#thought it’d be fun to write this as an art major :]

[ellieswaifu]

MUSE. ellie williams x artist!reader.

summary: modern/college!au – ellie williams x fem!artist!reader. SFW! ellie has always had a crush on you, the girl who sat right in front of her in art class.

a/n: also hi i’m back looool (not proofread per usual)

The setting sun bleeds through the curtains of the art room, painting the walls in a soft orange that met the subtle undertones of your skin as you gazed right up the girl who had been standing frozen between the doorframe. Her backpack slung loosely over her shoulder and her short brown hair tousled lightly down her neck, partly tied at the back of her head as she grips the door handle. You were also quite frozen in your seat, arm lifting a paintbrush to a blank canvas with your eyes staring back at her. You wondered what she was doing, standing there with an unwavering stare like a statue.

It had been about an hour since class had been dismissed and you found yourself in a staring competition with a fellow classmate; a classmate you were quite fond of, a classmate you were quite attracted to. How could you not? It was Ellie. She was smart, creative, and ambitious, all equally matched her dashing good looks. She was very popular with the ladies, including you, and went to lots of parties, a crowd you never really thought of joining. It was strange being in a situation you would never have guessed to be in with this person. And after moments of unending eye contact, you finally broke the ice.

“May I help you?”

“O-Oh,” Ellie twitches in surprise after realizing how long she had been staring. “Sorry, I-I just forgot something. Didn’t mean to stare.”

“It’s okay, Ellie. I don’t mind,” you reply, setting your brush down against the table.

“I, uh, I didn’t think you’d know my name.”

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, smiling lightly at her statement, “Are you kidding? What kind of person do you take me for? You sit right behind me.”

She was very well aware of this after the countless stares, including this one, that she had shamefully indulged in during class as you worked beautifully on your art. Beautiful. It was a word she often associated with you. Every time she looked at you; beautiful. She had developed this secret crush on you since the beginning of the year, having no courage to act on her feelings other than stare at you directly from behind for at least an hour each weekday.

Ellie slowly walks towards her desk, right behind you, “I know… But I mean, we don’t really talk so I… I don’t know. I thought I’d be like a blur to you… If that makes sense.”

“Well, don’t sell yourself short. I see you clear as day,” You play with the tube of oil paints with your fingers, smirking softly at her.

“What do you mean?” Ellie blinks at your reply, looking hopeful, hoping for the chance that you might like her the same way she likes you.

“I’ve always admired your work, Ellie. You’re amazing.”

Ellie’s shoulders drop, slightly disappointed, but also appreciative of your opinion of her and her artwork. “Thanks... So what’s got you stuck in here still?”

“Nothing. Just easier for me to do it here, than in my own apartment, I guess. And I like the quiet and the windows. Especially right when the sun sets. Besides, paint is so expensive now,” You roll your eyes, looking over to the almost empty paint tubes your professor let you use.

Ellie’s green eyes light up as she remembers the little stash of art supplies occupying the corner of her dorm room. “Uh, well, if you ever need some oil paint, I’ve got plenty, if you’d like. My dad always gets me art supplies but always in different mediums because he doesn’t know exactly what I use so I always have extra supplies I end up not using. I-I mean, if you want. I mean, I don’t oil paint, so...”

You can’t help but smile at her endearing mannerisms, watching her nervously rub the palm of her hand with her thumb, “That’s sweet of you, Ellie.”

A smile curves under her nose in triumph as her eyes slowly pan over to your easel, “It’s empty. Your canvas.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’m… I’m having trouble picking a subject. I kinda sat here for a while doing nothing, staring at it but I can’t think of anything yet... Except…”

Ellie raises her eyebrow, “What are you thinking?”

“A portrait. Well, obviously. But, I’m thinking… I could paint you? If you’ll let me.”

“Yeah,” Ellie says almost embarrassingly fast. “I mean, yeah, sure, if you think I’d be a good reference, yeah.”

You smile, “You’d be perfect, Ellie.”

Ellie begins to lose focus, mind fast forwarding to the time the two of you would be spending together. Painting was a slow process, especially one for an oil painter. She became grateful that you were one. Not only were you an amazing artist, but you spend a long time trying to hone your craft, so the time she’ll be sitting as your model would take more than a couple of days. Time with you. An excuse to be with you. Finally. After staring at the back of your head, watching you work as she sat behind you with constant adoration, she thanked whoever it was that led up to this moment.

It’s the fourth day of her sitting on this old brown stool you pulled out from the classroom closet. Ellie sits in her usual pose; relaxing, slouching slightly, a foot planted onto the floor while the other sits on the footrest, staring at your face as you painted. She found that you had a face you put on as you concentrated on your work — a sight she would’ve never gotten to see from sitting behind you in class. She was grateful for this experience, to be able to see you like this, putting most of your attention on her. The first day, she was quiet, seemingly nervous as she fiddled with her hands every time you would turn to look at her, making her almost want to look away, knowing her cheeks would be getting redder by the second. Now, it was easier for her to control. She was more confident, at ease and often finding herself babbling about her aerospace class like the nerd she is.

And you looked beautiful, as always. It felt different, sitting in front of you, rather than behind. She couldn’t look over your shoulder to see your work anymore, like she always does. Only you. In a way, she liked this better. She liked watching you work, watching how gentle your brush strokes were, how precise and calculated they were, how your technique never faltered and how amazing the canvas looked when you put your strokes together. But now, she could only see you. Your hair tied loosely away from your face, your eyes darting back and forth between her and the canvas, your apron tied around your pretty waist, a pencil tucked behind your ear, the way your eyebrows furrow in frustration when you can’t get something right, and the way you occasionally take a couple steps back away from the canvas to inspect everything thoroughly before diving right back into painting. You were quiet and concentrated, even when you gave small hums of affirmation when Ellie would talk.

And all Ellie could think about was how pretty you were, standing there, so unaware of the thoughts of you that filled her brain, masked behind her small but many talks of her space class.

“How’s it going over there?” Ellie asks curiously, scratching the back of her neck as she continues to grow more and more nervous under your stare.

“It’s… going…” You mumble, putting the end of your brush between your teeth, biting it slightly in frustration as you think.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s missing…” Your sentence drifts, incomplete, as your eyes pan slowly over towards her once more, this time never leaving.

It only takes a second for you to put your brush down against your palette before walking over to where Ellie was sitting, stepping into her bubble, leaning down dangerously close to her face. Ellie twitches in surprise, eyes widening at the sudden closeness you two shared.

She could smell you. The soft fragrance that was so… you. She could see your eyes scanning every inch of her face, making her conscious of what she looked like during each passing second. But you were so close. It felt intoxicating.

So, she couldn’t help herself. Ellie brings her hands up to rest them on your hips, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt, one of her thumbs going through the belt loop of your jeans. Her eyes trail up to yours before darting down to where your lips were, sitting there so plump and delicious, practically calling out to her like a moth to a flame, as you continued to stare down at her. You loved the feeling of her hands on your body and you decided to respond by wrapping your arms around her neck, brown locks slipping through your fingertips.

If she could just tilt her head to the side a little more, lean her head upwards closer, she could just…

“Freckles... I was missing your freckles,” you sigh dreamily, already forgetting about the painting as you continued to stare at the girl in front of you. You bring your hand up to caress her face, thumb brushing softly over her eyebrow, paint smudging lightly against her skin, “You have a scar…”

“Yeah…” Ellie breathes, unable to take her eyes off your lips as you spoke softly.

“Where’s it from?”

“I… I liked building things as a kid. I tried to make a robot… Never worked, obviously, so I… I pulled it apart and destroyed it with a knife and I messed up with the angle I was cutting it with, and accidentally flung it towards my face.”

You hum in amusement, a smirk tugging at your lips, “I think the scar looks good on you.”

“You think so?” Ellie says, hands shifting slightly to rest underneath your sweater, feeling the skin of your waist, inching you closer towards her body, between her legs.

“Yeah,” you say lowly, before coming close to press your lips slightly towards her ear to whisper, “It makes you look sexy.”

Ellie can’t help but close her eyes, releasing a breath she didn’t know she was holding. The way you looked at her right now made her feel like she was on fire. Her face was burning up surely, but her heart was beating so fast it felt like it waking explode.

“I wanna kiss you,” she says, almost desperately.

You smile and run a hand through her hair, tugging on it lightly, making her groan lowly against you. “What’s stopping you?”

Ellie’s lips curve into a cocky smirk as she looks up at you with nothing but affection in her eyes, watching you like you were the most beautiful thing on the planet. “Nothing.”

And then, her lips pressed against yours with a gentle eagerness as her hands pulling you by your waist. It’s a moan that tugs on her heartstrings and is the cause of all the butterflies in her stomach. She discovers you like pulling at her hair when your paint-stained hands tug on it for the second time today, groaning against your lips at the feeling of your hands in her locks.

You pull back and smile when you see the subtle but visible pout on her lips, “How was that?”

Ellie can only shake her head and mutter two simple words desperately, “Not enough.”

And she dives right back against your mouth, arms wrapping tightly around your waist. Your hands trail down from her hair, resting your palms against her shoulder to find your balance, the kiss making you all dizzy. You unknowingly leave paint all over her shirt and her neck as she groans against your lips, seemingly never wanting to part from you ever.

You pull away again, both of you out of breath, lips hovering over each other as you regain your focus.

“I think we—” Ellie steals a kiss from you as you spoke. “Really need to—“ And then another. “Get back to—“ And then another. “Work!” You exclaim with laugh, pushing Ellie’s shoulders to keep her from coming closer even thought she had her arms wrapped around you still.

“I like kissing you,” Ellie says, hypnotized by you, how she felt like she was holding the literal embodiment of art in her arms. And finally, the words she’s been dying to tell you since she’s known you: “I like you.”

And she kisses you again, softer this time, humming lightly against your lips, hands treating you like porcelain. You tasted so good to her. She couldn’t help but want more. You moan in surprise as you feel her tongue drag across your bottom lip and instinctively, you open your mouth only slightly, but it was enough to push her tongue against yours, groaning in satisfaction, the taste of your tongue even more addicting. The grip you had on her shoulders only grew tighter as you kissed her.

“Mmhm, Ellie,” you moan.

Ellie groans into your mouth, immediately falling in love with the sound of your moans, squeezing your hips tighter, wanting to hear more from you before you move your head back to look at her. You stare down at her skin, thumb brushing over the freckles you wanted to kiss one by one.

Ellie pulls away with a smile, confidence growing by the second, “Yeah, baby?”

You roll your eyes and smile, leaning down to peck her lips once more, “I like you, too.”

And you kiss her again as she smiles into your lips. Your unfinished canvas was long forgotten as Ellie continues to distract you with her lips as your hands paints her skin.

You make a note to remind yourself to continue what you started, the painting and the kissing, both inspired by the muse which was Ellie.

a/n: thank u for reading my loves :)

[itsthesinbin]

Sins in Stardust (Bill Cipher/Reader)

OKAY SO. I've been thinking of Ideas since I got HORRIFICALLY fixated on Bill/Gravity Falls. I still do like the "bill's hot wife" idea but I gotta think abt how that wld work, logistically. I can't get off if the plot doesn't make sense. BUT I do have. Another reader insert idea.

Post Weirdmageddon and technically post Book of Bill. I couldn't read the full book in detail bc all I had was a kinda blurry pdf to work with so I'm missing some details.

This is the first chapter just 2 kinda gauge interest. I'm only posting it here rn until I write out a couple more :3 Feel free to leave a reply or tag if u reblog to let me know what u think

EDIT: Came up with a title I liked :3 I need to stop crutching on Hozier song titles LMAO

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You missed camping- you and your parents went at least once every summer, when you were a kid. A good old cross-country camping trip is what you needed, after the multitude of bullshit you’ve gone through. You quit your job, sold whatever shit you didn’t need and used the money you had to get out of your home as fast as you could. You’ll find a new place to settle, a new job in a new city with new neighbors and never have to worry again. All you had to worry about, now, is finding a fun spot to camp for the night.

You could sleep in your car- you have a few times since you started your trip- but it was a gorgeous night. The moon was full, the stars were so bright and clear this far out from a major city… It’d be a waste. You pulled your car off the road and trekked a bit out into the woods nearby. Hopefully your car would still be there in the morning. Please, God, let it be there in the morning.

You entered into a small break in the trees. The late spring breeze made the leaves sway and branches rattle softly. The starlight caught on the toadstools odd triangular spots. Eye-shaped spots on the trees seemed to follow you as you stepped into the small field. Like looking at creepy paintings in a haunted house, you felt like you were being watched. It was a little creepy, but you chalked it up to the full moon. Everyone was on edge during a full moon just because of stories and superstitions they all heard growing up.

The brightest thing in the clearing was a small statue, half buried in the ground. A triangle with a large eye, tophat, and bowtie. A single arm stuck out, as if ready for a handshake. The stone itself seemed to glow, but you chalked that up to the brightness of the moonlight that filtered through the canopy. You stepped a bit closer, noting how… quiet the area was. No birds, no crickets… Nothing. It was a little unsettling, you wouldn’t lie. Quiet woods never led to anything good. You really should go back to your car.

You pulled out your phone, first, though. You had to get a picture of this funky little guy. You were probably overthinking things. The statue was probably just someone’s abandoned art project, or store mascot, you thought as you snapped a few pictures of the lichen-covered statue. You smiled slightly. The little thing was kinda charming.

You decided to put your tent up anyway, despite the eerie silence. It was late, you were tired, and your car was still close enough to this clearing that you’d probably be in “danger” anyway. If you even were actually in trouble. The silence and the eye-spots on the trees were unsettling, sure. Weirdly enough, though, you felt a sense of calm here.

You decided against setting up a fire, opting to eat a can of cold pork’n’beans for dinner as you looked up at the stars. The sky was alight with blues and pinks and purples, seemingly swirling nebulas catching the attention of any being capable of comprehending beauty. You felt yourself smiling to yourself.

“Beautiful night, huh li’l guy?” You joked to the statue. You missed the way the eye-spots on the trees had stopped following you, instead focusing on the night sky. You threw the empty can of beans into a bag to throw away tomorrow, before rolling out your sleeping bag and laying out under the stars. You crossed your arms behind your head, and one foot over the other. Obviously, you were met with the same silence that had been here. Humans would be humans, though. Bonding with anything that even remotely had a face.

“Bet it gets lonely, stuck out here. Sure you got the view, but it sounds like nothing really drops by.” Nothing. The stars above almost seemed to move. You could almost make a shape out, but as soon as you tried it seemed to dissipate. You hummed to yourself, trying to find the shape again.

“I know how it feels to be stuck, buddy,” you offered, sympathetically. You sighed as a heavy feeling settled on your chest. You shook away the bad memories, the stars seeming to move again to keep your attention. It was getting a little weird, now. But you had heard that Gravity Falls was a pocket of weirdness in the middle of nowhere.

“I could use a traveling buddy,” you laughed. “I haven’t had… a friend in a long time…” You trailed off as the stars continued to twinkle and dance. You sat up with a heavy sigh, face to face with the statue again. Unsurprisingly, he stared at you stoically with his hand still poised for a handshake. You put your chin in your hand.

“And it’s driven me so crazy I’m talking to an old ARG piece left in the woods…” You rubbed your face. You stood with a stretch, the light around you seemingly getting a little brighter. You stepped in front of the statue.

“They use us and leave us to rot, don’t they? Hardly fair,” you mumble. You reach a hand out as if to grab its hand, but stop short of actually touching it. The hair on the back of your neck stood as you felt a million eyes on you at once. You look behind you, only to be met with the trees. You look up, and find the stars once again in the vague shape you couldn’t make out before. It felt like the very universe was watching this moment. Your throat felt tight. Strangely, though, you didn’t feel scared. You looked back at the waiting statue. Something prodded at the back of your mind.

“Maybe I will take you with me. Once I get settled somewhere, you can become a piece in my next living room,” you smiled. “I’ll get you cleaned up and see if I can patch some of those chips and cracks.”

You hesitated a moment, before you grasped the statue’s hand. Obviously, the stone limb didn’t actually move.

“I’ll get you out of here, you be my travel partner, and we both get to be free for a while. How’s that sound?” No response. Not that you expected one. You let the little hand go with a yawn. You kicked your shoes off near your sleeping bag and lay back down on it. The stars finally stopped shifting and swirling. They twinkled down at you as you covered yourself up for the night. You didn’t think it’d rain, so sleeping outside should be fine. You’ll deal with whatever happens, if anything.

You dreamt of the stars that night. They swirled above you, forming into a large creature that swam its way to you. You floated among the stars, eyes wide with wonder at the smiling creature. Its tail swept along the empty space beside you, leaving a small… child? It was a triangle with a huge eye, like the statue in the woods, but had giant shoes. It didn’t look at you at first, instead staring at the creature made of starlight and space dust in front of you. You also turned your gaze back to it.

The Axolotl stared down at you two, a peaceful smile on its face. You felt small under its gaze- like a child looking up at their parent. You reached out to pat it on the nose, finding your hand smaller than usual. You heard a squeaking noise and turned to look at the triangular baby.

“You see the stars too?” You didn’t know how he asked without a mouth, but you nodded anyway. Your 5 year old face was reflected in his large eye. He held a hand out for you to hold.

“You wanna watch them together?” You were quiet. You turned back to the Axolotl, only to find it swimming away from you. Back to depths of the universe you could only imagine. With no other option, you looked back at the kid next to you. His eye was turned up to show that he’d be smiling, if he had a mouth. His eye crinkled more as you grabbed his hand.

The stars began to burn.

You woke with a start, finding the sun creeping over the tree canopy and shining down on you. You groaned and covered your eyes with your forearm. You forced yourself to sit up, rubbing your eyes with your hand. Your head was pounding, the strange dream leaving you in a cold sweat. Maybe you shouldn’t have slept here.

A groan from in front of you made you freeze. Your head snapped up, making it throb. A triangular creature was sitting where the statue used to be, stone splintered and sprinkled around him. He massaged his singular eye, muttering under his breath. He looked up, tensing when he saw you. You both sat there in stunned silence for what felt like forever.

Then you both screamed.

[nimbusclan]

Nimbus /ˈnimbəs/ A luminous cloud surrounding a supernatural being.

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The story of NimbusClan follows a pair of siblings, Moonpaw and Fogpaw, who have to make it on their own after a landslide wipes out the rest of their clan.

I’m more of a writer than an artist, but I really wanted to get in on the Clangen fun everyone has been having, so I thought it’d be fun to try a twist on the classic comic format - I’ll be writing a story alongside drawing art! I’ll post major events in classic comic form, but if you’d like the ~Full NimbusClan Experience~, there will be story posts to read!

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Feel free to sends asks to the cats or to myself!

Asks are tagged #asks

Out of character will be tagged #ooc

Character references will be tagged #refs

Fanart will be tagged #nimbusfanart

All moon updates will be tagged with the relevant character(s) and the moon it takes place in, because I’m a sucker for organization. [Example: #moon 0 #moonpaw #fogpaw]

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-Mass extinction events are turned on

-Cats are allowed to breed with cats that aren't their mates

-Same-sex couples will not be able to have kits, but adoption is increased

-Cats are allowed to have kits with an unknown second parent

-Romantic interactions with cousins is turned off

-Leader will automatically choose a new deputy and cats will choose their roles on their own

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For now, I'm going to attempt to add the story portions with a read-more under the comics, but if it makes the posts too bloated or if the formatting is weird, I may try something else.

Welcome to NimbusClan!

[discokicks]

THE KIDS AIN'T FINE, FINE - ROY KENT.

PART THREE of ACES AT THE WATER'S EDGE.

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

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

summary: in 2012, roy’s summer olympic training camp is going (surprisingly) well. the same can’t be said for your new and current arrangement at richmond. and while you two think you’re doing a good job at keeping your bickering discreet, certain people are starting to notice that something’s up. and some are handling it better than others.

word count & rating: 11.8k (holy shit), R (typical roy kent fruity language)

chapter warnings: swearing, minor allusions to sexual assault and harassment, a sprinkling of sexual tension (we'll get there y'all), talk of alcohol and alcohol use, ploooot, lots of football/soccer/coaching talk, major angst, typical bickering, slight fluff.

author's note: i’m baaaaaaack and we're in it now, folks! we're covering A LOT of ground in this part. whole lotta relationship building and exposition. we're getting to the fun stuff soon, promise. and for the sake of my plot/pacing, we're pretending there was a week of time between last chapter and this one, despite them both taking place within the 3x02 timeframe. thank you for the love on the last chapter, i'm truly having so much fun writing this, so it's so exciting to see that people are enjoying it. ok, shutting up now, love u all tons, let's goooo! - mags

PRESENT DAY. (MID-AUGUST, 2023)

There are two days until Richmond’s first game of the season and you think you’ve slept approximately four and a half hours this entire week.

Despite the fact that your days weren’t too intense (pre-season practices were typically a little more involved and could stretch longer, and your Coaches' meetings never kept you past an unreasonable hour), your nights were rather rough. They seemed to be endless while also never offering quite enough time.

This was all self-inflicted, though. From the second you returned home from Nelson Road, you dove back into work, studying game film and your new players, attempting to figure out exactly what made this team tick. You thought about potential plays and formations in the shower, nearly slipping and cracking your head open each time you raced out to draw something up. You rehearsed things you wanted to say during practices, making sure each line was insightful and understandable, without overstepping any sort of boundaries.

Boundaries were key, here. You were hyper-aware of those now.

However, it wasn’t like you were saying the majority of these things. For the first time in almost a decade, you’d found yourself biting your tongue more often than not. You were friendly and encouraging like any good coach was, but you were agreeable. Quiet. Hesitant.

Those were issues and you knew that. That’s not what a coach was supposed to be, especially the coach of an AFC team. But that stupid fucking anxiety that you couldn’t shake had muzzled you. The fear made you weak. And while you hated it, you couldn’t rid yourself of it. That only made you feel more pathetic. 

And it wasn’t like the Richmond team hadn’t done everything in their power to make you feel welcome. The ‘primary school-level art’ Roy had spoken of on your first day had been a large ‘Welcome to Richmond’ banner held by the team in the locker room, each of the players greeting you with a wide smile on their faces. While, yes, it did look like it’d been put together by a couple of third-graders (with the exception of a wildly intricate sunflower in the corner done by Dani Rojas), the thought behind it nearly made you cry. 

All of the players had personally introduced themselves to you throughout the week, some keeping it short and sweet like Jaan Maas, others, such as Sam, approaching with lists of questions; not just about your professional life, but personal life, too.

They each were respectful and kind, listening to the few things you did work up the courage to say and seemed to take them to heart. They listened to you. They wanted to hear from you. They wanted to get to know you.

And you couldn’t fucking allow yourself to do it.

Your distant and rather closed-off behavior hadn’t gone unnoticed. While you thought you were keeping it cool and polite, certain players and people (AKA your entire coaching staff and boss) couldn’t help but see through what you’re doing. 

This becomes evident early one morning, approximately five days after you begin. You’re the first one at the Richmond facilities, having stayed up for so long that night that you figured you might as well just stay awake for training. You’re only the slightest bit delirious and are trying not to vibrate due to the three cups of coffee that are currently coursing through your system.

You’re about to take a sip of your fourth when you hear a knock on your office door. The sound makes you pause— nobody’s supposed to be here until eight, at least. 

The voice behind the knock reveals the identity immediately. “You’re here early, Coach.”

Unconsciously, your body goes rigid. You thought you’d be alone. You’ve only been here for a couple days, but nobody seemed to come in this early. Especially not Jamie Tartt.

