tapped inside the closet of my old bedroom. I made a quick mental note to take it down and hide it- maybe burn it- before the next time he came over. Surely, he’d be coming over to my parents’ place again sometime? Maybe not anytime soon, but eventually, right?

Whoa there, relax. Don’t get so ahead of yourself.

“Come off it, Keels,” I scoffed. “I’m not asking out Roy Kent.” Well, you’re not lying. He asked you out, after all. “We work together. We share an office for God’s sake. And besides, he’s Roy fucking Kent.” I laughed and shook my head, trying to be really convincing. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m not his usual type.”

A smile spread across Keeley’s face. “Well, all I know is that last time he and Jamie were working out, he told Jamie he was sick of dating just to date. He’s sick of models and shit. He told Jamie he wanted something real.” She shrugged. “I dunno. You seem like the kind of girl who could be something real.”

I did my best to hide the pleasure on my face as Keeley confirmed what Roy had told me last night. Instead, I cleared my throat and turned my attention to my tablet. “Well, good for Roy. But I should be going, I’ve got to get to the pitch.”

“Yeah, gotta go stand next to Roy for the next few hours.” Keeley winked at me. “Don’t think I don’t notice the blush on your face whenever he’s around. You’re not as clever as you think. I’ll get you two together eventually.”

Little does she know, the little voice in my head chucked. “Sure, Keeley,” I humored. “I’ll see you later.” I planted a kiss on her cheek, reminding myself to try to match the affection she brought to a friendship, and waved as I walked away in the direction Roy had disappeared in.

I should have been more surprised when I turned a corner and found him leaning against the wall, scrolling on his phone. He smirked when he saw me.

“Did you wait to me?” I asked, not bothering to hide the smile on my face.

He shrugged, tucking his phone into his pocket. “Maybe.”

“Very sweet of you,” I hummed, shoving his shoulder with mine as he fell into step beside me. “But you should probably be a little bit less obvious at work. Keeley was just telling me about her new goal.”

“And what would that be?”

“To play matchmaker for us,” I answered casually. “Which means our chemistry is obvious.”

Roy let out a scoff of a laugh just before we reached the pitch entrance. “Let her try. I’d kind of love to see what kind of scheme she cooks up.” He sobered up as we walked onto the green, where the Greyhounds were beginning their warmup. From the stands closet to the pitch, I could already hear Keeley whooping and hollering. She’d definitely have something to say about seeing me and Roy walking to the dugout together, but I’d come up with my excuses later.

I took my position between Ted and Beard, showing them the stats from our previous match and reminding them about the adjustments they’d discussed based on it. Ted said something about me being just like Q from James Bond, a reference I actually understood. I smiled at the praise and took a seat, not needing to do much now until the match started. Instead, I took advantage of the cover around the dugout to brazenly stare at Roy, grinning to myself every time he yelled “Whistle!” at the top of his lungs.

As if he could feel my gaze, he turned his head subtly, a half smirk on his face when our eyes met. He shook his head at me and pulled out his phone. A moment later, my own mobile vibrated. I glanced at the glowing screen.

You’re going to make hiding this really fucking difficult, aren’t you?

Of course. Making your life harder is half the fun.

My phone vibrated again. Fine. Whatever. Grab a bite after the game?

My grin widened as I began to type back.

Only if I can get an autograph.

Roy turned his head again, that upturn of his mouth barely visible. I relaxed into my seat, tapping away at my tablet. For the first time in my life, I could hardly wait for a Richmond game to be over.

[daydreamgoddess14]

Support System pt. 3

MASTERLIST

CH1 | CH 2

Roy Kent x Reader

Guys, I can't stop writing this. I cannot stop! Let's just whoooosh get it all out like a Roy Kent exorcism then I can move on... or something 😂 Thank you thank you thank you for reading/liking/reblogging/commenting - you're all aces 😘

Chapter 3

You’re not entirely sure how it happened, but Roy Kent was in your kitchen with a piping bag icing cupcakes. The table and just about every surface is covered in flour, batter and icing, the girls are on a sugar high and you’re fairly certain there’s purple frosting in your hair somewhere. At the park, Lexie had explained in great detail all of the baking you both intended on doing that afternoon, so the invitation for them to join you came naturally.

“Bit more there uncle Roy.” Phoebe instructs patiently.

“And there.” Lexie points. You pour from the kettle into two large cups and stir the coffee. While it rests for a minute, you get the next set of bakes out of the oven - chocolate chip cookies, and look for somewhere to set them down. While you’re surveying the chaos, you notice Roy has stopped icing cakes and is watching you. He points with the piping bag over your right shoulder.

“Space over there.” You put the pan down quickly, feeling the heat coming through the towel you used to get the hot tray out. You finish the coffees and put one in front of him as he finishes the last cake and you all sit back to observe your hard work. There’s a lemon drizzle cake for Phoebe to take to her nan’s house, a tray of scones for Lexie to take to her nan’s, vanilla cupcakes for Sara and chocolate for you and cookies to take to school. You reach forward to take a cupcake from the freshly frosted batch but Roy taps your hand away.

“Ouch!”

“Not that one, here.” He hands you one from further along the tray with extra icing. “Lexie said you’re obsessed with icing.” You smile and open up the paper case. Seeing you with a cake, the girls each take one.

“Can we eat it in the living room mum? I want to put Disney on.”

“P-?”

“Pleeeease?!”

“Go on then. You’re useless at cleaning up anyway.” The girls jump up and you soon hear the opening credits to Moana. Once you’ve finished your cake, you start at one end of the kitchen wiping surfaces and putting spoons and bowls into the sink. You’re a little surprised when Roy starts at the other end doing the same thing. At your third meeting at the sink, you notice the frosting on his cheek. “Oh, you’ve got a bit of-” without giving it a second thought, you reach up and swipe at his cheek with your thumb. He hums a little and you realise just how close you’re standing to one another. He takes a tiny step, placing one of his feet in between yours, a hand going to your hair,

“Yeah you’ve got a bit here.” The length of his body is not quite flush against yours, but there’s only millimetres to spare. His other hand goes to your hip, squeezing just a little and he leans down, his nose brushing against yours.

“Aagghhh mum!” A squeal from the living room interrupts you and you both spring apart. You’ve never been not kissed like that before in your life. Hell you’ve never been about to be kissed like that before. His lips hadn’t even touched yours but your skin was on fire, your heart racing. It takes a second for you to register Lexie calling you, but once you do you slip past him into the living room.

“What’s up?” You ask, breathless. How are you so breathless when nothing happened?!

“I dropped it.” Phoebe looked guiltily at the purple cupcake face down on the rug.

“Oh honey, don’t worry about it.” You drop to your knees to give her a hug. “Lexie drops food in here all the time, trust me, it’s no big deal.” You smile kindly and retrieve the cake. “Do you still want the cakey bit?” She nods so you get up to wipe off the excess frosting and take the cupcake back to her, then you clean up the little purple patch on the floor. 

“Sorry about that, I’ll get you a new rug.” Roy says from the kitchen doorway.

“Oh don’t, honestly. I’m waiting for Lexie to move out before I get anything nice for this house.” You joke, ruffling Lexie’s hair on your way back to the kitchen. The moment has passed so you carry on with the big clean up while the girls watch their film. Once it’s over, you say goodbye to Roy and Phoebe at the door, wishing them a happy weekend and watching Roy for slightly longer than is generally acceptable. The rest of the weekend is gone in a flash with a visit to your parents for Sunday dinner and the usual routine of preparing for the week ahead. Sara had replied to you late in the evening to thank you for the cakes, I’m on early again tomorrow but will probably see you after school on Tuesday if you guys want to come for dinner? You agree and take the opportunity to message Roy for the first time, offering to take Phoebe to school the following day, as you had the previous Monday. She’d like that. If you’re going to work on the train again, I’ll drop you at the station. You can’t help the butterflies that flutter knowing that you’ll see him again the next day. The key to a successful Monday morning appeared to be Lexie knowing that she’d be going to school with Phoebe. Again, she got washed and dressed without arguing with you and you were out the door in record time. This time, when he passed a cup across the counter, you passed a plastic box with two cupcakes inside.

“You forgot these.”

“I brought Sara’s?”

“Yeah but these are for you.” You smile. He nods and takes the box with a little grin.

