#whiskey x tango

[whoa-myninja]

I will never get over the fact that Ziva is pregnant at this exact moment and neither of them have any idea 🫠

GIF: @harmandmac’s!

[cozy-fantasy-corner]

Band of Idiots Pt. 5: Whiskey Tango Foxtrot (Sneak Peak)

Pairing: Stucky x Reader

Summary: It’s Steve’s 21st birthday, and the night takes a wild turn

Walking alongside Steve and Bucky, I couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia for the carefree days of our youth. We were all more than grown now, life having beaten us all down. Today was a welcome reprieve from the daily hubbub of work and domestic life. It was Steve's 21st birthday and the excitement was palpable in the air. 

The events of that summer day in 1934 felt like a distant memory, overshadowed by the laughter and ease of the present. We had settled into a rhythm. Bucky and I kept our love reserved around Steve, but over the years there was a shift. Something bubbled under the surface of our trio. Perhaps tension, no. It was softer than that. 

I threw up a silent prayer to the Virgin Mother, pleading for tonight to just be about celebrating Stevie. No nonsense, just liquor and laughter and a little bit of dancing. Okay, maybe more than a little. How lovely it would be, dancing the night away with my lover and my dearest friend. All I could do is hope. 

[djkerr]

TGW 03x09 Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

[mercuriallily]

Not the person on the phone saying i for eye

[trashmouth-richie]

this comes from @serasvictoria with this ask the prompt words were: pillow, caught, crush

18+ no minors, angst leading to smut, vulgar, eddie talks about his dick and steve’s 😌

2.1k // eddie x fem reader

your ex hears you’ve moved on; is he ready to let you go?

send me a prompt!

“Don’t be a dumbass.” 

Ringed hands were folded together, glistening from the makeshift dramatic lighting in Gareth’s basement. 

In the summer, Hellfire moved locations from one member's place to another, rotating every Friday to a different place. A new aroma to tickle one’s nostrils upon entering whichever home was the designated spot for the evening, to host Hawkins very own hell bound teens. 

Some homes were kept nicer than others, while Eddie’s trailer smelled like stale cigarettes and bong water, the Sinclair’s living room was pristine with updated furniture, smelling of warm vanilla and the smell of dinner still lingering in the air. 

Gareth takes another gulp of Mountain Dew, wiping the lime colored beverage from his lips. Belching on the spot. 

“Why would I lie about that?” 

Eddie shifts in the folding chair leaning forward— the chain from his waist clinking on the metal, “whatever man, don’t fuck with me.” 

Gareth grins, hands up in surrender, “listen dude, I’m just telling you what we saw,  no need to shoot the messenger.”

What Gareth and Jeff had seen weighed heavy on their minds. They had even contemplated on keeping it secret. The two couldn’t decide if Eddie should know or if it would hurt him— in the end Gareth opened his big mouth and blurted it out, in the most repugnant way imaginable. 

The painted tin container used to hold dice was crushed under the weight of Eddie’s fist as he hammered it onto the table. 

Jeff shook his head, sucking in a breath between his braced teeth, looking away from the soon to be manic Munson. 

Eddie’s temper ran hot when it came to one thing—and one thing only, you. 

Raking his fingers through his scalp, he kicks the back of his chair upon standing, ragged breaths in and out, eyes to the ceiling. You still had a hold on him, it had been months—and the only one who seemed to not be able to move on was him. 

He chuckled, pinching the inner corner of his eyes and shaking his head, “one of you take over as DM, I gotta go.” 

Bounding up the stairs before he could hear any bitching from his two longest standing friends, the carpeted steps squished under his quickened boot steps. Stealing a cookie from an iridescent colored decorative plate on the kitchen counter, Eddie stomped out the front door and to the paved driveway, starting his van with a flick of his wrist, pedal to the floor as he reversed onto the street, running over flower beds in his wake.

—

The daffodil warmth of the sun was high in the sky, a small stitch of wind blew the blades of grass gently, feathering the soft pages of your book every so often. 

It was a perfect summer day as you laid out on your driveway, ass parked in a tiny kiddie pool from your youth, blue in color, the flimsy plastic circle was filled with cool water straight from the hose. 

A few shots of spiced whiskey danced on your tongue and tangoed with the carbonated bubbles of the mixed in Coke, fizzing with each slurp from your straw, you don’t have a care in the world. 

Admiring your freshly painted nails in the pastel bubble gum shade he had picked out— it was a stark contrast to the ruby reds you had been accustomed to— but those days were long gone, and things were finally starting to look up for you. 

It had been four months since Eddie broke things off, claiming he needed ‘space to find himself’ and although you spent a majority of that time wallowing in ice cream containers and mopping up tears when you saw a brown set of curls, or heard the jingle of a chain wallet— you moved on. 

He wasn’t from Hawkins. Didn’t know of Eddie at all, and you preferred to keep it that way. You were never ashamed of the boy you loved for so many years, the only embarrassment you felt was the night he ended things like someone would end a call after placing an order for pizza. 

Like it meant nothing to him, like you meant nothing to him. But that was then, and you were happier now.

So when you looked up to see Gareth’s wide eyes staring in shock was not at all how you imagined your date would go. You had been caught red handed by his best friends, and you knew it was only a matter of time before he found out. 

Toes twirling in the water you bobbed your head along to the music playing on the portable radio, sunglasses perched on your nose— not a single care in the world. 

Until the music turned to something more familiar.. the screech of guitars and aggressive tempos, you could practically feel the warmth leave your skin as the dark cloud of Eddie’s van cast its shadow on your skin, parked in your driveway like he belonged here. 

By the way he tore around the corner and through the stop sign— you knew he was pissed. The clunk of his rings scraped against the paint as he reached through the window to open the door—still broken. 

“I don’t smoke anymore Munson, but if you’re offering freeb—”

“Who is he?” he interjected, in no mood for your joking tone. 

Sucking your drink until the ice clinks together at the bottom—whiskey making you ballsier than you ever had been—you finally answer, “Who is who?” 

He crosses his arms, trying to stay calm, although all he wanted to do was scream, “the guy, cmon princess, don't play dumb with me.” 

Staring at him you can’t believe the audacity of the boy standing in front of you, coming here, demanding to know what’s going on in your life when he’s the one who practically skipped on his way out of it. 

instead of stomping around and causing you a scene, you simply ignore him, “you’re in the way.” 

“Huh?” 

Pointing with a lazy finger to the sky you watch as his eyes follow, “don’t tell me you came here to bitch me out, you’re wasting your time.”

He leans in over your body so close that you can see the chocolate color of his eyes, eyes that you'd lose count of the times you’d stare into them. 

“I’m not leaving until you tell me who he is.” 

“Okay.” You say nonchalantly, unbothered. 

“Okay?”

“Yeah go ahead, stay. ‘s long as you want,” you push yourself up from the pool, standing in a string bikini that matched your nails, “I’ll be the bigger person here, and I’ll leave.” 

Water dripped down your thighs as you walked to the front porch and pushed the door open, ready to slam it shut and twist the lock upon entry—but a dark boot prevents your dismissal.

Rolling your eyes you try to kick his knee to get him to move but he wouldn’t budge, and you huff in annoyance. 

“Pretty sure this is harassment.” 

You ignore the way he walks in your house like he knew his way around, even though he did, your house was a second home to him for years.

Shutting the door with dramatic flair, Eddie leans into your space, inches from your nose, “just answer my question sweetheart— and I’ll be on my happy little way.” 

“You’re deranged if you think I’m telling you anything.”

He cocks his head and laughs like a jerk, mocking you.

“Thata more than likely, but I know better than anyone,” his eyes undress you, fingernails skating across your thighs, “how much you like it.”

You turn and shout over your shoulder, “go home Eddie— I’m not in the mood for this!” 

He barrels around you, demanding your attention. 

“Aww you’re not in the mood?” his voice dipped to a gravelly bite of anger as he put his hand over his heart, “my sincerest apologies to your feelings baby…but I somehow don’t give a fuck about your little feelings when I find out from Gareth that you were sucking some guy’s dick in the Starcourt parking lot.” 

Your face heats in embarrassment and Eddie’s eyes are glassy, coated with pain. You never wanted to hurt him, never wanted him to look at you the way he is right now. 

“Ed—” 

He smirks.

“I think it’s cute…honestly, still doing the same shit you did with me…” he moves to brush your cheek with his thumb, “I’m flattered.”

“Get out,” you bite back, making to shove him to the door but you’re no match for him. 

“D’dya swallow for him like you did for me?” 

“Get..” 

“He bigger than me?” 

“…out!” your shoves are fruitless against his broad shoulders.

“Last I checked Harrington was the only one who had me beat… unless you’re fucking him too.”

The slap startled him, but he knew he deserved it. The torment in your eyes was fueled by his words and he fucking hated himself for making you feel that way. 

He was hurting too, body shaking with rage and swallowing tears the whole drive here. But, when your tears fell on the apples of your cheeks— all his pain turned to gloom. 

“I’m sorry— I— That was a dick thing to say.” 

“Do you think getting over you was easy for me?”

“I don’t know.” 

“It wasn’t.. and truthfully I don’t think I am yet, but what fucking choice did I have?!”

“Babe—.” 

“I loved you, Eddie… I still fucking love you. Why isn’t that—”

His large hands clutch your cheeks, warm lips press into yours with a magnetic force you had forgotten about. Eddie’s tongue tasted like the tobacco spice of a camel, and a subtle hint of mint, and you devoured it like you were starved. 

He whispers and groans how he was so stupid, a real dumb mother fucker, and that he never should have ended it. 

Accepting his apology—for now—you pull him towards the couch, heels rocking on the carpet until they hit firm on the plush sectional, still lip locked with the man you swore, that you hated to your friends but your pillow heard a different plea ever since he broke your heart.

His arms wrap around your waist, fingers daintily pulling the string from your bikini bottoms until the soft fabric hits the floor.  His Hellfire shirt joins them before you both collapse into one another on the cushions, Eddie’s hair draped into your face hiding you both away from consequences and the reality of bad decisions. 

He breaks away from your lips to lick up the slope of your neck, and your head angles back in ecstasy. His body temperature was like fire against your skin, curling your legs around his back you couldn’t get enough of him. 

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” Eddie grooaned, grinding into your naked cunt, his tongue kitten licking around your neck, working his signature hickey into your skin, “my angel.”

You moan feather light in his ear, fingers twisted into his curls. His hand works down your front, sliding between your slick folds with skills you swore only he possessed. 

He played your body like a guitar, knew how to tune you up, the proper way to hold you. A true expert of his craft— your pretty little noises would harmonize from the simple touch of his fingers, your sweet cunt clinching onto him like vice. 

“Missed that sound,” he chuckled, his bangs pushed up from the angle on your neck as you came undone, “so pretty like this… drunk on how I’m making you feel.” 

Your eyes were pinched shut, chest heaving from the breath shattering orgasm you haven’t had since you got dumped by him. Nobody came close to the way Eddie could do it.

Kissing him square on the mouth, you twist your tongue with his, massaging them together as if a flame could spark from the pink wet muscles.

Intimacy with Eddie felt like home, like a warm blanket straight from the dryer when you were freezing. A cup of soup to soothe an itchy throat. 

He melted into you, collecting each gasp you choked out with a kiss from his lips, doing a poor job of hiding the smirk on his face when your breath was stolen from his pistoning hips. 

New— but entirely the same, your bodies fell back into each other like no time had passed and he made up for what was lost, twice. Each time your cries rang out like music to his ears— his favorite song. 

You slept now, adjusting to his arm wrapped around you, a kiss to your forehead, and a new plea in your pillowcase— for Eddie to stay, forever. 

[junkdrawerfics]

Giddy Surprise

Jasper Whitlock X Reader

Summary: You can't convince me Jasper doesn't miss having horses -> You have a surprise for Jasper. A furry, hay eating, clippity clop kind of surprise.

Word Count: 1082

Warnings: None, no beta, barely edited, I was really tired writing this, but I hope it's okay!

---

You are practically buzzing with excitement the second Jasper sets foot through the door. He can feel it all the way from the entryway. You don’t conceal it either, waiting impatiently for him in the living room, all but bouncing on the balls of your feet.

“Hey Jas,” you greet him with an absolutely giddy grin.

“Hello, darlin’.” He presses a kiss to your forehead like he always does, lips twitching into an amused smile. “How was your day?”

“Good, good, I have something to show you!” Patience really never was your specialty. Not when it comes to Jasper at least.

Originally, you had a big plan to reveal your surprise. You were going to pretend to read when he got home, let him get comfortable after a stressful day around humans, and then suggest going for a nice, mid-afternoon walk. That’s when you’d take him to his gift, and boom - surprise!

That plan went down the drain as soon as you heard his car pull into the driveway.

“What do you want to show me?” Jasper asks, already knowing you won’t tell him, but it’s worth the little conspiratorial look you give him.

“You’ll have to wait and see!” 

You take his hand and drag him into the woods, twisting and ducking between trees along a barely worn path. Jasper, being the patient saint of a man he is, follows along without complaint, content to just soak up the electric warmth of your excitement. You can’t even get a word out, that giddy smile never leaving your face, and Jasper can’t bring himself to look away.

He’s always loved the vividness of your emotions. Even when you were human, they would fill a room, your happiness like sunshine bursting through the heaviest clouds, your sadness like the weight of the air before it rains. He never could understand how one person could feel things so strongly. Not only that, but you’ve always been so unwaveringly positive, always smiling, always trying to love others the best you can.

Like this. He can’t imagine someone other than you being so excited about a surprise. Jasper doesn’t even care what it is. Your overwhelming joy is so pure, so contagious, he finds himself getting swept away in it, smiling like a fool.

It’s only when a familiar scent drifts past him that he drags his eyes away from you. You glimpse over your shoulder, catching the flash of recognition on his face, and your excitement only builds.

A few more feet and you break past the trees into a large field. Jasper comes to a sharp stop beside you, eyes going wide at the sight before him.

“Surprise!”

In the middle of the field stands a little stable, rustic and simple, with a gated fence stretching around the pasture. Right beyond the fence stand a small group of horses, grazing on the long grass without a care in the world.

You turn to Jasper expectantly. He looks completely stunned, lips parted, eyebrows shooting up. It almost makes you laugh, since he kind of looks like an adorable goldfish, but you smother it behind your hand. This was totally a good idea.

The idea started sprouting when Jasper first told you about his past. You remember the night, back when you were human. It took time to earn Jasper’s trust, but it was worth it, because that night he shared all kinds of stories about his childhood. It was the night you learned of his love for horses growing up, and how much he missed them.

So you got together with Emmett and Alice to design and build the stable. Emmett did most of the hard labor (you bribed him by promising to get Jasper to fight him again, since he was still petty about losing the last one), while Alice jumped at the chance to design the whole thing. Meanwhile, you focused on finding the perfect horses.

“The tan one is Whiskey, the appaloosa is Tango, and the chestnut one is Juliet,” you start, pulling the shocked vampire closer to the fence, “I was going to get just one, but when I was doing research, it said horses need friends, so I got three! It felt like a good number, and this way, we can go riding together!”

Jasper’s jaw clenches and unclenches rapidly.

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know if there’s anything he could say.

When the two of you reach the fence, one of the horses lifts its head, ears swiveling towards you. For a moment, Jasper expects it to start running, as most animals do when they sense the predatory aura of a vampire. As soon as the horse lays eyes on you though, it gives a low snort and trots right over.

Right to him.

The moment the horse nudges its nose into his chest, something shifts in Jasper, like magic. The vampire loosens up, gold eyes practically glowing as he lifts a hand to rub its muzzle, the motion so natural despite the hundred of years he’s gone without being near one. The horse leans into his touch, head almost flat against his chest, ears flicking to the side as Jasper scratches his neck. A small, easy-going smile pulls at the blond’s lips, and you’re all but starstruck watching him. 

It's quite possibly the cutest thing you've ever seen.

“Do you like them?” You ask, barely above a whisper.

Jasper chuckles, ruffling the horse’s mane as he looks over at you, eyes warm, “Darlin’, this is the best surprise I’ve been given in a long time.”

You light up, “Really?”

He takes a step away from the horse, much to its displeasure, and wraps his arms around you instead, pulling you close. You stretch up to curl yours around his neck, humming happily when he leans down to kiss you. It’s soft, overwhelmingly soft, filling you to the brim with a fuzzy warmth. 

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far, lips still brushing yours as he murmurs, “I’m certain no one has ever gone to such lengths for me. Thank you, sweetheart.”

“You are very welcome, mister. I'd go to the ends of the earth for you.” You give him another, chaste kiss, soaring on cloud nine. “Now! Why don’t you show me how to ride? I think they’re itchin’ to get out of the pasture!”

“It would be my pleasure, ma'am.”

Safe to say, you end up falling off a few times. Apparently the whole vampire grace thing doesn’t apply to riding massive, moving animals.

---

This came to me so randomly, and I loved it, and I don't think I did it justice, but I needed to just write it! I might re-do it, we'll see!

[mocktortis]

can't wait to name myself Alpha.

if you're transgender and need name ideas, may I direct you toward the nato alphabet because like. delta? november?? echo?? romeo is like the butchest name. please consider foxtrot. being named whiskey would be cool as hell. I know multiple transmascs who were a bit too into english lit and are named victor now. I've met people named sierra who were trans in every direction. maybe don't name yourself golf

[novashelby]

Quick Shot~A Tommy Shelby x Reader Smut

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Warning: smut, p in v, gun talk, language, insinuated gun use, dub con

Summary: To get away, Tommy visits a pub outside of Birmingham. The barmaid is quite interested in his gun and he makes her a little promise. *I got a request for a smut when Tommy teaches reader how to shoot. But there is quite a few one shots like that, so I made something inspired by it. If the person who requested doesn't like this, please request again. :)

Please reblog and comment. Likes are so kind, but reblogs and comments are much more helpful to a writer. :) Please also enjoy!

“Target practice, Mr. Shelby?” she had asked as her hand quickly swiped down at the wooden counter. Little specks of soapy water hit his steam pressed sports jacket. He didn’t mind. Tommy Shelby knew what he was getting into in a pub such as that one. The Garrison was his go-to, but when he wanted to drink in complete solitude while still enjoying background noise, he went to a shabby one in an outskirt village. The barmaid had a bit more edge and hardly cared who he was. Admittedly, he found it to be refreshing. She grinned at him, placing the wet rag at her hip. “Forgetting to leave your big boy toys at home, eh?” The barmaid also lacked the Brummie tongue. 

Amused, his lips paused at the rim of his glass as his eyes fluttered upward. “Haven’t been home yet. Too busy.”

“Doing?” She pried a little bit more than the usual woman would. Though to her defense, she only knew Tommy Shelby, the factory owner. Not Tommy Shelby the gangster.  

He pulled the glass away from his lips, raising it to her. “Drinking!” he said, a sarcastic undertone that felt so comfortably familiar to her. He’d been going there on an off for a good two years if she had to calculate it. But there were so many faces that came and went, it was hard to tell. He, too, would leave at some point. Another lonely, lost man will take his seat and just like that, all over again, she’d have to become acquainted with another. 

She took an empty glass, and chuckled as she raised it. “To drinking-”

“But you aren’t-”

“I can’t,” she said, placing it back down in its proper spot. She went back to drying the counter, swiping it left to right with a new rag, trying to be mindful of his arm. “Sorry,” she mumbled when it lightly braised his propped elbow. 