What was he doing here? Why was he here so early? Was it just him? Or were there others with him? Anxiety floods through your veins at the idea of being alone in your office with this team’s star player. It creeps along your spine and into your mind and taunts you with ‘what ifs’, It’s stupid and it makes no sense and you hate yourself for it, but you can’t find a way to stop it. 

And it’s not even his fault. It has nothing to do with him. But you can’t seem to convince yourself of that.

Without turning around, you greet him. “C-Could say the same for you, Jamie.”

Jamie Tartt chuckles from your doorframe. “Having trouble sleepin’ lately,” he tells you, sounding slightly confused by your refusal to face him. “Thought I’d show up early.”

You force yourself to turn, crossing your arms over your chest. You ignore how clammy your palms are as your hands ball to fists. “Is that… typical for you?” you ask. “To show up at this time?”

“Not at all,” he replies with a shake of his head. The smile on his face is easy. Polite. Comfortable. “Just got a lot on me mind lately. Makes me sleep shitty.”

“Sorry to hear that.” You attempt the same politeness but your words come out clipped. You can’t tell if he notices. 

Jamie nods. “Oh, it’s whatever. I’ll get over it.”

The dead air you’re met with is almost painful. You know you should be better at this. You know you should be engaging in this type of small talk, trying to get to know your team. You’re their coach, for fuck’s sake. You know what you need to do.

But as you stare at Jamie, you can’t get anything to come out. You don’t want to say the wrong thing. You don’t want to overstep your boundaries or his. You don’t want to screw this up too. One wrong move and it could be over for you.

The hesitation clearly reads on your face and this time, you can tell Jamie notices. However, what you notice is the way he lingers at your door.

Finally, you muster up the courage to ask, “Is there something I can help you with?”

That seems to be what he was looking for. His shoulders sag as he nods, glancing behind him to see if there’s anyone around. “I was just…” He enters your office, plopping himself down into Roy’s desk chair with a lazy spin, and the action makes your throat tighten. “Is, uh… Is Zava really coming to Richmond?”

You don’t know what you were expecting from him, but it certainly wasn’t that. The question catches you off guard. “Oh,” you say. You shrug, arms uncrossing. “Uh, I mean… it’s being talked about. I’m still kind of new, but it seems like every team’s kinda trying to get him. I know West Ham was trying hard for sure, so… not sure if we’ll win him over.”

Jamie nods. “But it’s on the table?”

His tone doesn’t match the question. Everyone else— each player, coach, fan, everyone has the same type of excitement when talking about the prospect of Zava. And you get it. 

But Jamie doesn’t seem to be in the same boat. And immediately, you get that too.

The realization makes you part your lips, something like sympathy rising up inside you. Jamie’s the star. The Ace. He’s Richmond’s playmaker and he thinks he’s going to be sidelined because of it. And honestly, he may just be right.

“Yeah,” you reply. “It’s still on the table.” He nods once more, like he’s confirming a reality he didn’t want to face. In an attempt to reassure him, you awkwardly try, “But there’s still a lot of ‘what-ifs’ that have to happen before that does. The probability of it happening is like, super low.” Jamie looks at you. “So, I wouldn’t worry about it until it does.”

That makes Jamie shake his head. “I’m not worried about it,” he nearly scoffs. You can’t help the way you look at him, eyebrows raised and calling him out on his bullshit. “I’m not!”

“Good,” you say, backing off from this type of conversation before it can start. The idea of getting into any type of argument makes you tense. “You don’t have to be.”

That seems to satisfy him. Momentarily. Because then he asks, “But if he does…” As he trails off, he meets your expectant eyes. “Could we… Could you help me out?”

The question gives you pause. “In what way? Giving you updates on where we are with Zava?”

“No,” he chuckles. “I mean, like… training me. One on one? Or even just giving me more notes in practice?”

The second he says training, your entire body freezes. He wanted to do one-on-one training sessions with you? Just the two of you? Alone? The last time someone you’d coached had asked you that…

Jamie’s expression contorts in confusion as he sees the look on your face. “I just thought that, like, we played the same position? And y’know, I’ve seen your film and I know what you do and… I think you’d be able to help me.”

You try to answer him but the words don’t come out. Your throat’s dry, jaw tight. However, luckily, before Jamie has time to fully panic about his questions, you crush them. “Uh, I’m—” Your voice cracks. “I’m not sure I’d be comfortable with that just yet.”

Your answer seems to surprise him, but you’re surprised by how quickly he backs off. He physically takes a step back, throwing his hands up. “Oh, yeah. Of course,” he says. “You just got here. Don’t really know us yet. Totally get it.”

You hadn’t expected that. The last time, you’d been fought. Begged. Coerced. You’re the only one who seems to get me, Coach. You just know how to teach me. C’mon.

But Jamie doesn’t do that. And you’re not sure what to do with that.

“I-I’m sorry,” you manage to get out. “Nothing against you, but I’m just—” You interrupt yourself with a new offer. “Maybe ask Roy?”

That Jamie actually scoffs at. “Right.”

“I’m serious,” you tell him. “He’s actually a pretty good trainer.”

“No, he’s uh…” Jamie swipes at his mouth as he laughs. “He’s not my biggest fan.”

His admission makes you laugh and relax for a moment. “Well, at least we’ve got that in common, Tartt.”

Jamie’s gaze snaps to yours at that, but his oncoming question is interrupted by a voice from the hallway. “The fuck are you two doing here so early?”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Roy’s voice is a welcome one for the first time in eight years. Your eyes flash to him as he stands outside your shared office, glancing between the two of you in confusion. 

“We both had trouble sleeping,” you respond. “Felt like being early for once.”

Jamie nods in agreement. “Was shootin’ a bit outside. Saw the light was on and wanted to say hi to Coach.”

Roy nods but says nothing to that. He just continues to stare at Jamie in that vaguely intimidating, wildly annoying way. Jamie’s brows raise before Roy says, “You’re in my fucking chair.”

Jamie rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Because you weren’t here. I was gonna get out when you got in.”

“Well, I’m in now,” Roy says. “So get out of my fucking chair.”

Jamie glances at you with a cheeky smile. “Grandad doesn’t like people in his chair.”

The corners of your lips twitch up. “Grandad doesn’t like a lot of things,” you reply, a strange sense of pride rising within you as Jamie’s grin widens.

“Grandad’s about to go out back out into the car park and drive through the facility if my chair’s not empty in three fucking seconds,” Roy grits.

You bite back a smile at the empty threat, watching as Jamie shakes his head and stands. “Easy there, geezer. I’m out. Going back to the pitch,” he tells you two, making his way out of the office. Before he leaves, he glances back at you. “And Coach? Don’t worry about what I said.”

You can feel Roy’s eyes on the side of your face as you give Jamie a small, grateful smile. But when he exits, it drops and you fail to hold back a heavy, shaky sigh. God, why the fuck can’t you do your fucking job? Why does this have to be so hard?

Less than a second of silence passes between you and Roy before he asks, “What did he say?”

You shake your head. “Nothing. Nothing important.”

Roy doesn’t take the hint. He’s never been good at that. “What did he say?” he repeats.

“He—” You slump into your desk chair, running a hand down your face. You know avoiding this is no use. He’ll ask until he gets it out of you, so you might as well get it over with. “He asked me for extra training.”

Roy’s brows shoot up. “You?”

You glare at him from behind your fingers. “I’m a fantastic coach.”

“I know you are. But there’s no way he could have known.”

Your glare only gets more intense as you drop your hands. The implication of his statement isn’t lost on you. No one knows anything about you because of how little you’ve spoken. You get that. But he doesn’t need to be a dick about it.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “I said no, so.”

“You said no?” He sounds incredulous. “Since when do you say no?”

“Since—” The words get caught in your throat again, and it tightens horribly. Since West Ham. Since you said no more times than you could count and it went ignored.

You shake your head like it’ll clear your thoughts. “I’m just not comfortable with it.”

Roy’s suspicious. In your experience, a suspicious Roy Kent is just about as bad as a deceitful Roy Kent. Every fucking move you make for the next week will be under scrutiny until he can pinpoint whatever he thinks is happening. The idea makes you want to take him up on his offer to drive through the facility.

His eyes stay on you, calculating stare never breaking. “Why?” he asks, as if he’s expecting a simple answer.

But it’s not simple. It’s so unbelievably, wildly, completely the opposite of simple. 

But you give him a simple answer in return. It’s a bullshit answer, but it’s simple. “Boundaries,” you say. You’re out of your chair before he can respond to that. “I’m going to get more coffee.”

He says nothing as you exit, but you can feel his eyes on you. 

LONDON OLYMPICS. (LATE JULY, 2012)

As it turns out, Roy Kent’s Olympic Boot Camp is wildly more effective and insanely more fun than you thought it ever could be.

The two of you had met up twice since the night of the Opening Ceremony, at the same field, typically at the late-night same time. Roy had continued to send Roger the Driver for you, something you’d taken gladly advantage of, especially with your limited knowledge of the London area. You’d actually grown to love Roger despite his rather talkative nature, and he’d clearly taken a liking to you. 

(“Be kind to this one, Roy!” he’d yelled from the window as you’d exited his car. “The States need her much more than England needs you!”

“Fuck off, you old twat!”)

However, while these trainings had been way better than you’d expected, it’s also way fucking harder than you anticipated. 

You knew Roy was good. He was an AFC star. A Chelsea legend in the making. He was as well known as he was for a reason, and it wasn’t just because he frequented a tabloid cover. Roy was good.

But you think you may have underestimated just how good he was.

And it wasn’t like you weren’t keeping up with him. You could go shot for shot with him, run the same length and duration, and score on him with the same type of precision. Of course, he had his things that he was better at than you were (as a midfielder, he was a smart, fucking brick wall of a defender and wasn’t afraid to push you around) and you had your strengths over him (you were quicker than he was and your striker nature made you better at anticipating him). But there were certain things he’d do in the midst of a 1v1 drill that you would have never thought of, or he’d stop a play to give you a direction that had never occurred to you.

(Or, it would have occurred to you, but just not as quickly.)

That, coupled with the fact that he liked to run these practices until your lungs gave out, made for an intensely more challenging but rewarding experience.

But you didn’t think of them as rewarding until they were over. Case in point, your current and third meeting with him. It was 1:30 in the morning at Mabley Green on the 2nd of August and here you were, growing more and more frustrated with the fact that you couldn’t get around Roy despite the aggressive amount of fakes and footwork you were throwing around. He’d been in your ear the entire time, somehow encouraging you while still being a shit, and when you thought you had him, he stuck out a leg to stop the ball, effectively tripping you in the process.

You hit the ground with an ‘oof,’ taking advantage of your new horizontal position to lie for a minute and catch your breath. Your chest heaved up and down and you stared up at the huge lights illuminating the field. You could hear Roy walking toward you as you threw your arm over your eyes in exhaustion.

“You’re a dick,” you told him. “That fucking hurt.”

Roy’s scoff was loud. “That was a fucking dive.”

“You tripped me!”

“Bit dramatic.”

An affronted sound left your lips and you put your other hand up in a way that resembled a phone. “I’ve got the kettle on the line right now if you’d like to tell it it’s black.” 

You were surprised to hear him chuckle at this. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Your eyes roll from behind your arm. “I’m serious,” you say. “All you boys act like you were shot the second someone marks you. It’s pathetic.”

“Refs miss shit. You gotta put on a show.”

“Is that show The O.C? Because I’m always expecting an auto-tuned ‘mmm, whatcha say’ to sound off each time one of you losers hits the ground.”

Roy’s standing above you now, looking down with a half-amused expression. “I don’t know what the fuck that means.” He’s talking again before you can explain. “Get up. We’re not finished yet.”

A loud, ugly groan escapes you. You still haven’t completely caught your breath. “I think I’m dying.”

“You’re fine. Get up.”

“I’m serious,” you say again. You finally remove your arm from over your eyes, squinting up at him. He’s as unamused as ever. “I think I’m dying and you killed me. I think if you tried to get me up right now, I’d collapse and stroke out or something.”

“And it would be a fucking loss for us all,” he replies dryly, earning a scowl from you. “I’ve got you for another thirty. We’re wasting time.”

You release another groan and squeeze your eyes shut once more. “Can I please just have, like, five minutes?” you plead. “Not all of us have this military-regimented training style that you seem to. I haven’t been this dialed in since college. Still trying to adjust here.”

(You’ve also never trained like this with someone as good as him before, but you keep that one to yourself. He doesn’t need the ego boost.)

You don’t hear anything in response for a moment. Confused, you open your eyes, expecting to find him still staring down at you with a frown, but he’s not there. Before you can rise to find him, a plastic water bottle lands right next to your head. You flinch in surprise, shooting up to glare at him.

Roy sits down across from you before you can complain. “Five minutes,” he agrees. 

“Oh, thank God,” you mutter, opening up your water to take a long gulp. You glance at him. “Are all of your Boot Camps as intense as this?”

Roy rolls his eyes at your question. “I’m sure you’ve been to worse.”

“I have. But in like, high school. This shit’s got nothing on my two-week sleep-away soccer camp in Western Massachusetts.” You pause for a moment. “Or the one in North Carolina. That one sucked.”

He looks over at you. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. Six A.M. early training sessions into all-day drills and tournament game play? Followed by a lovely nine P.M. late-night training?” You shake your head. “Insane. And that early and late-night stuff? Totally optional.”

“But you still chose to do it,” he states, brows raised.

“I still chose to do it,” you repeat. “That, and my psycho coach would keep tabs on me to make sure I was going.” You chuckle despite yourself and shrug. “But I did it. Without complaint.”

“I see you picked up the complaining later in life.”

You make a face at the way he smirks. “I’d be a masochist if I didn’t complain about this,” you tell him, biting back a smile. “I assume you were born with that trait?”

“Just fucking about,” he mutters. At your inquisitive look, he shrugs. “Sunderland scouted me when I was nine. Training was pretty fucking rough until I went into the AFC.”

“I forgot you guys could start that stuff that young over here,” you say, taking another sip of your water. “Was that tough?”

“I kept up,” he answers. “They were hard on us but—”

“No,” you interrupt. “I meant like, doing that shit at nine. Being away from your family. Being on your own that young. Was that hard?”

With every reason you listed, you could see him stiffening. His expression became harder and you figured if he could push a button to put a wall between you two, he would. Your stomach sank as you tried to figure out if you’d said the wrong thing or pushed too far. Maybe that was a boundary he wasn’t willing to cross. Despite the amount you’d spoken these past three sessions, maybe you weren’t yet friendly enough to ask about his upbringing. 

But then again, he barely talked about himself in any capacity, so maybe it wasn’t just that. Maybe it was everything.

He was quiet for a moment before he shook his head. “No,” he finally said, though the one word alone let you know the answer was the opposite. He glanced down at his watch. “Five minutes are up.”

And that conversation is over. Got it. No questions about his childhood. Understood.

Still, the dismissal catches you slightly off guard. “O-Oh,” you stammer. “Right. Okay.”

Roy said nothing else as he stood, making his way back to the end of the pitch. You suppose you should have expected that from someone like him. While he’d gotten better as a conversationalist as the days had passed, you still led the majority of the talking. And you were fine with that. You were a pretty open book yourself and often forgot that most people weren’t the same way. Maybe that was on you.

You sit for a moment, allowing him some distance before you stand. You throw your water bottle to the sideline and follow behind him, feeling a bit like a dog that just got scolded. But you quickly shake that feeling away as he stops where he left the ball and turns to you, kicking it in your direction.

You put your foot on it as you receive it and look at him expectantly. “I’m setting a timer for thirty seconds,” he tells you, starting to fiddle with his watch. “We’re staying in the box. If you don’t score on me within that time, you run a lap.”

Well, that just sounds like your own personal hell. You frown. “And if I do score?”

“You won’t,” Roy replies quickly, and you don’t know if you’ve ever heard him sound more sure.

“No, but when I do score?” you repeat, emphasizing the word to see him roll his eyes. “What happens? We subtract a lap?”

Roy shrugs. “Sure. But—”

“No,” you say, eyes lighting up. “You have to run.”

“I’m not the one being trained here.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a match tomorrow. And if my legs like, give out on the field I’m totally blaming you.” You roll the ball against your cleat. “‘I’m sure that ‘Roy Kent being the reason America loses’ isn’t exactly the headline your PR team’s gonna want.”

“I don’t give a fuck about PR,” he replies.

Images of rather negative tabloid covers and online gossip articles starring the man before you start flashing through your head. “Clearly.”

“I just don’t want anyone knowing I’m fraternizing with a fucking Yank,” he finishes, a smirk tugging at his lips. 

An overly fake and affronted gasp leaves your lips. “Fraternizing?” you parrot. “Is that what we’re doing?”

“Guess not,” he says. The smug expression intensifies. “Suppose I could tell them we’re training. Because the girl who’s supposed to be America’s fucking Ace needs it.”

That sparks a fire in you that you haven’t felt in a while. You can’t remember the last time someone challenged you like this. Sure, the women you played against would talk a fair amount of shit to you on and off the field, especially during a tight game when tensions were running high. But this was different. It was different hearing it from someone like him.

You’d never liked having to prove yourself. You knew it came with the territory of your chosen career path. You’d been doing it all your life. For every team you joined, every game you played, and every interview you gave, you’d been given an opportunity to prove yourself. And each time, you did. You were good at showing people up. But that didn’t mean you liked it.

You figured at some point people would just get the message. But unfortunately, that had never been the case.

So, as you look at Roy (who, by this point, knew he’d hit a nerve and had gotten the exact response he’d wanted), you know exactly what you’re going to do. You’re going to prove yourself and show him up like the rest.

With that settled, you nod at him. “Start the clock,” you say.

And as soon as he does, you’re on.

You attack without caution this time around. You’d never held back when practicing with Roy (mainly because he’d reprimand you if he felt you weren’t trying hard enough), but you also rarely had an edge to you like this. It’s new and aggressive and just a bit exciting.

Roy’s fucking ecstatic to see it. His chest meets your back as you attempt to pass him and you can feel him chuckling against it. “That’s it,” he says lowly. “Get around me. I fucking dare you.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, attempting a fake before moving to go the other way.

Said attempt ends up being less than successful as Roy fails to fall for it and kicks the ball out from beneath your foot. You swear under your breath, watching as it sails out of the box.

You’re close enough to him to still feel his chest moving up and down against your back, and his breath tickles your neck when he asks, “Is that seriously the best you’ve got?”

Your jaw clenches, but you refuse to look at him. “I’m gonna fucking destroy you.”

The certainty in your voice makes Roy grin, something you don’t see as you jog to retrieve the ball. The remnants of the smile stick around as you whip around to face him, commanding that he start the clock once more. The moment he does as he’s told, you’re coming at him again, nothing but determination to be seen in your expression.

This time, you’re quick. You anticipate his classic defensive stance, knowing that he’ll block your first shot. As soon as the ball bounces off his foot, you’re there for the rebound. You stop short, pulling back the moment he makes yet another move to take it from you, and he slips. 

You easily score on him not a second later.

After watching the ball fly into the net, you glance over at Roy. While he doesn’t look thrilled to have been bested, he doesn’t look sad either. Again, it’s like there are remnants of a smile left to be seen. 

“So,” you say. “Are we at zeroes for laps? Or one for one?”

Roy shakes his head. “One for one. Let’s keep fucking going.”

PRESENT DAY. (MID AUGUST, 2023)

It isn’t until the end of practice that you can feel it. How much Roy wants to fight with you.

It sounds stupid to phrase it like that, but it’s the only way. He’s pent up, a week into your ‘no fighting’ deal, and ready to burst. And while it’s worked (only because you two strictly talk about work and nothing else), now that he’s got something more personal to say, it’s like you’re waiting for an active volcano.

To be fair, your deal has worked in terms of not making a scene and not raising most people’s suspicions. But every other level, it’s been torturous. And right now? Roy’s ready to kill you.

He can’t, for the life of him, understand why you’re acting like this. 

He knows you. You’re warm. You’re friendly. You have this innate ability to make everyone around you comfortable in your presence, an ability to talk to anyone and everyone and actually get through. All of these things, coupled with the fact that he could never shut you up, made you who you were; a great teammate and an even better coach. 

(They were also all qualities Roy wished he had himself, which is why he was so fucking drawn to you in the first place, but that’s neither here nor there.)

He doesn’t know who this is. But he knows for a fact that these changes aren’t just because of time.

Roy’s breaking point, however, occurs toward the end of your Thursday practice. It’d been a good day, the boys showing more promise than ever. End-of-pre-season jitters (as Ted called them) were in full force and it was clear that the team couldn’t be more excited to get started with the season.

In your return back into the facility, Sam Obisanya trails back to fall into step with you with a wide smile on his face. He doesn’t miss the look of surprise you give him as he says, “I really liked what you said about passing around the box. I’ve been thinking that for all of pre-season, but did not know how to get it through to everyone.”

The point he’s referring to was one of the only things you’d said all afternoon. It was a quiet direction on your part, told more as a recommendation than an instruction. But Sam, Jamie, Colin, and Dani had taken it in stride, and it worked. Cleanly, too. You straight-up almost cried out of relief.

“Oh,” you say to him lamely, offering a small smile. “Thank you. You guys did great with it.”

Sam’s grin gets wider. “We all are going to eat after we’re done here,” he tells you. “You should join us.”

You can feel your stomach drop at the offer. You don’t want to turn him down. Poor Sam was trying so hard to make an effort with you and you feel completely awful giving him nothing in return. 

But you just… can’t. Boundaries. Boundaries.

Sam gets his answer from the way your smile turns apologetic. “I wish I could,” you say, knowing that it’s the truth. “But, I, uh— I’ve actually got plans tonight.”

“You could just come for a drink?” he offers. “I’m only going for a little while myself. I have some things at the restaurant I need to do.”

Your heart clenches. “I really wish I could.”

Thankfully, Sam takes the hint. He nods at you, still smiling. You don’t think he’s ever stopped. “That’s alright,” he says. “Another time.”

You nod back. “Yeah. Another time.”

With that, Sam goes to catch up with his teammates and leaves you with an overwhelming amount of guilt on your shoulders. 

He’s trying, you tell yourself. They all are. It’s different than West Ham. They’re not the same. Nobody on this team is like him—

You can feel yourself getting nauseous at the mere thought of him. It completely takes you out of the moment and your hands begin to shake back and forth as you attempt to continue walking, clenching your teeth as if that’ll rid your mind of him.

How strange it is to be haunted by someone who’s still living.

You’re already disoriented enough when you feel a hand grab your arm and yank you to the side. Your world spins for a moment and when it stabilizes, you realize you’re in the Boot Room staring at Roy Kent.

He slams the door shut and whirls around on you. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You do a full, cartoon-like double-blink at him. “What am I doing?” you ask him incredulously. “What are you doing? Why the hell did you pull me in here like that?”

“You don’t have plans tonight,” is what he replies with, like that’s a reasonable answer to your question.

“And how would you know that?” you question. 

He gives you a look. “Because you fucking don’t.”

“I do,” you say, crossing your arms. Your mind scrambles to find some excuse that’s suitable. For whatever reason, you decide on, “I have a date.”

Roy’s brows rocket up. “Do you?”

You know he can see right through you, so you don’t even bother trying. “No,” you admit, watching him roll his eyes. “But I could have. You don’t know my schedule.”

Roy doesn’t seem to want to linger on this. “That’s the third fucking time one of them has invited you out since you got here,” he tells you, ignoring the way your eyes widen. “Why do you keep turning them down?”

“Why are you keeping track of that?” you shoot back.

“Because you’re being a fucking hermit.” As if he knows exactly what you’re going to say next, he holds out a hand. “And that’s my fucking job. That’s not who you are.”