“Thanks. How’s your week looking?”

“Not too bad. I’ve got Lex til Thursday and then she’s with her dad for the weekend. How about you?”

“We’re off to Amsterdam.”

“Oh, wow! That sounds… fun?” 

“It’s not like that. We’ve got a match.” You raise an eyebrow. Admittedly, your brain went straight to the very little you know about Amsterdam - women and drugs, rather than football and art.

“Yeah well, when in Rome and all that. Or Amsterdam.”

“No, not when in Rome. You wouldn’t catch me doing… anything like that.”

“Hmm. If you say so. I hear the women are all exhausted though.” You tease. 

“I don’t intend to find out.” He says pointedly. The girls pile into the car and you drop them off at school. At the train station, you turn to say goodbye.

“Have a safe trip.”

“Thanks. See you next week probably.”

“... Probably.” Your phone pings in the middle of the night a couple of days later with a selfie of Roy and Jamie in front of a huge windmill. Nice view x You reply sleepily and put your phone away. 

With no Lexie at the end of the week and into the weekend, you think more and more about what you and Sara had talked about in the weeks previously. As if she knew, a message arrived from Sara Phoebe is with her nan tonight. Fancy dinner out with wine and NO CHILDREN? You jump at the chance, confirming immediately and rushing to get showered and changed. You decide to stay in town and go to the new Italian in Paved Court, walking distance for the early evening, and just a short taxi ride home. You take out a dress you hadn’t worn before - when you’d tried it on, Andy had sneered at the deep, wrap front which hugged your breasts and the asymmetrical length which started at just above your knee but got longer in the back and grazed the back of your calves. The colour was a deep plum which brought out the auburn hints of your hair, the traces of red from your childhood were long gone. When you brought it, the dress had made you feel sexy - enhancing your curves and gently flowing over the imperfections. Andy’s comments had a lasting effect though and you were only wearing it now because everything else nice you owned was practically workwear. You really did have to stop wearing your nicer stuff to work. You met at the restaurant, going in, getting a table and ordering wine before Sara arrived.

“Started without me, love it!”

“Only half a glass, here.” You filled her glass and put the bottle back in the cooler.

“To a hot meal with no children.” You clink glasses happily. She tells you about her week, how Phoebe missed uncle Roy while he was away and the first bottle disappears quickly. You order another bottle and once you’ve finished your meals, you decide to get drinks around the corner at the Rose and Crown. The pub is bustling, but not too busy and you order drinks while Sara looks around for somewhere to sit. “Oh look! Roy’s here, let’s go annoy him.” She takes her drink from you and pulls you by the hand to the booth he’s sitting in with the other Richmond coaches. He watches you from the bar all the way to the booth but you can’t read his look at all, it’s not a familiar one. He introduces you to Coaches Beard and Lasso and they shuffle around to make space for you and Sara, one at either side of the booth. Sara is already standing next to the seat next to Coach Lasso which becomes spare, so you take the seat next to Roy. The seating is meant to be comfortable for four people so it’s a little snug with an extra person, you have to sit close to Roy to avoid falling off the seat but you don’t want to be presumptuous and sit too close either. He takes the decision away from you and slips an arm around your back, pulling your opposite hip further into the seat and closer to him. Your thigh presses against his and his hand doesn’t move from your hip where it’s just hidden by the knot of your wrap dress. You’ve had to turn your body slightly towards him so you can see and talk to the others, as you look down to get your drink, you realise that you’ve given him a front row seat to your cleavage. Your eyes shoot to the ceiling and you try firstly not to blush and secondly to act very nonchalantly about it. Sara however is the same two bottles of wine into the evening that you are and as she catches your eye, a giggle bursts from her and she’s suddenly laughing until there are tears in her eyes. Roy doesn’t say a word, just laughs at her and traces little circles into your hip with his thumb. You have a really great night - enjoying grown up company and conversation and not worrying about upsetting Andy when you get home, or waking Lexie. By the time last orders is called, you are probably the drunkest you’ve been in a long, long time. Roy says goodbye to coaches Beard and Lasso and takes both you and Sara by the arm to his car.

“Ha! Roy, you look like a right ladies man taking two women home!”

“Doesn’t count when you’re my sister.” He tells her affectionately.

“She’s not your sister.”

“Fucking good job, too.”

“What?” She asks loudly,

“Nevermind.” He tells her, she slides into the back seats and lies down, already half asleep. “Don’t go to sleep in my car, put your belt on.” He opens the passenger door for you and helps you up. The route he takes goes past Sara’s house first. He helps her out of the car and unlocks her front door. He’s gone for a few minutes while you fight the need for sleep in the car. “Sorry, just getting her water and painkillers.” The short drive to your house doesn't take long at all and he comes around to open your door for you and help you out. 

“‘m fine, you don’t need to see me to the door.”

“Course I do, come on.” He lets you attempt to unlock the door but then takes your key gently from you and slots it into the lock. You turn to thank him, your heels bring you closer to his height but still a way off. You make an entirely alcohol based decision and lean up onto your tiptoes, your lips brush softly against his, your eyes fluttering shut. His hand goes around your waist to steady you and you can’t help the little sigh you make when you’re pulled closer to him. But it doesn’t last. He steps back away from you, his hand moving to your elbow. You open your eyes again and all you see in return is pity. Horror rises inside you and you move out of his grip, ashamed and embarrassed.

“Oh god, fuck. I’m sorry, shit, I’m so fucking sorry, I shouldn’t have-, fucking fuck. I’m so fucking stupid, why on earth would I think-” You grab for the door handle and back up away from him.

“No wait, it’s not-”

“Please forget that ever happened. God, I’m so fucking stupid. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” You plead a final time, desperate not to cry in front of him. You slam the door shut and flick the lock, pressing your forehead against the cool wood. With the door safely shut, your tears fall and you choke back a sob. On the other side of the door, Roy hears and goes to knock, but the sound fades as you move further into the house.

“Fuuuuck.” He growls, going back to his car.

[armadillo1976]

Things I had to look up in Ted Lasso S3E02

…or didn’t have to look up, as the case may be: the very moment Beard showed Ted the YouTube video, my husband and co-watcher said, ‘Ohh, so he’s Zlatan Ibrahimović,’ saving me a search. Ibrahimović is a Swedish star footballer who plays for AC Milan (so in Italy, which will come up again in a sec). Ibrahimović actually speaks about himself in the third person, is famous for his over the top behaviour, and is an impressive martial artist

In the show, Zava is said to be leaving Juventus – a club in Italy! Which Ted doesn’t know. It strains credulity a bit, even for Ted, not to know it, but serves as a springboard for Ted to come up with “Cacio later, Pepe,” a play on cacio e pepe, a deservedly popular Roman pasta dish (and now I miss Rome)

Ted starts to say “Good morning Viet-“ when he’s interrupted, which is a reference to Good Morning, Vietnam that I’m pretty sure everyone would recognize in their sleep, but I blanked on when the film was actually made so I checked quickly; it’s 1987; somehow it feels like it should be older (Vietnam War ended 1975-ish)

I had no idea but apparently 11:11 (“or 23:11 if I’m at a military base or Euro Disney”) is a wishing time, i.e. a magical/ lucky time of day. Ted and Beard and Dani sharing a superstition is very nice and cosy. Ted only ever apparently leaving the UK for Europe in order to visit Euro Disney is depressing but, hey, horses for courses I guess

“What’s it like being the boss of your own Keeley Street Band?,” Ted asks Keeley. It’s (I think?) a play on The E Street Band, Bruce Springsteen’s backing band

Ted follows it up with Clamato Clamato (said like tomayto tomahto), which I’d never heard of, but this is very funny! Clamato is a canned drink, a clam-flavoured tomato juice. Love this joke

Dani hasn’t been this nervous to play in front of someone since he was “in El Chapo’s youth league,” and I did know who El Chapo is (former Mexican drug lord) but I went to check if he ever ran a football league. Not formally, or at least not that I can find, but the cartels are massively intertwined with day-to-day life, so actually I don’t know how much of a joke it is (it’s not a joke to Dani, but to us/the audience? idk)

Fish Bowl, as the context suggests (but I had to check) is a drink/cocktail that I think it’s safe to say Roy Kent wouldn’t touch

The music in Ted Lasso is wonderful but I don’t know nearly enough to have opinions, with these two neat exceptions in this episode:

As Keeley’s photoshoot starts, the song playing in the club is Ready To Go by Republica (On the rooftop shouting / Baby I’m ready to go) – that was their only hit apparently, but what a hit it was. Interesting choice of a song here

I laughed at the soundtrack to Trent walking into the clubhouse to universal hostility: 'Cause he gets up in the morning / And he goes to work at nine / And he comes back home at five-thirty / Gets the same train every time (by the Kinks, and I knew that song, so yay me, but the Kinks are FAMOUS famous, right?). The rest of the lyrics go, for example, And he likes his own backyard / And he likes his fags the best / 'Cause he's better than the rest. Not reading too much into it, but it’s such a fun choice!