Tommy Shelby lazily looked down at his elbow before fluttering his eyes upward. He always wore that sneaky little grin when he wasn’t completely serious. Unfortunately over the years, he had lost it along the way. Less to be amused about and more to be serious about, he assumed. But there, with her, almost alone in an empty pub, he wore it once more. The time was dwindling on the gray line of open and closed. But he showed no interest in leaving and she didn’t care. “Oh no, that was just unacceptable. You’ve done it this time.”

“Hmm, someone as witty as you, Mr. Shelby, I’d thought I would have received a better comeback. You’re slipping,” she said, matching his grin. They took a little pause, having a silent tango; eyes connecting, facial expression matching. When he wiggled his brows up in a quizzical look, she took no shame in mocking him. Neither a girl or woman in Birmingham would dare. But he found comfort in her antics. He wasn’t the Tommy Shelby, but just Tommy Shelby. It was the closest to pre-war Tommy he could get. 

“I’m getting old,” he said, finishing off his glass. She was quick to turn for the whiskey bottle and top him off before he even asked. Tommy was mid stand, ready to leave when she made the silent gesture for him to stay. “I’m driving-”

“And I’m walking,” she said, quick. Once again, they stopped their mundane, routine acts to share a little stare and chuckle. “Plus, you didn’t seem like you were ready to leave. I spared you the awkwardness of saying goodbye.” When he objected, claiming that she must be tired and that home was calling, she told him, “you want to stay more than I have the urge to leave, Mr. Shelby. Plus, I’m curious about you in a way I can’t be curious about on the clock-”

“That’s dangerous,” he accused, sipping at the brown poor man’s liquor. She hung up the rag for the night and locked the door. He had to wait for her to wash her hands of work before she joined him on the chair next to him. “Knowing too much of me is like a curse, and you’re only young-”

“Not as young as you think,” she said, taking his glass and sipping it lightly. His look said I thought you don’t drink. “It was hardly a sip for taste. Besides, from all your mystery, perhaps I may need a few sips.” Tommy slid it back to her, allowing her to have the rest. “I’m twenty-”

He cut her off, leaning in, “I have you beat by a good fourteen years.” Tommy enjoyed the aged old compliment. You look good for your age, but she never gave it to him. Only took continual sips of liquor because she can’t drink. She giggled to herself. He cut her off before she could add the eight to her age. 

Though after a while, she did say, “I heard thirty-four is the new twenty-two. But that isn’t actually what I meant by prying into your business. Hardly care about your logistics like age and birthday, Mr. Shelby. I want to know the fun stuff.” That made him laugh, but she wasn’t laughing. When he tried to protest, saying nothing about him was fun per se, her hand teased at his knee for a moment, lingering there casually. Tommy cocked a brow, mouth slightly agape. He slowly dropped his eyes, watching her fingers spread over his knee, finger tips pressing in. She was entranced by how she so casually came up on him, he hardly heard what she said. “Like what you use that gun for.” 

It was a good minute or so before he answered, as her fingers inched up past his knee, resting more on his mid-thigh. “You shouldn’t really ask what a man uses his gun for, love,” he said, in a mere, barely audible whisper. His eyes never left her hand, watching, patiently waiting to see what her intent was. It was entirely possible she was just being friendly, he thought, never previously considering the pretty barmaid. The ring on his left hand banned him from that. 

“Should I be worried you’re out shooting people and not targets?” she asked, leaning her head down to make him look at her. “Hmm?” 

“Depending on who you ask, people can be targets, too,” he said, finding him doing something that he hadn’t done to anyone other than his wife in a long time. His arms found their way around her waist to pull her in from the chair she’d been sitting on. I’m not usually a lap lady, she said as he rested her over his lap. It was his turn to feel over her thigh and lay it to rest on the inner most part. Her arms loosely hung over his shoulders. 

“That sounds like I should be sliding off your lap, Mr. Shelby,” she teased, eyes glancing to the hunk of dangerous metal strapped to his hip. “Isn’t it strange…being so close to something so lethal?” She dropped one hand to touch it but he was quick to grab her hand, his trust not being fully there with anyone. Startled, she turned her direction back to him. His fingers curled over hers, pressing with a warning. Her fingertips were turning slightly white.  She opened her mouth to speak.

He stopped her, tone turning a bit forceful. “You didn’t ask. You want to touch my gun?”  Her eyes went from flirty to startled to doe-like very quickly. She nodded and he let go of her hand to unstrap his gun and take it out. Her breath hitched as he raised it between their faces. Taunting her, his finger looped around the trigger, caressing it. She went to hold it over his hand, but he stopped her. “But you have to touch something else first-”

“Mr. Shelby,” she snorted, putting her hand down. “Thought you had more class than that. Aren’t you too old to be playing those boy games-”

Perhaps stupidly, he placed his gun on the counter, where she could easily reach it. Or maybe he was confident she wouldn’t. That he’d be good enough for her to be preoccupied with. “What boy games?” he teased, pulling her in more, making her legs rest over the sides of his so she was facing him. Taunting, teasing circles were rubbed on her back over her white blouse. He knew he was being childish in the last spot he could be childish. “Hm?” His fingers felt along her back traveling over her hips. Her breath was caught in her throat. It’d been quite sometime since a man laid their hands so intimately over her body expressing the need for her and solely her. She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t a boost in ego. Palms pressed against her stomach, he felt upward. Each little centimeter closer to her breasts, her fingers tensed. But he skipped over them, going for her arms instead. He knew what she was thinking. The disappointed rush of an exhale exposed all her secrets. 

“You’re playing a game right now.” She pressed into him a bit harder feeling the tent in his trousers poke at her inner thigh. He chuckled as she told him things he already knew. Tommy Shelby was in no rush to go home. Besides, he needed to fuck off the drunken buzz in his head.

Their foreheads touched and he wasted no time, leaning in to trap her bottom lip between his teeth. He couldn’t kiss her. As bad is sounded, he wasn’t going to kiss another woman, but he was going to fuck her. Not just fuck her, but run his hands over her body, touching each and every crevice and space. “It’s been awhile,” he said, half apologetically in response as he pulled back. Her lips wore a reddened shade from where he bit. There was some sort of silent agreement where she understood it. She understood what it was. Her and him, pressed up against one another. It was a fuck and only a fuck, leaving traces of romantic intimacy at the door.

Impatiently, she bunched up her skirt, placing it over her knees. As she fumbled with the fabric, she asked him, “Are you going to be greedy then?” What an insulting thing to ask, he thought, but instead of answering her, he slipped his hand under her, pressing his palm against her cotton white panties. Challenging her, he cocked a brow as if to ask, do I seem the type? She lifted her hips a bit to give him some room to slip her underwear off to the side before sliding his hand over. “Mr. Shelby,” she gasped out in anticipation. 

Smiling to himself, he felt over her wet folds with his two forefingers, before slipping beneath the outer folds. “Still Mr. Shelby, eh?” As if it was an order, she immediately responded with Tommy. Doing the same thing as she did to her breasts, he touched everywhere except where she wanted to be touched. It was amusing as she shifted and rolled around her hips, trying to take control of the situation she was never meant to have control of. His fingers lightly danced over the flesh around her clit and vagina, purposefully avoiding any hope. When she got a little too pushy, he pulled away, using the same hand to cradle her throat just tight enough to hold her in place. “Don’t be greedy,” he mocked with a stern tone, using her same lingo. He leaned in, lips hovering over her temple. Little ghost kisses haunting her desires. Pathetic, perhaps, but a tiny fear hung over her. What if he wasn’t going to fuck her was a nagging thought. 

“Fuck me,” she said abruptly, not even sure how or why the words came out the way they did. “I need you to fuck me-”

“And I need you to be patient,” he said, palms finding their way back to her tummy going straight for her breasts barely contained by her buttoned blouse. A long string of moans sang from her lips as he cupped them over her clothing, squeezing decently hard. Nipples perked, he teased them in circles with his finger tips. “You asked me not to be greedy,” he teased, tongue flicking at her earlobe. “But I think you should take your advice, hm? Or do you think that doesn’t apply to you because you’re a woman, eh?” Stopping his groping, he started with the top button, painfully slow. One by one he undid them, allowing the cool pub air to touch her chest. Tommy didn’t even have the chance to slip it down her shoulders, feeling her goose bumped arms before she had torn it off and tossed it somewhere beside them. 

“No,” she said, grinding down her hips, wet slick soiling his trousers. “I’m horny and you’re being an ass...I asked you to fuck me. Are you going to fuck me or are you going to leave me like this?” Amused by her assertiveness, he sat back and grinned. She mocked it. “It’s been awhile.”

“Really? A pretty girl like you working in a pub?” he challenged, not believing her. “Surely you have a twisted idea of time. What’s awhile? A month-”

“Two years,” she confused, fingers undoing his belt, cursing at the clasp. He didn’t believe her, but chose not to press the reasoning. In the grand scheme of shit, it didn’t matter. Instead, he helped her with his trousers, undoing his buttons and pulling down the zipper. “I got it,” she fussed, pushing his hand out of the way. Tommy watched as she pulled down his underwear just enough to let his cock out. 

“Alright, alright,” he laughed, scoping her up from under ass before positioning his cock. But he wouldn’t allow her to slam down. Gently, he teased at the entrance with his tip, saying, “just the tip.”

“You didn’t even finger me,” she teased back. “Selfish arse!”

“Maybe when I hit a target with my gun.”

“A still one?” she snorted, finding her way to leave playful bites along his jawline. 

“A breathing one,” he said, and before she could react, slamming himself upward, balls hitting her backside. He held her there, studying her face. It was nothing, but a silent scream. A part of him felt a tinge of guilt that he hardly prepped the poor girl, but all her selfish antics made him a bit greedy. “You feel it? This is exactly what you begged for-”

“I said don’t be-”

“Greedy?” he teased, cupping her fragile cheek with one hand as his other teasingly rolled her nipple between his fingers. He rolled up his hips meeting her aching cervix. The pain radiated through her lower half, sending up a searing heat. She hissed, digging her fingernails into his sports coat covered arms. Too deep, she winced through her clenched teeth. “Yeah?” he asked, fake concern lingering, lightly jutting forward, pressing deeper just to watch the painful facial expression laid on her face. “You’re brat…I don’t like brats.”

“Mr. Shelby,” she whined, twitching around him. Pleading, she wanted him to ease. Which he obliged, and lifted her up a bit, pulling himself back. When she regained her composure, she took the wheel and rolled her hips into him; sliding up and down, attempting to slide her hand down to her throbbing clit, but he caught it. 

“No, no,” he said, clasping her hand in his, keeping it there. She was about to complain, but he pressed a finger to her lips. “Shh, just keep riding me…relax me. I’ve had a long day.” She nodded, resting her other hand on his shoulder for support as she raised her hips, a moan stuck in the back of her throat, feeling his thick cock sliding up and down her needy walls. He rested back, his breaths becoming ragged and hitched. She giggled when he rolled his head back, allowing her hand to slip from his grasp. But she was a good girl and didn’t dare touch her clit. She placed it on his other shoulder for support.

She circled her hips, watching his lip quiver stealing his grin. “Am I in charge, now?” she asked in a gasped, speeding up her pace, bouncing up and down. His eyes hazily watched her breasts follow along, taking one in each hand. He massaged them, fingers teasing at the nipples; pulling, pinching, flicking. It sent a perfect tingle down her spine. “Shit,” she gasped, leaning down, resting their foreheads together. It wasn’t supposed to be intimate. It’s just sex. But they kept eye contact, relaxing into each other's rhythms. 

“I’ll play along,” he said, licking up at her lips, but when she went to kiss him, he turned his head. “Keep ridin’ me.” He demanded her in a bathless gasp, getting impatient. He wanted a quick release. She let out a needy cry, begging him why when he slipped his hands from her sensitive breasts down to her hips, gripping them tightly. His knuckles turned white as his fingers dug into her soft flesh. Hard enough she could have sworn she felt him touching her hip bone. 

“Yes, sir,” she mocked, going faster; slamming down on him and enjoying the way his moans were deep and throaty. He jutted up, meeting her in her dips. Tommy’s thrusts got messy the faster they were. It was as if they were competing with who can go the fastest. No, who can wear the other one out first. It was her, of course. She wasn’t going to come from this and he selfishly knew that, enjoying the way her pussy felt around him. “Tommy!” She cried out, holding herself closer to his chest.

“Fuck, your pussy feels so good,” he said, sliding his lips down her neck to bite at her shoulder, growling. “Shit.” It was muffled and low. Rudely, he repeatedly slammed into her cervix, hardly giving her time to breathe and ease it as he felt his climax approach.

She pulled her face away from him and gripped his jaw. “Not in me,” she warned.

“No?” he laughed in breaths. “Where do you want it, huh? Your tits? Belly? Your arse?” He gave her ass a generous squeeze before reaching up and tangling his fingers in her hair, pulling her head back slightly. He felt his climax near, slowing his thrusts just enough to slip from her cunt. “Fuck!” He cursed, tugging his cock one handedly. A deep red flushed over her cheeks as she felt a stream of hot cum spray up her back and drip down over her ass. “Shit,” he moaned, out, closing his eyes to catch his breath. “Fookin’ ‘ell.” She slumped against him, sweaty and hot, but he didn’t allow her to rest long, pushing her off. “I have to get goin’, love,” he said, patting her cheek. 

“So you really are going to leave me like this?” she asked, referring to her lack of orgasm.

Tommy Shelby slid from his chair and fixed his trousers. “I told you, I hit a target and I’ll give the lady what she needs.” He winked, grabbing his gun from the counter. 

She laughed as if he was being humorous. He hardly said good night as he left. He wasn’t a weekly regular, but perhaps bi-weekly. Every other week he’d come in for the same thing; a whiskey neat. But it was going on three weeks then sooner or later a whole season passed without Tommy Shelby. But it was normal. People came and went, and she cursed herself each time she became attached to one person’s presence. 

However one night a few too many weeks later he came in as she was cleaning up. Through the reflection in a dark whiskey bottle, she saw him take a seat. A metal clink echoed the empty pub as he put down his gun. “We’re closed-”

“I’m not here for a drink,” he said. 

“I’m closed,” she said, not forgiving his selfish quick shot. 

He chuckled. “Say, love, do you prefer the feeling of a man's firm hand or soft tongue?” She froze, fingers knotting in the wet rag she used to clean the glasses. Swallowing, she turned to see the gun first then spots of red on his white shirt. Nervously, she looked up his arm to his face that wore specks of red. “Perhaps both at the same time-”

“Mr. Shelby-”

“C’mere,” he demanded, not asked. “And I’ll show you how much of a man of my word I am.”

[whoa-myninja]

keep that candle burnin’ bright

Summary:

A journey from pre-NCIS to spinoff Tony, told through birthdays.

⤷︎ read it here on a03! 🎂

[themareverine]

WILD MAN

─ Logan Howlett x fem!OC

summary: Blizzards and pane glass windows—typical for a Thursday night at Laughlin City's favorite haunt. Until the Wolverine walks in, and hell hath no fury like a man ravaged by jealousy.

warnings: language, possessive behavior, angst, jealousy, implied sexual content, established relationship from my Mare & the Wolverine series.

a/n: i don't know what this is, really. went to write a different oneshot and it turned into this. guess my brain needed some jealous Logan. reposted from my deactivated account.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

Inky midnights glare through the windows of Laughlin’s oldest haunt as the season’s thick, wet snow falls in an almost sideways blanket. The bar is flatlined, almost asystole. Heavy bass, thanks to Huey Lewis and the News, thunks from the stereo system like a jackhammer against her skull, trying to fill space that bodies aren’t.

Stale cigarettes and fried food in the air mingled with the highschool smell of sweat and testosterone, which may as well have been painted to the walls they were so familiar. Sticky floor, slick bartop, chipped tile in the bathroom—common ghosts for nearly eleven thirty on a Thursday night.

“Really comin’ down, ain’t it?” 

It’s more the sudden spike of cold overflow from the tap that jars Mare McAffery from attempting to glance around her reflection from the pane glass window. Surprised, she startles, slapping at the tap’s toggle before her fingers curl around the chilled glass. Slick with foam as it sloshes over the rim carelessly to the mix of drinks that have already found their fate on the floor at her feet. It isn’t her night. The lack of business has her brain running, her thoughts anywhere but here on a Thursday night among the snow, cigarette smoke, and canisters of beer she needs to change in back. 

She’d rather be home. Bundled in blankets, wool socks. Watching the kick of fireplace flames from the safe brace of Logan—just Logan. All of Logan. His arms, that absolutely breathtaking chest that ripples with life and hard muscle and heat. Feeling the rise and fall of his every breath, how the fresh wash of her hair tangoes with his heady scent of whiskey and cigar, wood and snow.

Feeling the warmth of his feet toying with hers under blankets as they stretch out towards flame, listening to the rich way he chuckles every time his nose brushes against the back of her ear. How his rough fingers pull through her cropped curls, teasingly carding as he dares to whisper about his day against the curve of her ear—-

She jumps when the edge of the bar comes up a little too quickly against her hip. Her heart shellshocks against her ribs like a violent engine. Feeling flushed, she bites the inside of her cheek. Lathes her tongue against the front of her bottom teeth. Praying to God the low light hides the color on her face seems fruitless, but it's there. 

Reaching for a bar napkin, her smile is slow as she slides the beer in front of Laughlin’s foremost gossip, affectionately christened Flappin’ Jim by the town’s population. No less than four decades her senior, stringy silver hair peeks out from beneath a nearly-threadbare Carhartt beanie, stained with what could only be assumed was engine oil. Jim has owned the zip code’s only machine shop longer than she’s been alive. 

She shrugs a shoulder when he mentions the snow a second time. “When isn’t it snowing up here?” The squared-off toe of her western boots scuff the floor cooler behind the bar as she reaches for Jim’s ever-requested cocktail straw, plopping it in the dark amber of his lager before his parted lips could continue, “I’ve seen my fair share of the white stuff—but never like this. You know how they say everything is bigger in Texas?” Jim chuckles, nodding as his tongue seeks out the straw, his gaze never leaving her, “Well, I swear to God, everything is colder and thicker in Laughlin.”

His laugh comes from his chest, phlegm from forty years of smoking Player’s. “Forget it’s your first snow with us, poor thing,” Jim waves a hand between the two of them, brows bobbing suggestively as his grin widens enough to reveal half-rotten mid-to-back teeth, “iffin’ you’re thinkin’ you need a ride home, darlin’, ol’ Jim’s got room for two on the old snowmobile—” 

Her brain nearly melts at the absolute atrocity of a mental picture that statement provides. She could think of not a single thing worse than going to the door with Flappin’ Jim, much less riding an hour west on a snowmobile in little more than jean’s and a leather jacket. Laughlin’s poster child for bad decisions and alcoholism. Perfect. 

Informing him of her lack of proper gear was the kind out. “Thanks for the offer, though, Jim,” her nose scrunches a little as she works at the try-a-hundred-times-a-day-but-still-nothing stain practically etched into the oak grains of the bartop, “Logan’s coming to get me, he knew the snow would be bad. Dropped me off this morning before work.” It’s nonchalant—surely women were dropped off and picked up by their boyfriend’s during bad snow in Laughlin. 

Never mind working a double, Jim’s brows popped tall as if it were an entirely new concept straight out of a Stephen King skincrawler. “Wild Man’s comin’ all the way down the mountain in this shitstorm?”

His thumb goes over his shoulder, despite evidence of his claim hanging in the window to his three o’clock left. He whistles over his shoulder for his buddy, Kenneth, to listen up. 

Kenneth’s head raises with interest, like a meerkat rising from his hole. “Lord’a mighty, Kenny boy—you was right, mus’ be better than’w thought!” 

More vapid laughter has Jim, and now Kenneth, hacking up a lung from their respective seats. 