His words make you deflate, and your arms get tighter over your chest. “I’m not being a hermit,” you mutter, looking away from him. “I’m just not trying to take work home with me. I don’t see anything wrong with keeping the two separate.”

Roy isn’t having it. “No, you’re not,” he says. “You’re not keeping the two separate. You’re shutting out every fucking person around you when you’re at work too.” 

“That’s not true—”

“Did you or did you not refuse to train Jamie yesterday morning?” he snaps. Your silence answers his question for him. “It is fucking true. And even if it weren’t, unfortunately, that whole keeping-work-separate fucking bullshit doesn’t work here. Trust me. I tried.”

You scoff. “Well, that sounds like an HR issue.”

“Well, when Ted stops leaving fucking flowers for the HR women every week, I’m sure they’ll start to take your complaints seriously,” he tells you, and you sigh. Heavy. “Now, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

This question earns him a glare. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” you bite. “And if there were, it surely wouldn’t concern you.”

“Yes, it fucking does. You know why?” he asks. You stare at him expectantly. “Because last week, I remember someone telling me that if this was going to work, we have to tell each other things.”

Your own words come back to bite you in the ass and it makes your chest tighten. You scoff in an attempt to play it off, but that panic starts rising inside of you and throws everything off course. You know that it’s stupid, and you know that it’s Roy, and that despite it all, deep down, nothing bad would come from telling him… it’s still scary.

You didn’t want to talk about it and he didn’t deserve to know. Not yet, at least.

“Not this,” you say after a beat. Your voice sounds meek and it makes Roy’s brow scrunch. “I’ll talk to you about anything else you want, but not…” You interrupt yourself with a breath. “Not this.” Then, you utter a word you haven't said in eight years. "Foxtrot."

It’s then that Roy’s expression turns from confused to shocked. His lips part in surprise, like he can’t believe that just left your mouth. And then he looks at you. Like, really looks at you. It almost intimidates you in a way, and it would intimidate you more if you didn’t know this look of his. Not only is he evaluating you, you can tell he’s holding something back.

You’d said the word. Pulled that thing out of the trenches and threw it in his face. But he's still staring at you, determined to figure out exactly how to approach this situation. Attempting to figure out if he should say something.

Because, unfortunately, as well as you know Roy, he knows you better. And he knows how to get through to you. 

(And it’s fucking irritating.)

He, in fact, does choose to say something. And it’s not what you’re expecting. Because before he says in, he reaches into his pocket for his wallet, filing through it. 

Your mouth parts in question. “Are you trying to bribe me into—”

“Shut up,” he mutters, and you do so until he seems to find what he’s looking for. He holds out a slip of paper-- something that appears to be a newspaper clipping from ages ago. “Here.”

You blink at it. “What is that?”

“Just fucking—” Roy sighs, adjusting his grip on the page. “Read it.”

Hesitantly, you reach out to grab it. Your fingers brush his when you take it, and the action alone makes the two of you glance at each other. You look away as you unfold the paper, quickly scanning it.

Newcomer Roy Kent is an over-hyped, so-called prodigy whose unbridled rage and mediocre talent rendered his Premier League debut a profound disappointment.

Your gaze shifts up at him knowingly. Roy can’t help but notice that most of the anger has slipped from your face. “Crimm?”

Roy nods once. “Crimm.”

“Was this your first game?” you ask, and when he nods again, things start to make a little more sense. You sigh, shoulders slumping. “You were seventeen.”

“I was seventeen,” he repeats, reaching out to take the clipping back from you. He only seems marginally surprised that you remembered that. “I was fucking seventeen years old and fucking debilitated by how nervous I was. I didn’t sleep for days before the game and then I went out there, I fucking survived it, and then read that shit. Didn’t sleep for days after it.” He shakes his head. “And then that prick fucking waltzes in here with his notepad and his stupid fucking hair like he didn’t fucking destroy me and wants to write a book about my team? Not a fucking chance.”

The outburst makes you stare at Roy in shock. He’d never mentioned anything like this to you. By the way he spoke of his earlier AFC days at Sunderland, you’d always assumed that it was smooth sailing. That while his career didn’t really take off until he joined Chelsea, he didn’t hold any resentment for anything that had happened. And while this may have seemed insignificant in the grand scheme of things, especially looking back at his career and other things people had said about him, this was Roy. Of course, he’d hold on to something like this.

“So, yeah,” he says, shifting uncomfortably under your gaze. “That’s why I won’t talk to Crimm. I don’t give a shit if you don’t get it, but that’s why.” He motions to you. “I showed you mine, so you show me yours, or whatever the fuck. That's how the counter-Foxtrot works, right?”

You do get it. You understand it better than anyone. But more importantly, you understand why he’d hold on to that. Roy, who could hold a grudge almost as well as you could. Roy, who hated the media and press and the world knowing shit about him more than anyone you knew. Roy, who felt and internalized things so deeply that he didn’t even realize he was doing it. 

It’s the first thing he’s clued you in on in years. Even if it was vague and minimal, he told you. And you know how much he didn’t want to. That’s good enough for you to allow yourself to clue him in too.

(God, he really does know how to get through, huh?)

You blink away from him, gaze focused on the door. “I just…” You clear your throat, throwing a hand up pathetically. “I don’t get why they want to get to know me so bad.”

“Because they’re good fucking lads,” he responds.

“I know. And it’s pissing me off,” you mutter. Your arms are still crossed and right now, that feels like the only thing that’s protecting you. The weight is comforting. “I know it sounds ungrateful and dumb and it doesn’t make sense, but I just wish they’d…”

“...Fuck off?”

“Yeah,” you huff. “That.”

Roy’s head tilts. “Why?”

You don’t want to tell him. You know how stupid he’ll think it is, you know you’ll get told you’re an idiot. But he’s already told you something. In your world of deals, that means something. And your words return again to taunt you.

If this is gonna work, you have to tell me things, okay?

Your eyes shut and a shaky breath escapes your lips. It all comes out at once, like you’re trying to exterminate them. “Because the last time I got to know the team, I got fired,” you tell him, and his entire demeanor shifts. “And I can’t do that again. That can’t happen again. So, if that means I have to be distant and a bit unfriendly, then so be it.”

The inquisitive look he wore vanished entirely, replaced with something harder and much more serious. “What do you mean?”

You can feel your skin start to crawl. Your shirt suddenly doesn’t feel right on your body. It’s too hot in this small Boot Room and it’s all suddenly too much. “N-Nothing,” you say, chest tightening. “It doesn’t matter. You asked for the reason, and I gave it to you. That’s why I’m being weird.”

Roy’s not buying it. He’s seen all your signs and he knows there’s more to this than you’re letting on. You can tell he’s battling whether or not to press forward, and if so, how to do so. Your eyes are pleading for him to drop it. 

“It wasn’t leadership differences,” he decides to land on. He says it like he’s always known. Like it may be confirming another suspicion. But it’s vague enough that you’re okay with it.

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “No,” you say. “Not exactly.”

Roy nods, silence filling the room. He’s still staring at you and you’re starting to think he won’t ever stop. You notice the sliver of anger in his eyes but see it’s more subdued than usual. It’s not directed at you. It’s like he’s filing it away for later.

He speaks a moment later. “Whatever happened there,” he begins, voice low. “It won’t happen here. It would never happen here.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m starting to get that,” you answer honestly. “But it’s still hard.”

“I know.” Roy says, and the way he nods tells you that he does know. His mouth opens, wanting to say more, but it doesn’t come out immediately. “Just…” His eyes cast up to the ceiling. “If anything, just fucking… speak up in practice more. You’re their coach now. If you don’t want to get fucking personal with them, at least get to know them on the field.”

“I know them on the field,” you reply, because you do. You know your new players inside and out. You’ve studied them. You know their strengths, their weaknesses, what makes them tick. You know what works. “I do.”

“I know that,” is Roy’s immediate response, just like this morning. He points to the door. “But they fucking don’t. And they won’t know it until you fucking show them.”

This time, you look away from him because you know he’s right. A decade ago, Roy was just about fifty-fifty when it came to right and wrong, but now? He was consistently on target. You’re not sure which switch flipped in him or when, but goddamn, was it maddening.

You ask him such as you huff in annoyance. “Since when are you right all the fucking time?”

Roy’s clearly not expecting that, and it’s evident by the way he barks out a laugh. But, he figures, if you’re going to be nice, he supposes he will too. 

“You were gone,” he replies with a chuckle. “Figured I had to pick up the slack.”

Involuntarily, your eyes go soft at his words. They’re kind and truthful and genuinely civil. It’s only for a moment, but Roy picks up on it in an instant. It makes the tiny, less resentful piece of him want to make it happen again, but he tells that piece of him to shut the fuck up.

He watches you as you sigh, shutting your eyes as if you’re readjusting. “Okay,” you finally say. “I’ll be better. I’ll… actually do my job, I guess.”

“About fucking time,” Roy mutters, though it’s slightly encouraging.

“But,” you continue, “I can’t… I can’t train Jamie. I can’t do one-on-one. That’s my non-negotiable.”

Roy wants to ask why. He wants to understand. He knows he’d be shit at helping you through it, but he just wants to get it. However, the look on your face keeps him from saying what he wants to. So, instead, he simply nods. “Okay.”

The relief you feel is written across your face. “Okay,” you agree. Then, you add, “I, uh, did tell him to ask you, though.”

Roy’s expression goes blanker than usual. “You fucking what?”

“You’re a good one-on-one trainer,” you offer, voice going up an octave. “I’m, like, your top reference.”

“Yeah, but you’re you,” Roy responds. “I can work with you. Not Jamie Tartt.”

You shrug. “What’s the difference?”

“Jamie Tartt is a fucking prick,” he states, as if it’s obvious. “You’re infuriating. And annoying. And a fucking headache. But he’s all those things on top of being a fucking prick.”

Your lips part at this, squinting at Roy. “I’m sorry, and you wanted me to train him?”

Roy doesn’t acknowledge your comment. “I’m not fucking training him.”

“I’m not saying you have to,” you respond, raising your hands in surrender. “I’m just letting you know that I passed him off to you.”

“Appreciate it. I’ll tell him to fuck off.”

“Glad you have a game plan.” While those words were lilted with annoyance, your next are a bit softer. “He… seemed a bit worried about Zava.”

Roy’s brow draws slightly. “Zava?”

“He tried to play it off,” you explain, “but he wasn’t subtle. Jamie’s obviously used to being the best on the team. I’m not sure he’s loving the competition.”

“The twat will get over it,” Roy says. “Sometimes you’re the best on the field, sometimes you’re not. That’s fucking life.”

You shoot him a look. “I don’t think he shakes things off like that. He’s not like you and me where we either don’t care or immediately use that type of shit for motivation.” Your eyes cast up to the ceiling as you speak, spilling out every thought you’ve had since Jamie came to you. “Guys like him, they need that reassurance. That ego needs to be healed when it’s been shot down, and then they’re finally ready to get motivated…” You trail off as soon as you see the way Roy’s looking at you. Head-tilted and slightly satisfied. “What?”

“Nothing,” he replies with a shrug. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face. “It’s just nice to get to see you finally fucking coaching.”

Warmth rises up your neck. It’s a mixture of embarrassment, being called out, and something else. The feeling makes you itch and in an attempt to shake it off, you shrug. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” 

There’s a brief moment of silence and for a second, you think he’s going to make you sit in this air. However, he seems to take pity on you. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

It’s a soft agreement, one that you weren’t sure you were going to get. But it takes a bit of the weight off nonetheless. “Thank you.”

“He’s still a prick,” he adds, like he can’t help himself. 

You nod in faux assurance. “Sure, Grandad.”

Roy casts his eyes to the ceiling. “Fuck’s sake, not you too.”

You can’t help it. You laugh. For the first time in eight years, Roy sees you laugh. It’s quiet. Light, even. But it’s lovely. It’s sweet. Roy can’t believe he’d allowed himself to go so long without hearing it. 

Yet another silence passes between you two. Maybe it’s to savor the moment. Maybe it’s to remember. Perhaps it’s both. Perhaps it’s neither. 

Whatever it is, it suddenly feels way too comfortable. There’s a split second where you’re back in 2015, just before everything went to shit. And that can’t happen. You can’t allow that to happen.

However, before you can move past that, Roy just has to catch you off guard. “So, you’ll start fucking coaching and I’ll… consider training with him.” He says the words like they take effort. And then, he looks at you and completely throws you off. “Should we shake on it?”

The words are hesitant and you know why. You have to refrain from taking a step back from him simply because of the weight that they carry. All you can do is stare at his outstretched hand. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say his hands were shaking.

But, you snap yourself out of it, and when you meet him in the middle, you’re certain yours are.

He holds eye contact with you as you make the agreement, hands grasped around each others with the intention of a promise. It’s too real. Too familiar. Too… much.

So, before you can freak out in front of him, you cut it short with a nod and remove your hand from his. You glance out the window of the Boot Room door to see the team pass by, all packed up and ready for their outing. One you know you should be joining, but just aren’t there yet.

When you turn back to him, the small smile on your face is tight. But you’re truthful when you say, “Thank you.”

Roy doesn’t need to ask what for. He knows. Of course he does. 

But luckily for you, he seems to be on the same page, blinking at you like he’s pulling himself out of some self-induced trance. “Right.” He awkwardly returns your nod, avoiding eye contact as he heads for the door. “Don’t make me say any of that shit again.”

And, as soon as the door shuts behind him, you’re finally left with more answers than questions about your place at Richmond for the first time all week.

(The same can’t be said for your questions about Roy. But, you figure, what else is new?)

PRESENT DAY. (MID-BOOT ROOM FIGHT WITH ROY KENT, 2023)

If you hadn’t been so consumed by your conversation with one of your fellow coaches, you would have noticed the other two watching you from the window. And as for questions, they had many.

The first is asked by Ted, approximately one minute after he and Beard had stationed themselves outside of the door. “Should we break it up?”

Beard shook his head slowly. “They’ve been tiptoeing around this one since she started,” he replied. “We break this up now, you might lose an arm.”

Ted shifted back on his heels. “You don’t think we can get them to hug it out, do you?”

“That’d be the reason you lose the arm, pal.”

“Yeah, Roy’s not much of a hugger, is he?” The silence that passed between them spoke as an agreement. The two watched as you crossed your arms over your chest, rolling your eyes as Roy seemed to reprimand you. “Do you think this thing between them goes deeper than he let on?”

Beard’s response was immediate. “Oh, yeah. Way deeper.”

“Did we sign ourselves up for something crazy? Something we can’t handle?”

“Oh, yeah,” Beard repeated. Then, he shook his head. “But nothing we can’t handle.”

“Well, then, what do we do?” Ted asked. “Because we can’t have them ‘fine, fine’-ing each other like they’re Sam and Diane all season. The kids ain’t fine, fine, Coach.”

Ted turned to his friend, who’d gone quiet. He followed his sightline to the corner of the Boot Room where Will was hiding, looking as though he were praying to any God who would listen that the two of you wouldn’t notice him.

Pity overtook both of their expressions. “I…” Beard drew out, brow furrowing as he watches Roy pull out his wallet. “...may have an idea.”

When Beard did look over at Ted, there was an excited look in his eye and a wide smile threatening to break out. “I know that voice,” he said. “Am I thinkin’ what you’re thinking?”

“Parent Trap ‘em?” he asked.

Ted grinned. “We really should go on The Newlywed Game.”

“It wouldn’t be fair. We’d sweep.”

LONDON OLYMPICS. (LATE JULY, 2012)

It’s nearly three in the morning when Roy tells you that your next rally will be your last for the night.

To say you’re thankful would be an understatement. Your lungs are screaming at you and have been for the last fifteen minutes. You can feel the early signs of shin splints with every move you make, and you already know you’re going to wake up tomorrow morning with a ridiculous amount of pain in your hamstrings. 

But you didn’t care. That didn’t matter. What mattered was getting your newfound training companion to shut the fuck up. And the only way to do that was to beat him in this little game he created to a pulp.

It was tragically ironic to find that Roy Kent, a man who was typically of so few words, couldn’t seem to keep quiet when he was playing against you. He had a special sort of talent for getting under your skin, somehow saying the exact thing that would press a specific button that you didn’t even know you had. He was frustrating. Infuriating, even. And there was no shot in hell you were losing to this jackass, especially when you’d managed to tie the score.

(But you’d be lying if you said that you weren’t having at least a little bit of fun.)

However, the relief on your face at his declaration is palpable, and your expression makes Roy raise his brows. “Don’t tell me you’re fucking tired,” he says. “We’ve still got laps to run.”

You throw your head back with an exaggerated groan. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I know,” you say. “Can we just go so I can beat you and leave?”

Roy’s head tilts. “You’re confident for someone who looks like she’s gonna drop fucking dead.”

“Like you look any better,” you shoot back, eying the grass and dirt that had stained his legs. 

To be fair, you hadn’t lied. Roy didn’t look any better than you did. He was just as roughed up, if not more. There was a sense of pride in that, knowing that he’d had to try as hard to beat you as you did for him. You felt equal. This game had never been equal before.

He seems to know this too. “Well, fucking get on with it then.”

The ball’s at your feet, and you stare down at it as you try to plan how you’re going to attack. What haven’t you done yet? What won’t he be expecting? How can you ensure that--

“Don’t fucking think about it,” you hear him say. When you look up at him in annoyance, he shakes his head. “Just fucking do it.”

But you can’t not think about it. Thinking is what you do. It’s how you stay ahead, it’s how you’ve beaten him in this little game before, it’s how you’re going to beat him now. 

But now you’re frustrated. You wanted to get this over with and prove him wrong and show him up. You’re so sick of hearing him say that and you kick the ball out in front of you to shut him up. And suddenly, you’re playing.

He’s guarding you before you know it. You cut the ball to your left, kicking it through his legs as he tries to meet you. You push your elbow against his chest as you chase down the ball, gritting your teeth when you feel him whip around to recover from his misstep. His chest presses against your shoulder, repeatedly bumping into you each time he works to get the ball from you.

“Come on, Fourteen,” he chides in your ear. “Finish me off like you said you would.”

You shove your shoulder into him again. It’s more forceful this time and the soft sound he makes in response feels like a victory. He drops back to follow you to the goal, which gives you the space you need to maneuver your body into a more comfortable position. 

You’re just outside the box, but you know that whatever move you make next, he’s going to be there to block it. You know his tricks. You’re on track to figuring out how his mind works on the field. Maybe you can outsmart him. Rely on your footwork to psych him out and—

Roy then seems to see you thinking. And he chooses that time to attack. So, footwork it is.

As he nears you, you roll the ball in the opposite direction, keeping an eye on him in your peripheral. Your foot pulls the ball back in a V, then you move it forward to creep into the box. 

He’s still in front of you. While you were quicker, Roy was never one to give up. It was what made him so great on the pitch and so annoying to play against. An idea then sparks: if you can get him to bite, get him close enough to you, you can chop the ball to get him off balance, then spin to get a better angle on the goal.

So, you do exactly that. Or, at least try to.

You swear he can see in your head. That he can read your mind and every thought that crosses it. Because while you do catch him slightly off guard, he recovers the second you try to spin. He’s behind you and before you know it, you’re the one caught off balance. He kicks the ball away from you and out of the box, leaving you to fall on your ass and stain the backs of your thighs.

Fuck. Fuck.

You’re on your back again for the second time today, eyes screwed shut in frustration and disappointment. How had he done it? You swore that was going to work. It’d worked millions of times before, how could it possibly have gone wrong now?

There’s a piece of you that wants to cry. That frustration, that exhaustion, that need to prove yourself had all come crashing down onto your chest, and here you were, in the same place you were before the drill had started.

You don’t even want to look at him. You’re almost too embarrassed to do so. You know that it’s all a part of your deal, that you’re supposed to fail and get better with him, but it’s still a kick in the teeth to end a session like this with a loss. 

You’re able to feel Roy’s presence before you hear him. “Get up,” he tells you.

A loud, shaky sigh escapes you. “I need a second before you run me into the ground, Coach.”

If he notices how your voice wavers, he doesn’t say anything. “Not your coach,” he replies, though he’s speaking softer. “But I’m not running you either.”

You crack an eye open. “Really?”

“C’mon,” he says, holding his hand out for you to take. “Up.”

You stare at his hand for a moment, then cast your eyes up to the starless sky with another heavy sigh. Then, you begrudgingly take his hand, allowing him to yank you up with a strength you’re not expecting.

His hand lingers in yours as you get your bearings. It’s rough and just a bit clammy, but you can’t imagine yours are any better. You’re not looking at him when you remove your hand from his, but find his eyes when he taps your shoulder.

“C’mon,” Roy repeats. He nods over to the track around the field. “Let’s go.”

“I thought we weren’t running,” you mutter.

He glances at you from over his shoulder. “We’re not fucking running,” he responds. “But you need a cool down. Stop your fucking whining and walk with me.”

A scowl appears on your lips at his words, but you relent and follow him. “Fine.”

It’s quiet between you two, giving you a moment to catch your breath and think about what just happened. While you’re thankful that you don’t have to do your laps, so still can’t believe you lost. Yes, it’s just practice, and yes, it doesn’t mean anything, but it’s still… it’s the principal of it. You’ve never been a good loser. You’ve never—

“We need to work on your footwork,” Roy says abruptly, interrupting your train of thought. You glance over at him. “It’s your biggest weakness besides your overthinking.”

A frown pulls at your lips. “My footwork is fine.”

“Yeah. Exactly. It’s fine,” he agrees. “And that’s the fucking problem. Nobody out there can fucking catch you, so you’ve never had to worry about it. But the second you get tighter and more concise…” He shakes his head. “Pair all that with your unpredictability and fucking annoying defense, you’ll blow them all out of the fucking water.”

Pride bubbles in your stomach and rises to your chest. You know that you’re good. And you know that he thinks you’re good. He wouldn’t have taken a chance on you if he hadn’t. But it’s still validating to hear. Especially from him.

But still, you can’t help yourself; “I’m not annoying.”

Roy scoffs, but you can tell he’s biting back a smile. “You are. You’re like a fucking gnat.”

“I am not a gnat,” you gasp. 

“You are. Fucking buzzing in my ear and shit.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being aggressive. You’d know something about that, hypocrite.” When Roy huffs a laugh and shakes his head, you bat him on the arm. “I’m serious. When I crossed you up and hit that corner goal toward the end?” You blow an exaggerated breath and raise your brows at him. “I haven’t seen you that mad since that Arsenal game in like, 2007.”

His response to your jab isn’t what you expected. While you’d anticipated a classic eye roll, a reaction of his that you’d become very familiar with, you get a look of intrigue. “You watched that game?”

“Of course I did,” you respond. Your lips tug into a smile. “I’m a huge Arsenal fan.”

Then you get the eye roll. “You must have been fucking distraught to see your team lose.”

“It was heartbreaking,” you say. “It was fun to see you get thrown out, though.”

“That was a fucking bullshit call,” he scoffs.

“You almost broke Lewis Fox’s leg. And then tried to fight him from the ground.”

“Exactly. Fucking bullshit,” he says. “It shouldn’t count when he’s a prick.”

You allow for a beat of reflection before you respond. “Yeah, he really is a prick, isn’t he?”

That gets you something you haven’t seen from him yet. A smile. A real one, where you can see teeth and all. It’s jarring. And suddenly the pride you felt from his compliments is nothing compared to the feeling you get from this.

It grows as Roy carries on. “The fucking King of them.”

“Prince,” you say in disagreement. “He’s too much of a jackass to honor with a King title. Prince Prick. Duke of Prickland. Court Jester. Whatever.”

“Court Jester?”

“Absolutely,” you reply. “He’d look good in the stupid little hat, too. Would hide the fact that he’s balding.”