[for S3E01, my notes are here]

[tartt9]

Jamie's face screws up at the impression of him. "That's an awful impression of me, man," he speaks over Roy, but goes quiet after that to let him continue. This is the most he thinks he's heard Roy talk at one time in a long time. A moment to remember, if you ask him, even if it is Roy frustratedly rambling about things not going to his plan. "Jesus, is that supposed t'be Keeley?" That's something else to add to his mental bank of thoughts of Roy Kent. He's excellent at football, excellent at coaching, and terrible at impressions. Maybe even worse than Jamie himself, who really can't talk about good impressions because he can't drop his Mancunian accent for the life of him. "Yeah, it is your fault. I do live here, and I've got everything I need in the kitchen. I didn't realise you'd come bursting in here tellin' me t'make summat I can't even eat." Maybe if he could eat baked goods, he'd have the equipment to make them. But, because he can't, why would he buy that equipment? Now he'll go out and buy things, because he doesn't like disappointing Roy, but he's not a mind reader. "And why would she thank you first? Why's it Roy, Jamie, y'shouldn't have and not Jamie, Roy, y'shouldn't have?"

So Jamie can't have cake because he had five chunks of pineapple that Roy offered him? That seems unfair. "No, I didn't think I got the day off, but I did think I'd be able t'have one little piece of the cake I'm helping you make, or would you have wanted t'stir all this yourself?" He watches as Roy prepares the dish, still stirring, forgetting the just-combined advice. He's about to say he could easily kick Roy out of his house when Roy tells him to stop stirring, so he does just that, setting the bowl down on the counter. Before he can respond, though, Roy's hand is on his face, wiping flour into his freshly threaded eyebrows. "Oi...!" he shouts, face screwing up into a pout once again. He shoves his arm past Roy into the bag of flour before quickly smearing it down Roy's cheek and into his beard as payback. He dips his hand in the bag once again, using his free hand to pin Roy's hips to the counter as he rubs his hand all over Roy's beard, eyes on his mouth to make sure he's thoroughly covered Roy in flour. "Fucking twat..." he mumbles as he lowers his hand down, wiping it on Roy's pyjamas. Because it's Roy's fault for wearing black pyjamas into Jamie's house in the first place. Because he's not about to wipe flour all over his joggers. Because he can.

"I DON'T MAKE A HABIT OF FORGETTING ABOUT HER EITHER,"            he grumbles defensively. it's not tartt specific, it's them specific. roy's sure they share a fucking brain half the time, even if they're fighting each other up there just as they are here. 'course, never underestimate tartt --- unless you're trying to bake at his house.   "i'd rock up here. you'd go, good thing you remembered, you're a lifesaver, coach,"   jamie impression, bad,   "and then we'd bake a cake, that we both owe her because we both forgot, in your perfectly furnished kitchen, write her a card and run up and down the fucking high street before she wakes up. and then we'd show up at her house 'happy-fucking-birthday keeley jones' and roy, jamie! you shouldn't have!"   keeley impression, much worse.   "bob's your uncle, fanny's your aunt."   and now, roy is the dickhead because he forgot her birthday and he's dragging jamie down with him.   "i dunno. i didn't fucking account for your kitchen to look like you don't fucking live here!"   idiot. he lives here but when is he making use of the kitchen? yeah. fuck him.   "it's my fucking fault."   

he slathers the sides of the dish in butter till it's entirely covered, then goes to pick up the bag of flour.   "d'you think you just the day off? we're not even training today. you're not filling up on sugar."   he's puffed out of fighting talk, but he grumbles and growls his words like a sleepy bear---still in slouchy pyjamas. roy uses his hand to sprinkle flour over the dish,   "stop helping if you want, what are you gonna do? i'm in your fucking house, y'prick."   roy glances across,   "actually, stop. that's done."   he dusts his hands off. a small smirk grows on his lips as he lifts his flour-covered hand and, with no warning, wipe it across jamie's face.

[incorrectbatfam]

How would each member of the Batfamily have fun with a leaf blower?

Dick: I was gonna make a joke with his name but I think instead I think he'd go around messing up people's hair

Jason: gives it to Roy and stand back with a camera

Tim: gives it to Kon and Bart and stand waaay back with a camera

Damian: moves the haystacks on Kent farm three feet to the left

Duke: walks around New York sucking up Spider-Man's webs mid-swing

Cullen: plays Sugar, We're Goin' Down

Stephanie: erases all evidence of Bruce owning clothes

Cassandra: sticks it up people's shirts when they least expect it

Barbara: drinks coffee out of the barrel

Harper: turns it into a jetpack

Carrie: plays "Will It Suck?" with things around the house

Kate: accidentally vacuums one of Alfred's slippers, so she does the other one too for good measure

Alfred: mixes a comically large bowl of cake batter

Selina: picks up cat hair and spreads it all over the Jokermobile while his new paint job is drying

Bruce: let's just say the Rogues have something new to be afraid of

[finerllines]

you and that moustache [football!h]

a/n: hello! i am back with another blurb for football h that is inspired by my love for ted lasso <3 reblogs and comments are always appreciated and if you have any ideas for this au please lmk!!

summary: harry hates how much y/n loves ted lasso

wc: 900+

cw: none :D

///

y/n doesn’t wait for Harry as she carefully balances her bowl of leftovers on her bed and leans forward to press ‘play’ on her laptop. The familiar cold open immediately puts a smile on her face.

“What are we watching today, love?” he asks, carrying his own dinner to join his girlfriend on the bed. “Again? We’ve watched Ted Lasso so many times already.”

“Shh. You said I can pick today and I wanna watch Ted Lasso.”

Harry grumbles to himself, mocking y/n when she laughs at the show. It’s not that he doesn’t like Ted Lasso, he found it funny the first three times they had watched it. But this must be nearing the tenth time and he is getting sick of it. Not just sick of rewatching the same episodes over and over, but sick of the show in general.

Ever since the show aired, y/n has been obsessed, even by her usual standards. She started a new side blog dedicated to the show and even though there hasn’t been a new episode in months, she is still consistently making gifs and photosets. Now, Harry likes to think he is a supportive boyfriend. He has never made fun of her having fan blogs or laughed at her when she cries over shows, but he is finding it difficult to not feel annoyed.

At first, he thought this would be a fun way to get y/n more interested in football because despite having been to a good number of his football matches, she really only goes to cheer when his team gets introduced and wish him congratulations after. He isn’t even confident that she knows any of the rules. Well, she probably didn’t before Ted Lasso, but after the first season, she wouldn’t stop asking about what ‘off-side’ meant and whether teams really did fun formations.

Harry was all excited too, thought that she had suddenly developed a new love for football. Now, he can safely say all his excitement has died.

“I don’t understand why you love this show, you don’t even like football.”

“Well, maybe I do like football now.”

He scoffs. “Then why are ya watching a bloody show, love? You’ve got a fit footballer at your beck and call. I can bring you to the field tomorrow. Fuck Roy Kent.” His tone coming across more serious than he intended.

“Well, it’s less about the footballers and more about Ted.”

“Ted?” he asks, almost offended. “All this time you’ve been crushin’ on Ted?”

She doesn’t answer, choosing to shove a large spoonful of food into her mouth instead.

Harry can’t let this go; he doesn’t understand.

“What is it about this ‘Ted’ then? He’s old.”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. He’s funny, kind, has a moustache …”

“Please, I’m funny and kind, and I can grow a moustache.”

“Can you really?” she asks, attention pulled away from the screen for the first time this entire conversation.