Whatever population’s in the bar—eight souls —turns to look at her, snickering and the twist of their upturned lips all but nailing her to the back wall. Like looking from the outside in. May as well have all been pointing fingers at her—and, unsure whether her gaze should fall to Jim or past him to Kenneth, her raised brows opted to consider the older man sweeping his hat off his head.

Unwashed hair nearly glistening with what she can only assume is grease and oil, a thought that makes her stomach rise up to kiss the base of her ribs. His laughter turns raucous as his eyes skim over her, hazed. 

Swallowing a splash of stomach acid, her brow furrows hard behind the bridge of her glasses. 

“Pardon?” 

Wringing the bar rag through her hands, Mare ultimately realizes how this makes her look. Tosses it aside. Stands a little taller, wants to look down her nose at Jim, but realizes she’s shorter than he is, perched on a stool. More wind howls, biting at the bricks, flecks of snow tick tick ticking against the pane glass windows outside in the dark. Working a double has never felt so dehumanizing—she could melt into the floor right now. Whether from the tired headache blooming behind her eyes or the full attention from the bar, she’s not sure. 

A sharp smack! of Jim’s hand against the bartop makes her jump. “Oh come on, honeybunch,” the low accent matches every step that Kenneth, now, manages as he stumbles over to lean a plump hip against the bar. “E’ryone knows no mountain man like Logan Howlett comes off the mountain for just anythin’—‘less he’s gettin’ head,” Eyes skate her over her, visually-stimulated from top to bottom, ultimately parking at the cut of her tank top as he sloshes back the rest of his bottled MGM, “just how it works, sugartits.”

His eyes remain welded to her chest, but her jaw has long since lost its hinge. Any second now it would start creaking like a rusty gate, bone raking against bone. Opening and closing, like a fish choking on air. Slack and openmouthed, she blinks through the little flecks of dirt on the lens of her glasses, brain short circuiting to assimilate just how absolutely crude of a statement has just landed between her eyes like a stone to Goliath. 

Words don’t find her for a full handful of minutes before Jim and Kenneth’s attention are drawn away. Onto other conversation, this time bear hunting stories and the back-and-forth of rifles. Throat burning, like the inferno sands of Moab. Every sticky string of saliva moisture in her mouth is tapped dry, she attempts to raise spit on her tongue, to swallow. Virginal heat chases up her neck like a predator, sinking teeth into her confidence. Fans across her decolletage and collarbones. 

Queasy, embarrassment spins a weave down her spine and through her guts like a snake. Reminds her that wolves of the world so often hunt the lines of the innocent perimeters she’d fought hard to preserve—did everyone in town think she was sleeping with Logan? Like a broken record it spins, wobbling on the needle, screeching and clawing deep into the lines of her psyche. 

Years as a preacher’s daughter had provided her a certain level of naivete, certainly—-never ignorance. Wasn’t dull to the world beyond innocence, outside the lines of the pure and spotless idea of Christ and His church. She knew the world was spiraling, hell and brimstone around every corner. All parlor tricks and open gates, brazen. Like a painted woman in scarlets and pearls—or a drunk on a barstool at quarter-too. 

Mare hadn’t expected this level of forward. This, gall. Audacity. Snapping teeth of a big junkyard dog trying to look tough and scare her into shock—that’s what this was. Provocative, seeking a response. Gasoline on a snapping fire. Enough to make a harlot blush, and Jim knew it—it’s in the way he guzzles hops like his veins crave it, eyes following her even through the bottom of his glass.

He’d blurted what she’d suspected everyone in town to think, and for half of a breath, she wasn’t sure how to feel. Flushed and embarrassed, a given. 

Defiance lands like an airliner in her blood. Surprising, but not wholly unwarranted. Jaw setting with force enough to shatter the world, the heel of her boot grinds into the sticky floor as she turns to busy herself with empties. Glass cries out as she stacks them in the crook of her arm, fingers grabbing for whatever she can manage to stalk back to the kitchen.

Her heart pistons between her ribs like it’s been dropped into an Indy car, eyes flitting to and fro behind the bar. Anger. There's lots and lots of anger.

For handfuls of seconds she scours for a response. Something smart, smarmy—will fly in the face of what everyone in this town had been thinking about her since her boots had hit the province.

What Jim has actually implied—it burns. Like hot coals. For months she’d been walking the flames of the rumors; innocent little preacher’s daughter from the States.

“Y’even know how to spell ‘fuck’, darlin’?”

Far too busy brushing her dirty hands on the back of her jeans, Mare doesn’t even hear the squeak of Jim’s barstool swivel, “Well, I’ll be damned—if it isn’t the man of the mountain. How goes it, Logan?”

More snickering, and she about-faces, all-soldier as relief hitches itself like a wagon team to one of her ribs. 

Jim’s brows bounce over her direction, his look provocative enough to make her want to vomit right there on the floor.

Continuing his thought, he scoots his empty to her with his knuckles, “Come to fetch our pretty little Miss Minnesota here, eh, boy?” Another wet cough grates across her nerves like nails to blackboard, “Looks like you were right, babygirl—s’told us you’d be makin’ your way in, Logan. Didn’t quite believe ‘er, but wonders never cease I reckon.” His nose scrunches as she passes him another pint glass, “Was about to keep little girlie here all to m’self.” 

The line of her jaw twitches with how tight she’s clenching her teeth together, and it takes herculean will not to shoot off at the mouth—a trait she’s less than proud of. Thanks, Dad.

And it’s laughable how Jim is so quick to assume age, Logan’s raised brow in response shows it. At nearly 200 years old, he’s beyond surprise. Maybe, nearly. Closer than any part of her would like to admit, though nobody would know it—he doesn’t look a day over thirty-five. 

A little tick of contained smile at the corner of his mouth is enough to make her forget her name.  His dark eyes, calculating and deep, hold her gaze a few heartbeats. Logan reads her like an open book, an interested investigator—always has. She breaks first. Looks away, wiping at the sweat bubbling up on her brow. 

His sparkling, steady eyes flash with something she can’t identify before darting back to Jim. Logan’s hum of suspicion is warm. Low, too low. Medicinal honey, going straight to the center of her femininity like nothing could. Lord, if it didn’t set every bone in her body to gelatinous flame—she sucked in a breath that stabbed at the mesh of her lungs as he settled against the bar.  

He leans against the corner of the bar like he owns it, and he may as well have—out of the way and almost bleeding into the shadows of invisibility, he rests an elbow to the worn wood. A hand reaches to brush the wet of the storm from the sheepswool of his coat. Kisses of snow melt from his beard, ebony hair almost as quickly as they’d entangled—she doesn’t miss the blush that cold has left on his nose. 

“Is that right?” Leaning a bit heavier on his arm, his lips tip up in an amused little way that sets off fireworks in the depths of her womb, reminding her of organs long forgotten. “Good thing I’m a man of my word.” Toe-over-toe she slips to a stop across the bar from him, reaching for a half glass that’s almost too cold between her sweating palms. 

Logan pivots to face her, eyeballing her with a cool smile. Her usually-bright greeting is quiet, “Please sit. You’re ordering a whiskey.” It’s a demand, not a request.

Anything to keep her hands busy, to keep her from noticing how Kenneth hasn’t stopped ogling her tits since he sat down next to Jim, deep in his drink and fully, entirely out of his mind. 

“Just one?” Let no man say Logan Howlett isn’t keen. “Hi.” And just like that, he changes gears. Keeps her guessing, like always. Mysterious as the shadow, bright as the sun.

Elbow planted on the walnut bar, his brows bounce as his finger crooks. Come. 

Resting her hands at either side of his glass, she leans across the wood slowly. Considering him through low lashes, her heart swells at the way his tongue fills the pocket of his lower lip, considering. Hungry, almost.  Possessive.

He makes her forget Jim, and Kenneth, and anything resembling breathing in flatline seconds.

Logan’s eyes flick to her mouth, in a tantalizing, only–the-stuff-of-Hollywood way as her bottom lip curls in, a little sheepishly. Nose to nose, the bite of cigar smoke lingering about his beard is dizzying—a scent of fresh pine clings to his clothes. He smells of snow and man, just as he should. 

“Hi.” Little more than a breath and he closes daylight between them, lips brushing hers in a soft and slow hello. Smiling into his kiss, she sinks back to her feet behind the bar. Fingers curl into the wood beneath her palms. 

Changing gears, Mare reaches for a bag of clean bar rags and begins folding. “How was your day on the mountain?” 

His finger traces the rim of his whiskey glass and he shrugs a shoulder. “Peachy,” he takes a drink. She keeps looking over to Jim and Kenneth, who haven't stopped looking, and takes notices.

Logan's glass finds the counter again but his hand doesn’t lift from it, content to linger in the droplets of sweat. Simple, cleancut. Like always.

Then, “What’s wrong.” 

It isn’t a question—as her eyes cut up from her work to look at him, his are open and waiting. Seeking. Ever since she’d known him he was always watching, waiting; seeking something. 

He’d said once that he’d been looking for her all his life—her innocence. Purity. And it was no different, right now. Just now, he hunted the demons creeping inside her head, sitting invisible on her shoulder instead of the crisp light she usually carried. Nothing about him belies the name he gave himself, the name he carries nestled beneath his shirt on adamantium dogtags and numbers. 

The Wolverine—her Wolverine.

The sound of it, inward and out, snaps like a whip even months later. It suits him in such a way she’ll never fully describe, that poetry could never adjective. Thirty-two days of her calling Logan Howlett her own and it felt little more than a fairytale, her own Cinderella story lost to fantastical girlish dreams and giggles. A little over a month since he’d asked if she wanted to “go steady,” since she’d giggled at him like a child, “Nobody says that anymore, Lo,” and his “Wanna start?” had her—has her, to this very breath—unable to think straight. 

She lies.

“Nothing.”

Too quick to be truthful, she turns to replace a bottle of Bulleit, its glass lightly clattering against its brethren on the mirrored shelf. Her eyes flutter closed and she releases an uneasy breath, disappointed in her response—Logan wouldn’t take no for an answer. Never had, since she’d known him. 

A snippet of the night she’d met him races through her brain like a racehorse. “You should let me take a look.”  

“I’m fine,” She’d been too quick—too defensive. Good lies always bare a little truth in between their teeth, but—she’d always been a bad liar. A sheep amongst wolves. Or, rather, wolverines. 

“Bullshit. Needs stitches, we both know it—you’ve been workin’ the cage long enough to know the difference. Can’t let you go without a look.”  His look had been unmovable, like the earth. Understanding of her plight, her hesitance for an almost-stranger to look her over. Gentile as she’d sank low on a barstool to accept a beer from him.

Gentlemanlike, walking her through the steps—careful with his hands. Hands that hold her world, hands that could cut through stone. Aware of her nerves, but unrelenting all the same. 

His dark eyes narrow at her just so, his nose scrunching a little as he checks her reflection in the mirror. Much to her relief, Logan drops the subject. And she can see, in the reflection, he isn’t all too thrilled with dodging the question.

Knowing what topic of conversation would be on the ride up the mountain didn’t take rocket science, and she wilts inside knowing that honesty hadn’t been her first blush.

Two thunks on the bar have her checking her shoulder. Jim, signaling for another beer.

“‘Nother here, sugartits—make ‘er tall and strong, gotta get me home in one piece, y’know.” Jim’s smile is toothy, lopsided as he goes to the effort to lift his ass out of his seat. Passing by without so much as a nod, she swipes the glass from out in front of him. 

And before Kenneth’s hand is at his shoulder, Jim’s palm smacks across her ass cheek. Hard enough that it thwacks! against the pockets of her jeans.

It catches her off guard. Nobody had ever so much as ogled her ass to her knowledge, much less actually touched it—the pint glass falls from her fingers. Hits the boards of the wooden floor, the thick glass shattering to big pieces, low before her feet as if she’s some goddess worth breaking over.

A little breathless, she stumbles over her square-toed boots. Fingers curl into the wood until her knuckles are white. At first there’s anger, then embarrassment that hits her like an overloaded tractor trailer. Fluster ruffles her feathers like a wet hen, and she considers the broken glass at her feet. 

Audacity to laugh at the red bouncing to life on her cheeks has Jim roaring with laughter, unaware of what sin he’s just committed—her fingers are brushing the first big piece of jagged glass when she hears the swivel of a stool. The thunk of boots hitting the floor.

And before she can even begin to piece together what she suspects, she pops tall from behind the bar at the exact moment Jim’s laugh becomes a strangled wheeze. 

Collar snugged up too tight against his throat, Jim gags for air, tongue poking between fat lips as spit collects in the corners of his mouth. Breathing steadily, the crest and fall of Logan’s chest is evidence that he is on the raw and bleeding edge of composure—if his dark glare could be considered composed.

Brow little more than a hard line, his gaze narrows in Jim’s face as he leans in, lips curling in an almost animalistic snarl. 

“Logan,” Mare’s hiss is low, eyes skirting about the eight bodies that have almost backflipped up from their seats scattered about the bar, “Logan. Please—put ‘im down.” Murmurs have overtaken the air like quiet demons, they are no longer their own spectacle. 

Jim manages what sounds like the-hell-d’ya-think-yer-doin’, which produces a low rumble from somewhere in the base of Logan’s chest. Dark eyes cut to her, sweeping over her frame as she discards the chunk of glass to the small sink to her right. Heart pounding unlike anything she’d ever felt in her chest, bludgeoning the soft flesh of her lungs, she sucks in a stale breath that does nothing to ease the fire that seems to throb beneath her skin—sweat has replaced any semblance of chill in the room. Oxygen may as well be a hope. Tank top sticking to the flesh between her shoulder blades, her tongue nervously darts over her front teeth, eyes to Logan’s ironclad grip at Jim’s shirt collar. 

Logan doesn’t relent. Instead, she notices the cord of muscle in his arm tighten. Even beneath the shield of a coat, the mask of humanity —and she knows. His opposite hand lifts in Jim's face, and she's counting heartbeats before familiar adamantium splits skin wide open, bleeding with rage.

Adrenaline snaps into her blood like a whip, and she’s around the bar at his side in no more than a heartbeat or two. Hands at his arm. Fingers curling into the denim of his clothing. Met with hard muscle, he may as well have been cut from marble—an Adonis of power and strength unlike anything she’d ever seen.

The white’s of Jim’s eyes are all but tracking, brimming with terror as Logan snarls—actually snarls—down into his face. Possessive rage clouds any semblance of humanity left in his face—it’s all Wolverine. 

The Wolverine. Her Wolverine. Out from the shadows, out from any corner anyone had ever shoved him in—out to fight. To kill. For her. All for her, all for them, all for this.

She can’t put a full finger on the power of this honor, this…privilege. And that’s what it is, really—loving him is privilege. Is honor, only imaginable and dreamstate for girls like her. Everyday girls with little to offer, with little hopes for the next day other than to survive, to pray.

But Logan, somehow, had seen her—had seen her enough to care and care deeply, to his bones, adamantium bones he wars every second of the day to mummify, contain.  

Truth of the matter hits her like a stone between the eyes—it doesn’t matter how deeply Wolverine is buried within Logan’s sarcophagus of self control, his ability to walk the lines of his anger. Logan would kill for her, over nothing at all. It’s right here, right now, plain as the nose on her face—splayed out like prey, easy prey ready for the slaughter.

Logan would, could, destroy a man over a simple drunken act of flirtatiousness. If it meant her pleasure. 

What a position of power, indeed.

And Mare isn’t certain if it's love or power—if it’s even human.

Humanity wins. Logan's grip on Jim’s collar releases. Jim scurries away foot-over-foot, gasping for air, her realizing this is honestly much less complicated than matters of love, power. Both are players, but never common denominators.

A wolverine, after all, doesn’t fit into just one category—he’s both predator and prey. To something larger, to something smaller. 

This is just, very simply, Logan. 

Fisting and unfisting his fingers, he studies his hand as if it is otherworldly and not a part of his anatomy. After a few beats, Logan turns to face her. Jim is across the bar, a few hands clapping his back to check on him—as if he isn’t the offense of the entire situation.

Pressing into Logan, she rests her cheek against his chest, arms circling him in a hard embrace. He presses her close, a hand on the back of her head, chin coming to rest in her mess of curls. Breathing in his deep sense, her blood begins to cool—earthquaking in the base of her spine begins to dissipate. Colors of the room come alive again, the air suddenly all too breathable. 

Her head tips back to consider his face—unreadable, mostly, save for the glimmer of light in the corners of his eyes. 

The corner of her mouth tips up into a small tick, a heat she can’t describe hanging low in the base of her ribs as his hands lift to hold her face, delicately. As if he couldn't destroy her with a breath, as if he hadn't almost just culled mostly innocent blood.

Calluses rough against her cheeks, she presses into his touch. Firms up her arms around his middle. 

“And there he is,” there’s no malice in her voice, only awe. Care. “Had me worried there for a second, bub.” Smallest hint of a smile at the return use of his favorite jibe from her sends her heart pitching across her chest, as if it’ll take residence on the other side of her ribs.

The line of his jaw relaxes and she nuzzles her nose into the front of his flannel, “Now I get why Riz says ‘no boyfriends at work’—you’re a walking OSHA violation, Logan Howlett.” Unsure if Canada has anything remotely similar to OSHA, she forgets the idea entirely.

He knows, he always knows. 

Sighing into his chest, he fills up her senses on a full, deep breath. “And as much as I should slap you upside your thick head for almost slicing one of my best customers into tiny pieces, I have to say—I like the overprotectiveness,” her fingers gently brush through his beard, head tipped to the side like a curious pup, “a bunch. Like it a lot, Howlett.”  

His fingers in her hair tip her head back to look up at him, again. A low chortle has her blood flaming deep beneath her skin. “Yeah? Seemed a little nervous to me, bub,” he emphasizes the use of the name with a smile, spinning one of her curls around his finger. A gentle tug as her nose scrunches in amusement.

She giggles at the sensation of his fingers playing through her hair, “Flappin’ Jim had what was comin’ to him, that’s all.” 

“Maybe.” And without thinking, “Nobody’s ever stuck up for me like that before, Logan.” 

And there it is, out in the open.

Like the soft underbelly of the mud turtles she’d spotted all summer—-vulnerable. It hangs between them like a prayer. Lines on his face pull into a surprised wrinkle for all of a beat, then something enters his expression she’s never seen before—sorrow, maybe. Compassion, in the way his head cants to the side as he studies her looking at her boots. Just standing there, like a fortress. Unmoving, and resounding. Saying nothing and everything all at once.

Logan’s finger dips beneath her chin to tip her gaze up to his. “Don’t ask me how, but somehow I knew that,” his palm moves to caress her cheek, pad of his thumb gently skipping over the curve of her bottom lip. “You’re worth stickin’ up for, darlin’—I’m honored to be the first one to actually show it.” Two fingers dip into the front pocket of her jeans, shuffling her a few steps closer, until her chest brushes his.

“And let’s hope I’m the last."

Her heart swells to new heights yet unsurpassed by science, maybe even prose. “Who am I to deny the Wolverine?” Lifting on her toes, her nose brushes the seam of his mouth before her arms curl around his neck, his hands soft at the flare of her hips. “I’m yours if you’ll have me, Logan,” biting her lower lip, she fights the urge to smile—can’t, never could.

His kiss is hard. Fast, hungry—rough in the way God Himself intended for man. It’s everything the poets ever described a kiss to be, probably more. Infinitely more, mostly because it was her kiss. Hers, and hers alone. Right here, right now, even if the stars couldn’t see.  

He’s a little breathless when they part. And God, if it doesn’t take her apart. 