Roy barks out a laugh. “He’s going fucking mental over that.”

“I can imagine.” Teasingly, you add, “I guess that’s the one thing you’ve got over him.”

“My hair?”

“Yeah. You’ve got enough to share with him.”

Roy shakes his head again, smile refusing to fade. “Well, thank fucking God it’s something important.”

“Hey, football skills are forever. Hair starts to fade when you hit twenty-five.” You shrug and return his grin. “I’d say you’re winning this one, Kent.”

A labored sigh leaves Roy, like he can’t believe he’s having this type of conversation with you. Frankly, you can’t believe you’re talking like this with him. You’re talking like… friends. It’s strange. Especially after he completely shut you down when talking before.

That thought sinks deep into your mind and you know it won’t go away until you address it. Huh. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you do overthink.

Before you can question that further, you’re speaking. “Hey. I—” You awkwardly cut yourself off as his gaze returns to you. “I just… I wanted to say that I’m sorry if I like, overstepped a boundary back there.” He continues to look at you in response, cueing you to elaborate. “Asking about Sunderland. Leaving your family. That.”

The second you say ‘Sunderland,’ he looks away from you. You grit your teeth as you refrain from cringing, hoping you didn’t ruin what was almost a normal, nice, and friendly moment. That anxiety makes you talk more. 

“You don’t owe me any answers, or anything. We can keep this professional and talk about soccer and how much we both hate Lewis Fox only.” Roy still hasn’t looked at you. “You don’t have to talk to me at all, if you don’t want to. I’m just… pretty open. And I forget that other people aren’t the same way. So…” You trail off, fiddling with your fingers. “I’m sorry.”

He’s quiet for approximately ten seconds. Each feels like agony as you rot in the awkwardness of the silence. Then, he says, “Don’t… fucking apologize for trying to get to know me.”

Well, that’s not what you were expecting at all. “O-Oh.”

“I’m fucking obviously going to talk to you,” he continues, in a way that makes it sound like he’s choosing his words carefully. “But there’s just certain things that I… really fucking hate talking about. And that was one of them.”

You’re nodding before he’ss finished speaking. “Completely understandable.”

Roy looks over at you cautiously. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agree. “Like I said, I’m not entitled to anything. You just let me know when I’ve crossed a line or something.” Your eyes light up in a way that Roy refuses to find endearing. “We can have a codeword or something.”

“A codeword?” he asks wearily.

“Yes, Roy. A codeword.” You stop him in the middle of the track. “Okay, Kent Rule number one. If either of us—”

“What the fuck is a Kent Rule?”

“If either of us,” you repeat, “don’t want to talk about something, we say…” Your eyes scan the field. “Goalpost.”

Roy blinks at you. “That’s a stupid fucking codeword.”

“Okay, you don’t get to shit on my idea and then shit on my codeword, dick,” you say, ignoring the tiny smile that’s growing on his face. “Let me hear yours.”

His eyes scan you up and down. “Gnat.”

“Oh, look who’s fucking annoying now.”

“I think that’s a great one.”

“I think I’m back on Lewis Fox’s side now,” you mutter. Before Roy can roll his eyes, you point at him in excitement. “Fox! That’s our codeword.” Then, you interrupt yourself, by throwing both your hands out. “Wait. Foxtrot. That sounds so much more legit.”

Roy’s had only gotten blanker as you spoke. “I think you should be institutionalized.”

“Kent Rule number one,” you say, ignoring him. “If you don’t want to talk about something, say Foxtrot. We move on, no questions asked.”

“Great.”

“But,” you continue, “you only get one Foxtrot a day.”

“Only fucking one?” he asks.

“Why are you saying it like that?”

“Because you ask a lot of fucking questions.”

You huff. “Fine. No one-a-day rule. But use them sparingly.”

“Can I Foxtrot this conversation?” Roy questions.

You don’t give him the reaction he clearly desires. “Look at you, you’re getting the hang of it!” you cheer, clapping him on the shoulder. “So, does Kent agree to the Kent Rule?”

You receive yet another exasperated shake of the head. “Fucking fine. Yeah. I agree.”

“Wonderful,” you reply, sticking your hand out to him. When he looks down at it, you wiggle your fingers. “We have to shake on it.”

“What?”

“Because it’s not a real agreement if we don’t shake on it,” you answer, as if it’s obvious. “Duh.”

Roy stares at your hand, then at you, and then back at your hand. After a ridiculous amount of time, his shoulders slump in defeat. His hand meets yours and when it does, you beam.

“Institutionalized,” he tells you as you two shake. “I’m fucking serious.”

“And risk your life being way less exciting without me in it?” You put a hand over your heart. “You’d miss me too much.”

And when you grin at him, there’s a piece of Roy that already knows that there might just be a sliver of truth in that.

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

[gallavictorious]

Fic authors self rec!

When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love. Tagging any and all of you talented folks either in writing or heck let’s do art.

I was pleasantly surprised to be tagged by the sweet @rayrayor Cheers, dear! Since this is my Shameless sideblog, I’ll stick with Shameless fic for this. That was far more difficult than I thought it’d be though, so don’t hold me these picks, as I might well change my mind tomorrow. Right now, my favourites appear to be mostly the very short things I wrote for Tumblr, rather than any longer fic.

Claim

Two nights later you're giving one of your regulars a lapdance when there's a slap to your arm and a curt “time's up, lovebirds” and you look up and there he is.

There he is.

Mickey wants back into Ian's life. Ian wonders if, and how, to let him. Or, the one where the boys conduct their meaningful conversations not by talking but by having sex.

Note: This is an actual, proper fic. Darker and heavier than my usual stuff, but I remain very pleased with it. Season 4 Gallavich was such a raw and tangled thing, and I had a lot of fun diving into the intricacies of their reunion.

Gallavich Week 2020: Meet-Cute

Ian goes shopping and decides to pick up something not on his list.

Note: This one is mostly silly fun, but isn’t it nice when they get to have that? Also, I’m happy with the dialogue.

11 year past S11: Liam and Mickey

So, I watcched 11x05 again, and started to wonder if Mickey will ever learn the truth about how Terry got shot (and if it matters).

Note: Tumblr short. This one is just soft. It soothes me. And I’m pleased with the prose, which is always a big thing for me.

Post-S10: Accepting Comfort

Mickey is upset; Ian is there.

Note: Tumblr short. The first proper thing I wrote for Gallavich, and still one of my favourites. Emotional hurt/comfort. I’m particularly fond of the last line.

AU: Ghost

A century or so ago, in a small town, Ian Gallagher receives and unexpected visitor.

Be warned: there's a lot of angst and not much comfort in this one.

Note: Tumblr short. I don’t care much for AU:s or angst but I’m very happy with the writing on this one. (There’s a tiny hint of hope at the end of it, btw. But this is a dark tale, what with the major character death and all.)

I guess a bunch of you have done this already, but I'll tag @dreamylyfe-x @captainjowl @whaticameherefor @gardenerian @howlinchickhowl and @sickness-health-all-that-shit Hope you're all well, dearlings!

[alterchaos]

Hey everyone!

I thought it would be a fun idea to do little updates every couple weeks or so with the projects I’m working on for this series. That way, I can share some wips and snippets inbetween chapters in a sort of newsletter format. I hope you enjoy!

A FIERCE FINALE:

Finally had the spark needed to re-draft the Moonbeast finale from script to writing. I definitely want to make sure it gets the time and attention it needs not only as a standalone finale, but as the grand finale to the first half of the series. Think of it as a Naruto to Shippuden kind of situation.

MAKING NEW FRIENDS:

A few different Mobius Adventures are in the works as well as more Alter Earth chapters. Here are a couple previews below.

LINES? YES AND NO:

A couple larger and more detailed art pieces are in the works. Progress is slow but I can’t wait to share the final pieces.

WEBPAGE IN THE WORKS:

I am also working on creating a proper webpage for my art using Tumblr’s platform. This is definitely at the bottom of my list of priorities but the webpage will consist of the following in organized groups:

- general lore for the series

- a comprehensive timeline of major events

- organized folders and groups for each saga and arc

- concepts and alternate drafts of ideas

- a comprehensive music playlist for various scenes

- updates and wips

- an alternate page or link for content not related to Alter Chaos (other art, etc.)

QUOTE OF THE DAY:

“Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift. That is why it is called ‘present’.”

-Master Oogway, Kung Fu Panda (2008)

MEME OF THE DAY:

(note: these will be kept family friendly, I thought it’d be a fun way to spread some extra joy here on the internet)

Enjoy some sunshine and I will see you all in the next update! ♡

[surachibee]

of myths and monsters based au stuff

Hey! So I’ve had a few people ask about this pit concept post over on Twitter and I thought It’d be easier to write a lot of stuff on here. Can’t believe I’m getting brainrot from a game that isn’t even canon but here we go!

To start, a good chunk of my omam related art is more of a weird reimagining of it than anything, so like redesigns/concepts/story tid-bits etc. are loosely based on the original. Just something for fun!

Little bit of a background, but this story takes place in an alternative timeline than the one Kid Icarus: Uprising takes place in. Here, instead of defeating Medusa (relatively) unscathed, Pit gets hurt. Bad. In a hurry to save Palutena as soon as possible, he was reckless, and attempted to use the Three Sacred Treasures (the wings of Pegasus, specifically) before he was deemed ready to weld them, and thus faced major injuries. Palutena out of concern doesn’t promote Pit to the captain of her guard, and post-nes he’s spent a few years recovering from the incident.

Now on to oMaM, Most of the beginning follows the original story. (Link to a page where you can find the story from one of oMaM’s manuals) Palutena has a dream about a mysterious invasion from the “Orcos” and calls upon Pit to go on a mission to prepare for the attack. (In the manual it’s implied/stated in the that he’s the captain of her guard, although for this AU I think I’d prefer if he was *training* to be that, along with preparing for the invasion. I think I’d have more fun having that as a motive to prove himself capable.)

Anyways, Pit’s journey starts out the same. First, he travels down into the Underworld on his first set of trials set out by Palutena to grow stronger and (properly) earn each of the Three Sacred Treasures this time. She’s his travel buddy, and helps him with the first few levels and up to the first dungeon, but from then on out he would need to face the last two dungeons alone.

Throughout this section more and more mysterious monsters start showing up. They’re not Underworld monsters, and they almost seem to be..not of this world. At one point there’s a level where Pit can’t communicate with Palutena, and here’s where he encounters a strange portal.

Curiosity killed the cat, and he cautiously enters the strange, new dimension. This is the Otherworld. A land where everything is out of order. It’s a dimension where the gods pretty much threw in everything they didn’t want to deal with. Strang new weapons, questionable enemies, and new faces.

One of these new companions is a resident of this world, who resides in a rather secluded home here. He introduces himself as Orcos, and he proves to be a helpful to Pit. Not only does he help him navigate through the new environment to find a way out, they actually get along decently well. Pit (with help from Orcos) finds a way back home, however, Pit unexpectedly returns to the Otherworld once he escapes. There’s so many cool items, amazing new things to see! Who wouldn’t wanna take that chance to get their hands on powerful stuff like that? Intrigued by his newfound interest, Orcos proposes an idea. There’s pieces of a..thing..in the Otherworld that Orcos needs, but unfortunately he can’t enter the dungeons where the parts are being held. Pit can. So, Pit and his strange new guide become unlikely friends.

and that’s pretty much it! For now. I’ll update this post whenever

[akitamafumis]

trying to go through life thoughts

I wrote some thoughts on the l/n starira AU that i am putting here for posterity . mainly .

I don’t really know where to start or how to go into this. I made a comment to frog about how i thought that thematically l/n weren’t too far off, at least with some things. There’s the difference between revue’s focus on selfishness, but i think in a way you can see those as the difference between theatre and music (non-theatre) as art forms. Does that make sense? It’s an interesting part of a band, that the thematic idea of selfishness literally can only go so far—anyone can hope to be the lead in theatre, but a drumset player can’t hope to play the melody (you’re about to pitch your idea for a set of chromatically tuned toms. There’s nothing i can say to you that would stick in your brain).

So that was kind of my general vibe. I felt like there were enough similarities to justify the differences to make it make sense. I was only doing it as a writing exercise and it kind of spiraled. Ppl have talked about how it’s rly hard to revue something else because besides just fun aesthetics for art, it requires upward work to try and justify the occurrences in the AU to make it actually work. So i thought, maybe, it’d be fun to try and work through those thoughts a bit and see what I could come up with.

The most major change of note is that Shiho’s parents work in theatre in some way—it’s super vague and I didn’t want to come up with any concrete answers just because it felt pointless to. One of her parents might be a rinmeikan graduate or a family member was a teacher there or something, hence how they ended up with an old Rinmeiki vhs, and a result of her parents being in theatre means her desire to be a professional musician is switched to a desire to be a professional actor. A lot of what ripples out from there in terms of their childhood is pretty self explanatory: they watch Rinmeiki, put on little plays together just the four of them, and then things fall apart as they grow older.

I wanted to get them relatively close to pjsk canon at the start moreso than starira’s, so the perf department is already closed while they’re in their first year. I think in the context of this story they had more members at the start of the year, but people (upperclassmen) dropped into general education just because they knew the department was going to close down, until it was just Shiho and Ichika. Upperclassmen are only 2nd years, bc the part of my brain that cares too much ab logistics thinks the school would let any third years graduate in their department before shutting it at the end of the year but ANYWAY.

Kanade and Shizuku showing up is just because i needed two people connected to two of our people. I don’t know what school kanade/25ji go to. MMJ are frontier they’re. Idols. I have no idea who frau platin is. Actual answer probably Iori. But instead. Haruhi Minamoto. Fuck you.

There’s a lot about what I did with honami that ends up feeling like favorite character favoritism. And it IS. But it was also tied to the fact she did brass band in middle school, so she’s converted to being the most theatre oriented behind Shiho. Rather than Honami being ostracized for what she is in canon, it’s for acting, which was mainly because i needed a reason for her to quit acting specifically. Centering acting does shift the fact that for both honami and shiho acting becomes the center of their straining relationship with ichika/each other, rather than their interpersonal problems. But revue generally ties personal problems and the stage up together, so i think it’s not an unfair thing to change, and it’s not so much a change for Shiho, anyway.

Also honami’s weapon IS NOT A SCYTHE. It is just a lance. They have pretty boring revue weapons. The scythe joke is ABOUT HER NAME ONLY. IT IS UNFORTUNATE, BUT MERELY COINCIDENCE. WE SHOULD KILL KOCHO SHIZUHA.

The. Story is meant to conceptually cover what would be the school story (partially)+opening arc… a hypothetical main story (which you will never see from me because SCOPE) would large scale consist of them trying to form an official association and performance festival, etc etc etc, alongside their individual character arcs.

As far as the characters, shiho’s follow up would cover um. Obviously. Saki and Ichika have both taken Shiho helping/joining the association to mean that she’s not planning on transferring but that is still very much on the table for her. Only Honami is aware that the . Fights within their group aren’t over yet which is meant to compound with a certain lack of confrontation.

Honami’s would center around that whole revue weapon business, and the sense of regaining her brilliance. There are certain elements that tie into pjsk canon in terms of her (re)finding the confidence to speak her mind and put her foot down more, slowly. I think also as a secondary thing she gets into directing, over time.

Saki’s the most vague in my mind. I think she’s got passion and conviction but a sort of lack of direction, even though those two usually lead to the third. It’s the least developed in my brain so far. There’s also maybe something about her illness, both in terms of recognizing her own limits and acknowledging them, but also in not sidelining herself from going for lead roles, or something.

Ichika sort of lacks a lot as a stage girl initially. In her idea that she has parts of the rest of the group in herself i thought about including some implication that she doesn’t know what she would pass on to the three of them in return, but i couldn’t fit a line in about it without drawing a lot of attention to it, and it would fly under the radar after that revue and not come up again for a while. She’s also still carrying baggage for assuming the fault of the department shutting down.

Point is, when saki and ichika agree about not fighting each other and only facing other schools from now on, they are entirely off base. Things aren’t really fully aligned.

Okay. Now for my least favorite part. I thought revue intros would be fun and now i have to talk about them a little bit briefly. All of them contain an element of their name, alongside. Okay.

Saki’s is a mess well okay that’s not fair they’re all a mess to me . The “Bright skies” in the opening references the her last name, and the reference to blossoms her first name. Hers also overtly. References Rinmeiki.

Shiho’s isn’t tied to rinmeiki at all and the name references are the most vague, but her is very. Situationally accurate and i think remains so. She does the hard carrying for the revue conversion and i think up until the transferring confrontation comes to a head she’s often sort of . Antagonistic in trying to push the rest to either rise to the challenge or give up. “Brilliance pierces through the artificial shades” is the reference to her name. Brilliance standing in for sun and um. Sun piercing through the treetops. Also the final line the use of the word rises.

Ichika’s guided by the light of stars is her name reference, alongside the “melody of our song” thing. Rinmeiki are referenced as well, “against the flow of history” and the thing about her being a hero.

Honami’s is so heavy handed it hurts me and that’s what she gets for being last. She references all four of their names, and doesn’t have a specific Rinmeiki reference.

They also all specifically reference themselves differently. Ichika and Saki as students of rinmeikan, shiho as merely a stage girl, and honami as part of the performance association (which technically doesn’t exist officially when she says that).

I think…that’s kind of everything I’ve got…at least for now. That’s the bulk of it, really, i think. I hope. I don’t know :)

[prickly-problematic-programmer]

one day late but i’m back again with B week for the alphabet superset!

once again if you want more alphabet superset goodies please check out @gothmothart @mrdoctorb @wanna-alphabet-on-it @clockquark (not all are posting but they’re all still cool people to follow!)

this week’s oc: bacia

more info on the oc (and the painting references) under the cut!

year created: 2015

what they were used for: she was originally used for an Ib/Undertale/Death Note (though that last part never ended up being relevant) crossover fic. a few years ago i revamped her to be a general Deltarune oc.

description: Bacia was a painting done by the son of Guertena and acted as the gallery’s judge and protector. She had a rose that could kill people and a lighter that could burn paintings. (I was 13 when I made her… she was a lot.) In the plotline of the crossover fic, Flowey and Frisk are sent to the gallery due to a reset gone wrong and through some shenanigans and major character death for all the important Ib characters, Bacia makes her way over to the Undertale world during a genocide run.

present day notes: Despite the cringe and mary sue-ness of Bacia, I love her very dearly! Writing her story got me through a lot at a time when I really needed a story to throw myself into. Back when Deltarune chapter 2 came out I ended up revamping her to look like how she does in the actual drawing and not just in the paintings. I also took away all of her overpowered-ness and made her just a normal monster. I wanted this piece to show the current day Bacia looking back at the original Bacia in the gallery and had so much fun drawing that Sans.

art references: i won’t normally be doing this, but since all the paintings had real life painting references, i thought it’d be neat to share.

[bigredaltoids]

A (Hopefully) Short Introduction to all of my Major Stories

I’m going to be posting quite a bit about my stories on here, so I thought: “Hey! Why not give a short introduction to all of your little dumbbell stories?” So here’s that. Feel free to introduce your stories and characters. Let’s make this a community effort, shall we?

Short Stories

Stateside

Stateside is ancient. It’s five years old, meaning that if it was a person, it’d be in kindergarten. It’s about, you guessed it, the U.S. states going on wacky, sometimes absurdist, adventures. Stateside is character driven comedy, like a lot of what I write. Characters who are damn iconic my mind are of course, Texas, my home state, a wild and reckless but good hearted fellow, Wisconsin, the town drunk who’s a little on the slow side but also has a good heart, Delaware, a jaded old man who cares deeply about each and every one of the states even if there have taken years off his life, Ohio, a science nut who lacks social skills, California, a murderer superstar who’s also a bit of a jerk, and Missouri, the sailor mouthed observatory keeper who may or may not be a bit unhinged.

I could go in for hours about Stateside, but I’ll leave it here for now. (So much for this being short, huh).

Tales from High Ridge (working title)

This could technically go in the children’s section, but they’re technically short stories so I’ll put them here. Tales from High Ridge is about an ensemble cast of anthropomorphic animals who go on little adventures together, learning lessons about friendship and teamwork along the way. I’ve already started on the first story, The Grump of High Ridge, about Fox, Bear, and Armadillo encountering the ornery Badger, who fiercely guards the treehouse in the woods.

The stories are meant to be a bit more serious than my other children’s affairs, with one character, Mule, living in poverty, and another, Rhino, living with a seriously ill mother. I have big things planned for this series and while it’s currently on the back burner, I’m excited to see where it goes.

Novels

The Cicadas

The Cicadas is about a baseball team, the titular Cicadas, winning a championship game and beyond. The series of what I intend to be three young adult novels are less about baseball and more about the lives of these nine ball players as they grow from graduating high school to being grown adults with serious responsibilities who finally discover what they want to be. I have the lives of these characters very well planned out and the story itself is better outlined than almost anything else I write. I’m just putting it on the back burner because I want more experience in the adult world before I attempt a story covering those themes. I still love the Cicadas and I’m constantly drawing art for it, I just want to focus on other projects for a while.

The Great Watson

Another story that’s on the back burner right now is The Great Watson. It’s about five friends, Watson, Levi, John, Isaac, and Mason on their way to college. On the way, there’s a lot of reminiscing about the good times and the not-so-good times. It’s shaping up to be a pretty nice story. I have high hopes for it. Since this section is short, I’ll describe the characters a bit. Watson is a small black bear with a fighting spirit. He hates being underestimated and held back. He’s very strong willed. (The original story was about boxing, by the way).

Levi a kangaroo and is laid back, outgoing, easily distracted, and fun loving. He’s big on parties and girls but he’s also a true friend.

John was valedictorian. He wants to be a doctor and dedicates his whole life to studying. He’s pretty serious and doesn’t really have much fun. He’s basically Levi’s foil. Isaac is quiet and unapproachable to strangers. He can be sarcastic or blunt to the point of being mean, but he’s pretty cool when you get to know him.

Finally, Mason is a rich son of a gun who’s still pretty naïve. He’s the kind of guy Do-Wacka-Do was written for. He’s basically Isaac’s foil.

Mixed-Up Morality (working title)

This story is about Todd, son of a police officer, being pulled into the throws of temptation during the summer between eighth grade and freshman year. In addition to getting in trouble with his parents and his own conscience, Todd also has to deal with rotten Calvin and his “gang”. Good thing he has four great friends that stick by him through thick and thin, right? This story gives me a lot of trouble. It’s based on a story I wrote in middle school, but I can’t seem to get the POV or framing right. I can’t even decide if I want a young adult novel or a middle grade one. I love all of my ideas and characters for this story, but the technical details are really messing me up.

I have other stories planned in this same series, but I have the self restraint to have not started them yet. Aside from one, I’ll just call Westley. I won’t give it its own section, but it’s about an autistic boy who must overcome his fear of speaking out in order to save a good friend. That one I’m really excited for.

Children’s Stories

Red Ox

Red Ox is about a group of young farm animals going on adventures that often involve being imaginative or creative and learning life lessons along the way. I’m currently toying with both books and screenplays, and the current book I’m on is about finding stimulating things to do during summer, like going swimming, riding bikes, or reading books. I think it’s a really sweet little series.

Badge

While I wrote a book for Red Ox, I wrote a screenplay for Badge. Badge is about an autistic badger who, through a combination of being himself and learning new social skills, makes and maintains friendships with Lawrence, a young boy in a wheelchair, Maggie, a somewhat troubled young lady, and Hunter, a boy from a land far away (A.K.A. England). He also helps out at his father’s store and hangs out around his house. You know, slice of life stuff. His thing is collecting buttons and pins, which I think is very cute considering his name.