“That bloody moustache. You didn’t tell me you like moustaches. You never gave me a fair shot!”

y/n catches onto the seriousness in Harry’s voice. She pauses the show and gently pinches his chin so that they are facing each other.

“Harry, are you mad at me?” she asks softly.

He pouts. “No.”

“Lovie, I love you and I am very attracted to you. I think you’re the hottest man alive, hotter than Ted. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were so upset by this stupid crush, but I love you the most and it’ll take more than a moustache to make me stop. Okay? I’ll shut up about the show, I promise.”

With both hands she cups his face gently and he closes his eyes momentarily at the contact as he leans further into her palm. “I’m sorry, I’m being stupid and jealous. I just … I couldn’t make you like football and this stupid fake football team can. I don’t know, I know you love me, but this one’s just a bit too real.”

“Oh Harry, that’s because you are more than just some football guy to me. There are so many cooler, more lovable things about you than how good you are at football. No need to be jealous okay.”

“Okay, but I’m still a little hurt so I think I need to be little spoon again tonight.”

She rolls her eyes at her needy boyfriend. “My big baby, of course I’ll cuddle you.”

Still wearing a pout, he tugs at her hips to pull her to nestle in between his legs and lean against his body. One hand stays wrapped around her waist while the other slowly spoons his dinner into his mouth cautiously.

“You can watch your dumb show now.”

y/n tilts her head up to press firm kisses under his jaw, snuggling into Harry’s warmth. The best way to watch her favourite show, she discovered, is wrapped in her boyfriend’s arms, surrounded by his scent.

“Wait ‘til my moustache grows out,” he whispers into her ear, “then you’ll lose your mind.”

She thinks she just might.

[blue-bujo]

Bowled Over (Roy Kent x Reader) Chapter Masterlist

You work at a bowling alley and a young girl named Phoebe has a birthday party there. You catch her uncle's eye.

Roy Kent x female reader.

Comment below to join the taglist!

Chapter One: The Other Beautiful Game

Chapter Two: Being Better

Chapter Three: Dual-Purpose Distraction

Chapter Four: Feelings

Chapter Five: First Date

Chapter Six: A Disastrous Date

Chapter Seven: Deserving Something Good

Chapter Eight: Roy Kent, Baby Whisperer

Chapter Nine: coming end of January/beginning of February

[tartt9]

"If footy talk is interesting conversation t'you, maybe I ought t'talk to more Americans." Jamie is nearly certain not all of them would find the idea of his job - his life - interesting. They've got their own football over there, though, from Jamie's very minimal understanding of the sport, there's less feet involved and more hands; he has no fucking clue why they call it football. It's not football. From what he's picked up from Ted, it's super bowls, and chiefs country, and Denver broncos, and seven layer dip. And Denver broncos are gay, maybe? Jamie's got no fucking clue.

Jesus Christ - does she not know Roy Kent? "Kent. Roy Kent." He says, like it's fucking obvious. "He's here, he's there, he's every-fucking-where," he sings, as if that'd add context clues. How someone would know of him without knowing about Roy is something Jamie can't quite wrap his head around. Not only is Roy Jamie's coach, he was his captain three seasons ago, and he was one of the greatest English midfielders of all time before that, with Chelsea. If Jamie were any younger, or any less... Jamie Fucking Tartt, #9 for Richmond, he would surely go on an hours-long rant about how, statistically, Roy Kent in his prime could outplay just about any player on the pitch now. Jamie's best moves are taken straight from Roy's match film. Jamie was a midfielder long before he was a striker [ and he's back at midfield now ] - that's why he plays Pep's version of total football so well, and Ted's version even better - he knows Roy Kent like the back of his hand. But she seems to have no clue who he is. There was one point that Roy said that Jamie's skill made him question his own faith - that was long before Jamie was close enough to him to respond that Roy was Jamie's faith growing up. Raised without religion, the lad in the council house in Manchester attached himself to the man in the Chelsea blue 6 kit and never looked back. Jamie would've killed to play alongside Roy in his prime. Chelsea captain Roy, who didn't hate himself and everything around him the way he did when he was Jamie's captain. Without Rupert Mannion whispering in Jamie's ear about how Jamie was so much better than Roy could ever dream of being, that Jamie was better than Roy in his prime by a long shot. Jamie whistles Roy's chant as he accepts the hand sanitiser, rubbing it between his palms.

"It's about a half an hour on the tube, wouldn't want t'make y'walk two hours t'get there." Jamie would've walked - it's a nice evening, but he's also a man who can walk for hours without getting tired or bored. She asks him more about football, though, and he won't deny himself the opportunity to talk about the game that he loves. "Erm - no, no, I'm from Manchester, I grew up in City's - Manchester City's," fuck, it feels weird to use the club's full name, "Academy, which is... tough t'explain to Americans, it's, like... they raise us t'be footballers, yeah, y'don't just get plucked off'a the street and thrown into the Premier League. You get plucked out of youth leagues when you're, like, under 9 - happened for me when I were 8 - and then when you're 9, y'start with the Academy, and they raise y'up, and train you, and pay for your education and allat, with the intention of making you into a professional footballer, y'get me? Anyways - I was raised with City, I played for City for five years, then I joined Richmond." He's already ranted about the Academy system, he won't try to explain a loan to her. Especially with the odd circumstances surrounding his loan. Easier to just say I joined Richmond. "That was four years ago. Played with Richmond since 2019." Years - seasons... they're one in the same, in Jamie's mind. "But - erm, yeah, I mean, yeah, you're talking about Lasso, Ted Lasso, he actually moved back t'America, like, recently. But the kid prolly heard you asking questions, and thought you'd identify with an American - anyways-! Ted's... he ain't your typical gaffer. But he brought a special environment t'the club, made Richmond a home for every single one of us. He's a good man, 'e is, Ted Lasso."

she playfully taps her head at his correction, as if to say, but of course, how could i forget? secretly, she's thankful for the knowledge. part of her is curious about his life — it's not every day you meet someone of jamie's caliber, and despite pretending to know it all, jaswyn knew very little. she knew he played for ... oh, what was it? AFC Richmond, and he was one of the best strikers in the league. anything outside of what the little boy shared burned a hole of curiosity in the back of her mind. who was the guy standing in front of her? "yeah, wouldn't have known it was you without him," she nods in agreement, scratching her temple with a cheeky grin. "i'm sure i still would have bumped into you, though. probably would have had less interesting conversation."

she trusted in the universe that way — in fate. jaswyn believed in signs, in things happening for a reason. she had to, with her past with her situation, if one could call it that. it was all she had left. as jamie gestures, she gives an internal sigh of relief, thankful not to have made a fool of herself . . . yet. she half-checks to make sure he's following behind, beginning to leave the alley. "roy?" an eyebrow's raised at the name. a teammate, perhaps? flatmate? did jamie need a flatmate? she wasn't exactly sure the pay scale for athletes outside of the US. "i could go for nigerian food," the girl agrees, pulling out hand sanitizer to cleanse her hands after leaning against the brick of the alley. extending it towards the male, she offers some, inclining with her eyes. "thanks for this," jaswyn murmurs, gesturing to well - everything. he's allowed her to take his night hostage, and though he's unaware, she's in desperate need of something light, and fun to get her mind of what's waiting for her at home — the mess she's made. "have you always played for richmond? the kid told me you've got a coach from America. i saw his video with that college football team, he's from kentuck - no... kansas, right? how do you like him?"

[thisismysecondrodeo]

If you’re accepting Ted Lasso requests, can I humbly BEG for some Ted taking care of a sick Jamie??

AN: I very rarely write for Jamie so this was a fun challenge, hope I did him justice!! Love my boys with daddy issues lol

Rating: General

Tags: Jamie Tartt, Roy Kent, Sickfic, Ted takes care of Jamie In a platonic fatherly way, Just two men and their daddy issues lol

Fic masterlist

-

After years of coaching Ted knew he had the potential to be, and often was, a father figure to the boys—now men—that he coached. It was a responsibility he didn’t take lightly; he wanted to help everyone be the best that they could be. But with everything he’d been going through with his divorce and Henry, his mental health, Nate and Rupert, it was a responsibility that had been weighing on him. Things were falling through the cracks and it was making his panic attacks worse. 