“Y’know, Logan—Jim was right about one thing, before he ran his fat mouth off.” 

He chuckles. “Hm?” 

“You really kinda are a wild man.”

[djkerr]

TGW 03x09 Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

positive lady characters meme:

Diane Lockhart + a powerful moment

[jyoongim]

OMG,I need so bad a alastor x fem!,argentinian,tango dancer Reader 😭 🇦🇷💕💕

Where they are drunk dancing together, Reader has a beautiful dress and they end up in a room (nsfw)

From an Argentinian follower 🗣️💕

OMG HIII BABES!!! I APPRECIATE YOU SO MUCH!!!!1

Note: I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT TANGO DANCING BUT I LOVE BALLROOM DANCING!!!! Listen to Habanera!!!

Argentinian Fem!reader x Alastor

The lounge was lively tonight. Sinners were twirling about on the floor as the tempo of the music filled the air.

It was dance night.

You sipped on your peach prosecco as you bobbed your head to the beat of the music. “Why dont we give it a go my dear?” Alastor asked, grinning as you whistled at a couple who twirled by.

You laughed with a shake of your head “Us dance? Oh Alastor i dont think we are in any condition to keep up with anyone.”

The two of you had been sitting at the bar chatting, drinking as you looked at couples filling the dance floor.

He hummed, taking a shot of his whiskey.

“I think well do just fine c’mon cherie ” he slipped his hand around yours, dragging you to the dance floor.

When the two of you took to the dance floor, the other couples looked in awe as Alastor gathered you to his chest, one hand on your waist and the other clasping your hand.

You giggled as he led you into the steps of the tango.

Your red dress twirled around you as he spun you around.

Alastor’s lips softly skimmed your neck as he waltzed you in a circle, lanky legs guiding you into a swift dip.

The tempo of the music mixed with the liquor in your system had you buzzing as you floated around the dance floor.

Step. Twirl. Spin. Dip. Spin. Step.

You flashed a bright smile at an onlooker as Alastor dipped you low, your back perfectly arched against him as he held you.

Your hands fell on his around your waist as he lifted you in the air.

A laugh escaped your throat as you matched your dancing to the speed of the music.

The music was starting to die down as the two of you panted as he pulled you back into him, a smile stretched across his face as the crowd interrupted into cheers.

Existing the dance floor, you expected to go back to the bar and cool off. All that dancing had you riled up, the feeling of Alastor against your body and sensually touching you had your mind reeling.

Instead of the bar, Alastor tugged your hand to lead you into a room off to the side.

You blushed “Don’t tell me all that dancing did something to you Alastor?” You asked teasingly, causing the red demon to growl as he pushed into the dark room.

A closet.

Before you could make a snide comment, lips were on yours, feverishly kissing you.

Oh

Your hands curled in his suit, pulling him against you as his hands pawed at your dress. Alastor trailed his lips down your neck, teeth nipping at your damp skin. You gasped, eyes fluttering as he sucked at the skin.

He tussled with the ruffles of your dress, giving your legs some room to hook around his waist as he hoisted you against the wall.

Your arms curled around his neck, hands finding his undercut and scratching his scalp.

His hips pressed into your yours, crotch rubbing against your clothed cunt as he grinded into you.

He peppered your exposed collarbones in kisses as his hand dipped under your dress, a finger curling into your panties, slipping into the heat of your center.

A soft sigh escaped your throat as he curled his fingers into your heat. “A-Alastor”

He let out a purr at you clenched around his fingers.

”Normally I would ravish you in the comfort of our bed, but I fear I just couldn’t wait for such” he said, taking your bottom lip between his teeth.

The sound of his belt and zipper alerted you to his next move and soon you gasped as his cock entered you.

”oh mi mierda” you whimpered as he started to thrust into you.

Your claws dug into his shoulders as he grunted into your shoulder.

”You’ll have to be quiet darlin. Wouldn’t want to have someone find us like this now would you?” He drawled, snapping his hips into yours, jolting you against the wall.

The tiny space filled with the scent of sex as you moaned into his neck, trying to stay as quiet as possible.

But that was difficult when his dick was hitting that sweet bundle of nerves inside you.

Your belly tingled as your orgasm approached.

This was exhilarating!

Sharp claws kneaded your ass as he pulled your hips to meet his rough thrusts.

You were pretty sure his dress pants were stained with how wet you were.

Oh you felt bad for cleaner when you send them off.

His thrusts were getting sloppy as he neared his release.

Alastor’s voice reached your ears in a low hiss “You going to cum cherie? Hmmm. You going to cum on my cock?”

You nodded as you locked your ankles, toes curling in your shoes as he bounced you on his cock.

Your cunt clenched and fluttered as your orgasm rolled through you, milking his cock as his hips stuttered.

Your mouth opened to moan loudly, but Alastor slammed his lips onto yours, swallowing your whimpers as he cummed inside you.

He sighed, grunting as he pulled out of you, cock slapping against you as he lowered you onto your feet.

Your legs felt like they were filled with static as you clung to him, panting from your high.

You winced feeling his cum drip down your thighs as you fixed your dress.

Alastor snapped his fingers to rid of the stain on his pants, purring he pulled you back for a soft kiss, giving you a smile as he pulled your sleeved back on your shoulders, brushing against the bite marks on your skin.

”think we’ve had enough fun for tonight why dont we go home and get cleaned up?” He chirped, wrapping an arm around your waist leading you out of the closet.

Dress for reference!

[imaginesheaven]

Bar owner!Reader x TF 141

Friendship headcanons

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of injuries, a bit of angst?

This literally turned almost into an Oneshot *haha* I couldn’t help myself ;D Enjoy~

Your bar “Tango Down” is known by almost every soldier and police officer. It is the ultimate spot to meet for drinks after a hard work day or mission. Since your bar has a very good reputation you are also known and well respected.

Of course, the Task Force 141 visits frequently when they are not away for a mission. “Hey, (Y/N)”, Price greets as he enters the bar firstly. To hear his voice once again brings a big smile on your lips, “Look who’s still alive! The usual, boys?” They give you all nods as they take their places on their usual table.

Years ago, when you first opened your bar Price was one of the first customers you had. Still to this day he is your favorite and most frequent one. After the Task Force 141 was built he brought them to this place, where you all grew extremely close with time. Even grumpy Ghost has a soft spot for you.

“Good to see you all. How you are doing?”, you put the drinks down on the table. A flash of fur whizzes between your legs right into the loving arms of Soap. “Bloody Jesus, Cougar! I wish this freaking dog would love me as much as he loves Soap”, you roll your eyes playfully annoyed as the soldiers cuddles your “scary” Belgian Malinois named Cougar.

“Sometimes I believe you are only here for Cougar”, Soap shrugs his shoulders grinning like he isn’t even sorry for stealing your dog away every single time he steps into the bar. “We brought you a present”, Gaz can’t contain his pure joy as he holds out the bottle of Whiskey. “Thank you so much! That goes directly into our cabinet for special events!”

Price started this tradition years ago when he started to visit your bar regularly. Every time he came back from a mission you got another expensive and exotic bottle of alcohol like Whiskey or Wine. John was and is still incredibly grateful to have you at his side after hard missions talking to him, pouring drinks and keeping his mind occupied with happy thoughts. The Task Force 141 keeps this tradition still going. Here and there when there is a reason to celebrate you pop open one of the bottles with them.

“Don’t worry, love, at least Ghost, Gaz and I are here for you”, Price puts his hand on your shoulder smirking as you take a seat with them. Soap is way too distracted to follow the conversation at all. He keeps playing with Cougar. The two of them have an own tradition. Soap gets Cougar after every mission a new toy to play with him.

It’s usually very calm and quiet in the bar due to the high number of soldiers and police officers. They can keep everything in order for you if you need it, but you are actually able to sort it out on your own. Just like this evening…

“What is going on here, Kick?”, you ask your bartender. He rolls his eyes annoyed, “Just a round of men making trouble. They keep talking trash about the soldiers.” You let out a whistle to call Cougar to you, “We take care of it.”

“Guys, your time is over here. I don’t tolerate little boys talking bullshit about real men”, you stand your ground against the five men. They might be taller than you, but it doesn’t intimidate you at all. They start to laugh, “How about no? What will you do?” Apparently, the leader of this little gang takes out a handgun from the back of his jeans.

Without flinching you grab his hand aiming the gun at the ceiling punching with the other against his throat. That leaves him choking for a few moments as you take the gun apart leaving it useless at the table. The guy doesn’t have enough yet trying to grab you. Quite painful you twist his arm as you push his face against the surface of the table. “Leave. Now”, as you let go of the men they bolt out of the bar scared for their dear life.

For a second the silence is deafening in the bar until the Task Force 141 starts cheering. They others follow suit very fast, but you wave them off with a red dust on your cheeks, “Stop it, please.” You store the gun behind the counter, “Drinks on me for everyone … BUT ONLY IF YOU STOP CHEERING!” Within a second everything is back to normal.

“Stop messing with my jukebox, Soap”, you have your back to the machine as you prepare the drinks, but you are sure he is already on his way to turn on a certain song. Soap loves messing with you and getting on your nerves playing one song over and over again until you lose your bloody mind.  

He looks at you with his puppy eyes, “Come on! It’s my absolute favorite song!” Smirking you roll your eyes and make your way towards the table with new drinks. “What did we just witness? You absolutely wrecked this guy”, Gaz stares at you in disbelief. “You were in military, right?”, Ghost recognizes a soldier when he sees one and you were for sure one. You let out a sigh, “Yeah, Special Forces for a few years.” Price raises his eyebrows surprised. “Don’t you dare to take a look at my file, John. That’s the past”, you wink at him grinning. Sometimes you could read him like an open book.

“Enjoy your drinks, boys!” The team shares a brief glance. Every time they are at your bar they learn something incredible new about you. It is like you are a never-ending pit of surprises. It makes them wonder what person you have been in the past. Especially John Price. He might have a look into your file nevertheless.

The night comes to an end. You keep sorting out the rest of the bar alone as the light goes out suddenly. The little hairs on your neck start to stand up and your senses tingle to warn you from the oncoming danger. Upstairs where you live above the bar you can hear Cougar barking. You already brought him up so he can rest. Now you realize your mistake. He would have protected you.

A hand grabs your neck from behind as the first punch lands. The fist collides with your stomach and the pain leaves you breathless. You can’t see their faces in the dark but you are more than sure that these are the troublemakers from earlier. They keep beating you. The pain is just overwhelming until the darkness takes over.

Captain Price enters the bar followed by his team. To his displeasure you are not behind the counter to greet them with your usual bright smile. “Kick, where is (Y/N)?”, Soap asks the bartender. They all feel that something is very off and they don’t like it at all. Even Cougar can’t be seen anywhere.

“(Y/N) is upstairs. Recovering. I’m not sure about company, but I guess you can try”, Kick knows it would be useless to tell them you don’t want to see anyone. They are going to make sure you are okay and no one will stop them. Price makes his way upstairs followed by the others.

They can hear Cougar barking at them coming up the stairs. “It’s okay, Cougar, it’s just the boys”, you say calmly to the dog as you pet his soft fur. Cougar greets them happily when they come through the door. Of course, the dog makes his way towards Soap to beg for some scratches. After a few head rubs Cougar is satisfied and comes back to your side placing his head onto your leg. You have never seen the dog that clingy, but he is ready to protect you with all he has.

John seems cool, collected and focused on the outside, but on the inside he is raging. Just like the others. Your face shows the last remnants of the beating. A black eye, a bloody, split lip and so on. They don’t even want to imagine what bruises your clothes are hiding. “It’s okay. It looks probably worse than it actually is”, you try to downplay the truth, but all of them can see it in your eyes. These troublemakers broke you a little bit and no one was there to protect you.

Ghost takes a step forward and grabs your chin softly to take a closer look at your face, “This is absolutely not okay. They made it personal.” Without a further word he let go of you giving Price a short nod. They know what they have to do.

“Wait! Please be careful. All of you”, you grab Price’s sleeve to keep them from leaving. There is no chance you can stop them at all. You just want them to come back to you safe and sound. John gives you a reassuring smile, “Of course, love.”

With that they went away to deal with the problem. None of the men told you what they did to the troublemakers and you never asked. They would literally give their life to keep you safe. After that everything just went back to normal.

“Johnny! No!”, you try to pry the beer bottle out of Soap’s hands as he reaches over the counter. “You have to be faster than that, sweetheart!”, he celebrates his achievement and takes a gulp from the beer. “No jukebox for you for a whole week! It’s like I’m dealing with children!”, you give up laughing. Price shrugs his shoulders, “Now you know how I feel.” You lean against the counter watching the boys. Gaz and Soap try to out beat each other in darts, while Ghost gives Cougar some head scratches hidden beneath the table. No one should see what a softie he turns into around you and Cougar.

This is literally perfection for all of you.

   Bonus

“Isn’t that the owner of your favorite bar?”, Laswell hands Price the file after he bugged him for weeks, “Are you sure that’s right?” John shrugs with one shoulder not really interested in getting a lecture, “Yes, just making sure who’s serving me drinks. I’ll take that with me.” He leaves Laswell’s office with the file under his arm. John is going to take his sweet time to read through your past.

Laswell leans back in her chair dialing your number, “He got your file, (Y/N).” She almost can hear you grinning through the phone, “Almost everything is classified so John won’t learn much about me. He just could have asked, you know? Thanks for letting me know, Kate. Greet your wife!”

[leonw4nter]

This Whiskey or Your Love?

Vendetta!Leon x F!Reader

TW ! graphic mention of getting stabbed, blood

Relationships in this line of work are always bound to be tragic, whether the relationships formed were that of friendships or ones that were more than that. You and Leon knew this too well so you two never gave a label for whatever was between you two. Even something as simple as sharing a whiskey flask after a long day was intimate, your lips connecting to where his was just moments ago. Or those late night sparring sessions, urging the other to come at them with a practice blade and engage in a tango consisting of lunges and blades; you observed that there is a sense of familiarity with these sessions, both of you familiar with the manner of how the other gripped their knives or what side the other preferred when it came to offenses, an interesting sense of familiarity with your partner. Most of all, you loved when you always took the chance to protect Leon. You are familiar with your partner and his tendency to throw away his life for the sake of preserving that of others’ so the opportunity for you to cover for him and protect him when he couldn’t always felt rewarding; he always made sure others were fine and never took time to check if he was fine so being the one to ensure his safety made you feel at ease.

The pursuit of that feeling at ease and eagerness to protect Leon is what led to your demise, your body skewered with several spikes of an Anubis BOW. Your partner was preoccupied with several other infected, he barely registered an Anubis behind him. The damn thing was right behind him, its sharp and bony wings about to dive straight into him. You were near him yet you were in pain, your rib having been shattered and you could bet that one of your bones were probably poking against a lung yet your legs still worked so you ran. You ran to be the barrier between Leon and the BOW, arms extended to your sides for maximum coverage for Leon. You closed your eyes and for a quick second, you felt fear. This was not how you imagined you’d die, you wished you’d die of old age and be surrounded by loved ones but here you are: death by impalement in front of the man whom you love but never called a “boyfriend”. You were afraid not just because you were going to die but because you’re probably going to leave him alone in this ruthless world. Last minute, you decided to shove Leon out of the way before moving yourself away from the monster too but it seemed that fate had already decided long ago for you. Leon managed to finish off the last of the zombies before he turned to you, his back to the ground but his gun trained on the thing behind you when he heard a gasp. You were facing him, body caging him but he noticed spikes– 3 of them protruding from your abdomen and chest. With a sickening squelch, the Anubis retracted its spikes before diving them back inside your body, carmine blood spilling forth from your mouth and dripping down your chin. You could not even keep a proper grip on your gun, the overwhelming pain of everything taking your consciousness away from you. Your eyes closed and your hearing was dulling but you swear you felt the most painful jab to your heart not because that stupid thing stabbed you again but because of the sheer sadness Leon had in his voice when he called your name. You heard the sound of gunshots and screaming next, the spikes retracting from your body before you fell to the ground and lay in a pool of your own blood. You forced yourself awake when you felt Leon gently shift your body, applying pressure to two of the three stab wounds. You rubbed your eyes, trying to get them to focus on Leon but then you regret that you did; his face is all red and covered with the muck of the Anubis, a bad bruise forming right under his eye but most of all he’s crying. He’s cried in front of you many times but never as hard as this.

“Don’t talk,” Leon says with a shaky voice. “You’re losing a lot of blood but you’ll be fine, I promise.”

He continues to apply pressure with shaky hands but stops when he feels you groan, realizing that he accidentally pressed on a cracked rib. There is nothing he can do but cradle you and cry harder, your body beaten and snapped beyond saving. To keep you alive in this condition as you wait for back-up would be pure torture for you, pain overriding every single thing you can feel. To let you die in this situation is the kindest act Leon can do for you.

“Yeah, I’ll… be fine.” You softly whisper as you raise your arm, a bloodied hand coming up to cradle his cheek. He nuzzles into your touch, not caring if he’s smearing your blood on his face. He doesn’t even smell the strawberry perfume you always wear now, the metallic scent of your blood filling his nostrils instead.

“Why did you do that?” Leon asks.

“You… you do so much for the world, Leon… It’s my… t-turn to… do some…thing for you…” You barely choke out.

You two stay silent for a bit, Leon brushing the matted hair away from your face and tucking a strand behind your ear.

“I’m not used to being without you, Y/N. I don’t think I’ll ever be used to being without you.”

Oh, Leon. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the world.

“I’m… sorry… Leon,” you inaudibly apologize. Each breath was becoming increasingly difficult, causing a rattling noise to emit from your throat.

“I love… you. Always… have… I’ve got… so many words for you… but I can’t right now… because… I’m feeling a… little tired…,” you plaintively whisper to him.

“I love you too, Y/N. I regret not telling you sooner, I hate how I have to tell you this right now but I wished I had mustered up the courage to ask you to be mine. I should have tried instead of being afraid.”

“You can… always… wait for me… in the next… life… you know,” you sigh with a small smile. Leon never exactly believed in anything after death; if it’s the end then it’s the end, he thought but for you, he wished that there is something after death just so he could be with you.

“How long will I wait for you until we can be together again?” Leon quietly asks.

“Live… live… your life… while waiting for… me… make use… of it.”

Your hand relaxes but your eyes stay fixed on him, the lids not draping over lifeless irises. He takes your hand again, only for it to limply fall back down. He gently closes your lids with a blood-stained thumb, holding you close to him and gently swaying you back and forth as he cries into the leather jacket he gave to you, still wrapped around your lifeless body. He felt many different things at this moment: agony, resentment, desolation, and many others that he had no names for. Such a lively person didn’t have to die this way, he did– him and his vice of turning to alcohol, him and his vice of never letting people into his life. You were his greatest love and the center of his most impossible dreams.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

“Y/N wouldn’t want you to live like this!” Chris exclaims as he sees Leon passed out on his dining table, surrounded by several tall bottles of whiskey and empty packets of hangover relief pills. Claire had also come over, cleaning up around Leon’s apartment; when the siblings had come in, the apartment was dark and the smell of booze lingered heavily in the air. Claire turned the light switch on and saw Leon asleep on his table, head resting on his arm whilst his right hand was still curled against a heavy-bottomed glass filled with the amber drink. Immediately, Chris gently shook Leon awake which earned him a displeased look. Chris was more concerned by how Leon looked than the glare he received– his hair was matted and messy, his stubble unshaven for several weeks, with the heavy purple eye bags that hung on his eyes. His lips were dry and crusty and the wounds that Leon was instructed to bandage were not covered up with gauze, the stitches slightly red.