Screenplays

The Careers (working title)

This series is about four of my made up creatures, flumbols and fuzzwoliks, all living in a small house in the middle of no where. The main gimmick is that all of these men have very different careers and personalities. There’s Freddy, the muscular and kind of slow fireman who can smell smoke from four states away, Sam, the worldly and intelligent sailor who is obsessed with killing sea monsters, Aaron, the idealistic and tech-obsessed astronaut who swears he’ll be the first flumbol on Mars, and Pip, the serious and tired policeman who is so tired and serious he might not even qualify as a straight man. I also imagine him sounding like Roger Miller at the beginning of Boeing Boeing 707.

Ernest (working title)

Ernest is a character I love. His concept is to be as absurd and surreal as possible while still being funny and playing around with concepts that I find interesting. For example, what if everything has sentience? I haven’t written much for Ernest, so that hasn’t been tackled, but what if it was? There’s a lot of possibilities, because Ernest’s world doesn’t obey very many laws and is more of an imagination realm than anything else. I also hope to keep a bit of character driven comedy. You know, just to keep things Ernest.

Other

The Ballad of Tex Watkins

This is my newest story, so I don’t know what I want to do with it. I thought of making it a series of children’s chapter or middle grade books, but after thinking over the story and themes, I’m thinking that might not suit it. I don’t know. If you have any insight, let me know. Anyway, Tex Watkins is about Tex Watkins, the son of a murdered sheriff in the town of WillBill. He’s now being trained by the ruthless Wyatt Feasbert and overworked Mr. Coccyx to become the next sheriff, but Tex really isn’t the sheriff type. It’s definitely a comedy, but there are dark themes in it. I know grief is going to be a big one. I’m really excited for this story, just like with all the others, but it needs to find its place.

Thank you for reading this monster of a post. Be sure to tell me about your own stories, and if you’re feeling exceptionally generous, tell me which of my stories you liked hearing about the best.

Have a nice day!

[kmomof4]

Crash Landings: A New Fic by @kmomof4

Story Summary: From a May 10, 2022 CNN article shared in the CSMM pitch channel: A passenger with no flying experience landed a plane at a Florida airport after the pilot became incapacitated. After a few ideas were batted around, I settled on this one and ran with it. I had a lot of fun writing it and hope y’all enjoy!

All the love and thanks in the world to @jrob64​ for her betaing expertise, help with the art, and all her encouragement. It’s thanks to her that the fic didn’t end with Killian asking Emma out, so if you like the rest of the fic, be sure to thank her!

A/N: In this universe, Emma and Neal have been divorced for five years but have an amicable relationship. Neal is not a complete asshole. Also, I am not a pilot, nor do I play one on TV, so all things that have to do with flying in this fic are the result of Google searches and input from my dad who was a navigator in the Air Force when I was very young. It’s fanfiction, y’all. Just go with it…

Rating: G (although there is major character peril at the beginning of the fic, but everyone is fine.)

Words: 8300

Tags: Major Character Peril

On ao3

Tagging the usuals. Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed.

@hollyethecurious​ @winterbaby89​ @snowbellewells​ @stahlop​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @jennjenn615​ @kingofmyheart14​ @profdanglaisstuff​ @branlovestowrite​ @thisonesatellite​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @flslp87​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @let-it-raines​ @shireness-says​ @kymbersmith-90​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​ @bethacaciakay​ @searchingwardrobes​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @teamhook​ @aprilqueen84​ @qualitycoffeethings​ @superchocovian​ @artistic-writer​ @donteattheappleshook​ @doodlelolly0910​ @seriouslyhooked​ @tiganasummertree​ @lfh1226-linda​ @xsajx​ @klynn-stormz​ @jrob64​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​ @zaharadessert​ @elizabeethan​ @xhookswenchx​ @gingerpolyglot​ @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713​ @sailtoafarawayland​ @justanother-unluckysoul​ @veryverynotgoodwrites​ @jonesfandomfanatic​ @deckerstarblanche​ @the-darkdragonfly​ @batana54​ @purplehawkcaptain​ @k-leemac​ @motherkatereloyshipper​ @apiratewhopines​ @killiansqueenofthejollyroger​ @onceuponahookandswan​ @meat-pie-with-sauce​ @cosette141​ @pirateprincessofpizza​ @xarandomdreamx​ @fleurdepetite​ @hookmecaptain​ @o-wild-west-wind​

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

 “Ahhh, Ch-Charleston, Cessna 172,” Neal Cassidy groaned, identifying himself and contacting Air Traffic Control at the Charleston International Airport, where he was due to land in about twelve minutes, bringing his son Henry home after his summer visitation.

They’d had a great time for the past three months. Multiple trips to the plethora of museums the city had to offer, The Lion King and Aladdin on Broadway, the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island tour were just some of the adventures they’d had since Neal picked his son up back at the end of May. But school was starting back up next week and he and his ex-wife Emma thought it’d be best for Henry to have a few days to adjust back into his usual routine before school actually started.

“This is Charleston, Cessna. Go ahead,” the voice crackled over the headset.

“Um, I’m not feeling… too great at the moment, Charleston,” he bit out. His chest was tight, his arms ached, and he was having trouble drawing in a deep breath. “My chest hurts and…” He grimaced in pain as the tightening turned into an agonizing pressure that literally took his breath away. His vision darkened at the edges and moments later he lost consciousness, slumping over the controls.

“Dad? Dad! Wake up, Dad!” Henry cried, terrified when his father fell forward into the controls of the small aircraft. He took the headset off of his dad and placed it on his own head. “Charleston?” Henry asked into the headset.

“This is Charleston, Cessna. Is this the pilot?”

“No, no,” Henry rushed to inform the air traffic controller. “My dad just passed out. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He said his chest hurt and then he fell against the controls. I pulled him back and put on the headset, but I don’t know what to do.” Henry couldn’t keep the terror out of his voice nor the tears out of his eyes as he did his best to explain what happened.

“What’s your name, Cessna? And how old are you?”

“My name’s Henry Cassidy and I’m ten.”

Killian Jones took a deep breath and said a quick prayer. “Are you and your dad the only ones on the plane, Henry?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ok. My name’s Killian, Henry, and I’m going to make sure you land safely and that your dad gets the help he needs, ok?” He injected every ounce of calm he could into his voice as he ordered emergency vehicles to the runway. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to help conduct an emergency landing, but it was the first time he’d ever had to guide a child in doing it.

“Ok,” Henry said, his voice quivering just a bit.

“Alright, Henry,” Killian said, keeping a tight rein on his emotions. “Has your dad ever shown you anything about flying? What any of the controls are or what they do?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy answered. “Sometimes he lets me steer the plane and he’s shown me the altitude and horizon thingie and the fuel gauge.”

“That is great, Henry. Your dad has done a fantastic job getting you prepared…” Killian trailed off for a moment, unsure what to say next. He didn’t want to further alarm the boy by saying out loud that this was an emergency situation, but he needed to encourage Henry that he already had a leg up over someone who’d never been in a cockpit of an aircraft before. A burst of inspiration hit him and before he could overthink it, he continued. “...getting you prepared to be a pilot yourself someday. Ok, Henry, your dad had already begun his descent and was starting to turn toward the airport. Can you tell me what you can see straight ahead?”

“Yeah,” Henry assured him. “I can see the coast on my right, but we’re still out over the ocean. I can see… it looks like an interstate and I can see the bay.”

“Ok, that’s very good, Henry,” Killian praised him. “Turn toward the bay and you should be able to see the airport not far beyond it.”

Henry had been in the cockpit of the Cessna enough times over the years that he remembered how his dad would line up with the bay when they approached the airport. He did what Killian said and it was only a minute or so when he could see the airport straight ahead of him, the air traffic control tower off to the right.

“I can see it! I can see it!” Henry cried. A huge grin split Killian’s face as he listened to the elated little boy.

“Very good, Henry. You’re doing great.” The control tower had gone silent as Killian’s fellow controllers were riveted to the drama playing out. The other planes that were waiting to land or take off had all been put on a different frequency to keep the distractions between Henry and Killian to a minimum, and were in a holding pattern until Henry could, hopefully, safely land. “Ok, we’re going to get the plane ready to land now. I’m going to talk you through lowering the wing flaps, alright, Henry?”

“Oh, I know how to do that!” Henry exclaimed, excitedly. “My dad showed me!”

“Excellent, Henry. Go ahead and lower them then,” Killian urged him. “Slow and steady, but make sure you don’t do it too slowly or it could stall the plane.” He looked up and could see the Cessna in the distance. It was way too high to hit the runway, but at least it was level with neither wing dipping and Killian’s heart rate picked up even more as he took a deep breath and waited for Henry to respond to his instruction.

“Ok, it’s done,” Henry said. “I’m at full flaps.”

“Well done, Henry,” Killian encouraged him. “I can see the plane and you should be able to see the runway and see the emergency vehicles waiting for you.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Very good. Now what I need you to do is to move the power lever out - not too far and not too fast. Right there in the middle. Do you see it, Henry?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Move it down slowly into idle and the nose of the plane should begin to dip. We want your front wheel to hit the runway first. As soon as all the wheels hit the tarmac, you’ll need to apply the brakes. Are you tall enough to reach the pedals and still see through the windshield, Henry?”

Henry stretched his legs out from where he sat and could just touch the rudder pedals for the plane, but when he looked up at the windshield in front of the seat, he could no longer see the runway or even the airport anymore. “No, sir, I can’t. I can touch the pedals, but I can’t see in front of me when I do.”

Killian’s heart rate picked up even more as he realized just how much danger Henry was now in. His eyes cut over to his friend and colleague Robin Locksley who nodded in support. Taking a deep breath and sending up another prayer, Killian turned back to his charge.

“Ok, Henry, it’s more important for you to be able to see than to bring the plane to a stop at this point. Once the plane’s wheels hit the ground, friction will slow it down enough, but we want to make sure you hit the runway and not some other building at the airport,” Killian said. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Henry’s voice quavered as he sat back up in the seat so he could see the runway in front of him.

“Excellent, Henry. Now move the power lever.” It seemed to take forever. The plane was rapidly approaching and still a little too high. Suddenly, the nose of the plane dipped and the plane dropped, now only about fifty feet from the runway and maybe twenty feet above it. Killian watched from his place in the tower, his heart in his throat as he sent up a fervent prayer that Henry would be able to land the plane safely.

The wheels touched down, but the small aircraft bounced back into the air slightly before coming back down and going into a spin across the runway. One of the back wheels broke off and went flying, dipping one wing toward the tarmac, and intensifying the spinning of the plane as it careened toward the infield. Killian felt sick as the plane finally came to a stop about fifty yards from the air traffic control tower.

“Henry, are you there?” Killian asked, anxiously. “Are you alright?”

“I’m here, Killian,” the boy answered. “I’m ok.” As soon as Henry’s voice came across the frequency, a jubilant shout went up from the other controllers. Killian laughed in relieved elation as he removed his headset and started toward the door that would take him down to the infield so he could see for himself that Henry was alright. He wondered who he might have waiting for him and his dad here at the airport and could only hope whoever it was hadn’t realized this particular plane had contained the boy and his father.

As he opened the door of the control room, he could hear Robin reporting to the other waiting aircraft that the ten year old accidental pilot had landed the plane and was ok.

“Are you serious? That was a kid?” another pilot asked. “I’m sure glad he’s ok.” Killian silently agreed as he ran down the stairs to the runway.

“Henry! Henry!” he cried, waving like mad and sprinting toward the plane, where the little boy was just climbing out. The emergency vehicles were already there, a paramedic approaching Henry while two others attended to his father on the other side of the plane. Killian made it to them just as the paramedic was checking Henry over for any injuries.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he insisted, just before he winced as the paramedic ran his hands over Henry’s hips. Henry pulled his pants down just enough for them all to see an already colorful bruise where the seatbelt must have caught him as the airplane landed.

Suddenly Killian heard a new voice from the direction of the terminal. Henry’s head snapped up and Killian turned to see a gorgeous blonde running toward them.

“Mom!” Henry cried, pulling away from them both and running toward the woman. She caught him in her arms, holding him close as Killian and the paramedic approached.

The fear and panic on her face was clear as she looked at the paramedic. “Is he ok?”

“Just some bruising from the seatbelt,” he informed her.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed, closing her eyes and holding her son even tighter. Her eyes opened again and met Killian’s as she set Henry back down on the ground. He held his hand out to the stunning beauty, feeling a bit bashful as he did.

“Killian… oof,” his introduction was cut off as Henry flung his arms around his waist in a tight hug.

“Killian helped me land the plane, Mom,” he informed her, releasing him and turning toward her again.

The woman let go a breathy exclamation at Henry’s statement. “You landed the plane?” she asked, looking back toward the aircraft. “What happened?” Her countenance was dismayed as she looked past Killian to where the paramedics were getting Henry’s dad on a stretcher and heading toward the ambulance. They all moved toward the medical personnel and Killian could see Henry’s eyes begin to fill with tears as they got closer.

“I don’t know, Mom,” Henry said. “He said his chest hurt and then he fell over on the controls. I took the headset and Killian here helped me land the plane.”

“Oh, God,” she breathed, turning toward Killian. He scratched behind his ear in a nervous gesture as he held out his other hand. She completely ignored his outstretched hand and hugged him tightly instead. Immensely pleased, Killian reciprocated the hug.

“Thank you so much,” she breathed.

“It was my pleasure, milady,” he assured her as he let go. “But Henry is the real hero here, I was just doing my job. Killian Jones,” he finally introduced himself, holding his hand out to her for the third time.

“Emma Swan,” she replied, taking it in her own.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Emma.”

They all turned back to the paramedics who were getting ready to load the patient into the ambulance. The man’s eyes were open and Killian breathed a sigh of relief.

“Is he going to be ok?” Henry asked, tears shining in his eyes.

“They’ll have to run tests at the hospital, but it looks like it was an angina attack. We’re taking him to MUSC,” the paramedic told him. Henry moved closer and rubbed his dad’s arm before he was loaded into the ambulance.

“I’ll be fine, buddy,” the man said. “I’ll see you at the hospital, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Emma affirmed before Henry could speak. “We’ll be right behind you. I’ll call Tink.”

“Thanks, Em.”

As soon as the doors of the ambulance shut, Henry turned and threw his arms around Killian’s waist again.

“Thank you for helping me, Killian,” he choked out.

“Of course, lad.”

“I don’t know how I can ever thank you,” Emma admitted, her own tears close to the surface.

Killian scratched behind his ear again. He didn’t see a ring on Emma’s finger and he also noticed that her last name was different from Henry’s, so he was hoping she might be single.

“Would it be too forward of me to ask you out for a cup of coffee?”

Emma smiled with definite interest in her eyes and Killian felt a wide grin split his face.

“I think that could be arranged,” she replied. She took her phone out of her pocket and handed it to him after unlocking it. “Put your name and number in here. After I’m sure Neal is going to be ok and everything settles down, I’ll give you a call.”

“I will look forward to it,” he assured her, putting his information into her phone.

“Yay!” Henry cried. “I’ll see you later, Killian! Thanks again!”

Killian took Emma’s hand in his own and raised it to his mouth, brushing her knuckles with his lips.

“Until we meet again, Emma.”

“I’ll see you soon, Killian.”

~*~*~

Saturday afternoon, Killian came inside after finishing the lawn work he’d been engaged in most of the day. His grass was cut, lawn edged, hedges trimmed, and weeds pulled from the flower beds ready for the fall mums he’d be planting in the next few weeks.

Using the hem of the t-shirt he wore, he wiped his face as his cell phone began to ring. An unknown number with a local area code showed on the screen and he couldn’t help his anxious inhale and rising heartbeat as he answered, desperately hoping it was Emma.

“Hello?”

“Killian?”

A huge grin crossed his face. “Emma,” he exclaimed. “I’m so glad you called. How’s Henry after his adventure yesterday? How’s Neal?” He hoped he had the name of Henry’s dad correct as he waited for her to speak.

“Henry’s fine,” she assured him. “None the worse for wear after all the excitement yesterday. I was a little concerned that he’d have trouble sleeping last night, after seeing his dad like that and the crash landing, but he didn’t.”

“I’m so glad,” Killian said. “Bless him, I could hear in his voice how frightened he was for his dad. Speaking of, how is he?”

“He’s doing better,” she informed him. “The doctors still need to run some more tests, so he’ll be in the hospital until at least Monday. But so far, they’re thinking it was an angina attack. His wife got in this afternoon and we just got back from taking her to the hospital.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” There was a brief pause and he could hear Emma take a deep breath on the other end of the line. He smiled, hoping he knew what she would say next.

“So, I was wondering if I could take you up on that offer for coffee,” Emma asked, her voice sounding almost shy.

“I would love to take you out for coffee, Emma,” he began, “but I wondered, since it’s the weekend, if perhaps we could make it lunch tomorrow?” Killian knew he was taking a risk, and scratched at the spot behind his ear in his nervousness. His brother, Liam, had recently told him about a wonderful restaurant downtown he and his wife had discovered called Magnolia’s that he thought would be a very nice, but unthreatening, location for a first date. And when he’d gone to the website himself, he saw they were open for Sunday brunch.

“I can do that,” she said, smiling into the phone. She had to admit, her heart beat just a little faster at the thought of a real date with the handsome air traffic controller, rather than just meeting for coffee. “Henry has plans tomorrow to visit his best friend he hasn’t seen all summer. He lives about ten minutes away from us. Would you mind if we dropped him off over there before heading out to lunch?”

“I wouldn’t mind at all,” he assured her. “It would be great to see him again and it’d give me a chance to give him his pilot’s wings for landing the plane. What time can I pick you up and what’s your address?”

“Awwww!” she exclaimed. “You don’t need to do that, but I’m sure he’ll be so excited. How about you pick us up about eleven and I’ll text you my address?”

“That will be fine, Emma. I’ll see you both tomorrow at eleven, then.” He hung up, a wide smile on his lips that he would have been hard pressed to wipe off if his life depended on it. A moment later, he received a text with an address that was only a couple of neighborhoods over from his own home. Opening his phone again, he pulled up Magnolia’s website and made reservations for two at eleven thirty the next day before heading to his bathroom to shower.

~*~*~

Killian stood on the front stoop of the Swan household holding a small bouquet of sunflowers in his hand and trying desperately not to scratch behind his ear in his nervousness. The door opened and Killian grinned down at Henry whose smile completely lit up his face.

“Hi, Killian!”

“Hello, lad,” he replied.

“Are those for my mom?”

Killian looked at the flowers and could feel the heat begin to creep up his neck onto his face.

“Uh, yes,” he stammered. “Yes, they are. Do you think she’ll like them?”

Killian didn’t think Henry’s grin could get any bigger, but he was obviously mistaken. “She’ll love them,” he assured him.

“Hi, Killian.” A new voice joined them and Killian looked up and struggled to keep his jaw from dropping. Emma wore a coral sleeveless blouse tucked into cool white linen pants and strappy coral sandals. Her hair was gathered into a messy braid that rested on her shoulder with soft tendrils framing her face. She was a vision and Killian had to remind himself to breathe.

He thrust his hand holding the flowers toward her and was gratified at the surprised smile on her face. “For you,” he said. “The color reminded me of your hair.” He blushed at his admission and smiled when her own cheeks reddened in response.

Biting her bottom lip through her smile, she took them and brought them to her nose to smell. “They’re beautiful,” she breathed. “Thank you so much. Sunflowers always make me think of fall. It’s my favorite season.”

“Mine as well, Emma,” he replied. “The cooler weather, fall colors, football, all the things autumn brings.” Looking down at Henry, Killian continued, “And come Thanksgiving, we’ll have much to celebrate, won’t we?”

A soft smile graced Emma’s face as she looked at her son. “We will. Let me put these in water, and I’ll be ready to go.” She turned away back into the house, leaving Henry and Killian alone for a moment.

“That reminds me,” Killian said, reaching into the pocket of the suit jacket he wore. Pulling out a small pin, he knelt down in front of the boy. “This is an official Aviator Wing pin that’s often given to student pilots after they solo for the first time. Since you’ve had your first solo flight and brought the plane in safely, I thought it was appropriate for you to have this.” Killian looked up and saw Emma standing at the back of the foyer with tears in her eyes. He smiled gently at her before looking at Henry again.

 The boy's face was a stunned O of surprise as he shook his head. “But I crashed the plane. I’m not a real pilot, Killian.”

“You may not be a real pilot, Henry, but you did fly and land the plane. And in the words of a very famous pilot, any landing you walk away from is a good landing. So, yes, you do deserve these wings.”

Henry smiled and stood up as straight as he could as Killian reached out and pinned it to the t-shirt he wore. “Congratulations, my boy.”

“Thanks, Killian.”

Killian rose to his feet again and smiled at Emma as she moved toward them. Henry turned and puffed out his chest so his mom could see his new ornamentation.

“Look what Killian gave me, Mom!” he exclaimed. “A real aviator pin!”

Emma nodded and smiled. “Yes, I saw,” she said, beaming down at him. “Well done. I’m very proud of you.” She looked back up at Killian, her eyes sparkling.

Killian held his elbow out to her. “Shall we, milady? Sir?”

“Yes!” Henry shouted and ran down the front walk to Killian’s SS Chevelle parked at the curb. Emma looped her arm in Killian’s and he smiled as he escorted her to the passenger side of his car and opened the door for her. Henry was already making himself at home in the back, bouncing on the seat.

“Put your seatbelt on, lad,” Killian admonished him as he settled into the driver’s seat and started the car.

“Yes, sir.” Killian smiled at the manners of the boy. He’d noticed them on Friday during the landing, but with the unfolding crisis and everything literally up in the air, he hadn’t had a chance to really think about it until presented with them again. Henry chattered from the backseat until Killian pulled up in front of Henry’s best friend, Nicholas’s, house.

Emma walked her son to the front door and was back in her seat just a few minutes later.

“He was so proud of that pin you gave him, Killian,” she informed him. “He couldn’t wait to show Nicholas.” She turned more fully toward him on her seat and placed her hand on his upper arm as he drove. “You really didn’t need to do that.”

Killian turned toward her slightly and smiled. “I know I didn’t need to, but I wanted to. What he did Friday was a huge accomplishment and it needed to be commemorated. It could have turned out much worse. For his dad and for him.” He looked at her meaningfully. “It was truly my pleasure, Swan. I wanted to do it.”

Emma tilted her head with a smile. “Swan?”

“Oh,” Killian said, heat moving up his neck. “Uh, I just thought… um… it’s just a lovely name and it suits you. I hope you don’t mind.”

The smile that graced her face was small and shy, but it still made Killian’s heart beat faster as he watched her out of the corner of his eye.

“No, I don’t mind.”

Killian smiled as he turned his attention back to the road. “My brother and his wife told me about this place downtown they discovered called Magnolia’s that they really enjoyed for their anniversary a couple of months ago, so I thought we could try it today. It specializes in Southern comfort food.”

“Sounds great.”

A few minutes later, they arrived at the downtown establishment. Killian hurried around to the other side of the car and opened the door for her, taking her hand and tucking it into his elbow as they walked toward the front door of the restaurant.

“Such a gentleman,” she murmured.

“I’m always a gentleman, Swan.” He opened the door for her and was greeted by the hostess. “Reservations for two under the name Jones.”

“I have you right here, Mr. Jones,” she said, with a bright smile. “Follow me, please.”

She led them further into the restaurant and Killian found himself taking in the somewhat rustic, yet very elegant surroundings. The entire back wall of the restaurant was rough hewn wood and filled with wide and tall windows letting in abundant natural light that gave the entire space a very open and warm feel. The tables were dressed with white tablecloths with a small vase of deep pink flowers in the center. When they arrived at their table, Killian pulled out Emma’s chair and seated her at the table before taking his own.