With the help of his support network—Roy, Beard, Rebecca, Keeley, Dr. Fieldstone, even Michelle—he was starting to feel more like himself, more like the man who could carry the weight of the team that meant so much to him. And the first person on his list to make it up to was Jamie. Sure, he had sent Jamie an army man when he was over at Manchester, and he helped get Jamie back on the team, but there was so much more he could have done for him in the wake of his father’s abuse and he resolved to pay closer attention. 

Which meant when Jamie didn’t show up for training one day Ted was immediately concerned. Ted sidled up to Roy on the sidelines after a few moments of watching the team. Roy and Jamie were certainly contentious, but if anyone were to know if Jamie was okay, it was Roy.

“Howdy, Roy,” Ted greeted casually, slapping the man on the shoulder before returning his hand to his pocket. Roy only grunted which was about what Ted expected. 

“Say, any idea where Jamie is? Been a while since he missed practice, er, trainin’.”

“Poorly. Oi! Whistle,” Roy yelled, circling his index finger in the air to reset the play. Ted furrowed his brow. 

“Poorly?” Ted repeated, the expression awkward in his accent. 

Roy looked over at him like he was an idiot before turning his attention back to the pitch, “He’s sick, cowboy.” 

“What kinda sick are we talkin’? Cold and flu? Heartsick? Plain ol’ sick and tired?” Ted was being playful in order to not betray his true concern, but when Roy said “sick” his mind had immediately jumped to James Sr. 

“Well I wouldn’t fuckin’ know would I, considering I’m standing here next to you and not in a maid’s outfit at Jamie’s waiting on him hand and foot,” Roy responded snarkily. That was…quite the image in Ted’s mind. “All I know is that he texted, said he was sick and couldn’t make it to practice.” 

Ted wanted to be upset that Jamie texted Roy and not him, but he knew their relationship needed work. So instead he said nothing, nodding his visored head and walking back over to Beard to ask him to cover for him as he had to leave for lunch a little early. 

Less than 30 minutes later, Ted was knocking at Jamie’s door with a plastic takeout bag holding a container of soup and a grocery bag full of medicine and candy. He knew Jamie was an adult—technically—but he had gone with the Henry-style sickness treatment of medicine and sugar. Jamie answered the door with red-rimmed eyes, a runny nose, a blue blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and some wild bedhead. Ted was both relieved and troubled that Jamie was actually sick in a way that had nothing to do with James Sr. 

Jamie spoke with a voice that sounded sore, “Coach? What’re you doin’ ‘ere?”

“Well I heard you weren’t feelin’ swell, thought I’d come by and see ya. That alright?”

Jaime nodded and stepped aside letting Ted enter his apartment before collapsing back on the couch where it seemed he’d spent the morning blowing his nose and playing FIFA. Ted took his bags to the kitchen and quietly shuffled around, putting soup in a bowl, brewing a cup of tea, and laying out medicine and sweets on a tray he found in one of Jamie’s cabinets. He couldn’t lie, he expected more of a bachelor pad—a one cup, one bowl, one plate situation—but the place was well appointed and thoughtfully decorated. Ted carried the tray through to the living room to find Jamie laying on the couch, scrolling aimlessly on his phone with half-lidded eyes. Ted sat the tray in front of him and sat in a chair next to the couch, encouraged when Jamie sat up and took some medicine followed by a sip of his tea, running his hand through his messy locks. 

“Malteasers,” Jamie said, looking at the tray surprised before picking up the package and ripping into them, offering Ted a few as well. 

“We missed ya at practice today, but you know I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself. I…well I haven’t always been the best at that, myself, so…” Ted trailed off, not quite sure where he had been going with that. He wanted to tell Jamie he was sorry, that he was proud of him, but now didn’t feel like the time. Jamie seemed to understand anyway, offering a small smile. 

“Ta, coach. I’m sure I’ll be back on the pitch in no time,” Jamie responded hoarsely. 

“Well, no rush. But I hope you know you can come to me if ya need anything.” 

Jamie gestured at the tray. “Already done plenty, Coach.”

“Well, anything else then,” Ted stood, brushing his hands on the thighs of his khakis. “I’ll, uh, get outta your hair, let ya rest.” 

Jamie’s eyes widened and he cleared his throat. “You don’t have to… I mean, I wouldn’t, wouldn’t mind if… Sorry you have to get back to practice, nevermind.” 

Ted realized what Jamie was trying to ask for and he smiled, nudging Jamie to make room on the couch. “I got some time.” Ted accepted the video game controller Jamie offered him. They played in silence for a while, and when Ted started winning he realized Jamie was actually falling asleep. Ted pulled a throw pillow into his lap, and tugged Jamie by the elbow. It spoke to how unwell he felt that there was zero resistance, just a weak grumble as he burrowed into the pillow on Ted’s lap. Ted eased his phone out of his pocket slowly so as not to jostle the younger man too much, and sent Roy and Beard a quick message letting him know he wouldn’t be making it back that afternoon before sitting his phone facedown on the side table and picking the controller back up. If he was going to work on his relationship with Jamie it seemed he’d need the practice. 

[itsclydebitches]

Continuing my tradition of watching questionable television because a fave from another show is in it, I’ve started The Canterville Ghost (2021) and, the quality of the show aside, all us Ted/Trent fans are in agreement that we need an AU of this, right? Right??

Ted is a wealthy, seemingly clueless American who has moved his wife and young son out into the English countryside with the hope of patching up his failing marriage. What he doesn’t know is that the mansion he’s purchased is haunted by the ghost of Rupert Mannion and the wife he murdered, Rebecca. Ted, rather surprised when Henry’s ghost hunting turns out to be 100% accurate, is incredibly welcoming of his two unexpected housemates, resulting in Rebecca, after hundreds of years, slowly breaking away from Rupert’s control. What if she doesn’t want to haunt the Lassos anymore? What if she doesn’t want them to leave? What if she enjoys Ted’s company, despite his incorrect opinion of tea? What then, Rupert?

Meanwhile, while ghost shenanigans occur, Ted is likewise charming his incredibly wary neighbors. I mean, he’s mostly making a fool of himself by drinking from the finger bowl and then spraying that all over the table after he realizes what it’s for, but he’s making headway nonetheless. Genuine kindness can make up for a lot! Astoundingly, he’s managed to hit it off with Roy, the youngest in the Kent line, and Jamie Tartt, the ever-present thorn in Roy’s side. The fact that the Kents and the Tartts have despised each other for generations certainly doesn’t help matters and that makes Ted’s friendship with both... complicated. However, his most interesting neighbor in the handsome Trent Crimm, widowed father of one, whose friendship becomes more and more important to Ted as he realizes that he needs to let Michelle go...

Other details may include:

Them still sharing the house together because there’s 158 rooms, Ted. We could go days without seeing each other. Platonically sharing a mansion is a pretty good compromise between having space and being available for Henry.

Nate is the groundskeeper whose adoration of Ted slowly morphs into jealousy as he wins over the entire countryside. The Shelleys are an old, respectable family... but no one else seems to think that with the Tartts and the Kents around.

Maybe Ted is rich because he invented a line of BBQ sauce lol.

BBC Ghost-esque bonding as Rebecca, despite being dead, becomes a full-fledged member of the family. Henry helps her plot how to send Rupert to the afterlife.

Ted discovers that Trent never learned how to ride a horse, a truly shameful secret out here, and immediately offers to teach him. Of course he knows how to ride, Trent, his last name is Lasso.

All sorts of stuffy, long-standing, stupidly gendered social rules that Ted enjoys breaking, which includes the horror of a man spending his days baking in a novelty apron. Everyone is a little horrified, but Trent overcomes that first because dammit, those biscuits are the only thing his daughter will eat right now, so Ted has to keep making them. What do you mean he’s been visiting the Lassos an awful lot? It’s for the biscuits and the biscuits only.

Beard is the man who lives on the grounds. That’s it. Is he homeless? He says no. Then why is he there? That’s for him to know and for you to maybe find out. He lives on the grounds, he knows approximately everything, and he and Ted hit it off like a house on fire.