“Forget about Y/N,” Leon slurs. “She’s not around to see me look fucking pathetic.”

Chris stayed silent for a moment, Leon’s reliance on alcohol to deal with his grief reminding him of himself from years ago.

“Leon, you’re going to kill yourself soon if you don’t stop this.”

“Sounds real nice.”

He takes a deep breath before he takes the glass from Leon’s hand and pours the drink in the sink, setting the glassware on the counter.

“Y/N told you to do something with your life. Are you seriously going to stay in this cycle of getting drinking and getting drunk until we find you dead? Because I’m sure as hell that Y/N doesn’t want that!”

Leon stays silent, gaze fixed on the empty bottles in front of him. Chris’ words sobered him up real fast but he still itches for the relief of the burning sensation the whiskey gives to him as he takes a swig. He doesn’t even realize that a tear has wet his cheek before dropping down into the wooden table beneath him, Chris getting up from his chair and engulfing him in a hug. Before he could even think of stopping it, his tears stream down endlessly as he sobs into his shoulder. This is all Leon’s done ever since your funeral: drink, get drunk, and cry but to cry in the company of a friend makes him feel a lot less alone. He feels another figure hug behind him, realizing that it’s Claire. The comfort of her touch causes his breathing to slow down, his body becoming less tense with her soothing words.

“Leon,” Claire says in a firm but gentle voice. “We’ll get you to therapy and stay away from alcohol for a bit. You need help.”

Before Leon could protest,  Chris faces him and gives him a nod.

“Yeah. It’s for your own good and trust me, I’ve been here before.”

With a sigh, Leon decides to get his life together. It won’t be easy and sure as hell won’t be smooth but for you he’ll try. Helping the Redfields clean up, he takes a trash bag and takes all the garbage before starting a shower in what feels like ages while the siblings start on a decent meal for him.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

It’s been months since he’s started seeing a therapist and he feels a lot less shitty than he did. Occasionally, he feels the urge to go get himself a bottle of alcohol but he fights the urges and gradually, those urges have gotten less strong and he feels proud of himself for overcoming this. Of course, he still misses you and he sometimes cries himself to the thought of you, your lifeless body still appearing in his dreams but therapy has been helping him cope with your loss a lot better than he previously assumed. He’s already got a dinner reservation with Chris and Claire to thank them for the help they’ve given him, along with the patience to listen to him every time he talks about you.

Leon finally finishes fixing his hair, fixing his suit and making sure he looks presentable before finishing up the look with a small spritz of cologne. Leon looks at himself in the mirror, looking better than he has in a long time. He smiles at his reflection, feeling a lot more confident than he has. His gaze falls to your dog tags on his bedside table, a painful memory resurfacing in his mind but he sets that painful feeling aside because he’s going to see you today. Even better, he’s got a basket ready with candles, your favorite sweets, lunch, flowers, and a Valentine’s Day letter (with songs listed down that he thinks you’d love).

“Looking good,” he tells himself as he admires his suit from different sides.

Taking the basket, he makes his way out of his apartment and into his car. Setting his radio to a station that plays sappy romantic songs, he pulls out of the parking lot and makes his way to the cemetery you’re buried in. As much as he wants to stay in and feel a little sad, he decides to celebrate Valentine’s Day since it’s one of your favorite holidays.

After a nice 30-minute drive he finally arrives at the cemetery. Taking a pink teddy bear and his picnic basket out of the passenger seat, he makes his walk to your grave that is buried in a more private corner of the entire place. He finally spots your grave and sets his picnic blanket down before taking out pink candles, lighting them up before he takes the contents out of the basket.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other,” he softly tells you. “I miss you. Everyday.”

It’s true; each passing day, his love for you doesn’t change and instead grows and extends to places he didn’t know love could touch.

“I got you sweets and a bear, though I’ll have to bring the bear home after this. No alcohol since I’m on a sobriety journey so you’ll have to bear with me on this one.”

He sets your bouquet of flowers down and lines up the sweets around your grave.

“Hope your ghost stays full with these.”

He suddenly remembers the letter he wrote the night before, fishing it out of the bottom of the basket. Much to his confusion, he can’t find it anywhere though he’s sworn that he placed it inside before leaving. He looks back at your headstone before he looks around, making sure that no one’s around to possibly take from your grave.

“I’ll be back, I just have to find something.”

He walks back to his car and looks around, looking for the letter. After a few moments, he nudges against something and the letter falls out along with an old picture of you and him from several years ago. You and him are wearing sleek suits, smiling brightly at the camera during the portrait awarding ceremony; the President decided to award a portrait for you and him as his token of gratitude for saving his daughter a while back. He remembers how you walked up to the photographer and asked him for a casual picture with you; Leon had a small smile on with his arms crossed while you were beaming bright, your body slightly leaned against his. The sight of you being so full of life caused tears to brim at his waterline, wiping them away before they could ruin the photo or his letter.

“You’ve still got some tricks up your sleeve I guess,” he quietly mumbles to himself. He takes the letter and the photo along with him, keeping the picture in the inside pocket of his blazer as he walks back. He looks up and sees a butterfly, fluttering right above him before disappearing and flying off into the wide open sky.

NOTE - I was literally rushing to get this done but I think this turned out pretty well. I tried to make chewy rice balls with my friend at his house yesterday and it turned out rock-hard 😭 We threw it to the wall and it literally bounced off and it sounded like we threw a pebble 😭😭What's worse is that this is a project and the teacher in charge for this subject is a culinary major... sir I hope you won't be disappointed 💀 Anyways, that's all for my fic and thanks for reading it!!!!!! Also thanks for 201 followers, this means so much to me, I <3333333 UUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!

The dividers are from @plutism , the images are made by me (sourced from Pinterest).

[djkerr]

TGW 03x09 Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

Goodbye 2012 Fangirl Challenge

One show | One scene | One character 

3) The Good Wife | “Wishkey, Tango, Foxtrot” | Diane Lockhart (Sunday 30th)

“The State’s Attorney is coming after you because you’re sleeping with his wife. Stop it, do you understand me?”

[discokicks]

WHISKEY, TANGO, FOXTROT - ROY KENT.

PART FOUR OF ACES AT THE WATER'S EDGE.

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

pairing: roy kent x fem!reader (no use of y/n!) summary: it's your first game of the season at chelsea and rebecca’s got some press for you to do. however, thanks to rupert, the reporters will have some questions you’re not exactly ready for. the same could be said for 2012 roy kent, who’s abusing his new avoidance power to the fullest extent. but, as the two of you continue to work and get closer, you realize that there might just be something else there.

word count & rating: 15.4k (holy fuck this is why it took 6 months), R (language per usual) chapter warnings: swearing, references to sex, minor allusions to sexual harassment, mentions of alcohol, the beginnings of sexual tension (slow and steady wins the race), rupert is a dick, roy kent has got around and everyone knows it, keeley and rebecca are wine drinking pr besties, men are trash (but we know this) author's note: long time no see and happy olympics season! it felt fitting to post this now, so I got motivated to get my ass into gear and write. there's A LOT to this one, so buckle up. and make sure you stay until the end bc baby we're cooking with gas now. this took a lot out of me, so i hope you enjoy! love u tons! -mags

LONDON OLYMPICS, LATE JULY, 2012.

You’re up 1-0 when you retreat into the locker room at halftime during your third game of the Olympic Tournament against North Korea.

Despite the fact that you’re winning, it was a terrible showing from each of you, except for Mel, who’d been your lone scorer of the night. She’d had a breakaway and had managed to single-handedly beat three defenders for a pretty impressive goal. You’d practically jumped into her arms during the celebration, glad that someone was able to break the sleepy curse that had seemed to be placed on your team.

Your captain Katie O’Connor stands tall at the front of the room, ready to rip you guys a new one. She was the more… passionate of your three captains, potentially coming off as abrasive when things weren’t going your way or if she felt that things could be better. It was only because she cared so much. You all did.

“We should be beating them by four at this point,” she says, pointing out the door. A mumbling of agreements goes through your team, knowing that it’s the truth. “We’re playing like it’s fucking high school out there. It’s the fucking Olympics, act like we belong here, for fuck’s sake.”

The amount of ‘fucks’ that Katie drops instantly has you thinking of someone else. God damn it, he was probably watching, wasn’t he? You could only imagine the things he was thinking, or saying, for that matter. 

You know you shouldn’t care as much as you do, but… as much as you hate to admit it, you want to impress him. Or at least make it look like these training sessions have been worth it. There was something about him that made you want to prove yourself. It wasn’t that he demanded you to do so or that he’d value you less if you didn’t, but you wanted to. Unfortunately, you cared about his opinion. How tragic was that?

Curiosity gets the best of you. Before your coach can come into the locker room, you fish through your bag and take a peek at your phone, just to see if he, or anyone else, has said anything.

Sure enough, you see that you’ve got two texts from Roy Kent that were sent five minutes ago, right when you finished the half.

What a fucking atrocious half. I fucking dare you to hit the post one more time.

A scowl pulls at your lips, but you know it’s true. It wasn’t anything you hadn’t already thought yourself. He had an extraordinary talent for knowing how to be exactly the brand of jackass that pissed you off, though. It only became more apparent as you read the next message.

You could learn a thing or two about footwork from Rivera.

You scoff, glancing over at Mel, who, while she sat next to you, was staring blankly at the wall, undoubtedly in her own little world. Before she notices you looking, you’ve turned back to your phone and to his messages. “Asshole,” you mutter, but type out your response.

maybe i’ll get her to coach me then. she isn’t as much of a dick to me.

The response comes before you can put away your phone. Not your coach, he says, then sends another message. Relax out there. You’re somehow playing nervous and stiff at the same time. You’re a fucking anomaly. But before you can frown too hard at that, he says, You know how to see the field. So take a breath and fucking see it.

You throw your phone back in your bag with a huff, mind reeling as you attempt to think back to what the field looked like before the half. The last three possessions had you following Mel as she took the ball up the field. The defense had started favoring her side due to her dominance throughout the game, leaving… 

…Katie on the left side. And while they hadn’t left her open—

“Did you call me an asshole a second ago?” Mel asks from beside you, having broken out of her own trance. You flinch at the sound of her voice, instinctively flipping your phone over and against the bench you’re sitting on. 

She courteously spares you the weird look you know she’s holding back. “No,” you reply. You motion to your phone. “Roy’s texting me.”

Mel nods in understanding. “Gotcha. What’s Coach Kent have to say?”

“He’s being an asshole,” you repeat. “He says we’re ‘atrocious.’ Making fun of how much I’m hitting the post.” You turn to her. “He’s got good things to say about your footwork, though.”

Mel grins. “I knew I liked him.”

You scowl again at that. “He’s also telling me I need to see the field better.” Mel raises her brows at the look on your face, cueing you to go on. “I think Katie’s been open-ish for the last three possessions. They’re favoring your side.”

The two of you look back to your teammate once more as you consider this. “We could keep trying to draw the defense out,” Mel offers. “We scare them a little bit, hit her when she’s coming up.”

“She can beat that fullback in a heartbeat,” you agree.

“It’s worth a shot,” she says. “We can’t play any shittier than we already are.”

You nod at Mel with faux enthusiasm. “That’s the spirit.”

And that’s exactly what you decide. Mel jumps to her feet and explains your plan to Katie and the team, drawing up the X’s and O’s on the locker room whiteboard. You glance around the room cautiously, forcing yourself not to read into your teammates' expressions too deeply. 

But it’s hard. Especially when you’re an overthinker.

It’s a title you’ve resigned yourself to, much to Roy’s pleasure. Whether you wanted to admit it or not, it was the truth. And while you were still working to get out of that lifelong mindset, it didn't seem to be getting any easier. 

But your over-analyzing leads you to a result you like: all of your teammates seem to be on board with your ideas. You can’t deny that that feels good.

You especially can’t deny it when your coach walks into the locker room to see Mel’s play on the baker and says, “Well, you ladies are way ahead of me.” Because that’s exactly what she was going to draw up.

That feeling has you giddily awaiting the moment you can grab your phone before you head back out to the field to send a text to your newfound trainer. 

i’ll have a shot on net in the first ten minutes, you type to him, confidence radiating through the text. and it’s not gonna hit the post this time.

Your message reaches Roy when he returns to his phone at the beginning of the second half. He can’t help the chuckle that escapes him as he settles back into his couch, shaking his head when he glances up at the massive TV in his sitting room, the broadcast showing a close-up of you with a new sort of fire in your eyes. It’s a look that illuminates his dim and quiet flat, one that he can’t seem to part with until they cut away from you.

Within four minutes and fifty-five seconds, you draw the defense over to you and Mel, who wails the ball over to Katie’s side of the field. Katie has possession of it for five seconds before she catches her defender off-guard and sends it in between her legs to you. 

Five minutes in, you live up to your promise and send the ball into the corner of the net, the crowd roaring as Katie shakes you back and forth in excitement and Mel jumps on your back. One of the cameramen runs up to you to catch your celebration, and you stare down the lens with a satisfied smile and point in a way that tells Roy that you’re looking directly at him. 

He couldn’t stop himself from grinning even if he wanted to. With yet another shake of his head, Roy reaches out for the phone he’d thrown onto the couch cushion next to him.

I told you. Fucking anomaly you are, you stupid fucking Yank, he writes. Stay pissed off. It’s a good look on you, Fourteen.

When Roy sends that text, he keeps his phone closer to him this time, and somehow, his dim and quiet flat feels just a bit lighter, even if for a brief moment.

PRESENT DAY, MID-AUGUST, 2023.

Before you can leave the Richmond facilities post-Saturday afternoon practice, you’re suddenly called into Rebecca Walton’s office.

It’s a day before your first game of the season and after your rather animated talk with Roy in the Boot Room yesterday, you’re feeling a bit lighter. You slept better last night (though you don’t see yourself hitting REM any time soon) and don’t feel like you’re being dragged down by the massive weight of… well, everything. It’s a feeling you’re taking in stride and one you’re welcoming with open arms. 

Practices before game days were typically a bit easier-going, and you and your fellow coaches had decided to make sure the team was up to date and understood the best plays to run against Chelsea tomorrow. They knew who to stop, what defenses to watch out for, and what trick plays to expect. While you hadn’t lent your voice to the conversation as much as you probably should have, especially after being yelled at for it yesterday, you spoke more than usual. While that still wasn’t a lot, it was enough. And that made you feel good, above all else.

That feeling goes away the second you walk into your boss’s office to see her and an incredibly familiar face staring at you from the couch area. Your lips part the second you see her, hand unsubtly slamming against the doorframe, not just to stabilize yourself, but to keep you from dramatically heel-turning out of the room, to never return.

By the way that Keeley Jones is looking at you, you can tell she’s just about on the same page. You suppose she’s got the better end of this deal, simply because your arrival doesn’t seem to be a surprise for her. At least she had a warning about the foreboding awkwardness of this situation. Your boss didn’t exactly grant you that luxury.

Then again, you figure Rebecca had no real way of knowing just how strange this might be for you. She didn’t know the extent of your history with Roy, and the only person who may was sitting right next to her, probably having shared more of that history than either of you cared to admit.

However, what you’re not expecting from Keeley, is the way she gapes at you, then turns to Rebecca to whisper, “Fucking hell, you didn’t say she was hotter in person.”

The shock and confusion flowing through your body makes you blink slowly at them to readjust, and you lean back on your back foot. You manage to stammer out, “I-I’m sorry to interrupt, I can come back--”

“No, no,” Rebecca says, beckoning you in after she finishes rolling her eyes at Keeley, “come on in and join us! We just opened a bottle.”

Join them? You glance at the open bottle of wine on the coffee table, then back to them. Is this why you were called here? To indulge in some post-work girl talk with your boss and Roy’s first real, and only public girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend, you remembered, but still.

You’re sure the discomfort you feel is broadcasted on your face, and that becomes especially apparent when Keeley offers you a small, kind smile. However, the action is sweet and it makes your over-anxious mind ease slightly. If she’s not going to be weird about it, you certainly aren’t either.

Besides, you have no idea what she actually knows about you and Roy. He would be the type to tell her nothing. He was the type to tell her nothing.

However, something about Keeley’s demeanor tells you that’s probably not the case.

When you realize that you’ve been standing like a freak in the doorway for just a moment too long, you snap out of your haze and return the smile, nodding gratefully as you enter Rebecca’s office.

“We were just discussing the game tomorrow,” Rebecca tells you as she reaches for the spare wine glass on the table. She eyes you with a wry grin. “I’d ask if you drank, but that bar cart I saw in your apartment gave you away.”

A surprised laugh escapes you at the rather forward comment, but it helps you relax slightly as you make your way to them. “Yeah, well. It was probably looking pretty sparse when you saw it.” You reach your hand out to Keeley, continuing to smile softly as you introduce yourself.

“Keeley Jones,” she says to you, though there’s a mutual understanding that this is just a formality. You both know who the other is. “Bad week, yeah?” she asks.

You reach for the wine glass Rebecca offers you and send a look of confirmation to Keeley. “You have no idea.” Your smile stretches as you look over at Rebecca and sit down. “These last couple of days have made up for it, though.”

Rebecca returns it. “That’s wonderful to hear.”

“I can imagine it’s been a little different than West Ham,” Keeley says. “We know what Rupert likes to pull. All that shit he’s been saying about you leaving?” She shakes her head. “I don’t know how people aren’t seeing through him.”

The smile you wear falters slightly. “I, uh… haven’t really been keeping up with any of that,” you tell her. “Figured it wouldn’t be great to hear anything that anybody’s saying about me, y’know?”

“Totally get that,” she replies kindly. However, she hesitates. “...But you… haven’t seen anything that’s been going around?”

“Um…” you trail off, shifting in your chair. “No? Why? Is it really that bad?”

Rebecca and Keeley exchange a look. “It’s just—” Rebecca cuts herself off, looking back at you. “Remember how I said you wouldn’t have to do any press if you didn’t want to?”

Any remnants of the demeanor you had when you sat down completely drain from your expression. “Oh, my God. It is that bad, isn’t it?”

Keeley shakes her head, holding out her hands. “No, no, it’s really not. It could be so much worse,” she assures. “I mean, it is that bad with those weird little shits online who always have a problem with successful women in sports, but what else is new—”

“This is the worst of it,” Rebecca interjects, putting a hand on her friend's arm. She passes you a tablet as Keeley goes quiet and you take it cautiously. 

It’s a video of Rupert at a press conference, one you presume was taken this morning. The season kicked off tomorrow and Ted, Rebecca, and the rest of the team had been stuck doing interviews all day, something of which you weren’t sad to have missed out on.

You press the play button in the center of the screen to watch Rupert point at someone off-camera. “Yes,” he says. “Daniel, what have you got?”

Daniel, presumably, asks, “I was just curious how the team’s feeling with that coaching shake-up so close to Opening Day?” You hear a murmur go through the audience of reporters. “Losing someone like that and then watching her get picked up by Richmond must be tough on you guys, no?”

Rupert seems to take this in and sit with it, nodding slowly. “I won’t lie to you, Daniel,” he says after a moment. “I wasn’t happy with the note that we ended on. She had concerns toward the end of her tenure about her role on the team and with certain aspects of AFC culture. She knows just how talented I think she is, and how excited we were to have her working with us. And we had a wonderful couple of months working with her. But, unfortunately…” He shakes his head scornfully, like all of this was genuinely upsetting him. “...there were just some differences we couldn’t get past. The team was remarkably sad to see her go, but I don’t believe it’ll affect our performance this season.” 