“I looked over the menu yesterday when I made the reservation and I think I’m going to get the Salmon Cakes Benedict. Poached eggs, wilted spinach, English muffin, dill hollandaise, and hash browns.”

“That sounds delicious,” Emma said, looking over her own menu. “Ooo, I think I’ll have the Banana Pudding Stuffed French Toast.”

“Excellent choice, I’m sure.” After giving their order to the waiter, Killian smiled across the table at Emma.

“So, you have a brother?” Emma asked.

“Yes, one older,” he informed her. He rolled his eyes, but the affection within them was still clear as he continued. “To this day, he insists on calling me his little brother. Drives me crazy. He’s the harbor master. He and Elsa have been married ten years and have two boys, Aiden and Colten, and a daughter due next month.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone, opening his Instagram. “This is them when we celebrated the 4th.”

Emma grinned as she saw the two boys with their uncle. The smiles on all their faces were wide and Emma could see the resemblance between Killian and his nephews in their bright blue eyes and the shape of one of the boy's noses and the other's ears.

“That’s wonderful that your family is so close by,” Emma commented.

“It really is,” he agreed. “My work schedule means I don’t get to see them all as often as I’d like, but I couldn’t imagine how much worse it’d be if they lived out of town, or God forbid, out of state!” His eyes widened a bit in horror, and Emma couldn’t help but giggle a little at the sight. “What about you?” he asked. “Do you have family close by?”

Emma looked down briefly before meeting his gaze again. She wouldn’t normally be sharing this kind of information on a first date, but he had asked, and it wasn’t like he had any way of knowing her comfort level with the topic of conversation.

“No, actually,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “Henry is the only family I have. Although I do have a good relationship with his dad. I was an orphan and raised in foster care.” She shrugged and looked in his eyes. She didn’t know what she expected to see, but she was surprised to find admiration mixed with sorrow at her revelation.

“I’m sorry you had to live through that, Emma. That couldn’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t. But my upbringing made me the person I am today, setting me on a very fulfilling career path and I can’t regret that.”

“That’s an excellent attitude to have,” he said, nodding.

She took a deep breath before continuing. “I met Neal when I was a senior in high school. He was older, but I didn’t care. We got married by the Justice of the Peace when I was 19 after a pregnancy scare that turned out to be nothing. Henry was born when I was 24 and Neal was 30. By the time Henry was five, we knew our marriage wasn’t working. We weren’t in love anymore, if we’d ever truly been, and so we decided to split instead of essentially lying to ourselves and Henry.”

Killian nodded in understanding and Emma felt a sense of relief so profound that it nearly brought tears to her eyes. Here she was, essentially telling a complete stranger her life story and somehow she knew the knowledge would be safe with him. There was no judgment in his eyes. Just an acceptance and pride that she would expect out of a close friend or ally, not a man she’d only met a couple of days before.

“You said your upbringing set you on your career path,” Killian observed. “What is that, if I may ask.”

Emma grinned and her eyes lit up. “Of course! I’m a social worker. Growing up on the other side of the equation, I wanted to do my part in making a difference in other kids' lives. I was lucky, where so many other kids aren’t. I was raised by the same woman from the time I was four. But she passed away before Henry was born. She got to see me graduate with my degree, though.”

“That’s wonderful,” Killian enthused. “I’m so glad you at least had that stability as you grew up.” He cut his eyes away from her briefly before returning his gaze to her own. “I have a similar story,” he informed her. “Our mother died when I was young and our father abandoned us not long after. We were also raised in foster care by Captain Nemo.” He smiled at the memory. “He was the harbormaster when we were growing up. Brought Liam on when he was fifteen.”

Their waiter approached with their meals then, interrupting their conversation. After he withdrew, Emma invited Killian to continue.

“He passed not long after Liam and Elsa married,” he continued. “By then, Liam had worked his way up the ranks at the harbor and he was able to step into his shoes nicely.” Killian smiled. “I love the water as much as they both did, but I’d always been more fascinated by planes. I wasn’t interested in being a commercial pilot, but wanted to be an air traffic controller instead. Nemo made sure I could follow my dream.”

Emma smiled softly. “Looks like we were both lucky in our upbringings.”

Killian looked into her eyes. The green shone in the light from the windows, but he couldn’t be sure if there were tears or not. He had to admit, bringing back these memories and sharing them with someone was choking him up just a bit.

“I rather think they’re blessings from God,” he mused, thoughtfully. “I tend to think that things happen for a reason…” he trailed away for a moment before continuing. “Makes more sense of the universe that way.”

“I can see that,” Emma agreed. “Looking back over my life, I realize how very lucky, uh, blessed, I have been. Being raised by Ingrid, who made sure I could follow my dream. Even though we’re divorced, Neal gave me Henry and I could never regret that. Plus the fact that we really have a good relationship. Probably better now than when we were married, honestly,” she laughed lightly.

Killian nodded and chuckled. “It seemed that way when you spoke to him before they took him in the ambulance.”

“Yeah,” Emma continued. “There haven’t been any custody issues, and we’re both in agreement on how Henry should be raised. We’ve been divorced five years now and Henry spends his summers with Neal and we switch off for fall and spring breaks and Thanksgiving and Christmas. This year, he’ll be here for fall break and Christmas and spend Thanksgiving and spring break in New York City with his dad and step-mother, Tink.”

Killian’s eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline and Emma had to bite back her chuckle. “Tink?” he asked. “Like Tinkerbell?”

“She has very pixie-like features, and apparently always has,” Emma told him, “So she insisted on being called Tink from the first time she saw Disney’s Peter Pan when she was four.” They laughed together for a moment before Emma continued. “I want to say her legal name is Tina, but I can’t swear to it. They’re expecting their first child in January and Henry is beside himself. He can’t wait to be a big brother.”

Killian grinned widely. “That’s wonderful. I can imagine. So he’ll be able to meet his baby brother or sister over spring break? Or will he be able to go see them in January? Do they know what they’re having yet?”

“Actually no,” she said. “They haven’t decided whether to find out or not. They have an envelope on their kitchen table with the results of the ultrasound she had a couple of weeks ago. Henry is even more beside himself over that. He’ll have to wait until spring break though, to get to meet him or her in person, but they call every week and FaceTime, so we’ll get to see the little one before then.”

“That is great. I’m glad he’s excited.” The conversation continued, bouncing between everything from current movies to hobbies they both enjoyed.

Killian took his last bite and sat back in his seat. “This was delicious.”

“It was,” Emma agreed, swirling her finger in the peanut butter syrup still covering her plate before sucking it off. She looked across the table at her companion and saw how his eyes widened and his mouth dropped slightly at her action. A shiver of attraction raced down her spine and what she hoped was a flirty smile lifted her lips as she watched him. His eyes darkened and a smirk graced his mouth, giving him a roguish look that only made the shiver intensify.

“Bad form, Swan,” he said huskily. “I’m trying to be a gentleman here.”

“And I like the gentleman,” she said, lifting her eyebrow slightly. “But that doesn’t mean there can’t be a little fun.”

“A very little, Swan.” He took a deep breath and reached across the table to take her hands. His smile and the look in his eye was genuine and Emma felt her respect for the man in front of her suddenly skyrocket. “I don’t date much,” he informed her seriously. “I never have, really. Most women I’ve gone out with were only interested in one thing and I was raised to respect women and to treasure and protect a physical relationship. I don’t pillage and plunder on a first date. I really like you, Emma, and I’d like to see where this might go.”

Emma smiled gently at him, his words filling her heart in a way she’d never known. “I really like you, too, Killian,” she said. Her words made him light up like the sunrise and the shiver of attraction became a soothing warmth that she felt all the way down to her toes.

He sat back and pulled his wallet out of his pocket, extracting a credit card and laying it on the table for their waiter. He turned his attention back on her with a question in his eyes.

“You said Neal would be in the hospital through the weekend? Do you think it’d be alright if I stopped by? Just to offer my hope for his speedy recovery?”

“I think that’s a great idea, Killian,” she agreed. “Would you like me to come along? I don’t have any other plans this afternoon, until I have to pick up Henry after dinner. I can introduce you.”

Killian’s jaw dropped open slightly. “You’d do that? You sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” she promised. “I’d love to.”

“I would really appreciate it if you would come along,” he said, sincerely. “But I don’t want you to feel pressured. It’s not necessary.”

“No pressure. I promise. I’m glad to do it,” she assured him. She rose from her seat. “I’m going to run to the restroom before we go.”

Killian also rose when she did, his eyes tracing her form as she walked away. He hadn’t felt this way about a woman since college and he really didn’t want to screw it up. He took his card back from the waiter and moved to the front door to wait for Emma. When she emerged from the restroom, he couldn’t keep the smile off his face if he tried. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, hands down. He offered his arm and placed his other hand on hers when she took it.

The drive to MUSC was less than ten minutes, and Killian was grateful that Emma kept the conversation from inside Magnolia’s going, helping to keep his nerves at meeting her ex and Henry’s father at bay. Once inside the hospital, she led him to the cardiac wing until they stood outside the room. Emma knocked and cracked the door when she heard a muffled come in from inside.

She entered the room, followed closely by Killian. Neal lay on the bed, Tink sitting next to him in a reclining chair that could pull out to make a bed for her so she wouldn’t have to leave him each night. Emma smiled at them as she came in.

“Hey, y’all,” she greeted.

“Emma,” Tink cried in surprise, rising from the chair. “I didn’t know you’d be coming by today.”

Emma hugged Tink tightly before pulling back. Technically, they weren’t family, but Tink loved Neal and Henry both and Emma loved her like a sister. Tink’s eyes widened when she saw Killian standing behind Emma.

“Tink, this is Killian Jones,” Emma introduced him. “He’s the air traffic controller that helped Henry land the plane Friday.”

Tink inhaled sharply as Killian stuck his hand out for her to shake. Ignoring his offer completely, she hugged him tightly. Killian choked on a laugh in surprise at the exact same response he’d gotten from Emma on Friday when he tried to introduce himself. Tink obviously cared deeply for Henry to greet him in such a manner, and Killian didn’t hesitate to hug her back.

“I can’t thank you enough,” she whispered. She pulled back and took his hand, leading him to the bed where her husband lay. “Neal, this is Killian.”

Killian looked at the man on the bed. He looked better than he had on Friday before he’d been taken away in the ambulance, but there still seemed to be a pallor about his skin that Killian hoped would fade with time and treatment for whatever it was that happened in the first place.

Neal smirked at his wife as he held his hand out for Killian to shake. “I heard what Emma said, Tink.” He turned his attention to Killian and his expression sobered into deep appreciation and seriousness. “Thank you, man. You saved my son’s life. There’s nothing I could say… nothing I could do to tell you how thankful I am.”

Tink slapped her husband on the arm indignantly. “He saved your life, too, you dolt!”

Neal rubbed his arm where she’d hit him and looked sheepish. “She does have a point, I guess.”

Tink rolled her eyes in exasperation and Emma bit back a chuckle.

Killian scratched at the spot behind his ear and told Neal and Tink the same thing he’d told Emma on Friday. “Henry is the real hero, not me. I was just doing my job. I’m just thankful you both came through it ok,” he said sincerely.

“Killian gave Henry a real Aviator pin since he did fly the plane and land it safely,” Emma interjected. Neal and Tink’s eyes widened in both their countenances as they looked back at Killian. “You should have seen him,” she continued. “He tried to refuse, but,” she looked to Killian for confirmation, “Killian told him… What exactly did you say? Any landing you walk away from is a good landing?”

Killian was nodding and as soon as he realized what she was asking, joined her in finishing the phrase. “Chuck Yeager said it. He was a flying ace and is generally considered the greatest pilot of all time.”

“Right,” Neal added, “He broke the sound barrier.”

“Wow,” Tink said, awe coloring her tone.

“Anyway, I shared that quote with Henry and told him that he did deserve the wings.”

Emma turned back to the man on the bed. “He was so proud, Neal.”

A small smile graced Neal’s face as pride and a profound gratefulness rose up in him. This had been one of the worst experiences of his life and it could have been so much worse were it not for the man standing in front of him. He placed his hand over his heart and felt tears start to well in his eyes.

“I really can’t tell you…” he choked out. “Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.”

Killian looked around the room, taking in the tearful and grateful expressions on the others’ faces. It really was part of his job, but this was the first time he’d ever been presented with such an up close and personal expression of appreciation for doing it, and he could feel his own eyes welling in response.

“It was my honor and privilege. Truly,” he assured them. “Henry is an extraordinary lad. You’ve all done a wonderful job raising him, and I know you are proud of him.” Slightly uncomfortable with the excess emotion in the presence of virtual strangers, Killian looked around. “I think I need to make use of the facilities, if y’all will excuse me for a few minutes.”

Emma led him out of the room and pointed him in the right direction. Coming back in, she smiled at the others who waited patiently for her.

“I like him,” Tink said. Emma could feel the heat on her cheeks as she cut her eyes to Neal.

“I do, too,” he agreed. “Come here, Em,” he said, holding out his hand to her. Emma approached the bed and took his outstretched hand. “He seems like a really good guy, Em. Do you like him?” Emma’s blush deepened and Neal smirked at her. “That’s what I thought.” His thumb ran over her knuckles as he moved his head so he could catch her gaze. “Listen, Em. I know I don’t have any say in how you live your life, but I do know you pretty well, and it is written all over your face that you like this guy. Is this a date? How exactly did this visit happen?”

“Yeah,” she admitted. “He asked if he could take me out for coffee right after the ambulance left. I called him yesterday and he invited me out to lunch instead.” She shrugged, “And I agreed. We went to Magnolia’s a few blocks away and he asked if I thought y’all would mind if he came by for a visit, just to give you his wishes for a speedy recovery. So I offered to bring him.” Tink’s smile split her face as Emma explained.

“I’m glad you did. You should go for it, Em,” Neal continued. “He’s obviously a stand up guy and he’s already met and obviously likes Henry. You’ve put your life on hold for the last five years, Em, raising Henry, pouring all your energy into him,” he observed. “It’s time for that to stop. You deserve to be happy. And I think he…”

“I am happy, Neal,” Emma interrupted in protest.

“We’re not saying you’re unhappy, Emma,” Tink interjected. “We know you love your job, Henry, and you have great friends. But love is a part of all true happiness and we think you should be open to that.”

Emma looked back at Neal who was smiling and nodding in agreement.

“Ok,” she murmured. “Thanks, y’all.” She reached out and took Tink’s hand in her free hand and squeezed gently as Killian came back in the room. Emma released them and turned toward him, smiling widely.

“Thanks for coming by, man,” Neal said, holding his hand out for Killian to shake again.

“My pleasure,” he replied, taking Neal’s hand in his own. “I’m glad to have met you both. Congratulations, by the way,” he said, nodding toward Tink’s obviously rounded middle. “If Henry is any indication, I know y’all will be great parents.” Tink blushed at his assertion and smiled shyly. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I’m glad you’re alright and offer my wishes for a full and speedy recovery.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Thank you, Killian,” Tink added, “For everything. We owe you a lot.”

Killian waved away her sentiments. “Part of the job description. You owe me nothing. It was very nice to meet y’all.” He looked to Emma and held his arm out for her to take. As she looped her arm in his, they both waved at Neal and Tink and took their leave.

Once she was settled back in Killian’s car, she turned toward him. “They liked you,” she said simply.

Killian’s cheeks reddened and it made her smile. “I’m glad,” he said, with a slight cough. “I liked them, too.” He turned his face toward her, a smile on his lips. “I’m really glad they liked me. I know y’all are close, and I have to admit, it felt a bit like meeting the parents.”

“I hope when I get to meet your family, it goes as well as this did,” Emma murmured, looking out the front windshield as Killian drove.

“Does this mean you want to meet my family, Swan?” he asked. She could hear the smirk in his voice and cut her eyes over to him.

“Maybe,” she allowed, with a smirk of her own. She reached over and placed her hand on Killian’s forearm. She’d have rathered taken his hand, but as it was occupied on the stick shift of the vehicle, she had to be satisfied with this. Killian’s face broke into a wide grin and her own smile widened in response.

They rode the rest of the way in comfortable silence, and much too soon for her liking, Killian pulled up in front of her house. He jumped out of the car and was opening her door in moments. She took his arm again as he led her up the front walk to her door.

“I’d invite you in, but I don’t want you to think I’m only after one thing,” she told him, trying to insert a joking tone into her voice after their conversation at the restaurant as she turned to face him.

He chuckled before his face turned serious, his eyes bouncing back and forth between hers. “I would have to decline if you did,” he replied, taking both of her hands in his own. “I told you in the restaurant I really like you.” He raised her hands and gently kissed her knuckles before capturing her gaze once again. “I haven’t felt this way about anyone in years and I don’t want to move too fast and risk compromising a potential future with you.”

Emma gasped at the sincerity in his gaze and her stomach flipped in response to his words. She thought back to what Neal and Tink had said at the hospital and decided she had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

She released his hands, looped her arms around his neck, and drew him down into a kiss. Killian didn’t think he’d ever tasted anything as sweet as Emma’s lips and he moaned as she opened to him. His arms wrapped around her and he held her close as their tongues danced together, sending sparks of desire shooting through him.

Before they could get carried away, he broke off the kiss and touched his forehead to her own, still holding her closely. He opened his eyes and saw her own veridian depths glazed over with the same yearning he himself felt. He licked his lips and stepped back slightly, while still holding her in his arms.

“Will you go out with me again, Emma?”

“Yes, Killian.” She smiled gently and stepped out of his embrace, turning toward her front door. Killian was frozen in place as she opened the door and turned back toward him briefly. She rose on her toes and placed a chaste kiss on his lips and he couldn’t help but smile at her as she stepped through her door. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, still grinning like a giddy school boy. When she closed the door behind her, he stood there for a moment more reliving their kiss. He finally turned back toward his car, thinking about the circumstances of their meeting. The worst nightmare of an air traffic controller was a crash landing, and their meeting almost felt like a crash landing all on its own- completely unexpected and out of the blue. But this was a landing that he was thankful for. There were no casualties, unless you counted his heart, and it was definitely a landing he had no interest in walking away from, because he was hers- for better or worse, to the end of the world or time. And he would wait for her as long as he needed to make her his as well.

The End

~*~*~

Thank you for reading and sharing! I’d love to know what you think!

[kingskwing]

Hello!! M not too sure if ur busy with requests but I love your writing so I wanted to give this 'idea' that I've had for a bit now. If you don't mind, can I request a fic with Marius where he and reader broke up bcs he chose being the CEO of pax over the reader? It's really angsty ik but maybe with a happy ending? Thank you!!

ANON IM LIVING finally some good fuckin hurt/comfort || engineering major!reader inbound, it's also mentioned that the reader does commercial art, sorry 💔

Warnings: argument? They’re talking but it's a disagreement, breakup, SPOILERS for Marius’ story, kidnapping, Mild spoilers for Part 5, blood ment. and gunfire 

》 M.list

crisis control

It started, as it ended, with an argument. Of course, the beginning was far less emotionally charged than the gentle, sinking wreck that came later, but isn't such the case with all things? When time and effort is put into something, a piece of yourself is put within. And, when it eventually shatters, the pieces are hard to pick up.

》》¤

Being a student at Stellis University, admission to the campus art gallery was free. Your evening was uncharacteristically empty, so you decided to stop by to see the things your peers submitted for public view. On your way in, you waved to Professor Richter, having taken his class the year prior. 

You’d heard something about another Z piece being shown and kept an eye out for it, eventually spotting it and approaching. There was someone already there, so you stood next to them as you analyzed the piece.

“What do you think of the piece?”

The voice startled you and you faced the young man who’d been there before you. Taking another look at the piece, you spoke honestly.

“I don’t like it.”

“Oh? Why is that?” He seemed surprised.

“Now, I’m a mechanical engineering student, so take my opinion with a grain of salt, but the composition and colors are just barely… off. They’ve got this beautiful spiral leading the eye to the center point, but there aren’t enough rigid structures for contrast. That, and this green in the bottom left quarter of the painting,” you gestured to it vaguely, “is slightly too warm for the tone. Then again, I struggle when color-picking for pieces, so it may be either a shared difficulty or a misperception on my part. Also, this stroke here, it’s far more textured than the surrounding area, setting a really strange feel for that specific area. How do you feel about it? It appears you like the artist, so I’m curious to hear your thoughts.”

As you spoke, his eyes flitted across the painting, brow set in thought. “First of all, you said you were an engineering major?” 

You nodded. “I do my own art on the side, much more commercial than this.”

“I see. You wanted my thoughts and I let myself get distracted,” he smiled. “I do see the extra texturing on that stroke, it does make the area discordant, but I disagree with the rest. I believe the color works well with the piece and that the spiral composition isn’t erratic enough to warrant the contrast you spoke of.”

“Tastes are always different... It's fun trying to see it from your perspective. Wait, I don’t think I told you my name,” you laughed. “I’m Y/N.”

He took the hand you extended and shook it firmly. “Y/N, huh? Good to meet you! I'm an art major at a school-hosted art gallery, so I expect to see you at the upcoming STEMfest next Saturday. What's your booth number?”

“You just assume- not important. 41B, why do you ask?”

“Great! See you then, I’ve got to go. And bring some of your art!” The man was walking away by now, leaving you confused in front of Z’s painting.

“What? Wait!” You ran around the corner, only to see him opening the gallery doors. “You never gave me your name!”

》》¤

It’d been a long day at STEMfest, entertaining kids and networking with professionals, but the art student from the week before was the most exhausting thing about your day. You recognized him as soon as he passed your stand. All seven times, in fact. He kept side eyeing you as he talked to every booth worker in the B section except you. He’d approach your booth, you’d reach for your portfolio, and he’d smile as he walked straight past you to talk to someone else.

Only when everyone began packing up did he finally approach you.

"Hey, artsy engineer," he smiled, lifting a box from your hands and following you to where it needed to go.

“Are you always this much of an ass?”

He was visibly surprised at your candid words and looked almost worried, but then he pouted when he saw the disbelieving grin on your face.

"You scared me, I thought you were really mad!" He nudged you with his elbow, a playful scold.

"Hmm, I should be, shouldn't I?" 

His answering 'nooo' was too adorable to resist.

He was easy to spend time with, the sun setting quickly while you two discussed art, history, engineering, and the general ways of the world. You'd been caught up in a conversation about whether or not planets feel like they're dancing when you saw how orange the sky had turned.

"Marius, it's getting late. I hate to leave you, but I ought to get home."

“Allow me to escort you to your car, my liege.” His exaggerated accent made you laugh.

“Ah, I walked,” you grinned.

“My car it is then!”

"Say, Marius, didn't you mention an upcoming day off? I'd like to go to a cafe with you sometime. 

His whole body seemed to lift up, eyes sparkling in the evening sun. "I'd love that, can I pick you up?"

"Of course, if you let me pay."

“Nope!” 

“Hmm, you can’t stop me.”

“I’m sure I can.”

“Is that a threat, Marius?”

“I would never.” His grin was blinding, so much so that it almost distracted you from the gleaming sports car he led you to.

“What major are you in again?” you asked, breathless. His car was beautiful, cutting edge and intelligently designed.

“Art and Art History, why?”

“Ah, so it’s daddy’s money,” you muttered cheekily before entering the vehicle.

You laughed upon hearing him sputter, relishing in the wide, flustered smile he flashed when quickly opening his car door to face you.

“I bought this myself, I’ll have you know.”

“Just teasing, Marius,” you lightly hit his arm before he started driving. “Wait. I must have blacked out the last couple minutes, you’re a near stranger and I’m in your car. Oh my god, that’s so irresponsible. You’re not going to kill me, right?”