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

I'm Happy Just to Have You

I'm Bright Baby Blue, Falling Into You

Chelsea!Roy Kent x Coach's Daughter!Reader

2.6k words

Warnings: Language, lying/sneaking around, no Ted Lasso characters except for Roy, fluff & flirting, protective dad, some self-deprecating talk

Just like every summer was spent running around Chelsea’s pre-season training, every night before the first match of the season was spent having dinner with the team. Your mother loved hosting the team in your backyard, with big bowls of pasta and salad on the tables put together to make one long table, and you always loved getting to sit among them. As a child, you’d draw pictures that you handed out to bemused players; as a teenager, you’d steal sips of beer and bat your eyes at the rookie athletes. Now, as an adult, you’d sit far too close to Roy Kent and monopolize his attention all night with jokes and sly attempts at flirting.

This year would be more of the same. After all, who were you to break tradition?

Of course, this year your dad raised an eyebrow at the little summer dress you wore, which you did your best to ignore as you helped your mother set the table, having skipped training to help her prepare the outrageously big meal. As the players started to arrive and help themselves to drinks, you chatted happily with them, pushing yourself to be even more friendly than usual, in hopes of throwing your dad off by making it seem like you were being extra affable with everyone, not just Roy Kent.

When the sound of two quick rings wafted outside from the front door, you had to stop yourself from sprinting inside. “I’ve got it!” you hollered to your mum before she could move towards the house. Surely, anybody could be at the door, right? It wasn’t as if Roy Kent had arranged some sort of doorbell 'signal' to ensure a few moments alone with you, right?

“Hey,” he hummed, leaning in the doorway, cool as ever. He glanced over his shoulder before pulling you in for a brief, heated kiss. You probably could’ve stayed there for hours, in his arms, his lips pressed to yours, if you weren’t in the doorway. His cool expression was replaced with a dopey grin when he let you go. “Brought you something.”

Curiosity crossed your face. “A gift? For me?” you teased.

With an eyeroll, he handed you a book. “Since we keep telling your dad we’re exchanging books,” he explained, “we should make sure we’re, y’know, exchanging books.”

You smiled and held the book close to your chest. “Clever, Kent.” After making sure you were still alone, you leaned close. “Kinda missed you today,” you admitted in a whisper.

“Missed you too, princess.” A quick kiss found your forehead. “Let’s go out tonight. After dinner. Grab a drink or something.”

Fuck, that sounded great. “I think my dad’ll think something’s up if I take the car so late,” you grumbled, sticking out your lower lip.

Roy chuckled softly at your bratty pout, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Fair enough.” He shrugged. “Sneak out, then.” When he saw your sour expression, he narrowed his eyes at you tauntingly. “Come on, Miss ‘I used to used to climb this tree all the time’. Put your money where your pretty mouth is.”

“Fine,” you huffed. “Maybe I will.” You smirked at him. “But you’re going to be pretty damn embarrassed seeing me climb that thing with ease after you could barely clamber up it.”

He let out a small, surprised laugh and looked ready to say something, some sassy retort no doubt, when his eyes flickered somewhere behind you. “Coach,” he greeted, straightening up.

“Kent.” Your dad’s gaze bounced between the two of you. “We’re all outside if you care to join us.” Despite his polite words, you knew this wasn’t a suggestion for the midfielder; it was a warning.

“Right, right.” Roy cleared his throat and turned back to you. “Like I said, no rush getting it back to me.” He gestured to the book in your hands. “But let me know what you think. I liked it.” With a curt nod to your dad, he briskly walked through the house, making his way to the backyard.

Once the sound of the closing backdoor reached you, your dad turned his attention to you, eyebrows raised. “Another book club meeting?”

You nodded quickly. “Yeah, he told me about this one the other day, said I might like it.”

Your dad gently took the book from your hands, scanning the cover carefully. His brows furrowed. “Didn’t you already read this?”

Lots of girls would kill to have such an attentive dad. Normally, it made you feel pretty damn loved. Today, however, it was a freaking curse. “I don’t think so,” you said. Lied, actually. “If I did, I guess it wasn’t memorable.”

“Hmmph.” He smoothed down your hair, the way he used to when you were a little girl. “Come on, let’s go outside.”

Once you stepped into your backyard, your dad was distracted by a couple of the guys who called him over to them. You busied yourself with setting things on the table, willing yourself to not to look at Roy, no matter how badly you wanted to lose yourself in those brown eyes and little smirks, because that would only tempt you to grab him and-

“Need some help, gorgeous?”

It was like your entire body melted as you sensed him behind you, his hand ghosting over your back for a fraction of a second. You wanted nothing more than to grab him and drag him up to your bedroom. Hell, that cologne he was wearing tempted you to turn and kiss him right then and there. Fucking Roy, he was going to get you in so much trouble. And dammit, he was so worth it.

After steeling yourself, you turned to glance up at him, offering what you hoped was just a friendly smile. “Sure, Kent.” You handed him a handful of forks, shivering when his fingertips slyly brushed against yours.

Roy offered you a small wink and turned to his task. Your eyes kept meeting over the table, eyes full of affection and teasing and about a million other things. Eyes that, if anyone noticed, would easily give away the heat between the two of you. You did your best to remind yourself over and over that your parents were here, that your dad’s hawklike gaze was definitely going to be working overtime. But still, you couldn’t resist taking the spot next to Roy as everyone settled in for dinner.

Normally, you set a respectable distance between yourself and the dreamy midfielder. Close enough that you could flirt, far enough that you didn’t make a complete fool of yourself. Tonight, however, you couldn’t resist scooching your chair a smidge closer, just close enough to be able to knock your knee against his and leave it there. You could see his ears tint red at the contact as his eyes zeroed in on the bowl of pasta in front of him, trying- and not quite succeeding- to hide his smile.

Deciding that Roy needed something of a break from you, you turned to your right to chat with Jules, a striker you liked very much. He was about Roy’s age, incredibly friendly and affable, and was the only young player your dad didn’t seem to mind you chatting with; probably because he thought of Jules as “safe” compared to the other players. Jules had married his childhood sweetheart, a lovely girl named Katie, who worked at a publisher and you considered a friend. She sometimes sat near you at matches, or even drove with you to away games a few times. They were an adorable couple, always smiling at each other and whispering what you assumed were sweet nothings in each other’s ears. Hopefully, chatting with the very taken striker would placate your dad into ignoring you for the rest of the night, so you could flirt with his star midfielder in peace.

Sure enough, at the other end of the table your dad engaged in spirited conversation with the other coaches, your mother was cooing over the baby photos an older goalkeeper was showing off, and your brother seemed very content listening to some of the guys recount a recent wild night out that had definitely made its way into the paper.

As you laughed at some story Jules shared about Katie’s mother’s recent visit, you felt fingers gently brush against your thigh; the familiar touch felt warm and affectionate. Out of the corner of your eye, you allowed yourself to glance at Roy, who was fighting a smile while debating a teammate about some recent action movie they apparently felt quite strongly about. He looked good like this; relaxed. Roy Kent almost never looked relaxed. For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to imagine if this was what he’d be like at one of those family dinners, smiling and rolling his eyes in between bites. When he wanted to be, he could be so charming. You wondered if he’d ever feel strongly enough about you to be charming with your mum and dad. And if they’d love you enough to give him a real chance.

“Alright there?”

The sound of Jules speaking had you snapping out of your daydream. “Hmm? Yeah, all good.” You offered him your most casual smile.

His gaze flickered between you and Roy for a moment. “How’s school?” he asked simply as he picked up his drink. “Any fellas hanging around? You know they’ve got to go through us first,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes, pretending your face wasn’t on fire. “No fellas,” you insisted, doing your best ignore Roy’s fingers again flittering across your thigh.

“Hmm.” Jules narrowed his eyes. “Interesting.”

Late into the night, after everyone’d gone home, you retreated to your room with a wave to your parents. Once you heard their bedroom door shut with finality, you slipped on a sweatshirt and called Roy.

“You ready?” was his simple answer when he picked up.

“Yeah.”

In a flash, Roy appeared below your window, smirking up at you expectantly. Once you made sure your door was locked and turned off your lights, you opened the window, unable to hide the joy on your face as you took in the sight of Roy and his black leather jacket in the moonlight.

“Careful,” he hissed up, loud enough for only you to hear.

