✩ requests ; always open! not guaranteed i'll write them, but i'm always in desperate need of some inspiration (my brain is empty and the guy rubbing sticks together up there only gets inspired every couple weeks or so..)
― ✩ recents ;
- ✩ / pain is never permanent (but tonight it's killing me)
; 27th dec, '24 - schlatt x gn!reader, sfw angst
- ✩ / can i call you tonight?
; 17th nov, '24 - charlie x gn!reader, sfw fluff
- ✩ / halloween hcs
; 30th oct, '24 - chuckle sandwich x fempresenting!reader, fluff, smidge of nsfw !
mdni with nsfw ; i am a board certified FREAK! be aware!
Summary: A new receptionist at Richmond attends her first football game and starts to understand the passion behind it, especially through Roy Kent. As the game ends, she feels more connected to the team—and maybe to him too. The journey’s just beginning.
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Roy Kent was in one of those moods. It was the kind of mood where he just wanted to get in, get his job done, and get out. The locker room had been a mess as usual, and now, his mind was set on heading straight to the office to review some tactics before training started. As he walked into the reception area of Richmond FC, he didn’t expect much, just a bit of peace and quiet before the chaos of the field.
But then he stopped.
There, sitting behind the desk in the reception area, was a woman he’d never seen before. She was hunched slightly over a stack of papers, furiously scribbling something with a pink pen, her focus entirely on the task in front of her. Roy blinked, surprised by the sight of her—she was cute, really cute, with messy brown hair that fell into her eyes as she wrote. There was something so… innocent about the way she was so absorbed in what she was doing, her tongue poking out slightly as she scribbled, completely unaware of his presence.
He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, and just watched her for a moment. She seemed so focused, almost too much so, in a way that made him think she might be a bit spaced out, a bit naive.
He hadn’t been expecting someone like her at all.
Finally, he cleared his throat, loud enough that it might startle her out of her trance.
"Oi," he said, trying not to sound too judgmental. "Who are you then?"
The girl jumped, her hand jerking slightly as she dropped the pink pen onto the desk. Her eyes widened, and she looked up at him, startled but not entirely fazed by his gruff entrance.
"Oh! Hi, I’m… I’m the new receptionist," she said with a soft giggle, almost embarrassed, brushing her hair out of her face with a delicate hand. "I just started today."
Roy raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. This was the new receptionist? He expected someone with a bit more… edge. Someone who could handle all the chaos of the team and the press. But here she was, looking a little overwhelmed and incredibly sweet.
“New, huh? You know where you’ve landed, right?” he asked, his voice softer than it usually was. There was something about her air of naïveté that made him want to soften the rough edges of his words.
"Yeah, of course," she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she pushed her pen aside and fiddled with the papers, clearly trying to find something to do to fill the awkward silence. “I mean, it’s a little overwhelming, but… everyone’s been so nice.”
Roy’s eyes softened a bit as he watched her. The way she had spoken to him, the little nervousness in her voice—it reminded him of how he had been when he’d first started at Richmond. It wasn’t easy getting to grips with everything, especially when the pressure was always on.
“Don’t let it get to you,” he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "You’ll be fine."
She looked up at him with a bright smile, her eyes sparkling despite the clear nerves. “Thanks, Roy. I hope so.”
Roy stared at her for a long moment, almost confused by the sudden shift in the air. She was just… so different from what he’d expected. Maybe it was the softness of her demeanor, or how she looked like she had stepped straight out of a daydream with her pink pen and sweet smile, but something about it got under his skin in a way he hadn’t anticipated.
"Alright," Roy said, running a hand through his hair and awkwardly shifting his stance. "Just make sure you don't get lost in here with all the madness." He turned to leave, but then paused.
One more glance at her—at her strange, dreamy energy—and he couldn't help but mutter, "Oh, and nice pen."
The girl laughed softly, a small, surprised laugh. “It’s my favorite! It’s cute, right?”
He nodded, his lips twitching into something resembling a smile as he exited the room.
She might be a bit naïve, a bit spaced out, but there was something about her that made him think Richmond might not be so bad, after all.