He lets his answer hang there for a moment, but tragically, he’s not done. “Perhaps Richmond was willing to offer her some things that we weren’t able to. Perhaps their values align more with what she wanted out of her AFC career.” And then, with a nonchalant shrug, he adds, “Perhaps she just wanted to coach with her old friend Roy Kent.” Your lips part at that, brow furrowing in disbelief as the reporters chuckle. “Who knows? I wish her the best and I wish Richmond good luck. I hope they’re a better fit for her.”

The clip cuts off there and you glance up at Rebecca and Keeley who are both bracing for impact. “What the fuck?” 

If either of them find your words unprofessional, they do nothing to indicate it. However, there’s something about them that tells you they’re more than comfortable with that kind of language in the workplace. “Yeah,” Keeley says. “So, like I said. It could be so much worse.”

“He was the one who was unhappy with how it ended?” you quote. “He’s upset about the differences we couldn’t work past? How about you address my concerns with AFC culture and get upset with your—”

You cut yourself off before you can say too much, focusing your attention on the plant in the corner of Rebecca’s office to stabilize yourself. What a fucking asshole. What a self-serving, lying, fucking asshole. He’s not worth the tears. Don’t give him that satisfaction.

You understand why you were called in now, why Rebecca prefaced the video with that question. You’d neglected to personally get ahead of Rupert and make a real statement on your choice to part with West Ham and sign with Richmond. Now you were paying that price— the price of being afraid.

“What—” Your voice cracks as you attempt to speak, and you clear your throat. “What type of press do I have to do?”

Rebecca’s sigh is empathetic. “We think it’d be smart to send you out with Ted tomorrow after the game. Make a statement, answer a few questions,” she says. “That is, if you’re open to it.”

Your brow raises skeptically. “I can say no to that?”

Rebecca chuckles. “You can say no to anything,” she tells you. “Roy refuses to do any sort of press and he’s managed to be completely fine. Labeled as a bitter, old recluse, but he doesn’t seem to care.” Typical. But then, she adds, “We do think it’s your best move, though.”

You know it’s your best move. You know it’s what you should have done at the beginning of all of this. You know that there’s nothing that you want to do less. But somehow, having that small, offhanded-out Rebecca offered makes it all sit a bit easier with you.

“I think so too,” you finally agree, sighing shakily. Rebecca and Keeley grin at you encouragingly, watching as you reach out to take a hearty sip of your wine. “So, what’s the plan?” You look over at Keeley. “I assume that’s why you’re here.”

Keeley’s face lights up. “Exactly why I’m here,” she replies. “We’re gonna PR this shit so fucking hard nobody is going to know what hit them.”

Her enthusiasm makes the corners of your mouth rise despite everything else. “Can’t say I’m great in front of a crowd,” you warn.

“It’s rare to find people who are,” Keeley responds easily, flicking her hand like she’s brushing off your comment. “That’s why we’re going to make this as simple as possible.”

You nod. “Okay. Hit me.”

“Okay, three things you’re going to want to address,” she begins, tapping on her fingers. “The first is clarifying the ‘note that you ended on’ and those differences with the team. You don’t need to get into specifics if you don’t want to—”

“I really do not,” you tell her.

“Got it,” she says, and the look on her face tells you she really does get it. “Don’t get into specifics. Just say that you’re also upset things didn’t work out, but that it was nothing personal. Truly just leadership differences, like was first said. Even if it wasn’t.”

Your eyes narrow in question. “So, just lie?”

“Welcome to PR, babe,” she replies, and her grin gets more genuine when she sees you chuckle. “Alright, second; we’ve gotta say something about why you chose Richmond. Something that goes beyond our stale press release statement.”

“I didn’t think it was stale,” you offer.

“Aw, thank you!” The smile drops from her face. “But it was. All press releases are. They’re just words on a page, which is so fucking boring. And they get no feeling across. Which is what we need from you,” she says with a point. “You just need to actually say what we’ve already said.”

Once again, you nod. “So, you need it once more, with feeling?”

Keeley blinks back at you, then glances at Rebecca. “My god, I fucking love her.”

The smile that pulls at your lips is involuntary and smaller than the encouraging one that appears on Rebecca’s. “I told you that you would,” she says softly to her, but it’s just loud enough for you to hear. She then turns to you once more. “He brought up AFC culture and our values, but don’t even touch that.”

“'Values' is a loaded word,” Keeley says. “He used it for a reason, but if we’re looking to ignore all this, we shouldn’t be using those types of words.”

“Right,” continues Rebecca. “We’re not looking for a fight here. You don’t want to engage, we don’t want to engage. I think we can all agree we’re looking for this to be over and done with and forgotten about, yes?”

“Yes,” you confirm.

“So, just agree with his comments. Leave it neutral. Non-confrontational,” Rebecca says. “Make it easy. Even if you’re not disappointed to have left the club, say that you are. If you want to touch on ‘culture’ reference AFC culture as a whole. The culture shock of transitioning from womens to mens sports.”

Neutral, you think. Non-confrontational. Easy. You can do that.

After a moment, you nod in confirmation at Rebecca. Then, you refocus on Keeley. “What’s the third thing we need to address?”

Keeley folds her hands awkwardly. “That would be… uh, your friendship with Roy.”

Your face goes hot almost instantaneously. “Oh,” you say softly. You scratch the inside of your wrist, finding it increasingly hard to keep Keeley’s gaze, especially as she continues to sit in that tension with you. “Do I have to? Address that, I mean? We were just friends. A ton of people in the football world are friends with each other. I don’t…” The lie sours your tongue and you glance over at Rebecca, hoping for her to throw some kind of life preserver to you over here. “I didn’t think anyone knew about that. It wasn’t like we were Matt Damon and Ben Affleck or whatever. Our friendship wasn’t mainstream news.”

“Some intern at The Sun found some photos of you two after the 2012 Olympics at a club,” Rebecca explains. Your entire body flushes as you remember that night. “They resurfaced and became relevant after your move to Richmond.”

“Okay, but, if it’s the night I think they’re referring to, we were out with our teams,” you attempt to reason. “There’s no reason other than media speculation that people would think we were… what was implied.”

Keeley points at you. “And that’s exactly what you’re going to say if you’re asked about it.” Then, with a good-humored shrug, she says, “If you want to be petty, you can talk about how this speculation wouldn’t be happening if you were a man.”

Rebecca looks at her friend. “That’s actually not bad. Because it wouldn’t be.”

“None of this would be,” you say to the two women in front of you. The tone you’ve taken is scornful, and while they may not know all the reasons why… they get it.

Keeley reaches forward to grab the bottle of wine at in the center of the coffee table and tilts it to offer it to you. You nod almost immediately, mustering up a small smile as she pours. “So, our plan is to send you in with Ted after tomorrow’s game. They’ll probably, mainly, have questions for you because that’s the drama right now, so I’ve written up something that we can practice and workshop.”

“Ted’s won the press over and is practically on a first-name basis with all of them,” Rebecca continues. “So, he’ll be a lifeline if you need him at any time.”

Keeley nods at the glass she just poured for you. “So, drink up. Because we’re going to run through this shit and roleplay.” She pauses for a moment, catching herself. “The press conference, I mean. Not the sexy kind.”

“Probably better for HR reasons,” you reply.

As that joke slips out of your mouth, you can feel your comfort level with them rising. Something about them is just so… welcoming. You’re in a room with your boss and Roy’s ex-girlfriend. You should be guarded. You should be censoring yourself. But as you continue to sit here, you can’t see yourself doing so.

Perhaps Richmond was willing to offer her some things that we weren’t able to. Perhaps you were right, you fucking prick.

Keeley snorts softly and nods in agreement and you notice the smile that grows on Rebecca’s face. “I’ve heard the HR is rather easily swayed, so we might be able to get away with it,” Keeley responds, grinning as she sees you laugh.

Rebecca claps her hands together. “So. Non-sexy press conference roleplay?”

They both turn to you, and after a hearty gulp of your wine, you sigh. “Let’s get to it.”

LONDON OLYMPICS, LATE JULY, 2012.

You finish the game against North Korea with another win under your belt and return to utter chaos when you get back to the dorms.

While you were the only scorer of the last half, everyone stepped up their game in the ways that they had to. Things still weren’t perfect and there was plenty for all of you to work on going forward, but you were proud of the way your team had turned things around. 

When you return, it’s just past midnight, and all you want to do is go to bed. The game had drained you completely dry, and there was nothing more appealing than the idea of tucking into your horrendously uncomfortable dorm bed. Luckily, unlike last time, Mel’s on the same page as you.

She’d fallen asleep on your shoulder on the bus ride back for about an hour and spent the other three complaining that you weren’t paying attention to her. And why weren’t you paying attention?

Because Roy fucking Kent wouldn’t stop texting you. After you’d read over the text he’d sent to you during the second half (and ignored the weird feeling in your stomach and heat on your cheeks at him calling you an anomaly, God, why did that word land with you so well?), you’d returned to gloat. Hit the post again, he’d said. You hadn’t.

Things had gotten carried away from there. What had started as a slightly antagonistic and taunting back and forth had devolved into a conversation about the sleeping accommodations in the dorms (big-time footballer in his posh london flat doesn’t even have the decency to drop off a mattress topper and some extra pillows? you’d complained to him), then to about which countries you wanted to visit (Australia. For no other reason than to meet a quokka, he’d told you), then to what the fuck a quokka is and why he knew about them (that’s the stupidest looking animal i’ve seen in my life. i want 10 of them, you’d said), to whatever you’d landed on next.

You’d put your phone in your pocket the second you’d pulled back into the Village, helping the team unload everyone’s stuff. Everyone seemed completely dead, something of which you celebrated, simply because it meant there was no team bonding preventing you from going to sleep as soon as possible. The only thing that was doing that for you was Mel’s incessant questions about Roy.

“I really think you’re lying to me about this being a weird sex thing,” she says, readjusting her grip on the bag slung over her shoulder. “Because there’s no other reason that you two should be talking as much as you are.”

You make a face at her. “It’s not a weird sex thing,” you say for what feels like the seventeenth time that night. “We’re just friends. Or, you know, whatever the closest thing to a friend Roy has is.”

“That’s exactly my point,” Mel replies. Her voice echoes through the quiet night air surrounding the dorm’s courtyard. “Roy doesn’t do friends. He hasn’t for as long as I’ve known him.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know him.”

“I don’t. And I say that’s because he won’t let me get to know him. Because he doesn’t do friends.” She shrugs. “I mean, ask Jack or anyone who’s played with him. They’ll say the same.”

When you approach the doors of your dorm building, you make a teasingly innocent face at Mel. “Maybe I’m just different.”

“Right,” she says dryly. “Or he wants to fuck you.”

“Why are you trying to ruin this for me?” you whine as you open the door. “I’m actually, like, kind of having fun with him and this training thing we’re doing. He’s a good guy.” 

Mel shoots you a blank-faced stare. “You were calling him an asshole less than six hours ago.”

“Because he is. But he’s a good guy too,” you respond. “He’s like… I don’t know. Like Ron Swanson or Harrison Ford. Total curmudgeon but in a fun way.”

Mel’s lips purse. “Well, now I can’t stop picturing him with the Ron Swanson mustache.”

You grin, sidestepping fellow Olympians who hang around in the lobby of the dorm. “Have fun sleeping tonight.”

A heavy, exaggerated, long sigh leaves her as you approach the elevator. “Just be careful,” she says, putting her hands up in surrender as you look at her incredulously. “Even if you are just friends. And even if you’re not. As your actual friend, I have to tell you to be careful. All men suck, but athletes tend to suck ten times more.”

“I’ll be fine,” you reply in a sing-song fashion. The elevator doors open and you and Mel step in. “I appreciate you, though.”

“You better,” Mel scoffs. “I’m getting gray hairs thinking you’re doing weird sex shit with Chelsea’s Finest on a random pitch in the middle of London.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, my God, can these things close any slow--”

“Hold the door!” shouts a voice from the lobby. On instinct, you reach out to stop the doors that were finally closing, feeling Mel’s elbow in your side. The voice gets louder as it gets closer. “Thank you. Did not feel like waiting for this thing again.”

Into the elevator walks (quite possibly) the hottest man you’ve ever seen in your life. He’s got the quintessential surfer look to him, but in a way that works. He’s blonde (while you’re definitely more into dark hair, you can’t deny just how good he looks), at least six-three, and is built like a lean brick house. His curls fall into his eyes that squint into a smile as he looks at you and Mel.

“Oh,” he says as he walks in. “Congratulations on the win today.”

You and Mel stare at him in awe, snapping out of it as you realize that you’re gawking. “Thank you,” you manage to get out. You try to place his accent and what sport he could possibly specialize in, but your brain malfunctions. “I would say the same to you but I’m… uh--”

Luckily, he seems to catch on and saves you from your misery. “I’m Luca,” he says, holding out his hand for you and Mel to shake. “France. Swim team.”

“Nice to meet you, Luke,” Mel says, finally recovering from her trance. “You have any events today?”

“We did,” he says, though he seems to be talking more to you than to Mel. “Placed silver, so we can’t complain.” When you two congratulate him, he nearly brushes you off. “I have heard your team is looking like you’re going to go all the way this year. It is fun to watch.”

“We’re having a good run,” you respond, and he nods at you with that same breathtaking smile. “We’ll see what happens though.”

“Yeah, you are good.” Luca pauses for a moment, then shrugs coyly. “You’re American, so you are not as good as France, but you are up there.”

You see Mel’s head tilt out of the corner of your eye. “Easy now,” she warns with a light-hearted smile. “We beat them by two in our first match.”

Luca throws his hands up, grin turning teasing. “Just telling the truth. I must support my own.”

“Well,” you say, brow furrowed. “We’ll see when we get to the finals.”

“Oui. I believe that we will,” he responds. You notice that he’s leaned in closer than you had previously anticipated and the realization makes your face heat. “We should put a wager on it.”

“You want me to bet on my own team?” you ask rather bluntly, hearing Mel cough to cover a laugh.

“I suppose, yes,” Luca answers. The elevator stops at his floor and his eyes flick to the number on the small screen. “If France wins in your little tournament, you must purchase me a drink when these games are over. But if you win…” He trails off with a shrug as the doors open. “I’ll buy you one. It is only fair, no?”

You blink at him, trying to make sense of this entire situation. Is he flirting with you? Setting a friendly bet to get a drink? Just trying to be a jerk by referring to your Olympic Games as a ‘little tournament’? Then again, he was French, so many that’s just the way he spoke.

Yet another nudge from Mel finally has you answering. “I’m the one playing,” you say slowly, cautiously trying to read him. “I feel like I should have a better prize for winning.”

Luca seems to consider this but shrugs once more. “Those are my terms. Even I cannot make exceptions for beautiful women. Do you accept?”

Okay, so maybe he is flirting with you. This beautiful, French, god of a man is potentially flirting with you. You wish he’d upped the stakes by asking you to dinner or something to offer something more direct, but this is what you’re getting. As he exits the elevator, he puts a hand on the door while he awaits your answer. 

But, you don’t know him. You don’t know what he’s like, you don’t know if you’ll want him as a prize if you win, or as a consolation if you lose. But, you figure, it’s just fun. And he’s hot. So why not.

“I’ll consider it,” you decide, mirroring that grin of his.

Luca nods at you, motioning to the hallway behind him. “The deal expires soon. And now you know where to find me.” The smile returns. “So find me if you’re interested.”

And with that, your movie-star-looking, strange Frenchman saunters off down the hall, leaving you with a million questions and an American soccer player who’s gaping at you.

“That was the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life,” Mel says, staring at the now-closed doors. “I’m not even into that and… And he… And you said you’d consider getting a drink with him?”

“He made a bet with me,” you argue. “He didn’t ask me out. And even if he did, I didn’t say no.”

Mel looks at you like you’re both insane and the dumbest person alive. “I think we need to get you checked for a fucking concussion, because… what?”

“He didn’t!” you insist, suddenly doubting your own instincts. “Did he?”

The elevator stops and Mel makes a break for the doors. “I can’t even look at you right now.”

You watch helplessly as Mel walks toward your dorm, muttering things about you under her breath that you can barely hear. The second you step off the elevator to follow, you feel your phone vibrate in your pocket. 

Get some sleep, Fourteen. You’ve earned it. I’ll see you on Wednesday.

You find yourself smiling down at your phone, and for a moment, all thoughts of missed signs and Mel’s words go quiet. you too, you reply. big game tomorrow. and you know i’ll be harassing you like you did to me, so you better bring your a-game.

Before you can open your door to tuck in for the night, you get a response. I’m counting on it.

PRESENT DAY, MID-AUGUST, 2023.

Returning to Chelsea is like having one foot stuck in a dream and the other in a nightmare.

On one hand, it’s nostalgic. It’s loud and boisterous and you can’t escape the blue even if you tried. The field’s in the same pristine condition as you remember and the liveliness of it all engulfs you completely. It makes you think about everything that happened here and how easy it used to be.

But, on the other hand… it makes you think about everything. Those aforementioned easier times were a precursor to your downfall, and it all started here. It was the catalyst. Somehow, this place that had been in your life for an inordinately short period of time still had the same effect on you as it did eight years ago. And when you stare out at the field, you can't help but wonder what if.

As those memories start to creep into your head, you suddenly begin to feel very hot and incredibly overwhelmed. The tunnel you’re standing in is quickly going from something familiar to something more liminal. You swear it’s getting smaller too.

But on a day like today, you know you really can’t be panicking about the past. Your team’s on the field and your coaches are waiting for you to join them. There were more pressing things that were worthy of a panic attack.

You force yourself to take a deep breath and turn to the light emanating from the field at the end of the tunnel. You’d never talked yourself out of a panic attack at the prospect of more important panic, but at this point, you’d take what you could get. Focus on the clamminess of your hands. Focus on how bright the field is and how much it’s hurting your eyes. Focus on running through the new plays you now know like the back of your hand. 

As you walk down the tunnel and go through your maniacal little sense check, you decide to focus on something that you hear. And what you hear snaps you out of whatever state you’re in and makes it all quiet down a little bit. Because as you realize what it is you’re hearing, a very different feeling of… something takes over. 

“—HERE! HE’S THERE! HE’S EVERY-FUCKING-WHERE, ROY KENT! ROY KENT! HE’S—”

It’s nostalgia. It’s dread. It’s pride. It’s irritation. It’s… so many fucking things all at once and you can’t possibly stop yourself from smiling at it. The twinge you feel pulling in your stomach stays with you as you suppress that urge. Damn it.

Despite his final years being spent at Richmond and despite his new coaching status, they still adore him. You’d jokingly called him a “Chelsea Legend” more times than you could count, but it was true. It’s what he was. Not that you’d ever say that out loud.

By the time you make it to the field, Roy’s standing up from the coaches’ bench to show his thanks to the stadium. The cheer is resounding, the song continuing amongst it and you swear under your breath as that feeling lingers. 

It doesn’t go away as he turns to sit back down and meets your gaze instead. And, in typical Roy fashion, while he refused to show any emotion when thanking the city that supported him for years, a fraction of a smile makes its way onto his face when he sees you. 

(God, you hate yourself for noticing.) 

Looking away, you take another steadying breath and make your way to him and the rest of your team. The Richmond pullover you’re sporting rubs against your neck uncomfortably, but before you can fix it, you realize something: the cheers are getting louder. Confused, you look up at the jumbotron, knowing that that type of volume couldn’t possibly be for you. 

Lo and behold, it’s so not for you. It’s for Zava in the owner’s box, who’s staring at the camera like a professional wrestler, egging the crowd on. Right. Of course. Fucking Zava. You take a seat next to Roy as you stare up at the screen. 