You simply rolled your eyes and shimmied out of the window. It was old hat, climbing down that big tree. Your hands and feet remembered exactly where to go, as if you were still sixteen and wild. When you glanced down, you saw Roy, arms open, as if he were ready to catch you at any moment, eyes wide and almost… worried. Fuck, it melted your heart.

When your feet firmly hit the ground, Roy raised his eyebrows at you, admiration all over his face. “Fuck,” he whispered. He took your hand. “Are you part squirrel or some shit, princess?”

A giggle slipped past your lips as you kissed his cheek. “You going to spend all night talking about climbing trees, or are you buying me a drink?”

Hand in hand, the two of you stepped lightly until you’d slipped through the garden gate. Once out of sight of your house, the two of you jogged down the street to his car, shy chuckles escaping every time you looked at each other. Once you reached his vehicle, Roy pressed your back against the car and gave you a proper kiss, allowing you to taste the chocolate cake everyone had eaten after dinner. Some part of you wanted to just stay like this, leaning on his car and tangling your tongue with his.

But there was no way you were going to give up the opportunity to let Roy Kent buy you a drink.

The bar he took you to was not the kind of place one might expect a Premier League star to hang out. It was small, dark, dingy, a little dirty. Roy eyed you carefully as he placed a hand on the small of your back to guide you to a booth, where he left you with a kiss to the top of your head. He returned with a pair of pints and his mouth in a straight line.

“This alright?” he asked as he slid in next to you and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “I know it’s not that nice-”

“We won’t get caught here.” You took a sip of your beer. “Right?”

Roy nodded emphatically. “Exactly.” He kissed your temple. “Brilliant thing,” he teased.

Without thinking, you let out a little scoff. “Brilliant,” you repeated. “Tell that to my professors, yeah?”

A frown immediately covered Roy’s perfect face. “Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Shit. This wasn’t how you wanted to spend your time with Roy Kent. So far, your romance with him was something of a fantasy, one filled with longing glances exchanged on the pitch, stolen kisses, late nights in his bed. Sure, the two of you had shared childhood stories, and chatted nonchalantly about his job, but you’d been careful not to delve too much into your life. Sharing like that felt too real, too intimate, too much like something you’d do with a boyfriend, someone who’d stick around for a while, who’d still be there once the summer ended.

And that couldn’t be Roy- could it?

But fuck, he was leaning forward on his elbow and looking you in the eye with that intense gaze, the gaze that made you want to tell him every single one of your secrets, dreams, all the silly little details of your silly little life.

“I wrote a story last term,” you mumbled, slouching into his embrace. “I thought it wasn’t half bad. Couple of my mates read it, had lovely things to say. Turned it in, and my professor ripped it to shreds. Talked about it in front of the whole class, too.” You took a long drink of your beer, your cheeks burning at the memory. “Normally, I wouldn’t care too much, it was one professor’s opinion, but…” You shrugged. “I actually really fucking liked that story. Came across it earlier today, guess it's still on my mind.”

Roy studied you for a moment, his face hard, as if he were staring down an opponent on the pitch. “Fuck ’em,” he finally grunted.

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth tugged upwards. “Very Roy Kent answer,” you teased.

He shook his head earnestly, not ready to joke yet. “No, for real,” he insisted. “You liked your story, right?”

“Well, yeah-”

“And you said your mates liked it too, right? Said nice shit about it?”

You looked at your drink, unable to stay focused for too long on his fiery gaze. “I guess,” you mumbled.

He tightened his grip on your shoulder, tugging you closer until his nose brushed against yours. “Then who gives a flying fuck what one professor thinks? Do you and I like every book we read?” You shook your head. “But that doesn’t mean someone out there doesn’t like it, right?” He pressed a kiss to your lips, tender and gentle, just like his words. “Not every story is for every person. But that doesn’t mean it’s automatically shit. Alright?”

Whether it was his words or his kiss, something about Roy had you melting into his embrace. “Alright,” you whispered.

Satisfied that you were no longer playing self-deprecating, Roy leaned back, although he kept you close. “However,” he continued, a teasing lilt to his voice now, “I’ve never actually read your writing. So, for all I know, you actually are shit.” He waggled his eyebrows at you. “Guess you’ll have to let me read your work sometime. Or else I’ll assume you write as well as you play football.”

“Maybe I’ll let you read something,” you said, biting back a grin. “Or maybe you’ll let me write about you sometime, Kent.”

Something resembling a blush settled on his face as he reached out and held your chin gently. His eyes flickered to your mouth briefly before settling back on your eyes. “Only if you promise to write a happy ending, princess.”

Taglist:@gee72sstuff@book-of-roses@kissykissymouth@emmy2811 @hart-kinsella @klaine-92@dearvoidgoodnight@misshall14@issieruby@royal-sunflower@kissmekent@itswhateveripromise@slaymybreathaway@darkmagazineblaze@larascorneroftheworld@infinetlyforgotten@caught-the-feels@rae4725@sisinever@cskidjgsjaoaknayan52782@dd122004dd@veryprairieberry@spacecluster @dark-academia-slut

[jerseydeanne]

The royal family’s Jubilee appearances on the Buckingham Palace balcony have long offered a fascinating insight into the shape and future of the monarchy.

From the Queen’s Silver Jubilee to this year’s Platinum Jubilee, these line-ups send a striking message about the primary players on the royal stage.

In 2012, for the Diamond Jubilee, a slimmed-down version of The Firm stepped out to greet the mass crowds celebrating the Queen’s 60-year reign.

Just six royals waved to the well-wishers at the frontage of monarchy HQ – the Queen and only those at the very top of the succession list and their wives.

Alongside the monarch was her eldest son and heir to the throne the Prince of Wales, the Duchess of Cornwall, second in line to the throne the Duke of Cambridge and his wife of just over a year the Duchess of Cambridge, and third in line Prince Harry, with the Duke of Edinburgh in hospital after falling ill following the River Pageant.

The decision was said to be part of future King Charles’ vision of streamlining and modernising the institution.

Missing were the Queen’s other children, the Princess Royal, the Duke of York and the Earl of Wessex – all then full-time working royals – and their families, amid reports Andrew was angered by the decision and Edward left disappointed.

Ten years earlier during the 2002 Golden Jubilee, 20 members of the royal family had packed the balcony of the Queen’s London home to watch a traditional flypast.

The long line of royals stretched across the balcony and included Andrew, Edward and the Countess of Wessex and Anne along with the Queen’s grandchildren Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie and Peter Phillips, as well as William and Harry.

Also there were a number of extended family – the Queen’s cousins the Duke of Kent, the Duke of Gloucester, Princess Alexandra and Prince Michael of Kent and his wife Princess Michael of Kent among others.

There was no Camilla, as the duchess was still Mrs Parker Bowles and three years away from marrying Charles.

For the Silver Jubilee in 1977, it was the Queen, Philip, their children who were then young adults and teens, as well as the influential figure of Philip’s uncle Earl Mountbatten of Burma, who was murdered by the IRA two years later.

They were joined by the royal matriarch the Queen Mother, the Queen’s sister Princess Margaret and Anne’s now ex-husband Captain Mark Phillips.

In 2022, scandals and family dramas have ensured a vastly altered balcony ensemble for the traditional flypast.

Gone is Harry, after he and the Duchess of Sussex stepped down as senior working royals amid the Megxit saga.

Harry and Meghan are returning to the UK for what will be the former Suits actress’ first experience of a Jubilee since she married into the Windsors.

But the Queen has “after careful consideration” limited the Platinum Jubilee Trooping the Colour balcony appearance to working members of her family who carry out official public duties.

Eighteen royals will appear on Thursday including the Queen, if mobility problems allow her to do so, and Charles, Camilla, William and Kate.

There is also no place for Andrew, who was cast out of the institution over his civil sexual assault case.

But back on the balcony are Edward and Sophie, and Anne and Vice Admiral Sir Tim Laurence, as well as the Queen’s cousins the Duke of Gloucester and his wife the Duchess of Gloucester, the Duke of Kent and Princess Alexandra who have devoted their lives to royal service.

This Jubilee also sees new young additions, with the Queen’s Cambridge great-grandchildren Prince George – a future monarch – Princess Charlotte and Prince Louis, and the Wessexes’ children Lady Louise Windsor and James, Viscount Severn set to appear.