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It had been a few weeks since Roy had first met the new receptionist. The days were starting to blend together—training, meetings, press conferences—and yet, every time he walked through the front doors of the Richmond office, he found himself glancing toward her desk. She was always there, typing away, scribbling with that same pink pen, her hair a little messy, her smile always a bit too bright for the kind of place Richmond FC usually was.
He walked past her desk nearly every day now, sometimes barely acknowledging her with a nod, other times just stealing a quick glance at the little world she created around herself. She always seemed a bit lost in it, her pretty pink pen dancing across papers in a way that seemed almost… calming.
Roy wasn’t sure what it was, but every time he saw her, it pulled him in. He wasn’t the kind of guy to notice things like pens, or the little things people did with their hands, but with her, it felt different. Maybe it was her innocence—her simple, unassuming way of being. Or maybe it was just because, in a place as intense as this club, she was like a breath of fresh air.
On this particular morning, Roy was walking in, already lost in his thoughts about the upcoming match, when he saw her again, sitting behind the desk. She was holding that same pink pen and furiously writing something in a notebook, her brow furrowed in concentration. As usual, she didn’t notice him right away, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to just watch her.
It had become something of a routine. He’d walk past, pretend not to care, and she'd always be there, doing her thing. It was oddly comforting.
But today, something felt a little different.
As Roy approached, he stopped, just for a second. She was so caught up in whatever she was writing, her tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. There was something about the way she was so focused, so unaware of anything else, that made him feel like he was intruding on a private moment.
His eyes narrowed as he watched her, then, without thinking, he cleared his throat to announce his presence.
"Oi," he said, a little more gruffly than he intended, but his voice still had that familiar drawl. "You always that lost in your head?"
She jumped, the pen in her hand jerking, and for the briefest second, Roy almost felt guilty. She looked up, startled, then instantly smiled sheepishly.
“Oh, sorry! I didn’t hear you,” she said, her cheeks turning pink as she set her pen down, almost as if she was embarrassed to have been caught so deep in her thoughts. "I’m just, uh… writing something."
Roy raised an eyebrow as he leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “Writing what?”
Her eyes widened a little, clearly not expecting the question. She fidgeted with her pen for a moment, biting her lip, then finally shrugged, a little sheepish but still smiling brightly.
“I don’t know… just... thoughts, I guess. I like to write them down.” She picked up the pen again, tapping it thoughtfully against her chin. “It’s just how I keep my brain from… you know, getting all jumbled up.”
Roy studied her for a moment, feeling an unfamiliar twinge in his chest. Most people around here were all about getting straight to business—no nonsense, no distractions. But here she was, with her pink pen and her scribbled thoughts, making the place feel like less of a locker room and more like… something else. Something warmer.
“You really do that every day, then?” he asked, his tone softer than he expected, trying not to sound too interested. “Just… writing random stuff down?”
She nodded, her eyes lighting up a little as she spoke. "Yeah! It helps me stay focused. Sometimes, when things get crazy, it’s nice to just… put it all on paper, you know?"
Roy stared at her for a moment, unsure of what to say next. He wasn’t used to people who weren’t all about the hustle and grind, but there was something so peaceful about her little ritual that he found hard to ignore.
He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a bit out of his depth here. "I mean, yeah, I get that," he muttered, his usual gruffness creeping back. "I just… don't really have time for stuff like that."
She looked at him, her expression softening, like she could tell he was being less than honest with himself. "You should try it," she said gently. "It’s nice, even if you’re busy. Just a minute to clear your head. Helps a lot, trust me."
Roy chuckled, though it was quieter than usual. “I don’t know if that’s really my style.”
She tilted her head, her bright eyes still holding that same curiosity, like she saw something in him he hadn’t even noticed. It wasn’t just her usual bubbly demeanor—it was something more, like she truly cared about the people around her, no matter how gruff they were.
"Well, I’m just saying," she added with a wink, "it might surprise you."
Roy blinked, momentarily thrown off by the kindness in her voice. It wasn’t often someone talked to him like this. Like he wasn’t just some footballer who was too busy for his own good.
He was about to say something else when one of the coaches walked by, pulling his attention away.
“Later, yeah?” Roy said gruffly, not quite looking at her anymore. “I’ve got to go.”
She smiled brightly, her expression open and friendly. “Of course! See you around, Roy.”