“You think we have a chance?” you ask him, and you see him turn to you from the corner of your eye. “I’ve heard Rupert’s been putting in work there.”

Roy huffs. “Fucking twat puts in work everywhere but the things that matter,” he mutters, looking back to Zava. Your brows shoot up in agreement. “Let’s hope Zava’s not stupid enough to fucking fall for it.”

“Rupert knows how to stroke an ego,” you reply, glancing over to Jamie, who was warming up on the field, unsubtly making a very conscious effort to not look up at the screen. “He knows how to get what he wants. Speaking from experience.”

Roy scowls, and it’s a bit deeper than you were expecting. But, before you can dwell on that, he’s moving on. “You alright?” he asks. 

You know it’s meant to be casual on his part, but there’s an undertone of concern that you try to ignore. “Yeah,” you say through a sigh, hesitantly meeting his stare as you feel it boring into your cheek. You sigh again. “I’m good.” There’s a bit more conviction behind your voice this time, and it seems to satisfy him enough. “I’m nervous, but y’know. It’s a game. I’m always nervous before games.”

“I know,” he replies. “I’ve been waiting for you to throw up.”

It’s your turn to scowl now. “I only do that for big games. This is basically summer league.”

(While your sarcasm was flat, it didn’t go unnoticed. This was, in fact, a big game. Perhaps one of the biggest of your life. You’d thrown up twice today. But he didn’t need to know that.)

Roy looks unconvinced, but you’re thankful when he doesn’t press you further. “You know what to do today,” he tells you, and the assurance in his voice is palpable. 

You do know what to do today. You’ve got to prove why you were hired. Be the coach you know you can be. Get over that crippling anxiety that’s eating you alive. But instead of getting back into that, you say, “I know.”

“Fucking shook on it, too. Means you have to do it.”

You refrain from rolling your eyes and slump back into your chair. “Yeah, Roy, I know. I made that rule up. I got it.” With another sigh, you say quietly, “Just let me get there.”

His eyes remain on you. You think he’s going to say something else, but before he can, Ted whistles, calling everyone to attention. As the team rounds up, you and Roy stand.

Instead of saying whatever he was about to, he offers you a nod. 

You got this, he tells you silently. 

And despite the weird, horrendous, painful nether space your relationship currently exists in, the action does make you breathe a little easier. 

You send him one back in thanks.

What doesn’t make you breathe easier, however, is the score at the end of the half. What makes it even worse, is the unprofessional, pedantic Kent Rule that Roy has placed on the team that doesn’t allow anyone to speak in front of Trent Crimm.

Roy’s arms cross over his chest as soon as the writer enters the room, your players quieting down in suit. Your head tips back in annoyance, bracing for whatever’s about to come.

But nothing happens. The team remains quiet and wildly awkward and Trent aptly reads the room. Before he can leave, however, Ted’s calling for him to stay and is asking for Roy to chat.

Roy sends you a glance, then follows his head coach to the back of the room. While the players continue their talks in hushed tones, Beard inches over to where you stand. 

“Did I see a playbook in your bag earlier?” he asks quietly, making you flinch in surprise. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were listening in to their conversation.”

You shoot Beard a look. “I was not,” you say, even though you so totally were. “And yeah? I, uh, take that with me everywhere.”

Beard nods. “Are they your plays?”

“Most of them,” you reply, shifting uncomfortably. You hadn’t talked about that book with anyone since you coached your college girls, and anyone you had shown it to over at West Ham hadn’t given it the time of day. “Why?”

“I want to see them,” he says, shrugging at your surprised expression. “If you want to show them to someone, that is.”

A small smile pulls at your parted lips, and you nod back at him. “That’d be—”

“CRIMM!”

Roy’s voice startles you again, and this time, it gets Beard too. You both turn to see Roy walking back toward the showers, Trent hesitantly following in tow. Ted offers a small smile to both you and Beard as he returns.

“That’d be great,” you whisper to Beard, finishing your sentence. “Thank you.”

The next few minutes are just as awkward as the previous ones. No one knows exactly what to do, or how the conversation behind you is going to play out. You know how hard it is for Roy to let go of things. Forgiveness was never something he excelled at, especially when it came to more personal topics. Not that you were any better at it.

You look around the locker room, watching each of your players whisper animatedly amongst each other. You were down by one and there were no signs of giving up. Each of them knew they were still in this. Even more so, you hadn’t heard any unkind or unsupportive words spoken since you got into the room. 

Your mind takes you back to the second summer scrimmage you coached at West Ham. You were also down by one at the half, and the atmosphere couldn't have been more different. Blame was being shoved down everyone’s throat, clinging wherever it would stick. Nathan Shelley had reprimanded three players within a minute and all of this was for a scrimmage. Nothing about that game mattered or counted. This, of course, was remedied the second you started winning, and the locker room was a wildly different place when you ended up winning by three.

While West Ham seemed to like each other, there was no sense of camaraderie there. It was nice, but nothing was kind. Richmond seemed like a family. You were starting to see that now. 

It wasn’t something you were able to embrace right now, but there was a growing piece of you that was… hopeful that you’d be able to at some point.

At that realization, you feel your body relax for a moment. Only for it to tense back up again as you’re scared for a third time, by Roy and Trent coming back to the group. As soon as he gives the green light to the team that Trent’s safe, the locker room erupts into relieved chaos.

Jamie starts shouting about the passing lanes. Sam yells out something about Chelsea’s lack of defense. More and more voices begin to speak up to offer their insight, and while they’re all on the right path, nobody’s said the right thing yet.

You can feel the words rising in your throat. Your mind continues to spin. Every thought you’d held on to, every tip you wanted to say, every nerve you had about saying the wrong thing was bubbling within you and you could feel yourself about to burst. 

No more being quiet. No more being afraid. No more being passive.

I know that you know them on the field. But they fucking don’t. And they won’t know it until you fucking show them.

You can feel your hands begin to shake back and forth in anticipation of whatever it is you’re about to say. However, you don’t realize that someone’s been watching you until they step beside you.

“C’mon,” they chide, making you jump, “Fucking say it.”

You don’t have to look to know that it’s Roy, but you still turn your head. His eyes fall from yours, to your hands, then back to your face. He’s familiar enough with your tells to know what’s going on. One part of you is grateful to have that. The other part wants to kill him.

The expression you wear reads hesitance, and you’ve only got about three minutes before the team needs to head back out.

As he continues to stare at you, you can hear his voice in your head. This is your job. You signed up for this. You’re a coach. So fucking coach. 

You take a deep, shuddering breath and ball up your fists to stop the shaking. Fucking say it.

So, amidst the noise and the yelling and the bickering, you do.

“EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

The silence that takes over the locker room is immediate and deafening. Every single person stares at you in shock, jaws agape and eyes wide as if they couldn’t imagine looking anywhere else. 

Every person but one. And if you were to turn and shake the sudden anxiety of having all attention on you, you’d see him smiling softly to himself, something like pride gracing his typically stoic expression.

It takes a moment before you realize they’re all waiting for you to say something. You glance over at Ted, who, while still a bit taken aback, nods at you encouragingly. 

You’ve got the floor, Coach. Let’s do it.

“You’re all right,” you begin, motioning to each of them as you speak. “Yes, Jamie, they’re blocking the passing lanes. It’s a straight-up wall once you get into the midfield. And yeah, Sam they’re not marking you guys. Because they don’t have to. You’re all just…” You search for the word, throwing a hand up when you land on, “...running around aimlessly out there because you’re trying to see what’s going to work. But you know what will?” 

They all just continue to stare at you. Whether or not it’s because nobody has an answer or because they can’t believe you’re actually talking like this, you don’t care. Because you answer for them. “You make them mark you. Force them to break down that wall. Draw them out, and then pass through the cracks,” you tell them, offering a small grin as you continue. “I know you guys. And I know it hasn’t seemed like it because I’ve been… quieter. But I know the type of team you are, and each of you are so, incredibly good at what you do. You’re way better than what you’re doing out there. Like, way better.”

Your team remains quiet, but you know they’ve snapped out of their surprised trance because they’re smiling at you. And they look on board. Your grin grows as you notice. “So, let’s go out there and start this season off right, huh?”

That gets them up and out of their seats. The boys erupt in a cheer, clapping as they gather around in a circle, each of them putting their hands in the middle. Dani’s voice echoes through the locker room as he yells, “For Coach’s first game!”

Another round of cheers follows before Ted looks over at you. “Couldn’t have said it better myself,” he tells you, and you feel a sense of relief wash over you. “Alright. I second everything she said. Now get out there and show them what you’re made of. Okay, four on three!”

Hands go up after their chant, and the team runs out of the room with a type of energy that you’re not sure you’ve seen before. You hang back for a moment to take a breath.

A hand clamps down on your shoulder, and you turn to see Ted smiling at you. “Nice to hear your voice, Ace,” he says, squeezing it softly. “I hope we’ll hear it some more.”

You send him a thankful smile, nodding in affirmation. “You will.”

Ted squeezes your shoulder once more, heading out behind the team. Beard nods in your direction, looking vaguely impressed in the way that only he can, before following suit. 

That leaves you and Roy in the locker room, and somehow, for the first time, you feel like you can completely relax. A shuddering breath leaves your lips, chest heaving down as you do so. You hear Roy huff when he moves to stand next to you. 

“Well,” he says. “That was one fucking way to do it.”

“I have no idea what I said,” you tell him. “I blacked out after I yelled at everyone to shut up.”

You get a huff of a laugh out of Roy for that one. “You did fine.” He doesn’t miss your dubious look. “I’m serious. You did well.”

“Yeah?” you ask.

Roy nods, expression turning a bit more earnest. “Yeah, Fourteen. You did well.”

The nickname makes a lump form in your throat, and it takes everything in you to ignore it. It’d been a while since you’d heard that one like this. It settles like cement in your stomach and you wish you could shake the feeling. He keeps his gaze on yours until you blink away, focusing on anything but him.

“Thanks,” you manage. Again, because he’s being nice, you suppose you can be too. “And, uh… thanks for pushing me. To do that, I mean.”

Roy nods, albeit a bit uncomfortably. “You needed it.”

“Yeah,” you say again. You hold his stare for one more second before returning his nod, the tension in the air easing within the moment. “Let’s go win a game, Coach.”

You don’t see the way Roy hides a smile as you turn to exit, the reflexive words of ‘not your coach’ on his tongue. But, he bites them back because, well… he is a coach. And so are you.

And as strange as all of this has been for the last week, it hasn't actually felt real to him until now. You’re here. You’re here and working with him and you’re not going anywhere.

The idea of it doesn’t make Roy panic as much as he thought it would.

(Though, unfortunately, that idea is what gets Roy to freak out. But he figures he’s got a bit of time to work that one out.)

LONDON OLYMPICS, EARLY AUGUST, 2012.

“You ever date a swimmer?”

It’s a question you pose to Roy seemingly out of the blue in the middle of one of your many footwork drills of the night. It was all he’d wanted to focus on for tonight’s training session, especially with your quarter-final game against New Zealand on Friday. While the idea of practicing again tomorrow was still up in the air, Roy had insisted on this practice being solely about fixing up what he viewed as your one weakness.

Roy looks up from your feet in confusion. “What?”

“Have you ever dated a swimmer?” you repeat, enunciating your words in a mildly obnoxious manner. “Perhaps a French person? But any swimmer will do.”

He’s still staring at you like you have three heads. “The fuck are you on about?”

You throw your hands up in a shrug. “I’m just asking. I find it hard to believe that amongst the slew of hook-ups I’ve read about, you haven’t slept with a swimmer.”

Those furrowed brows raise in interest at your statement. “Oh, you’ve read about those?”

Your eyes roll. “So not the point of what I was saying. Answer my question.”

“Foxtrot,” he says, watching you look at him in surprise. “Now shut the fuck up and finish your drills.”

“You really want to use our newly-established one Foxtrot of the hour on a simple topic like this?” you question.

Apparently, he doesn’t. “No, I haven’t dated a swimmer,” he finally tells you, exasperated. He glances down at your feet. “Stay on your toes. That fucking left foot of yours is always fucking flat.” Still staring at your feet and ignoring the way you roll your eyes, he inquires, “Why the fuck are you asking? And why do they have to be French?”

“I think I got asked out by one yesterday,” you say. Roy’s gaze meets yours with a speed that nearly makes you stumble in the middle of your drill. “But I can’t tell if he was being a weird little jerk or if he’s just French.”

While his lips twitch up at the last part of your statement, he seems more stuck on the first. “You think you were asked out?”

“Okay, it was strange,” you reply, sounding a tad defensive and slightly breathless. “He was kind of like, negging me? Which, you know, I’m now used to because I started hanging out with you.�� Roy shoots you a look, but you carry on anyway. “But he was all, ‘oh yeah, you’re good. But not as good as the French team.’ And then he was like, ‘how about this, if France beats you guys, you have to buy me a drink. But if you win, I’ll buy you one.’ So, I’m kind of confused.” You stop your footwork as Roy’s stopwatch goes off and you take a moment to catch your breath. “And I’m honest enough to admit that I was only entertaining it because he was hot, but I truly can’t tell if he’s flirting with me and asking me out because he thinks we’ll win, or if he’s trying to get free drinks out of me because he thinks we’ll lose.”

“He was asking you out,” Roy says bluntly, continuing to look unimpressed. “He did a fucking horrendous job of it, but yeah. He’s interested.”

You nod, absorbing this for a second before throwing your hands up. “Why do guys do that?” 

“Do what?” he asks. “Ask girls out?”

Your expression quickly matches his. “Yes, exactly. I’d love for you to explain what happens when a man loves a woman, Roy,” you deadpan, biting back a smile as you see one grow on his lips. “No, dickhead. Why do guys think that… that’s the way to ask someone out? Like, I love a little banter as much as the next girl, but you gotta be good at it. And if you’re not good at it…” You shrug. “I don’t know. If you’re bad at flirting, you’re bad at flirting. That’s okay. That just means you’ve just gotta be direct with how you’re feeling.”

There’s a brief moment where Roy seems to consider this, but shakes his head soon after. “Some don’t know how.”

“Well, they should take classes from you or something,” you reply. “Because you’re the most direct guy I know.”

Roy’s scowl deepens. “Thanks.”

“That’s a compliment,” you say, pointing at him. His expression doesn’t change. “I’m serious. I appreciate it. You’re never afraid to tell me shit. It’s admirable.” A wry grin spreads across your face. “Flirting with you must be a three-sentence interaction.”

He casts his eyes up to the night sky. “Fuck’s sake, you’re on one tonight.”

“No, I’m curious. How do you do it?” you press with raised brows. “You told me when we met that if you were trying to ‘chat me up,’ I’d know it. So, c’mon. How does the magic happen?”

Though you were sure that it was impossible, Roy somehow looks even less impressed. “Foxtrot,” he all but snaps at you, making a low noise at the way you crush your lips together to hold back a laugh. “And I’m fucking serious about it this time. Using my one for the hour, or whatever the fuck.”

“Fine, fine,” you say, honoring your established rule with a surrender. “You don’t want to waste your succinct flirting charms on me, I get it. I won’t push you.”

Roy scoffs under his breath, fidgeting with his stopwatch. “They wouldn’t be.”

The words make you pause. “What?”

The stopwatch in his hand beeps as he finishes fiddling with the buttons. “You said they’d be wasted on you.” His eyes flick up to catch yours. “I can guarantee it wouldn’t be a waste.”

He speaks so casually that you almost don’t know what to do. You can’t tell what he means. Would his efforts not be a waste because he… likes you? That he wouldn’t even try if he wasn’t interested? Or is he just so confident in his abilities that he thinks he could get you that easily? That he could turn it on within minutes and make you rethink your entire, weird little friendship that you’ve started over this week? Because, to your knowledge, Roy hasn’t shown any sort of sign that he’s interested in you.

Or has he? Was Mel right again? Have you been reading this situation wrong? Was his bickering and negging his strange way of trying to flirt with you? Getting in your ear during drills? Texting you during games? Calling you an anomaly?

You nearly shake the thought out of your head. He’s Roy Kent. He’s quite literally known for being stoic, for his confrontational personality, and for his hotheaded tendencies. You’ve seen all of those traits since you started training together and nothing’s tipped you off that it could be anything more than friendly. Or whatever his version of friendly is.

You’ve also seen the kinds of women he dates. They’re actresses, singers, models, heiresses-- rich London elite. The shitty little one-bedroom you’ve got back home cries out in shame in the back of your mind. The Team USA Nike campaign that you were barely a part of for the World Cup taunts you. Actress, singer, model, and heiress you were not.

You’re not sure if he sees the look of confusion on your face, but you turn away before you can confirm anything. “Right,” you say, drawing the word out slightly. You kick the ball you’d almost forgotten about toward him. “Anyway. I’m bored of these drills. I need to do something else or I’ll go insane.”

Roy receives your pass, placing his foot on top of the ball with a quirked brow. There’s a hint of a smirk on his face as he attempts to gauge your reaction, momentarily throwing you off. “When have you ever had a say about what goes on in these sessions?”

“Well, never. But I think that says more about your coaching style than it does about anything else, despot.”

Roy rolls his eyes for the umpteenth time that night. He’s found that it’s something he tends to do frequently when you’re around. “I told you that footwork’s the only thing we’re working on tonight.”

“Yeah, but I’m bored,” you repeat. “Don’t you have like… I don’t know. Games we can play?”

“Games?” he parrots. He almost sounds offended. “What, are you five years old?”

You completely ignore his comment and gasp, pointing at him. “Let’s play knockout.”

“Again, I ask, are you fucking five years old?”

You look at him, pouting as you slouch over. “C’mon,” you practically whine. “It’s totally a footwork drill. But it’s fun. And it’s better than you just standing there menacingly with a stopwatch like you’re Frankie Dunn.”

Roy looks at you, then hesitates. “You’re a terrible fucking negotiator.”

That moment of hesitation lets you know that you’ve almost got him. While you may be a terrible negotiator, you’re something else: observant. The thing you’ve learned about Roy is that he physically can’t back down from a challenge. You know that there’s something ironic in that, but you figure that’s why you two have worked together so well so far.

So, your eyes narrow and you allow yourself to step forward to do just that; challenge him. “And you’ve got South Korea in a couple days. From what I saw last night, you need the practice.”

Roy’s head tilts, the beginnings of a dangerous smile twisting the corners of his lips. “Is that right?”

“I recall a lost possession toward the end of the first half that easily could have been avoided,” you say, sticking your leg out to kick the ball out from beneath his foot. The faux passive tone you’ve taken on nearly dissolves at the way his eyes darken. “For the amount that Chelsea's Finest goes on and on about footwork, you’d think he’d be better at it.”

Something between you two shifts the second those words leave your mouth. You’re not sure if it’s the way he’s looking at you (or continues to look at you, God, you don’t think he’s blinked yet) or if it’s your new proximity, but things feel completely different from when you started. The stare you’re holding is charged. It’s not just a challenge anymore— there’s something else there. It makes your mind whirl.

Roy’s voice is low when he asks, “What would you have done differently?”

It’s not what you were expecting, but it offers you a reason to look away from his piercing gaze, take a breath, and shrug. “I don’t know,” you say. “Crossed my mark up a little. Probably would have sent it up the field. Your striker was practically begging to be passed to.” You glance back up at him, with a smile that borders on teasing. “Definitely wouldn’t have hit my mark as hard as you did when you lost the ball.”

“He fucking dove,” is his response, sounding only slightly annoyed. But, when he sees you chuckle, he comes back to, “Who was open upfield?”