“Ahaha! That’s for the coffee date.”

You froze for a moment, caught between a smile and a worried frown. However, before you could decide, he winked at you, prompting you to hit his arm again, harder this time. 

“Marius!”

“Hey, dear engineer, if you’re going to refuse to let me pay for coffee, I get to tease you as much as I like. It’s only fair.”

You directed him towards your dorm hall, joking and smiling the whole way. Of course, his position at Pax was revealed when you asked his last name to put his number in your phone, having recognized him from online headlines. However, that didn’t deter you from happily confirming the pickup time for your second date.

》》¤

He noticed everything, even if he didn’t realize it sometimes. Your heart swelled every time Marius complimented something new you’d bought, and despite his teasing about you adding his photo to your phone case, you know he was more flustered by it than you were. Every time you refreshed your phone wallpaper and lockscreen, every time you wore a new fragrance, every time you acted out of the ordinary, he noticed, be it passively or consciously.

Walking around Stellis was common for you two, stopping at every ice cream shop to try their novelty flavors. However, no matter how many bizarre ones there were, he got your favorite flavor for himself. He claimed it was because he liked it too, but you didn’t fail to notice that if you didn’t like the flavor you chose, he’d “share” his cup by giving you the entire thing. Surprisingly enough, seeing your face pucker at a flavor that was just too “out there” wasn’t his favorite part about ice cream joint hopping with you. No, his favorite part was messing with you. Early on in the relationship, Marius would often swipe his thumb across your lip to wipe away ice cream. You were too flustered to realize you weren’t enough of a messy eater to warrant such an action. Eventually, you caught on, checking in a mirror after eating and watching him pout when you didn’t let him.

“Marius, if you’re going to touch my lips, you may as well go all the way,” you shrugged, walking ahead of him.

He didn’t waste a second catching up to you and searching your eyes for sincerity before pulling you in for a light, teasing kiss.

》》¤

Even over a year into your relationship with the young CEO, his eyes still lit up whenever you agreed to go somewhere with him and his heart soared whenever you invited him places. Yes, he had a hard time balancing his busy schedule, but that just meant any time spent with you was made all the more precious.

When you moved in together, he was hard-pressed to keep his smile down when you played music while showering or working on projects. Some days, when you thought he was out, you blasted songs that made him tear up from trying to reign in his laughter.

He teased you for days each time.

》》¤

Moving in with him allowed you even more insight into his true self, the bashful, playful Marius who hides his artistic prowess behind a famed pseudonym: Z. He regularly showed you his pieces as he worked on them, leaving room for teasing when he kept works from you. Secrecy from Marius was relatively rare, so whenever it had to do with art, you poked and prodded him to show you what he had hidden underneath the veil over his easel.

“Goodness, Marius, is this how you see me? I’m flattered! It’s nice to know that under all that suave, you’re still a total simp.”

“No! Noo, don’t look at that, babe! It was supposed to be a surprise,” he whined, voice becoming clearer as he quickly approached the studio. His face reddened upon seeing how genuinely enamoured your eyes were as they scanned the piece. “Ah, well, you’ve already seen it. I suppose all that can be done…” He walked behind you and sat at the stool. “... is to work on it with you.” An arm wrapped around your middle and Marius swiftly pulled you into his lap. His chest rumbled with laughter against your back at the yelp you let out and he gripped you close as he could. In an instant, his breath was on your ear. “Isn’t this more comfortable than me hiding things from you?”

“Nope!” You shuddered at the odd feeling against your ear and worked to calm the heat in your cheeks. 

“Aww, come on! I’m warm and loving, among other things-”

“Oh my god, one more word and I’m moving out,” you laughed.

“Babe, you’d never do that to me,” he pouted, turning you in his lap and resting both hands on your waist.

“No, I wouldn’t, Marius.”

“Good,” he chirped, eyes quickly shifting back to his regular dangerous humor before he lifted you briefly, rose up, placed you on his stool, and made for the door.

“Marius Von Hagen!”

His home was filled with all kinds of laughter that day, from huffs of humored disbelief to mirthful peals.

》》¤

Though your time together was easy and delightful, things fell through after a little more than two years of dating. Your heart hurt watching him burn himself out day after day, coming back after a long shift at Pax to spend time with you and to paint in his studio. Time after time, especially after the forgery mess and the encouraging words of Sven Phillips, you pushed him to follow what he wanted. He was performing as Pax’s CEO to prove something to his father and lost brother. While you wished his reasons for it were healthier, your issue did not lie specifically with Pax. No, your concern was his willingness to give up art in exchange for recognition of his ability to keep Pax running. Was his self-esteem truly so low that he’d drop everything important to him when he could easily get recognition for something he was passionate about?

Unfortunately, you got your answer.

》》¤

“Marius, you know what I’m going to say.” The moon was high in the sky; you’d woken when Marius turned on the light to get to his studio.

“Then don’t say it. I don’t have time to do this again, I’m exhausted and haven’t gotten a chance to work on my piece all week.”

“That’s exactly it, though. You’re always too tired to do anything you enjoy! I know you’re busy at Pax and with your secret engagement, but you need to take some downtime or drop something. Your art fulfills you too much to let it fall by the wayside. I’ve respected your secrecy regarding where you go between Pax, SU, and here, so I don’t have any info on how rigorous it is. So, as far as I know, the one thing taking the largest toll, both emotionally and physically, is Pax. Something needs to give."

"No, I'm handling everything just fine. Stop bringing it up."

"You take ten minute naps instead of resting well! Your art screams for some kind of break, you need to make a choice, Marius!"

He was quiet for a good minute.

“Then… I choose you,” he whispered.

Silence fell.

“That doesn’t make any sense.” You knew what he meant, but your heart had fallen to your feet and it needed time to catch up with your mind.

“I choose… to drop you.” He was crying now, but you were too shocked to shed a tear.

“...Are you sure?” you asked.

He was surprised at your composed tone and quickly wiped his eyes, visibly holding sobs in. “If I’m honest, the thought has crossed my mind. I’ve done well managing my time between you, Pax, my art, and my side gig this past year, but things are heating up and I can’t… I can’t give you what you need.”

“What I need?” Your voice broke. “Marius, it’s what you need. I would never say this to anyone else, but I know you better than you know yourself at this point, and I’ve seen, felt the way everything falls away when you’re in your studio. Z is a beautiful thing you’ve created for yourself and it’s lucrative enough to keep plenty of your lifestyle afloat. Every time you tell me about Pax, your eyes age decades. I love you, Marius, and you love your art, but this constant striving to prove yourself is killing you.”

“Proving myself? I don’t have anything to prove,” he said lowly, brows furrowing above his red-rimmed eyes.

The quiet was deafening.

“Marius, I… I respect your decision.”

He seemed to snap out of his mild anger and started tearing up again, but you missed his hand reaching for yours as your head was down and your gaze was on the floor.

“I’ll pack some things, feel free to send the rest over when you catch a minute,” you said, voice breaking again. Turning toward the bedroom to gather your essentials, you let a tear slip and he let his hand drop.

He was sitting quietly in his studio when he saw you putting your suitcase into your car. It was only when he saw your head rest on your steering wheel and your shoulders shake that he let his own cries loose, moonlight glinting off the tears that fell and his sobs rang into the empty hallway.

》》¤

Marius felt he could breathe easier without the need to keep up a relationship, but he didn’t feel good about it at all. He knew where you were coming from, and you were right. However, despite his self-awareness, he couldn’t let go of Pax. He was tired and sad almost constantly and any reminders of you hurt his heart.

Z's works were considerably more gloomy now.

Marius heaved a sigh upon exiting his car, entering the very cafe he’d taken you to two years prior. Ordering his drink went slower than usual since he was caught up in his own thoughts, eyeing your regular order listed on the menu with tears burning to escape. In the few months he’d been apart from you, he hadn’t made any effort to reach out, unsure how you’d respond to a continued friendship after he’d selfishly picked Pax over you. Hell, he’d considered dropping art altogether if it meant he could have you back in his life, but he knew it was too late and you’d never accept that course of action anyways.

He’d only just sat back in his car when he received a call from Vincent.

“Sir, someone’s hacked into Big Data. They’ve uploaded a video-”

A call from Luke interrupted Vincent, and the rest of the assistant’s words went unheard over the ringtone.

“Hold on Vincent, I’ve got to take this.” 

The case the NXX was working on at the time was highly sensitive as they were trying to find alternate ways to indict Heirson until more information pertaining to Opaline village was found.

“Hey there Raven, what seems to be the proble-”

“Marius.” That was odd, Luke almost always referred to him as King when discussing NXX matters. Marius straightened in his seat. “Drop everything, you need to come to the NXX.”

“Has it got to do with the Big Data hack? Something about a video?”

“Yeah, but it’s far more serious-”

Marius sighed, not wanting to put up with another Big Data breach, not when he was thinking about you. “I’ll be right there,” he interrupted, hanging up without paying heed to Luke’s cries for him to wait and listen.

》》¤

Marius regretted not letting Luke finish. Maybe, if he had waited, he wouldn’t have been so stunned seeing you struggle against the bonds tying you to a chair in that godforsaken video. The other members were discussing who at Heirson could have captured you and who was confident enough to do such a thing, but Marius was glued to the screen. Every time he looped it, he noticed something else. The cut on your brow. The bruise on your lip. The blood staining the edges of the ropes keeping your wrists in place. The fear in your eyes. In all the time he’d spent with you, he’d never seen you afraid. But now? Seeing how terrified you were? He was scared.

Marius hit the play button to loop it again, causing Artem to close his eyes and grit his teeth. He couldn’t listen to the person onscreen struggle any longer while the voice behind the camera made their demands, despite not knowing the hostage. Rosa covered her ears, closed her eyes, and allowed Luke to pull her into his side, the detective's eyes set in anger at the captor and pity for Marius. To everyone’s surprise, it was Vyn that snapped.

“Marius Von Hagen! Do not play that video again.” Marius paused the video but did not turn around. “I am aware of your feelings towards them,” Vyn gestured to the screen, “but you fail to consider the others. Rosa is terrified, Libra and Raven are both upset, but none come close to how I am feeling. It was enough to watch my former student struggle in terror once, but to hear it over and over is a special kind of torture. Remember, Marius,” the young man flinched at another use of his name, but remained facing the screen. Vyn placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You’re not the only one who cares for Y/N.”

At last, Vyn pulled lightly on Marius’ shaking shoulder so the young man would face him. Hearing your name after so long, especially with the situation at hand, broke him. Marius let his tears flow freely, keeping his sobs to hiccups and whimpers in Vyn's ear as the psychologist pulled the younger man into his arms.

The others were surprised, having never seen Marius so vulnerable.

The young heir did not show up for work that day.

》》¤

The team toiled day and night for around a week trying to find you. Marius, being less capable with computers, felt useless. He resorted to pulling strings from above, reaching through connections to identify the captor, the location, anything. Finally, they narrowed down the possible locations to just two dock warehouses. Luke needed to be onsite to figure out which location you were at, so the team split in half. Marius didn't listen to the decisions on who would go where, he simply started preparing his gear.

"King? You don't even know where you're going," Rosa said, concerned.

"I'm going south. I don't care who comes with me, but I know they're at the southern dock."

"Intuition, huh?"

"Something like that," he smiled. Rosa noticed his eyes were afraid, but opted not to comment on it.

Vyn took Rosa up north, just in case, but Luke trusted Marius' gut and went with him to confirm. Artem, being the sharpshooter of the group, joined the party heading south to provide extra cover.

Artem entered the driver's seat of one of the NXX's unregistered vehicles (provided, of course, by Marius), not trusting Marius' judgement enough to let him drive. Streets passed quickly, the commercial buildings shifting to the lesser-known outer edge of the city.

The more Marius let his mind run free while he sat in the backseat, the more his grip tightened on the firearm in his lap.

》》¤

Upon arrival, Luke called Vyn to let him know your captor was indeed holed up at the southern location, in case he and Rosa could drive down and provide support. The detective put away his signal tracker and drew his gun, joining Artem and Marius in quietly traversing the yard. The tracker wasn't made for pinpointing an exact location, but it was precise enough for them to know you weren't being held in the warehouse, leaving the storage yard out back.

Artem and Luke were quietly conversing on comms, updating one another on any sectors cleared or noises heard. Marius was uncharacteristically quiet, only chiming in when he cleared his own sections. 

The process was slow, but it picked up speed all at once. Gunshots went off in Luke's section, prompting Marius to rush over. Upon arrival, the young CEO hesitated. He looked between your captor and the open container behind the man. Seeing the man who captured you, injured you… Marius saw red. However, hearing a muffled noise from within the storage container caused him to stay back, momentarily caught in the middle.

Artem came up on him from behind and noticed his dilemma.

"King! Luke has him engaged, get inside and help the hostage." The senior attorney's voice was authoritative, accompanied with a shove to the shoulder to snap Marius out of his stupor before Artem left to support Luke against his surprisingly competent adversary.

Marius rushed into the container, heart breaking upon seeing you scared of the shadow that appeared before you. You'd assumed you were being rescued due to the commotion outside, but gunfire isn't exactly the most comforting sound. Marius' voice, on the other hand, was the peace you needed to think clearly.

"Y/N, Y/N, babe, I'm so sorry this happened, I never thought being involved with you would make you a target," he rambled until he couldn't breathe, apologizing for every circumstance that led up to this and for every slight wince you made as he undid your bonds.

You hadn't even had the chance to get a word in, much less move, before he scooped you into his arms and sank to his knees, holding you against him like a lifeline.

"Ah, Marius, not there-" his arm was pressing on what you assumed was a broken rib, but he quickly adjusted and silently brought your face into his shoulder with his other arm. His own head mirrored yours, his whole body almost curling around you protectively.

He'd been taking shaky breaths the entire time, but now he was full-on sobbing into your neck. His arms kept adjusting to cling to you ever tighter as his tears wet your skin.

Luke and Artem had taken the man into custody by now and rushed in to check on Marius.

For a moment, they thought you might have been dead, what with how Marius was crying, but a defensive look from you quickly fixed that. In turn, your expression softened, gathering that they must have come with him to rescue you.

Artem and Luke had taken to gathering the hostile's equipment as evidence while they waited for Marius to have his moment. Speaking of, Marius had calmed over time and loosened his grip, but his breaths still shuddered.

"Marius," you said at last.

His head snapped up to look at you, eyes misty from hearing you say his name again after so long.

"Hey engi-dear." 

You laughed with him, heart equal parts light and heavy at the silly nickname he'd bestowed upon you.

"Thank you."

"What for? If I hadn't let myself get involved with you-"

You placed a finger over his lips. "I'd like to think the issue is that I wasn't with you, under your watchful gaze."

His watery smile lifted your spirits. Although you were still terrified from the experience, your love for the man before you was all you could think about.

"I missed you," he whispered. "And seeing you on that screen…" 

"Hey, I know. I'm pretty shaken up myself," you laughed lightly. "But," you cupped his tear-stained cheeks, "you still came. And you did save me, I can't see a better outcome than that."

"I never thought I'd say this, but now is not the time for banter."

"Thought I'd give it a shot, didn't know a few months were enough time to make a responsible man out of you."

His chest rumbled against yours in laughter as he lifted you from the ground, one arm supporting your legs around his waist and the other across your back, hand splayed to hold you upright.

He carried you to the entrance of the storage lot where two cars idled. The walk was quiet, both people needing a mental reprieve, until Marius broke the silence. 

"Hm, I know a wonderful psychologist to talk to about all this. Who knows, maybe he'll be able to cure your ill-timed humor."

"Mister Richter!" you exclaimed, seeing the professor himself over your shoulder.

His stern face lifted into one of relief, happy to see his former student alive and relatively well.

"Dearest Y/N, I'm so happy you're alright—" his gaze darkened as his eyes flicked over you, taking in your injuries. "It appears I spoke too soon. Let's get you a private physician, you don't need the hustle and bustle of a general care hospital after that."

Marius seemed to get impatient, hefting you up again with a little huff and pleading eyes.

Vyn smiled at the young man's irritation. "We'll discuss how regularly you'll meet with me to process the incident come next Wednesday," he smiled, walking off to his shared car where a young woman stood. She was unfamiliar to you, but waved with her own relieved smile nonetheless. 

A young man with brown hair and a windbreaker entered the car with Vyn and the woman, presumably for a bit more privacy with Marius. Your boyfriend placed you into the backseat with the utmost care before rounding the vehicle and entering on the other side while Artem started the car and prepared to drive you to a trusted doctor, Apothecary, an NXX sideliner.

You were thankful Artem was driving, in part because you'd met him briefly before, but mostly because you were able to spend the drive close to Marius. The entire ride was quiet, save for the sound of gentle kisses being pressed to the top of your head every so often. 

》》¤

Healing was far from enjoyable, what with the lack of activity and regular pain. However, Marius' regular visits made it all the more bearable. He came as often as he could, even though he was using silence to avoid the elephant in the room. 

One day, well into his visit, you called his name. He turned to you, calling attention to his eyes. They'd been stormy since the rescue and you were confident you could guess why. Relationship stuff could wait, though. 

“I assume this is your ‘secret engagement’?”

He winced a bit, looked to the floor, and lifted his hand to soothingly rub at his own neck. “Yeah, yeah it is. I’m sorry for not telling you earlier, but I didn’t want to stress you out. It’s not the safest hobby, is it?”

“Of course it isn’t! But I can tell what you’re thinking, and my answer is no. I’d never have asked you to let the NXX go, what you’re doing is too important. Not only that, but being at Pax is a huge help and I realize why you were so adamant on keeping your position as CEO. Marius,” you grabbed his hand that laid on your bed, causing his gaze to flick over every movement of your fingers on his hand.. “I never should have pushed so hard. Regardless of your motivation, as your peer, as your... lover, I never should have presumed to know better than you. NXX aside, your reasons for sticking with Pax are valid, I just don’t want to see the other side of you crumble beneath the weight of a demanding company.”

“...I agree that the push to rethink my position could have been gentler, but you were ultimately right. You weren’t presuming, you did know better. I’ve tried and failed to find a better balance since I realized that, but… something’s missing. You’re missing.” His eyes met yours once more, purple hues gentle amongst his resolute expression. “Y/N, you brought something to my life that no amount of inspiration or... validation could ever match.” His hand moved from beneath your fingers to hold your hand in his, grip firm, but still loose enough to allow you to escape. “If you’ll allow it, I’d like to have you back in my life, in whatever way you’re willing.” He squeezed your hand, his eyes pleading.

You withdrew your hand from his, not missing his face falling. Quickly, before he could make any more assumptions, you lifted his warm hand to your cheek, turning to press a kiss to the heel of his palm. His eyes misted as you spoke, tenderly thumbing your cheek.

“Marius Von Hagen,” you whispered, “I’d be honored to come back into your life and resume my place as your lover. If you’ll allow it, of course.” 

He didn’t miss the teasing lilt behind your words. “Always making fun of me, eh, engineer?”

You didn’t have a chance to respond as the hand on your cheek pulled you in and Marius kissed you lightly. It was more breath than kiss, both parties feeling overwhelmed at the familiar feeling. However, that didn’t stop him from diving back in, pressing a flurry of kisses in varying lengths to your smiling lips. His lips slid over yours, pulling them in and releasing them seamlessly. His light, happy laughs echoed into the air between and around you both, mixing with the sounds of your own joy. He kissed you slowly, softly, deeply, absorbing all he’d been missing for the past months. Whatever Pax threw at him, whatever dangers arose, whatever stifled his creativity, he felt he could conquer it all with you by his side to pull him through.

Some time later, Marius was laying next to you, curled into your side. The quiet was comfortable, until you decided to break it. 

"You really should have told me about the NXX."

His face fell again, but you were right. "I know, there wasn't any real reason for keeping it from you-"

"So irresponsible, keeping things from your partner. You ought to be a better boyfriend," you chided, barely holding back your smile.

"Y/N! You had me worried! Again with the ill- timed humor, it's too soon to tease me!" His adorable pout was the only thing on your mind as you kissed him for the umpteenth time that night, relishing in his presence. 

Yes, he had a lot to figure out. But so did you, and it certainly felt better to work out the walks of life with someone you truly love by your side.

[nat-20s]

me looking at my own post: you could fanfic out of this!

Anyway here’s how I think a typical “Martin’s Poetry Corner” would go!

~*~

Martin: And for my second thing, we’re going back to the poetry corner!

Jon: Again? Didn’t you have a poetry corner last week?

Martin: It’s been well over two months since the last poetry corner, my dear. And just for that comment I’m going to up the amount of the poetry corner. From now on this podcast is me reading poetry interjected with some guy talking nonsense.

Jon: You say that like the majority of our audience wouldn’t prefer that. Also, some guy? I’m wounded! Earlier you were calling me ‘beloved husband’ and ‘cherished one’ and now I’m ‘some guy’? What did I do to deserve that level of downgrade?

Martin: You decried the poetry corner!

Jon: I decried nothing! It was a purely non-judgmental comment on the frequency of it. If you want to do poem every week, I have nothing against that.

Martin: Hmm. I might test you on that. I know the whole point of this thing is to share things we think are lovely, and I do find all the poems I read lovely, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Jon: Oh? And what might your nefarious hidden agenda be?

Martin: I’m certain you’re the only one that would find it nefarious, but I can, must, shall, and will find a poem that affects you. Now, I’m sure the listeners at home would decry that goal. After all Mary Oliver, Maya Angelou, Wendy Cope, and Langston Hughes all did nothing. He didn’t even blink at “The Two-Headed Calf”, surely there can’t possibly-

Jon, laughing, which severely limits how much he’s able to sell his faux offense: I’ve been affected by poetry before!

Martin: Name one poem you had an actual strong reaction to.

Jon, smugly: It’s almost certainly not one you know. It’s called “Streets” and it’s by this really obscure author. God, what was his name? K was his middle initial I believe?

Martin, laughing: Piss off!

Jon: Well it’s true! I felt something at all of your poetry.

Martin: Liar! I very distinctly remember you calling it ‘almost affecting’! And you declared I was enamored with Keats, which doesn’t even make sense, we have wildly different composition styles.

Jon: You’re working from incomplete information. That tape was from my first read through. It was the reread where they got me.

Martin: Reread? I thought you hated rereading things?

Jon: Typically, yes. But. Ah. It was during the year you were gone.

Martin: Oh. Oh, love.

Jon: It’s been half a decade since then, Martin, I can assure you I’m fine. Though, I suppose reflecting on it, the affecting quality was more to do with who had written the poetry itself. Even now, you could write a grocery list for fun and I’d be hopelessly endeared by it.

Martin: Shut up.

Jon: I shall not! It’s been a hell of a road to get here, I think it’s more than acceptable to flaunt how much I like my husband, especially when he’s doing something he enjoys. In fact, I think it’d be more than appropriate if I did one of your poems for one of my wonderful things next week.

Martin: Absolutely not! Jon, there is a certain level of ‘embarrassing old men in love’ we’re allowed to be in the public sphere, and that would exceed it by, fuck, tenfold? Our quota would be wiped out for the year. For the next five years. No. Besides, my poems aren’t meant for anyone’s eyes and ears but my own, and occasionally you when you’re being nosy.

Jon, with audible shit eating grin: So you’re saying you wouldn’t like to hear your poetry in my voice?

Martin, having a gay panic despite being married to this man for years: I..uh..

Jon: Yes?

Martin: I would..I would like that very much. Privately. Er, please.

Jon: Well, since you asked so nicely. I suppose the poetry corner shall remain yours, for now.