He nodded and walked off, but as he made his way to the locker room, he found himself thinking about her again. It wasn’t like him to get caught up in these little things, but something about the way she was so unapologetically herself—so different from the usual noise of the club—made him wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was more to her than the pretty pink pen and her naive charm.
Maybe next time, he’d ask her about her writing. Or maybe he’d just stick with the usual nod and move on.
But somehow, he didn’t think it would be that easy anymore.
-----------------
The next day, Roy walked into the office with his usual stride, head down as he mentally prepared for the day ahead. It was an early morning, his body still sore from the previous night’s training session. But as he walked past the receptionist's desk, something—no, someone—caught his attention again.
There she was, in the same spot, sitting at her desk with that familiar pink pen in hand. This time, though, she wasn’t just writing. She was humming softly to herself, her focus completely absorbed in the piece of paper before her. Her gaze was fixed on the notebook, her brows furrowed in concentration, and Roy couldn't help but notice the slight shift in the air around her. There was a sense of calmness to her that made the usual rush of the office feel a little less chaotic.
It was almost as if time slowed when he looked at her, a brief moment of peace in a day filled with noise. Roy wasn’t sure how long he had been standing there, just watching her. His eyes followed the soft movement of her hand as she wrote, the pink pen gliding across the page.
He shook his head, trying to clear the strange thoughts from his mind, and then cleared his throat, his usual gruffness returning as he took a few steps closer.
"Oi," he said, a little louder this time, making sure he didn’t catch her off guard like last time. "You always hum like that when you work?"
Her head snapped up, startled, and she quickly dropped her pen as if she’d been caught doing something embarrassing. Her face flushed, and for a moment, she looked like she was about to apologize for some minor offense, but then she just chuckled.
"I didn’t think anyone noticed," she said, still a bit flustered, but the corners of her mouth curved into that same, warm smile. "It’s just… it helps me concentrate, you know? Helps me focus on the stuff I have to do."
Roy raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “So, humming helps you write?”
She nodded, her gaze falling to the pink pen on her desk, her fingers lightly tracing its edge. “Yeah, it’s kind of silly, right? But it works for me.”
Roy leaned against the counter, arms crossed. He studied her for a moment, not sure how to respond to something so simple, yet so earnest. She wasn’t acting like most people he interacted with on a daily basis. She wasn’t worried about impressing him, or about saying the right thing—she just... was. And it was refreshing in a way that made him feel almost human, for lack of a better word.
“Doesn’t seem silly,” Roy said, his voice a little softer than usual. “I guess everyone’s got their way of getting through the day.”
Her smile widened at that, and she twirled her pen again, looking at him with a bit of mischief in her eyes. “So, what’s your way, then? Do you hum?”
Roy snorted, not expecting the question. “Humming?” He shook his head. “Nah, mate, I’m more of a ‘keep my head down and get it done’ kind of guy.”
She raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Really? No songs in your head when you're on the pitch? No… I don’t know, like, an inner anthem?”
Roy tried to suppress a grin, but it was impossible. “An inner anthem?” he repeated with a chuckle. “What, like some motivational chant? I don’t think so.”
She laughed lightly, clearly enjoying the banter. “Well, I’d like to think you’ve got some secret soundtrack to your day. Maybe something intense, like the Rocky theme or something.”
“Right, because nothing says ‘footballer’ like the Rocky theme,” Roy shot back, though the hint of a smile never left his face.
She grinned, leaning back in her chair, the playful energy between them making Roy feel strangely comfortable. He wasn’t sure why he felt this way around her—hell, he wasn’t used to talking to anyone in the office for this long, let alone in such an easy-going way—but he couldn’t deny that it was different.
For the first time in a while, he didn’t feel like he had to keep up his usual wall.
"Well, I don't know," she continued, her eyes twinkling. "I think you’d make a great action hero. You’ve got the whole brooding, tough-guy vibe down.”
Roy snorted again, shaking his head at the absurdity of it. “Action hero? I’m just a footballer, kid.”
She smiled, her eyes not leaving his, as though she saw something different in him than just a player on the pitch. Something more, though she didn’t say it.
“Maybe,” she said, her voice quieter, “but everyone’s got layers. You’ve got more to you than football, Roy Kent.”