It is also hoped the monarch will make a second Jubilee appearance at the end of the weekend after the Pageant on Sunday.

[primasveraas-writing]

“Kent v The Shitty Knee Itself”- Ted Lasso

A sort-of-sequel to "Kent v Linebacker," but this can still be read on its own. Part 2 of 3 of my fics about Roy Kent's shitty knee.

Part 1 // Accompanying AU

WORDS: 1649

XXX

Roy Kent is old as shit.

His daughter is a fucking toddler. His son is in preschool.

And he has fucking arthritis.

“What the fuck do you mean I’ve got fucking arthritis?” Roy Kent explodes at the doctor, who waits patiently for his outburst to finish. “I’m in my fucking forties! I’ve got two fucking babies at home! What the fuck am I supposed to do when my fucking daughter needs to piss and we’re all sprinting into the bathroom? I can’t fucking potty train on a shit leg.”

His wife rubs his shoulders comfortingly; the news is less surprising to Keeley, who gave a damn when the doctors mentioned arthritis could develop, and who is also extremely endeared by her husband’s priorities, which apparently lie very firmly with teaching their daughter to pee in the toilet.

Roy shouldn’t be shocked either; he’s had a limp for a long time now, and progressively worsening pain. He’s been elevating his leg whenever possible, to the point where Ted pulls chairs up for him or sits down first so Roy doesn’t feel awkward (on good days, Roy scowls at Ted and stays standing, but these occurrences are increasingly few and far between). It’s been a long time coming, and as much as the great Roy Kent hates to admit weakness, his shit knee is getting shittier.

Keeley had forced him to go to the doctor when Roy scooped up both their children, one in each arm, and proceeded to fall on the floor in a heap of small limbs and curses. He again made the case that he was fine, but there’s a limit on how much Tylenol one person can take in a day, and Roy’s exceeded that limit for weeks.

He walks like he’s on a hill, wobbling as he drags his right leg behind him. Keeley remarks on how uneven his gait is, and Lily, his precious fucking baby, demonstrates just how wonky Roy is by limping around too. It makes him laugh, but then his gaze meets Keeley’s, and he realizes there’s not much he can do aside from accept his fate and ask Dr. Patel why his knee is failing him (again, the fucking thing).

Arthritis. Fucking hell.

“The majority of your symptoms can be mitigated by limiting any strain on your leg. This includes walking, lifting, twisting, standing, stairs-”

“-breathing, blinking, fucking doing any shit worthwhile-”

“We can also prescribe medication, but given the amount of pain you reported, I think the best option to look at is a walking assistant.”

“What, like a cane?” Roy snorts. He feels Keeley still behind him, then he looks up at Dr. Patel, who’s gazing back at him, entirely serious.

“A fucking cane.”

“It’ll alleviate the weight on your leg. Ideally, you won’t need it every day, but it’ll make a difference when discomfort gets too high.”

“Fuck no.” Keeley squeezes his shoulder. “Fine. Fucking hell.”

-

It’s an adjustment. Roy walks back to their car, cane-less for the time being, limping, and imagines a cane in his hand. Imagines being able to straighten up, and not going to bed in fucking agony after a long day.

He also imagines showing up to the football club with a cane in his hand and Jaime fucking Tartt the fucking muppet smirking at him with his stupid fucking face, and he wants to turn around and tell Dr. Patel he’ll never use a fucking cane in his fucking life. Then he imagines having a stick to beat Jaime with when he’s being a prick, and Roy grins to himself at the thought.

That’s what he tells Keeley on the way home: he’s on the fence. That there’s a stigma he doesn’t want, that he remembers this the pitiful looks he received after his first injury and after surgery. It’s fucking bullshit, that he’d be looked at differently just because of a fucking rod in his hand, or because his stupid knee is fucked.

“Since when does Roy Kent care about what other people think of him? I mean really,” Keeley tells him, patting his thigh. “Everyone decent won’t bat an eye, and anyone who does is a prat.” She shrugs. “It’s a flawless system, really. Good way to sort people out.”

Roy grunts in agreement and drums his fingers on the door. He sighs, leaning his head back.

“What if I can’t keep up with Lily and Ollie? What the fuck am I supposed to do with little kids?”

“We’ll adapt,” Keeley promises, offering her hand. Roy takes it and presses it to his lips. “They already know they can’t run from you, or bowl into you at full speed-” Roy snorts at this. “-so now we tell ‘em that they gotta be patient.”

“They’re gonna be the most patient kids on the planet,” Roy muses, but his chest feels lighter. His wife is fucking amazing.

“They’re fucking perfect, they are. And besides- they don’t love you cause you can lift them or up throw them around or run around after them.” She squeezes his hand. “They love you ‘cause you’re you, Roy. You’re their dad.”

Roy nods silently. She’s right, as always. His heart is warm, much lighter against his ribs. “Thanks, babe,” he tells her, and Keeley beams at him.

-

They adapt. Roy remains in awe of the resilience of children- Lily and Oliver don’t give a damn that he uses a cane, except they quickly have to delineate that it’s not a toy, so Oliver doesn’t hit anyone with it, and so that Lily doesn’t hit Oliver with it. Because of this, Roy has to be careful not to threaten anyone at Richmond with his cane while his children are around. One day, his kids will learn to do as their dad says, not as he does, but for now, his babies swear and scowl, and pick up on every bad habit Roy shows them. It’s fucking adorable.

The first month is the hardest. Roy and Keeley decide to grant him some grace- he doesn’t have to do shit like garden or mow the lawn, or anything too strenuous. It’s uneven, in the beginning, and Roy goes to bed every night feeling like a shit husband for everything that’s unloaded on Keeley. They fight about it, eventually, and Roy apologizes to Keeley with tears in his eyes. They find a balance, which involves a chair in every room in their house and somebody hired to do the lawn. Their roles have shifted, but it’s a pattern he’s familiar with by now. He’s gone through so many major changes with Keeley: switching careers and marriage and injury and parenthood twice over. And using a cane isn’t any harder than having a newborn and a toddler, so they manage. After all, they’re unstoppable together.

Nobody on the team makes a comment on the cane, except Ted leaves sticky notes on it whenever Roy isn’t paying attention, and Roy wouldn’t mind so much if they weren’t positive fucking affirmations, the corny twat. Then the rest of the team follows suit, and they sign it and put stickers on it and all sorts of supportive shit, and Roy tells only one person this, but he kind of fucking likes it (against his better judgment, of course).

Commentators and the press are not nearly as kind. There’s any number of articles written about him and how old it makes the football world seem. Roy wants to fucking kill all of them, but Keeley reminds him that all the pricks have shown their true colors, and one day he finds a picture of a particularly insensitive reporter that has been utterly defiled and left out in the locker room. Roy tucks this away in a drawer in his office, and he’s almost nicer at practice that day.

Beard and Ted match his slower pace as they walk out to every match, which isn’t subtle even from the offset, but they don’t say anything about it and neither does Roy. He also realizes that he’s never the only one sitting in a group of his friends, even if it’s just him and Ted, or Keeley, or Rebecca, or Nate.

Yoga gets much harder, then he and the yoga moms spend a night researching yoga for people with shit legs, and yoga gets easier again. If they want to do a challenge night, Roy shifts into the role of yoga instructor, which he’s fucking great at, thank you, and so what if he gets to drink more wine because of it.

And his fucking knee feels better. His medication works, but the cane helps the most. Ted and Keeley had told him ever since his initial injury to be kind to himself, to rest when needed, and to not be a stupid stubborn prick about his health. This mindset turns out to have a few merits, and maybe it’s even a good habit he can teach his kids.

It says a lot about him, this cane that accompanies a man in his forties. He needs it because he was a professional footballer who injured himself preventing a goal in one last game. Who needed surgery cause his energetic maniac of a son ran into him. Whose wife told him to use it with pride, because he’s Roy fucking Kent and his family and friends love him so screw everyone else. Whose coach used it as a tool to force positivity onto Roy, whose team and kids decorated it with messages of love and smiley faces and the two worst signatures he’s ever seen (though he credits Oliver and Lily for trying). It’s a symbol of persistence, of the pain he’s endured, of those who rallied behind him.

Roy Kent. Married to Keeley Jones. Father of Oliver and Lily. Coach at Richmond AFC.

And he happens to use a cane.