Martin: Thank you for your grand generosity and understanding. Speaking of, should I get to the actual poem? I think I might have a winner with this one.

Jon: Please do.

Martin: So this week I’m bringing a poem written by an, as far as I can tell, unnamed ninth century Irish Monk-

Jon: -ninth century? Decided to abandon the contemporary route then?

Martin: Somewhat? The poem was written in the ninth century, but no one wants to hear me butcher the original, so I’m going to read the English translation by Seamus Heaney, which was done in 2006, so sort of contemporary? Depending how you look at it? Anyway, this is Pangur Bán:

Pangur Bán and I at work,

Adepts, equals, cat and clerk:

His whole instinct is to hunt,

Mine to free the meaning pent.

More than loud acclaim, I love

Books, silence, thought, my alcove.

Happy for me, Pangur Bán

Child-plays round some mouse’s den.

Truth to tell, just being here,

Housed alone, housed together,

Adds up to its own reward:

Concentration, stealthy art.

Next thing an unwary mouse

Bares his flank: Pangur pounces.

Next thing lines that held and held

Meaning back begin to yield.

All the while, his round bright eye

Fixes on the wall, while I

Focus my less piercing gaze

On the challenge of the page.

With his unsheathed, perfect nails

Pangur springs, exults and kills.

When the longed-for, difficult

Answers come, I too exult.

So it goes. To each his own.

No vying. No vexation.

Taking pleasure, taking pains,

Kindred spirits, veterans.

Day and night, soft purr, soft pad,

Pangur Bán has learned his trade.

Day and night, my own hard work

Solves the cruxes, makes a mark.

Isn’t that just delightful? Jon what did you-holy shit!

Jon, voice tight: What?

Martin: You teared up! You’re affected! Fuckin’ gottem!! I should’ve known. I should’ve fucking known that the way to Jonathan Sims’ soul was through a poem about a man feeling kinship with his cat. Incredible.

Jon, slightly sniffling: It’s a very nice poem! You read it because it’s a very nice poem!

Martin: Yes it is! That doesn’t discount the fact that I have read poems about love and hardships and finding joy in being alive and it’s the one about the cat that gets to you. Of course. I love you.

Jon: I love you too. Even if you are a bit too victorious over this. I think that will wrap it up for this week?

Martin: Think so! And as we say at the end of every episode, uh, the way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach, but through cat poems from a thousand years ago.

[wishhouse-in-your-soul]

Time to talk about my headcanons for Henry and Eileen because I like to think about them

I never want to be like “my HCs are canon, TAKE THAT” because honestly most of my headcanons are boring and soft. A lot of these went through my mind when I was writing an embarrassing fanfiction (I am embarrassed by all of my writing).

Henwy:

Boy howdy, does he have problems disorder!

More accurately, the fun cocktail of depression and anxiety. 

Alsooo probably on the spectrum, but never officially diagnosed.

Bear with me, I’ve thought about this guy’s childhood way too much

SO LIKE... I imagine he was a child out of wedlock. Mistress and comfortably wealthy businessman situation. He grew up with his mother until he was seven or so, when she suddenly passed.

(also I imagine he’s Mexican on his mother’s side... some of his voice lines seem to have a bit of a lilt to them so I imagine he grew up bilingual... hasn’t spoken any Spanish in like two decades though)

He moved in with his father after Tragic Mom Death™, who wasn’t into the idea of parenting and threw money at the problem. Getting nannies to raise him, sending him off to boarding schools, etc.

Also, they moved around a lot

Which kinda just caused... a lifelong issue of having trouble connecting with people. :’) Lonely kid.

It is where his love of photography came from, though! Traveling introduced him to a lot of beautiful scenery, and photography was a great way to keep memories.

He is not in contact with his father anymore.

He majored in photography (not at an art specific college though, he probably would have been happier there) but kinda regrets it. It was nice having access to legit photography equipment, but he feels that his degree is useless and he kind of hates commercialized photography, so any job he could get in the field would be selling out hard for him to enjoy.

Instead, his employment is... clerical work. A boring 9 to 5 job where he digitizes documents or something. I don’t think he minds, though--he has enough patience for doing boring repetitive work, as long as his coworkers don’t try to get chummy with him.

I hc him as asexual because same hat, but I don’t think he’s sex-repulsed! He just... doesn’t really get the appeal and gets way more out of cuddling.

He’ll watch just about anything, though mostly for background noise rather than enjoyment.

Eiween:

My HCs for her are a lot more boring just because I think her life was a lot more... average. compared to Henry’s. :| At least before (gestures at sh4) happened.

I don’t think she’s ever lived outside of Ashfield, and she moved to South Ashfield Heights when her parents decided to move away from the city (since she’s been there for like... at least three years apparently?)

The city has a rich history, and she’s a history nut!!! She’s working on getting her master’s degree in museum studies and her end goal is museum curator.

She works as an educator at the local history museum, but not full time because school.

...But since she’s lived in a city with a functioning public transit system for her entire life, she never learned to drive.

Middle child. :’)

I will stop drawing her with thick thighs and a bit of tummy the day I DIE

Has a lot of friend groups, but it doesn’t take her a lot to consider someone a friend. She probably considered Henry a friend even if they hadn’t really spoken much, just because she liked talking to him and he never seemed annoyed by her.

Definitely pan or bi... she’d probably refer to herself as bi just because she likes the flag’s colors more, lol

Short!!!

I am always conflicted as to whether she should only have the numerical scars post-otherworld or also the broken arm and eye injuries, since it seems like the numbers are the only things that carry through into the real world. At the same time... I like eye patch. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The both of them >:)

I don’t think they’d ever officially ask each other out, as much as it’d just... happen.

Henry just worries that he’s hanging around her too much and that she’s probably weirded out by him and being polite by letting him stick around.

He’s bad at connecting with people! It doesn’t make sense for her to like him... she’s probably just stuck with him due to the mutual trauma.

And yeah, that’s definitely part of it. They share a unique trauma, and existing safely in each other’s presence is a way to confront it.

...but also? She thought her neighbor was cute already, and that was before he rescued her from an otherworldly death. She likes to spend time with him. :)

He’s. Not. Used to people wanting to spend time with him..... help....

Her friends and family don’t get what she sees in him and it makes him uncomfortable, heeeelp....

But she’ll shut them up!!! He’s kind and she feels safe with him and she could listen to him talk about camera technology for hours.

...And she does, because his voice is comforting,

Eileen’s the big spoon, partially because, even if it’s Henry, she’s still pretty uncomfortable with her back being touched. But also because she’s a hugger.

The ideal endgame for them would be for Eileen to make enough money for them both to live comfortably so Henry can be her photographer househusband who maybe gets his photos published sometimes but never has to make a living taking pictures of food for advertisements or whatever.

(But he’s still driving her everywhere.)

and BONUS: I don’t do gender hcs because I’m a boring old cisgirl and don’t think it’s my place to speculate, but I do like the idea of transman Henry because I can imagine Eileen seeing his top surgery scars and being like !!! what the fuck did Walter do to you to cause those and he just... stares into the camera like he’s in the office...

aaaand that’s all my silly brain can think of for now! ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[samnyangie]

Perhaps everyone already know it but me(or even I might had seen it before;;), but I’ve found a rsl interview on the dead poets society (https://rsl-daily.livejournal.com/140836.html), he talked about the behind the scenes in great detail and I thought it’d be an interesting read to those who are just fan of the film.

To those who haven’t read this before… enjoy!

____________________________________________________________

unknown: from script to screen

The Collaborative Art of Filmmaking

by Linda Seger and Edward Jay Whetmore

From Script to Screen

unknown

Robert Sean Leonard on Dead Poets' Society

All seven of us boys arrived a week before shooting. We were told that the week was reserved for haircuts and learning how to play soccer. It turned out to, be a week of getting to know each other. The first morning we went through the script as it was, and the following mornings were basically improvisations.

Once Peter Weir directed us to get up one by one and give a speech in character. He would do silly things, like he would pretend he was a teacher putting together a Christmas pageant and we were all supposed to be in it. Some of us formed a human sleigh and the rest of us had to be reindeer. Maybe it was silly but it got us in touch with our characters and the feeling of the script. And it also helped us get to know each other.

The Cave Scene

Right away Peter told us that the poetry scene, the first scene of the boys in the cave, would be the hardest scene to pull off in this movie. The audience has to believe that there are seven young guys in this cave that are having a good time reading poetry. They don't want to leave. And Peter said if we could make that scene work, the movie would work.

In the original script, that first cave scene had problems. It was just us reading poetry. One of us had a line like "Isn't this fun?" or "How great." Finally Peter said to us, "I just don't believe it. I don't believe that these guys would sit in a cave at midnight and just read poetry."

And then he said something I'll always remember because it was wonderful. He said, "I don't know what happened that night in the cave, but you all do. That's why I hired you. I met you and I knew from talking to you that you were all there. You know what went on that night and I need you to tell me." So we all went home like fiends and wrote seven different scenes on our own, and we worked together, and improvised a lot of ideas.

Late at night somebody would knock on my door and say, "I have an idea about this," and then we'd discuss it. Then he'd disappear and we'd keep writing. It was incredibly collaborative and fun. We came up with things like the food and the ghost stories and the Playboy magazine. We thought of how we would sulk around at school and rag on our teachers.These were things that we honestly thought would occur. We'd bring them to Peter and he'd say, "You're right, do it."

Up on the Roof

There was always a kind of freedom. He would take in all of our ideas, keep some, throw some out, and then have Tom rewrite scenes. Like in the final version there's the scene where Ethan [Hawke] and I throw the desk set off the roof. Ethan and I had done the original version of that scene together for Peter when we had auditioned. Ethan says, "It's my birthday." I ask him what he got-was it the same thing his parents got him last year? And he says yes.

In the original version he goes on about his family and says, "I used to think that all parents just automatically loved their children and now I know it's not true. Because my parents certainly don't love me, or at least not as much as they love my brother." And then he walks away and I sort of look after him with concern.

We shot the scene at three in the morning and Peter said, "I don't think this is right. I think we already know all this. We're overstating it. The audience knows this by now. It's in the performance, it doesn't need to be said. I'd rather this scene be more about friendship than about a confession or exposition on the boys' problems. I want it to be more active, I want something to happen."

So he put it in our hands, and we went off and decided to destroy the desk set. Peter said it was a good idea but he wanted us to throw it off the roof because we only had three desk sets to work with. So the three of us wrote the scene on the spot. Half of it was improvised in front of the camera. It was great.

Another scene that got changed was where I perform in the play. Originally my character's father walks onstage in the middle of the performance and drags me off in front of all the other actors and the audience. Peter wanted me to complete the performance, to see the people cheering. And that's what we did.

The Big Sleep

My character's suicide was obviously a major scene in the film, and it kind of hung over everything. At the beginning of filming Peter explained, "I want you to put that scene out of your mind, I don't want you playing it like this boy is doomed. I want you to pretend that he goes on to become a doctor or lawyer, there's nothing wrong." He didn't want to give the audience any clues. He wanted it to be one of those cases where everyone says, "My God, he would be the last person I would ever have thought would have done that!"

We shot it toward the end of production. Much of my preparation was subconscious. A lot of it involved the love I felt for all the boys, and for Peter and Robin. I just adored Kurt Smith who played my father. When you're surrounded by people that you're comfortable with and that support you, the difficult scenes become a lot easier.

I did read a lot about teen suicides and quotes from people who had attempted it. I found that a lot of teenage suicides happen because their world is smaller and it's much easier to feel trapped, especially somewhere like that school. They don't know the world beyond the school. Their parents and teachers are their whole universe.

Neil was like a child who had his candy taken away. His father takes acting away and tells him he's going to go tomilitary school, there's no choice in the matter. It's the end of everything he knows and loves.

When you're that young, you don't feel that there are any options. That's where the trapped feeling comes from. No future. And I don't think Neil thinks it out too much. For him it's a romantic, passionate decision.

Working with Robin Williams

There's a scene with Robin in the schoolroom where I lie to him and tell him that my father gave me permission to be in the play. He says, "Did you tell your father? What did he say?" and I say, "It will be fine." The scene was only about five lines and then I was to get up and leave.

But when the camera was on me, instead of letting me leave, Robin repeats the questions again, "Really, you really told him?" In my mind I'm thinking, why aren't we cutting? What's happening here? We're completely off the script and why aren't we cutting? Robin says it again, "Really, you told him what you told me?" And he looks in my eyes, and I'm terrified. I say, "Well, he wasn't happy," and then I mumble something, which I don't think makes any sense, like "He'll be in Chicago, so it won't really matter." I totally made that up as the camera was rolling. Robin just tortured me. He kept repeating all the questions, and I had to improvise different answers. I'm totally on the spot. And of course it comes across wonderfully that I'm lying.

Peter said, "Cut" and "Perfect," and that was the take that was used.

Robin made that scene work, and that was his strength. He's incredible on his feet. We were all very young and impressionable, and I would never have had the nerve to go completely off book with Robin Williams. But it was his place to do that, since he was the star. And he did. He treated us as equals. He was a joy to work with.

[uhlikzsuzsanna]

SPOILER WARNING: Do not read if you haven’t seen all of Season 1 of “Loki,” currently streaming on Disney Plus.

Ever since “Loki” first premiered in June, Kate Herron, who directed all six episodes of the Marvel Studios series, has had to pretend like she knew far less than she really does. For one, she couldn’t acknowledge that the homages to sci-fi classics like “Blade Runner” and “Brazil” that she’d baked into the elaborate sets for the Time Variance Authority — the cosmic bureaucracy tasked with maintaining the sacred timeline — were “meant to be sinister” rather than just “playful and quirky.”

For another, Herron was delighted to see fans theorizing after the very first episode that Kang the Conqueror — a character already set to appear in the Marvel Studios feature “Ant-Man and the Wasp: Quantumania,” as played by Jonathan Majors — was really pulling the strings of the TVA. But until the finale streamed last Wednesday, she couldn’t even hint that those fans were only half right: Majors does play the mastermind of the TVA, but he’s a variant of Kang referred to as He Who Remains. It’s only after He Who Remains encounters Loki (Tom Hiddleston) and his female variant counterpart Sylvie (Sophia Di Martino), and Sylvie plunges a blade into his heart, that the multiverse is reborn, creating the possibility for Kang the Conqueror to emerge.

Again, though: Herron couldn’t acknowledge any of that, even to those closest to her.

“Nothing has prepared me better for working with Marvel than playing tabletop games with my friends,” she says with a laugh. “It definitely taught me how to have a good poker face. You have to hide your hand — and sometimes lie.”

Now, thankfully, all of that is behind her — as is “Loki” itself. Despite receiving widespread acclaim for her assured, ambitious, and visually sumptuous work directing the show, Herron says she has decided not to return for Season 2 of the series.

“I gave it everything — in my soul, in my heart, everything,” she says. “I feel so proud of the work we’ve done. And yeah, I’ll be enjoying Season 2 as a fan.”

She’s quick to sing the praises of everyone she worked with at Marvel, and she says she’s “sure” she’ll work again with the studio. For now, however, she’s ready to take a holiday, and then turn to a project she’s writing herself “that’s really close to my heart that I really want to make.”

“It’s my own decision, but I just feel like my part with ‘Loki’ is finished now and I’m just excited to see where his story goes,” she says.

Before she parts ways for good, however, Herron spoke with Variety about bringing Jonathan Majors into the Marvel Cinematic Universe, what she thought of the shocking revelation about infinity stones and what she would like to see happen in Season 2.

She always knew “Loki” would introduce Kang and the Multiverse…

From the very start, Herron says, she and head writer Michael Waldron knew that their six-episode run of “Loki” would always end with Loki and Sylvie meeting He Who Remains at his citadel, the result of which would cause the creation of the multiverse.

As Episode 6 makes clear, both of these events were massive turning points for the future of the MCU — and Herron still can’t quite believe she got to be the one to make them a reality.

“We were just, like, waiting to be told, ‘Actually, guys, we’ve had a change [of heart],'” Herron says. Instead, Herron says she and “Quantumania” director Peyton Reed participated in casting Majors in the role.

“I was just like, pinch me,” she says. “I can’t believe I was at the table for that, because I know it was such a big decision for them all.”

Herron also decided to have Majors provide the voices for all three “Timekeepers” who are supposedly at the head of the TVA, but are revealed by Sylvie to be nothing more than “mindless androids.”

“We didn’t have someone cast for those voices,” she says. “I remember thinking, well, ‘Wizard of Oz’ is clearly a reference for us. We should have the wizard. It’d be great if it’s Jonathan. So we sent him all the art of the timekeepers. And he just kind of came up with these incredible voices for each of them.”

…but not with a cliffhanger.

The most significant decision of the season, though, may be that it ends with a giant cliffhanger, when Loki discovers he’s in a brand new reality for the TVA in which Mobius (Owen Wilson) and Hunter B-15 (Wunmi Mosaku) don’t even recognize him. But while Herron knew how this season of “Loki” would end, at first, she did not know that there would be any more seasons after it.

“When I started, there wasn’t a discussion of Season 2, exactly,” she says. “It was just that season of ‘Loki.’ As we got deeper into production, everyone was very happy, and obviously there’s so much to explore with Loki. It felt like we should continue the story. So I think the cliffhanger ending came in later in the process.”

Herron says she sprinkled in some hints to viewers that Loki is in a new timeline, like redressing sets to look slightly off, and recasting Eugene Cordero’s TVA receptionist Casey as a hunter headed to the armory in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. But her favorite bit is that the final line — said by Mobius to Loki — is the same as the first line spoken in the show, by a woman in the Gobi desert, also to Loki: “Who are you?”

“That was kind of the question of the whole first season,” Herron says.

She was just as shocked about the Infinity Stones as everyone else.

In the first episode, Loki discovers to his horror that not only does his magic not work inside the TVA, but Infinity Stones — heretofore believed to be the most powerful objects in the known universe — are just inert rocks there. The revelation sent shockwaves across the Marvel fandom; Herron was right there with them.

“That was in Michael’s script when I first got it to pitch [for the directing job],” she says. “I remember being like, ‘WHAT?! You put me through so much!’ But then I thought, ‘Oh, it’s kind of genius, because it shows how powerful the TVA are. Who are these people? What is this place?'”

Herron especially appreciated how her shock — and the audience’s — mirrored Loki’s own as the rug gets pulled out from under him. “I was quite excited by it,” she says. “It really shows you that there’s a new power in the MCU — and it’s not what we we spent the last decade dedicating our lives to.”

She told Kevin Feige she wanted gender parity among her crew.

Prior to “Loki,” Herron’s most high profile job was directing the second half of the first season of the Netflix dramedy “Sex Education.” She got the “Loki” job thanks to a 60-page pitch memo that filled out just about every detail of the world of the show. After hiring her, she says Marvel Studios chief Kevin Feige asked her, “What are your terms?”

“This was the first time I was gonna get to hire my heads of department on a television show I worked on,” she says. “I was like, I’d really love [the crew] to be 50/50 across gender.”

Herron says she wasn’t out to fill any jobs on the film with a specific gender. But, she says, “There aren’t enough women in these roles. They’re out there. It’s a lack of opportunity. It’s not a lack of interest.”

She did end up hiring two women for critical roles that are still rarely occupied by women: cinematographer Autumn Durald (“The Sun Is Also a Star”) and composer Natalie Holt (History’s “Knightfall”).

“I felt like she was inside my mind,” Herron says of Durald. “We have the same taste. And I love the way that she talks about light as a character.”

Herron hired Holt unusually early for a composer, after she’d completed editing the first episode during the pandemic shutdown. She knew that the particular sci-fi film noir look of the show that she was developing with Durald needed similarly unique music, and she liked that part of Holt’s pitch was focusing on Loki’s identity as a character.

“Her music then started to inspire how I wanted to shoot other scenes,” Herron says. She’s especially enamored of Holt’s vision for her dynamic and foreboding theme for the TVA.

“She was like, ‘Oh, let’s have that theme be Kang’s’ — well, He Who Remains, I guess, in our show. But I hope that will go on to be Kang’s theme. That was the real fun of it is that you feel like he’s really played a hand now across the whole show, because you realize that music is his music.”

Herron, Durald, and Holt all deliver distinctive and superlative work that’s nothing like the MCU has quite seen before — and nothing quite like anything previously in their careers, either. And that’s entirely the point.

“I think for us, it was about just showing people what we could do and that we could do it at this level,” Herron says.

The episode in which Loki comes out as bisexual was inspired by Alfonso Cuarón and Richard Linklater.

Every episode of “Loki” features multiple extended scenes of two characters just talking to one another, a rarity in a comic book production. Herron says that cutting Episode 1 together during the pandemic lockdown and seeing the scenes between Loki and Mobius (Owen Wilson) play out so well “definitely gave us confidence” to continue that rhythm for the rest of the show.

That was especially true for Episode 3. Written by Bisha K. Ali (who went on to create the upcoming Marvel Studios series “Ms. Marvel”), the episode is essentially an extended meet-cute between Loki and Sylvie as they get to know each other on a planet doomed for total annihilation.

“Bisha’s reference was ‘Before Sunrise’ and ‘Children of Men,'” says Herron. “And it lit my brain on fire. It was kind of weird. It was almost like a bottle episode in the sense that we’re just with the two characters, but obviously, it’s Marvel, right? So they’re bonding in this Apocalypse, which also feels very Loki at the same time.”

That episode is best known for making Marvel Studios history, when Loki casually mentions that he’s had dalliances with both men and women. Herron says that when she first interviewed for the job, she asked if the show was going to acknowledge Loki’s sexuality, which had long been established in the comics as bisexual or pansexual.

“I think everyone wanted to acknowledge it,” she says. “It was just really about giving a care and consideration and doing it in the right way. I think everyone knew it was gonna be quite a big moment. So it was just really about doing it in a way that felt respectful. And honoring it.”

Herron also confirms what many fans had suspected, that she deliberately made the lighting scheme for the scene evoke the blue, purple and red of the bisexual flag. “We knew what we were doing with that scene,” she says with a smile.

She has a lot of ideas for what she’d like to see in Season 2.

Since Herron will be watching Season 2 of “Loki” only “as a fan,” she is also free to wildly speculate as to what she’d most like to see happen — like how, wherever Loki story leads, “we’ve opened the door” for the character to explore his sexuality with men as well as women.

Otherwise? She says she wants to know where Judge Ravonna Renslayer (Gugu Mbatha-Raw) goes to when she leaves the TVA in search, she tells Mobius, of “free will.”

“I love her,” Herron says. “Gugu used to always call her an indoor girl, which made me laugh, but she is. She’s in the office, but she used to be this kick-ass Hunter. So I’m like, Okay, well, where’s her path going?”

Herron is also keen to learn more about Hunter B-15’s backstory — since she deliberately decided to hide it in the scene in Episode 4 when Sylvie shows B-15 her repressed memories as a variant.

“I was like, we shouldn’t see her memories,” Herron says. “It’s a character that thought they had power and realizes they have no power. It felt really powerful to at least give her some power in that scenario. The memories are private. They’re hers.” She pauses. “Also as a fan, I’m like, ‘Oh my God, who is she?!'”

“And obviously, you know, Loki and Sylvie?” Herron continues, on a roll. “He’s in a completely different reality. What’s going to happen to him? How will he get back? Or will he get back? And where’s Sylvie? She’s still in the Citadel? And the multiverse of it all. What the hell is going to happen?!”

Herron chuckles at her own excitement. “So I think there’s so many questions to be answered, and so much more road to travel with all our characters,” she says. “You know, I’m really proud that I got to set up Loki’s story here. But there’s so many different aspects of his identity and personality that’s yet to be explored. I’m excited to see where it goes.”