Her words hung in the air between them for a moment, and for the first time, he felt like someone had actually noticed him beyond the surface. It wasn’t just the player or the gruff, unapproachable guy everyone saw. She had a way of seeing him—really seeing him—that made him want to say something, but the words didn’t quite come out.
Instead, he stood there for a second longer, then sighed, ruffling his hair. “Yeah, well, maybe you’re right. But I’m still not humming.”
She winked at him. “I’ll take that as progress. Maybe one day I’ll get you to hum along.”
Roy smirked, rolling his eyes but unable to hide the small smile creeping onto his face. “We’ll see, yeah?”
As he walked away, he could still feel the weird pull of her presence in the back of his mind. It wasn’t just the pink pen or the humming. It was her—she—and the way she made him feel something other than the pressure of football. It wasn’t something he was used to, but for the first time in a long while, Roy Kent didn’t mind it. Not one bit.
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It was the day of the match. The one Roy had been talking about for weeks. The one everyone in the office was buzzing about. Her first ever football game.
She had been working at Richmond for a few weeks now, and though she had heard all about the intensity and passion surrounding the team, she never really understood it. She had watched a few highlights here and there, but seeing it in person—feeling the atmosphere in the stadium, the energy from the fans, hearing the roar of the crowd—was something entirely different.
She had never been much of a sports person. Sure, she liked the idea of it—of the camaraderie, the spectacle—but she’d never been to a football match before. Not really. Not one like this. She had no idea what to expect.
Roy had made it clear he wasn’t going to hold her hand through it, but there had been a certain look in his eyes when he mentioned it that made her feel like she needed to see what it was all about. "Just don’t get in the way," he’d said with his usual gruffness. “The crowd can get loud, and the game’s fast-paced. Don’t expect it to be all glitz and glamour.”
Of course, he had also added, “You’ll see. It’s different.” Which only made her more curious.
By the time she stepped into the stadium that evening, she was already feeling a little overwhelmed. The atmosphere was electric, charged with anticipation. The stands were filled with fans in red and white, their faces painted, scarves waving in the air. You could hear the chants, the drums, the whistle of the referee cutting through the noise—it was a world completely different from the quiet office she worked in.
She had a scarf around her neck, one of the team’s, though she couldn’t exactly remember how she’d ended up with it. Maybe Roy had given it to her, or maybe she’d bought it on a whim during one of the times she’d wandered around the office and saw people wearing them. It was a bit of a strange thing to wear, given she was still figuring out exactly what all the chanting and the excitement was about, but she wore it anyway. It was Richmond. She was part of the team now, even if it was just the office side of things.
Taking a deep breath, she walked toward her seat, navigating her way through the crowd. The closer she got to the pitch, the more she felt her pulse quicken. It was all real. All of it. The gleaming green field, the players warming up, and, most of all, the energy that seemed to vibrate from the crowd in waves.
She settled into her seat just as the players took to the field, the roar of the crowd louder than anything she’d ever experienced. Her hands clutched the seat in front of her, and she let herself get swept up in the energy. She could barely even follow the ball at first—everything was moving too quickly, and the sound of the crowd was so intense it almost felt like it was coming from inside her chest.
And then, in the middle of all that chaos, she saw him. Roy.
He was in his usual position, of course—right there on the field, focused, determined. He had the ball at his feet, his face locked in concentration, and despite the noise and movement all around him, he seemed to cut through it all like he was in his own world. He moved with a kind of purpose, his body in perfect sync with the game, his every step confident, commanding.
It was hard to put into words what it felt like to watch him play—she could only describe it as powerful. The way he commanded the ball, the way he led his team, the way he absorbed the atmosphere and made it his own. It was like he was made for this moment.
And that’s when it hit her: this was why everyone loved the game. This was what everyone had been talking about all along. It wasn’t just about the goals or the victory or the defeat—it was the way football connected everyone. The collective energy, the passion that spilled out of the stands and onto the pitch, the stories that were written in every pass, every tackle, every goal.
She didn’t know much about football, but she knew enough to feel the electricity in the air, to understand why people screamed and shouted and waved their scarves in the wind. It wasn’t just a game—it was everything.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Roy made a run down the field, the crowd erupting around her. She instinctively found herself on her feet, cheering along with everyone else, her voice lost in the wave of sound. She didn’t know what had happened yet, but the sheer force of the moment—the collective anticipation—made her feel like part of something bigger.