His question is genuine, like he’s actually interested in hearing your answer. “I don’t know. Didn’t recognize him. I think he’s a rookie,” you reply with yet another shrug. “But if you led him a little bit, he would have been open.” Roy’s brow draws as he hums something affirmative. When you realize he’s actually thinking about the play, considering what you’re saying, you can’t help but throw in, “Plays like that happen when you’re thinking ahead, Coach.”

Your tone has Roy glaring down at you, and you can feel the look sear through you. “And the goal that happened immediately after that was all instinct.”

“Maybe,” you say noncomittally. "But it could have been better if you all had thought ahead."

That tension between you shifts again, but this time, it’s in a way you’re really not expecting. When Roy looks back at you, there’s something disbelieving in his eyes. As if he can’t figure you out. But it’s also something almost… fond. “You really watched the game last night.”

It’s a question that comes out sounding like a statement. You’re not sure why he looks so surprised or why the emotional state of this conversation keeps going back and forth, but you say the only thing you can think to: the truth.

“You watch mine,” you reply as if the answer was obvious. “And believe it or not, I like watching you play.” Roy blinks at you, obviously not expecting that. For good measure, you add, “Being on the field actually gives you a reason to be a dick, so.”

That same searing stare returns, and it fixates on you long enough to make you itch. You don’t break it, but you rock back and forth on your heels, thinking for a second, maybe you said the wrong thing. Maybe it was a little too real, or a little too friendly.

But before you can sweat it too much, Roy dips his head. “Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fucking hell, fine. One round of knockout, you fucking child.”

“Seriously?” you ask, not even trying to hide the excitement in your voice.

“Yeah. Get the ball. Let’s go.”

You beam at him, running to go grab the ball you’d kicked away from him previously. When you turn back, you find he’s moving to get his own. “If I’d known you’re this easily swayed by flattery, I would have started being way nicer to you earlier.”

“Don’t push it,” he calls out. Despite the fact he’s not facing you, you can picture the look on his face. “And don’t be fucking nice to me. I want to see you pissed.”

“But we’re playing knockout,” you say, as he turns and kicks his football in your direction. “How can I be pissed?”

Roy smirks. “I’m sure I can find a way.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can too. But why do you want me pissed?”

“Because you play better when you’ve got something to prove,” he tells you. Then, he shrugs. “That, and… well, I wasn’t lying.” 

You scrunch your brow. “About what?”

“It’s a good fucking look on you,” he says, meeting your gaze once more. “I might have to piss you off more often.”

Oh. Right, right, right. Totally. Ignoring the way that that makes your cheeks go warm, you reply, “Well, like you said. I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

That’s when Roy smiles at you. It’s accompanied by a chuckle and while it’s not a full grin, it’s something warm and mildly sweet. However, for the first time, you’re stuck by how good he looks. You’d always thought he was good-looking, but you’d never been attracted to him. But for some reason, right here, right now, some switch has flipped. 

The realization churns your stomach and makes you physically look away from him. “C’mon, let’s play,” you say, hoping your forced nonchalance hides anything you’re currently feeling. “I like watching you lose.”

Roy huffs, sounding just a bit incredulous. “Whatever you say.”

PRESENT DAY, MID-AUGUST, 2023.

You walk away from the Chelsea pitch with a tie. And frankly, you’ll take it.

You’ve never seen a team more excited about a draw. They’re rowdy as they gather back into the locker room, and you feel a hint of a grin rising as you watch them from the hall. The petty part of your brain again has you comparing what this would have been like if you still worked at West Ham. Shelley would have berated your players (and likely his coaching staff) about how pathetic a draw was. West Ham was the superior team of the league, after all. Their record had to show for it.

It’s then that a sudden realization comes crashing down on you. Fuck. West Ham. PR. You have to do press with Ted.

As if he could hear his name rattling around in your mind, your head coach steps in beside you. He nudges your elbow with his. “You alright there, Ace?”

You nod quickly, like that’ll hide the panic you know is written across your face. “Yeah, Coach. I’m alright.”

When he folds his hands behind his back, you know he isn’t buying what you’re selling. “You still okay to do this with me?” he asks, motioning to the press room down the hall.

“I’ve done press before,” you reply, though your mildly defensive tone tells him that you’re not certain if you’re assuring him or yourself. At the way he dips his head, you sigh in defeat. “I’ve done this before. Just… never at this level. Or for these reasons.”

Ted nods in understanding. “You know you don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

“I know,” you say, because you do.

“And I’ll be there beside you the whole time. I can take over whenever you need me to.” He nudges you again. “I ain’t too bad with all this press stuff. And I’m more than happy to make a fool of myself if it gets too tough. Really give ‘em something to talk about.”

That gets you to look up at him wearily. “I’m scared to know what that means.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t think we’ll get there,” he says, earning a chuckle from you in response. A beat passes before he looks at you again. “You ready?”

A long, sharp sigh exits your body. When you inhale, you turn back to him. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says, nodding toward the room. “Let’s go quiet ‘em all down.”

You surprise yourself with an involuntary smile, but it gives you the confidence to follow him.

The press room is abuzz as you approach it and they get even more lively when you enter. You can hear your name being said from every direction and the chaos makes your hands shake. You’ve done this before, you tell yourself. You used to be good at these. It’s part of being a coach. You wanted this. You know how to do this.

Ted, who’s been leading the way, steps out to allow you to go up the stairs first. You clasp your hands together as you walk up, praying that this isn’t the moment your feet choose to fail you and make you trip. Luckily, you avoid disaster and make your way to the further of the two chairs on stage.

You look out into the sea of reporters, eye each of the cameras, and continue to play with your fingers as if it’s the answer to calming your nerves. You don’t realize things have gotten started until you hear Ted’s voice.

“Alright, alright, alright,” he greets the room, and you can’t help but envy how easily the words come out. “Afternoon everyone. What have you got for us today?” All hands in the room immediately go up, each reporter’s eyes shifting from you, to Ted, then back to you. Everyone’s got the same question on their minds. Everyone, except the guy that Ted picks, apparently. “Yeah, Alec. What do you got for us?”

Alec The Reporter stands. “How are we feeling about starting the season with a draw, Coach?”

Thank you, Alec, for starting with the easy question. “Well, I mean, I think we both would have liked a win,” Ted replies, looking over at you. You try your best at a smile and nod along. “But we’re proud of our boys. They turned it around after that first half, due mostly to the insight of our new coach over here. So, I think we’re feeling good about this start.” 

Alec sits down, satisfied with the answer. Before Ted calls on the next reporter, he glances at you. You nod once. You’re ready.

Ted points at a blonde woman toward the back of the room. “Sarah, how are we doing?”

Sarah The Reporter stands now. “Very well, thank you.” Her attention is immediately on you. “Coach,” she says, addressing you. “How was your first game with Richmond?”

Easing it into it, are we? You clear your throat and keep that smile plastered on your face. You can practically hear Roy yelling from the locker room for you to loosen up. “Not echo Coach Lasso, but I’m feeling good. Definitely would have liked a win, but it’s not a loss.”

You don’t think you could have given a more generic, neutral answer if you had tried. Maybe simply answering with ‘good’ would have been worse, but you doubt it. Sarah’s not done with you. “I was more referencing the dynamics of the team in your first game. The culture, if you will.”

Then come right out and say that then, don’t be weird and coy. You fight back a scowl and in doing so, your grin cracks slightly. The phrasing isn’t lost on you. Dynamics. Culture. They’re all words Rupert used just days ago. Stick to the script. Talking points. Don’t let them bait you.

“The Richmond culture’s definitely different,” you reply, perhaps putting too much emphasis on the word. To save yourself, you add, “But I think that’s to be expected when coaching Men's sports. Bit of a different world over here.” You offer a shrug, hoping your smile returns to what it was. “I’m very grateful to the Richmond team and staff for welcoming me with open arms into the warm environment they’ve created.”

You hope Rebecca and Keeley are somewhere cheering you on. That was sweet, neutral, and non-confrontational. Everything you wanted to be. Everything you should be in this line of questioning.

Ted nods at Sarah, cueing her to sit down. He points to a reporter in the front. “Marcus, yeah.”

It’s Marcus The Reporter’s turn to stand. And he comes out swinging. “No use in beating around the bush,” he says, eyes on you. “Do you have any response to Rupert Mannion’s comments about you and your tenure at West Ham?”

This is it. You feel Ted’s foot nudge yours encouragingly as you nod at Marcus and take a breath. Just as rehearsed. You got this.

“There’s not much to say that Mr. Mannion hasn’t already,” you answer slowly. “Unfortunately, some things like that just don’t work out. I too was not happy with the note that we ended on and wish it could have worked out our differences. But that’s all it was. Differences. There aren’t any hard feelings or any sort of bad blood between us. West Ham is a great team that I was honored to be a part of for the time that I was allowed. I’m sure they’ll have a fantastic season and can’t wait to meet them in a couple of weeks.”

You nearly let out a sigh of relief when you finish, thankful that that’s fucking done. The lies don’t sit right on your tongue and feel as though they’re rotting your teeth, but you don’t care. You got it all out, didn’t slip up or trip up, and can hopefully put this to bed.

However, unfortunately for you, Marcus doesn’t seem to be satisfied. Because he’s got a follow-up question you’re not at all prepared for. “And what of Tom MacDonald’s recent comments?”

The world stops. It comes to a complete, emergency-braked fucking halt and you feel as though someone’s punched you in the stomach. You feel like you’ve been ambushed, but you know that if you could have been prepared for this, you would have been. This must have happened today. Perhaps, even moments before this. You can feel Ted’s eyes on the side of your face almost immediately.

He… made comments? He spoke about you?

You can feel your throat constricting, but manage to get a couple words out in a relatively neutral-sounding tone. “I’m not sure what comments you’re referring to.”

“In his post-game interview about a half-hour ago,” Marcus says, glancing down at his notes to read. “He said, quote, ‘My best wishes are to Miss USA and her new Richmond team. I hope she finds her place with them, as I don’t think she ever really found hers here. But, you know, I guess you can’t really know until you really try to get to know the lads in the locker room and in the Coaches' Offices, huh?’”

Your breath’s been stolen from you. You can feel your nose and eyes start to burn as you stare Marcus down, steeling the look on your face. Refusing to show any type of emotion or reaction to that, you gather yourself.

What a fucking prick. What an absolute, horrendously evil, fucking asshole he is. You can imagine the look on his face when he said that. The smarmy fucking smile that accompanied it, the casual nonchalance of which he spewed that last part out with. You want to burn him. You want to destroy his life, his career, everything. The audacity he was to even bring up the locker room and the… 

You feel physically ill. You could throw up on the spot, but there’s something in you that’s keeping you from doing so. As the silence in the room festers, you feel Ted’s foot tap against yours again.

Do you need me to make a fool of myself? His eyes ask as you meet them. 

Quickly, you shake your head. You can do this. You’ve done this before. You used to be good at these. Don’t let him get to you like this. Don’t let either of them win.

You know you won’t come forward with what happened. You can’t. But you weren’t going to sit on your hands anymore. You wouldn’t be neutral anymore. Neutral. That was the word of the day. 

Fuck the word.

You allow another moment of silence to pass before you blink and refocus on Marcus. “I…” you begin, collecting yourself. You can feel the anger rise within you and you know it shows in your eyes. You’ve never been able to hide that. “I do, actually.”

(Somewhere in the Chelsea facilities, Rebecca Walton and Roy Kent are glued to different TVs broadcasting your conference. Rebecca’s unsure if she should be praying that you’ll tear West Ham apart or writhing in fear at the idea of what’s about to come out of your mouth. Roy, however, clocked the look in your eye immediately and can’t remember the last time he’s smiled this big.)

“As I said previously,” you start, straightening your back with a new, harder, more confident tone, “I’m also disappointed with the way that things ended between me and my former team. I also wish things could have been different and that I could have found my place. However, Mr. Mannion was correct when he assumed that I experienced a bit of a culture shock when I joined the club. However, I can’t blame anyone or anything for that but my own expectations for what I assumed AFC Football was going to be.” You offer a smaller, slightly more pleasant grin to the reporters and cameras. “But I can confirm that Richmond has met all of those aforementioned expectations within my first week. I’m excited to continue my journey with them and can’t wait to see where we go this season.”

Hands immediately fly up in response to your answer, follow-up questions galore. You glance over at Ted for a moment (who looks like he’s unsure whether he should be proud of you or sweating this), then suddenly find that a group of people are being ushered into the press room. You eyes lock with the man in the center, and he stares right back at you with an intensity you’re not sure you’ve seen before. Zava.

“And on that note,” you say, quieting everyone down. Relief washes over you now that you have an excuse to leave the room, “I think we’ve run out of time for questions concerning me. We’ve got something much more important to cover.”

When they all see that you’re referring to Zava, the room erupts into even more chaos. You couldn’t possibly be out of your chair faster, ready to make a break for it, and run to the bathroom. Ted’s on your heels as you exit, running in front of you to stop you as you make it to the hall.

“Woah, woah, slow down there,” he says with a soft laugh. “Runnin’ out of there faster than Tom Cruise in— well, any of the Mission Impossible movies, I guess.” You don’t meet his eye, or offer him any sort of pity laugh, something he catches immediately. “You alright, Ace?”

“Yeah,” you say shortly. God, you don’t want to cry in front of your head coach. “I’m good.”

He sees right through you. God, why is everyone at Richmond so fucking in touch with other people’s emotions? “Is there something you want to talk about? Maybe something I should know about—”

“No.” It’s a conversation ender and Ted steps back from you. You squeeze your eyes shut, wanting nothing less than to deal with this right now. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—” With a deep breath, you move away from him. “I’m fine. Really. Thank you for your help in there, Coach. And thank you for a wonderful first week.”

You even don’t hear what Ted has to say in response to that before you’re beelining for the bathroom and locking yourself in a stall, finally allowing the tears that had been welling in your eyes to fall.

Zava announces that he'll be joining Richmond and thirty minutes, later you find yourself in a 'Coaches Group Chat' reading a message from Ted.

After you'd collected yourself, you had the full intention of pretending like everything was normal. You refused to let him win or get the better of your emotions, or fucking... whatever. So, the second you received that text, you immediately signed yourself up for whatever Ted wanted you to do. 

Coaches’ Celebration at Crown and Anchor, the text from him reads. Be there or be square.

However, apparently, you’re the only one who’s concerned with being square, because none of your fellow coaches have shown up yet. There’s a group of three guys sitting at a table in the corner, yelling things at the screen every few minutes. You see a couple who are throwing darts at the end of the bar. There’s a lone man with a pint at the hightop by the door, texting away on his phone. But Ted, Beard, and Roy were nowhere to be found.

The bartop’s nearly abandoned, so you choose a seat in the middle, making sure to reserve three extras. When the woman behind the bar turns to serve you, you can tell she immediately recognizes you, and the smile she offers is warm.

“Good showing today,” she tells you. Then, she shrugs. “Would have liked a win.”

A surprised laugh escapes you. “You and me both.”

“What’ll it be?” she asks.

You hesitate for a moment, glancing at the door. “Um, I’m meeting people here. I—”

“Oh. Right. That’s tonight,” she says, with a knowing look in her eye. Your brow scrunches. “When he gets here, call me over. My name’s Mae.”

Before you can question that cryptic fucking sentence or correct her and let her know that you’re meeting people (plural) here, the pub door opens. Roy walks through, nodding once he sees you.

He grabs the stool to your left. “Nice press conference today,” he says in greeting, taking a seat. 

The teasing note in his voice makes you scowl. “Shut up. I was nervous.”

“I liked the part where you called Rupert a lying prick who needs to keep his mouth shut.”

“That’s not even close to what I said.”

Roy chuckles. “You might as well have. That was a media-trained ‘fuck you’ if I’ve ever seen one.”

God, you could really use that drink now. “I wasn’t even trained for that one,” you admit sheepishly. ”I literally don’t know where that came from. I was like, possessed by some bitchy politician or something.”

“She’d have my vote.”

“She shouldn’t. She’d start a global thermonuclear war because someone implied that she was difficult to work with.” You make a face at Roy as he chuckles. “Besides, I don’t think a Roy Kent endorsement would do her any favors.”

“Probably not,” Roy agrees. “Only person I’ve ever endorsed was you, and look where we are.”

You roll your eyes, casting them to the door. “Oh, my God. Okay, where are Ted and Beard?”

“They’re not coming,” a voice says as they round the bar. Mae stands before you once more, wiping her hands on a rag. 

You and Roy stare at her. “What do you mean they’re not coming?” you ask.

“I mean, they’re not coming,” Mae repeats matter-of-factly. Confusion takes over your expression. “They lured you two here and I’ve been given a ridiculous amount of money to keep you here until the two of you…” She glances down at her phone. “Fix your issues and…” Mae squints at the text she’s reading from. “...’Have whatever conversation you’ve been tiptoeing around.’”

By the time Mae looks up, you’re gaping at her and Roy’s already out of his seat. 

“You’re kidding,” you say faintly, praying that she’ll answer yes.

You have no such luck. “I’m not.”

“Fuck this,” Roy mutters. “I’m not getting fucking trapped at a fucking pub with you on a Sunday night because our stupid fucking team doesn’t understand fucking boundaries.”

You throw a thumb over your shoulder in the direction he’s looking to leave. “I second that. No offense, you seem lovely,” you tell Mae, “but I’m not staying here.”

“Unfortunately, you are,” Mae responds, nodding to the man who was sitting alone at the hightop, who stands up to block the door. He’s got to be the tallest man you’ve ever seen, and he’s built. You have no idea where he came from, but the sight of him alone gives you pause.

Roy’s on that same wavelength because he stops in his tracks, glaring at him. “This is fucking insane,” he says, looking back over to Mae.

“I agree,” she says, then nods to the window. “Take it up with them.”

You follow Mae’s line of sight to see Ted and Beard, sharing a pair of binoculars to stare at the two of you When they realize they’ve been spotted, Beard slowly removes the binoculars from his eyes and glares at Roy. Ted at least offers the dignity of a pity wave.

“Whatever they’re paying you,” you begin. “Roy will double it.”

Roy narrows his eyes. “I will?”

“Yes. You will.”

“Why the fuck am I the one paying? We’ve got the same fucking salary now.”

You whip around in your seat to glare at him, exasperation in your voice as you say, “Oh, my God, you played in the AFC for twenty years. I was in women’s sports for thirteen. We’re not even close to the same tax bracket.”

Roy considers this for approximately two seconds, then turns back to Mae. “Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll fucking double it.”

Mae shrugs, clearly not budging. “I’m a woman of my word, Mr. Kent,” she replies. Then, she motions to the clock on the wall. “I’ve promised to keep you here for at least an hour. What you do after that is none of my business.”

As Mae walks away, you stare at the bartop, truly unable to accept that this is happening in your present reality. There’s no way you’re doing this— no way that Roy’s doing this. This is fucking ridiculous, it’s wildly unprofessional, and—

—And Roy’s sitting down. You slowly raise your head to watch him pull out the barstool, slump into the chair, and put his face in his hands as if he can’t believe he’s actually going through with this. 

He’s giving in. He’s not putting up a fight. He’s obeying the wishes of his friends, he’s resigned to the cause, he’s… he’s putting himself in a position to have the conversation you two have been dreading since you began at Richmond.

Oh, fuck. Fuck. This is really happening.

You glance back over to the window where Beard stands, and he lowers his binoculars when he sees you looking. He sends you a simple, affirmative nod, raising the device to his eyes once more. 

“I assume you’ll be needing those drinks now,” Mae says from the end of the bar, two pint glasses in her hands.

You don’t think you or Roy have ever said ‘yes’ faster.

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