The game went on, and she found herself getting lost in it, in the movement, in the rhythm. The play was fast, the tackles hard, and the crowd never let up. She felt like a part of it now, no longer just the quiet girl behind a desk, but a part of something larger than herself.
When the final whistle blew, and the crowd erupted into a mixture of cheers and groans, she was still standing, still caught up in the moment. She looked around, her heart racing from the excitement, and realized just how much she'd gotten caught up in it all.
As she made her way toward the exit, she spotted Roy again, now sweaty and panting, his eyes scanning the crowd for something. When he finally caught sight of her, he gave her a small nod, his face still set in its usual scowl, though there was something different in the way he looked at her.
“Well?” he asked, his voice cutting through the noise.
She grinned, still riding the high of the game. “I get it now,” she said, her voice almost awestruck. “It’s amazing. I had no idea...”
Roy looked at her for a long moment, then a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Told you."
She smiled back at him, the energy of the game still swirling inside her, and realized that for the first time, she truly felt like she was part of the team.
As they made their way out of the stadium, the crowd beginning to thin out, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of belonging. It wasn’t just about the game anymore—it was about being part of this world, this community. Roy’s gruff exterior, his constant, no-nonsense attitude—it was all starting to make sense in the context of everything she had witnessed.
She glanced at him, his tired expression softened just a fraction as they walked side by side. He seemed to be lost in his thoughts, but she wasn’t bothered by the silence between them. It was a comfortable silence, like a shared understanding between two people who hadn’t needed to say much to know that something had shifted.
“Thanks for making me come,” she said quietly, feeling a little embarrassed by how much she had enjoyed it. "I wouldn't have understood it any other way."
Roy didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gave her a sideways glance, his usual gruff tone softened by a rare hint of something warmer. “You’re welcome. Glad you didn’t hate it.”
She laughed, nudging him with her elbow. “I don’t think I’ll be missing any more matches now.”
There was a long pause as Roy’s lips twitched, and for a split second, it almost looked like he was going to say something else. But before he could, the moment was broken by a few of the other players passing by, laughing and joking. Roy turned toward them, nodding in their direction as they greeted him with friendly shouts.
She stood there, watching the players interact, and it dawned on her—Roy wasn’t just a footballer, he was part of something much bigger than that. A family, a team, a legacy. And for the first time, she felt like she was beginning to see it too.
As they exited the stadium, she felt a strange sense of anticipation stirring within her. There was so much more to learn, so much more to understand about this world she had stepped into.
Maybe next time, she thought, she’d get to know the other players better. Maybe there’d be more games, more moments, more shared laughter and triumphs.
And maybe—just maybe—there was more between her and Roy than just casual office exchanges.
But for now, she was content. She had finally found her place.
And as she walked alongside him through the quieting streets, she felt that, in some small way, the journey had only just begun.
summary: well, you've been parent trapped. forced to talk about things you swore you'd never speak of again, you and roy sit down for a chat to appease your fellow coaching staff. meanwhile, in 2012, the english men's team have lost, and you and roy have a chat that leaves you on an... unforeseen note.
word count & rating: 10.2k, R (we're heating up but we ain't there yet)
chapter warnings: swearing, allusions to sa and harassment, some sexual innuedoes, majorly charged eye contact and tension-filled pauses (these fucks are damaged and yearning), WHOLE LOT of dialogue i apologize there's a lot to talk about
author's note: well hello. for those of you familiar with the show victorious, i've been affectionately calling this chapter the 'take a hint' chapter since i outlined this series. there's also a fuck ton of dialogue in this one and can read like a shitty script sometimes, so apologies on that front. sorry this one took a minute, got stuck with it then got busy. hope you enjoy, love you tons! -mags
PRESENT DAY. (MID-AUGUST, 2023)
There are approximately four straight minutes of uninterrupted silence between you and Roy before either of you say a word.
The first minute, you believe, is just the two of you actually processing that this is happening. You’d heard the jokes about Richmond being a family, about work-life lines being crossed, about true professionalism being thrown out the window at the sake of having better, stronger connections with your team. However, you never imagined that something like this was on the horizon.
The next minute is spent unpacking the reality of it all. You were here with someone you’d previously sworn to never speak to again, expected to talk about something you swore you’d never speak about again. And it was to be done against your will, at a random pub in Richmond, with your two coaches watching you through binoculars through a window like it was a Three Stooges movie.
The next, you realize exactly what it is you two are expected to talk about. Your Stooge coaches want you to have the conversation-- the conversation you swore to yourself you’d never, ever have with Roy. They want you to just talk about it, like it’s simple. As if it’s some silly little dispute you had eight years ago, not one that could take days to fully get through (and frankly, should probably have some sort of third party involved. You’re not suggesting a version of couples therapy but you’re not not suggesting it). Nothing about this is simple. Nothing about this can be solved in just one conversation. But, you figure, if Roy’s suddenly game to start to get into it, you suppose you should be too.
That leads you to the final minute, which is spent attempting to find the right way to start this conversation, because, truly, how the fuck do you even start a conversation like this? While you and Roy were never inclined to beat around the bush, this is different. It's so, unbelievably different and you don't know how you're supposed to do this. Especially not now.
Throughout this time, you’ve glanced over at Roy periodically, who you think may physically hurt himself with how hard he’s trying to avoid eye contact with you. He’s focused on the TV at the bar broadcasting the highlights from the Richmond-Chelsea game. He’s staring at the bar top. He’s looking up at the ceiling. Anywhere but you and at anyone but you.
After those four minutes, you feel the tension in the air shift. It may just be your frustration at both him and this situation, it might be his own, but you suddenly can’t take it anymore. And to your surprise (and Roy’s, for that matter), you manage to get out the first word.
“So,” you say lamely, trying your best not to cringe as it lands. “Uh…”
Roy glances over at you, expecting something else to follow. When nothing does, and he sees your mouth open and close, he huffs a laugh. “I bet you’re happy you signed with Richmond now, huh?”
You place your elbows on the bartop, face falling into your hands. “This is actually insane,” you say, words muffled by your palms. “I hated West Ham, but at least Shelley wasn’t Parent Trap-ing his assistant coaches.” You raise your head to look at Mae as she places two pints in front of you and Roy. “Thank you.”
Mae nods at the both of you, eyes narrowing at Roy as she notices his silence. “The offer for double the pay is still on the table,” he tells her.
“Richmond can’t win this year if their coaching staff is fighting like cats and dogs,” Mae replies. “Your money is as useless as your arguing here.”
The bluntness of her statement has you chuckling despite yourself. As Mae walks away from a now scowling Roy, you take a sip of your drink. Then another. Then another.
When you feel Roy’s gaze on you, you turn to look at him. “What? If we’re gonna talk about this, I can’t be sober.”
“We’re not talking about it,” is his immediate response, and he makes sure to keep his voice low, eyes shifting to where Mae is at the other end of the bar.
Relief rushes through you at the idea that he seems to be on the same avoidance wave. You want to have this conversation even less than he probably does. However…
“They’re watching us,” you say, throwing your thumb in the direction of the window. “If we’re just sitting here in silence, they’re never gonna let this go.” You glance over your shoulder at your fellow coaches watching you. “And something about Beard gives me the vibe that he’s like, really good at reading lips.”
A familiar growl of annoyance escapes him. “Then we’re going to keep our backs turned and pretend that we’re talking to get those fucking muppets off our backs and get on with our fucking lives.”
Your lips purse. "What are the odds I get you to chug this with me?”
Roy huffs into his glass. “About the same as the odds of it coming right back up because of my new fucking acid reflux.”
Your nose scrunches up in a weary sort of agreement. “Ugh. Fair. Where’d that shit come from anyway? It sucks.”
“We’re fucking old, Fourteen,” he mutters. “That’s where it came from. We’re far from what we used to be.”
“Yeah, but you were ancient when I met you,” you reply, earning a deep scowl in return. “I used to be so young and full of life.”
“If by ‘full of life’ you mean doing boat races in a shitty pub in London with a bunch of degenerate athletes—”
“Oh, my God. Grandad. The kids got off your lawn in 2012, stop bitching,” you say as you bite back a laugh. When Roy rolls his eyes, you point at him. “And by the way, I vaguely remember you joining us in one of those boat races, so I don’t want to hear it from you.”
Roy scoffs. “I did it to shut Rivera up,” he replies, shaking his head. “Terrible fucking influence.”
A fond smile grows on your lips at the mention of your friend, remembering the state she’d been in that night. It was the night you’d won the Gold at the Olympics, and Mel had taken it upon herself to peer pressure your entire team not just to go out, but to start at a pub and start the celebration with that godforsaken game. To this day, you’re still not sure if she remembered leaving the pub.
“She’s the worst,” you agree, though your tone says differently.
A beat passes between you, a question hanging in the air as if Roy’s unsure if he should ask it. If he’s allowed or entitled to know the answer. He asks it anyway. “Where did she end up?”
You answer after you swallow the sip of beer you’d taken. “She and Paige are somewhere in Surrey. And I’m still trying to figure out the geography of this place, but I know that it’s kind of close to here, which is nice. They’re supposed to come for our first home game with their son.”
“Fucking crazy that they’ve got a kid,” Roy says. “I remember when she was making a fucking fool of herself in front of that girl.”
“You’re telling me,” you grin. “Luckily it worked. It helped that Paige was in love with her the entire time.”
That comment is met with silence as Roy seems to only be able to offer a nod in response. The following quiet is less awkward, but everything still hangs in the air. It weighs down the space that stands between you two and makes your chest ache. You don’t know how to continue. You don’t know what to say.
You feared this exact situation with him. Just the two of you, sitting in a room with each other, running out of talking points. No team to comment on, no coaches to add input, nothing left to expand on. Only the memories of your past and a million unspoken paths to go down— ones you had no interest in uncovering.
The TV in front of you transitions to Zava’s press conference, and suddenly, thankfully, you’ve got another thing to talk about. “You’ve never said your opinion on Zava.”
Roy’s brow pinches. “What’s there to say? He’s fucking good. He’ll help us be better. I didn’t think he’d go for us but I’m happy he did.”
“Yeah, I figured that,” you say with the roll of your eyes. “I’m asking for your opinion. Not Coach Kent’s PR response.”
He takes a brief pause, then scowls and looks down at the bar top. “I think he’s a self-involved, strange little prick. I think the shit he does and wears fucking odd, and I think the hero-worship our team’s got for him is going to be a problem.” Roy shrugs. “But he’ll help us win games.”
You find yourself nodding along. “Do you think we actually need him?”
Roy’s gaze slides to yours in interest. “I take it you don’t?”
A sigh escapes your lips as you turn your body slightly to face him. “I think he’ll help us win,” you agree, putting your chin in your hand as you look up at Zava (who’s holding a Richmond jersey with a smile) on TV. “But I’m afraid he’ll mess up the team dynamic.”
“How so?” he asks.
“Well, I’m assuming all future plays are going to be made around him,” you say. “Pass to Zava, get it to Zava, put Zava in a position to score. You guys have never done that before. You’ve never just focused on making everything work around one person.”
Roy’s eyes narrow. “We’ve done it with Tartt.”
“You’ve made plays for Jamie. But you’ve never relied on Jamie to be your focal point in every play of every game,” you explain. The intrigue on Roy’s face is something you haven’t seen in a minute. You continue, “Jamie’s your best player. Every team needs to have their best player. But that’s why, I think, Richmond works. Because you’re a team. You’ve got Sam, you’ve got Isaac, you’ve got Dani— everyone’s good at what they do and they know how to fill their role to work together.” You shrug and reach for your pint. “That’s how you’ve won in the past. I just think it’s dangerous to have the team play around someone else instead of playing as a team. I don’t think it’s sustainable.”
These points of yours are met with a quiet that tells you he’s considering your words. Not so much evaluating as he’s just… taking them in. It feels good to be heard. Not to be dismissed or waved off, told that your input would be considered as it had been for the last three months.
You’re not sure if Roy’s going to respond to any of your points until he says, “Stop saying ‘you have.’”
You blink at him, not expecting that at all. “What?”
“You keep saying ‘you’ve.’ ‘You guys.’ ‘You’re.’ You’re distancing yourself from the team.” He shakes his head. “You’re a part of this now too. Richmond’s yours as much as it’s mine.”
“Oh,” you say. A strange mix of embarrassment and pride wash over you. “I didn’t realize I was doing that.”
Roy sighs. “You should have said something if that’s how you felt.”
“And what? Ruin the fun of the Zava train? Potentially be the reason we don’t pick up one of the best players in the league?” You scoff. “Pass. I don’t have the seniority to make a move like that.”
“You still should have said something,” Roy presses. “Ted would have listened. We would have listened.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s done now.” You wave him off, shrugging. “He’s with us and I’m sure he’s going to be great and help us win. I’m just being weird about it.” Roy looks as though he has about a million things to say to that, but he chooses to bite his tongue instead. At his silence, you add, “Be nice to Jamie if he asks for extra training.”
The scoff that leaves his lips is loud. “I’m as nice to Tartt as he deserves.”
“I’m serious,” you say through a chuckle. “Don’t shut him down if he asks. He needs someone in his corner.”
“And it can’t be you?” he asks.
It’s an innocent enough question, asked with a bit of levity and a teasing glance. But it makes your stomach churn. The memories of West Ham, the sessions you did, Tom’s new comments, everything— and it all hurts. You’re not sure if it’ll ever stop hurting.
Any trace of humor drained from your face and in an instant, Roy knows he said something wrong. Stupid, he thinks. Fucking stupid. You’d gone quiet when he last asked you about this. He should have known better. Watched his words more carefully.
“No,” you reply softly. You take a long sip. “I’d prefer that it wouldn’t be me.”
Well, now Roy feels like an asshole. Once again, he wants to ask. He wants to understand exactly what happened, understand who or what has affected you like this. He has his assumptions (ones that go into dark places he never even wants to consider for you— seriously, he’d fucking kill someone and wouldn’t blink), but if you can’t or won’t talk about it, he’s not entitled to know. He’s not entitled to know anything. Your relationship’s never worked like that, even when you were on good terms. There was no pressure, it all always seemed to come out when you were comfortable. It had never been like that before. That’s originally what drew him to you. That’s why he stuck around.
Roy knows if you do decide to talk about it, it’ll be on your terms. And while he doesn’t like it, he respects it. He respects you.
It’s why he chooses to move on to some other topic instead of pressing you. “Whatever they say about your press conference,” he begins, shaking his head, “fucking ignore it.”
It’s a clunky transition and it catches you slightly off-guard. The leap has you suspicious that Roy might know more than he lets on about your situation, but you don’t dare say anything about it. “They?” you ask.
“The media,” he expands. “The football fans. The pricks online. They.” He shakes his head again. “They don’t fucking matter. If they knew any better than you did, they’d be where you are.”
They’re kind words filled with a rough reassurance that he’s mastered. To hopefully get rid of (or procrastinate) the heavy feeling in your chest, you wave him off. “I’m used to it,” you say. Roy frowns at you and you shrug, “I commentated a little bit for ESPN after I got hurt. I did one Men’s game and made a joke about how much you guys overreact when you get fouled to get a call. Twitter ate me alive. I still get threats about it.”
Roy inhales ruefully, humor written across his expression. “What’d you say?”
“Nothing I haven’t said to you a hundred times,” you reply casually, hearing him huff once more. “I think it was something about how you guys have to be getting paid extra by the Club if you promise to make a scene when you’re hit.”
“You weren’t far off," he chuckles.
“And I still stand by it,” you tell him, leaning in as his lips pull into a small grin. “Though I’m not sure I should be talking to you about playing up a penalty.”
Roy’s brows rocket up. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that i’m sitting next to the only person in AFC history to ever get two red cards in a game,” you reply, and the instantaneous scowl that forms on his face makes you chuckle. “I don’t think there’s been a question about if you’ve ever actually hit someone.”
“Those calls were bullshit,” he mutters.
“Roy, you tackled Man City’s best midfielder and took out both of his legs. And then you kicked a different guy in the chest.”
“He ran into my foot.”
“There is literal video footage of you looking him in the eye and saying, ‘that wasn’t an accident, I kicked you in the fucking chest.’”
He stares at you for a moment, then shrugs. “At least I broke a record.”
You nod at him. “And we’re all incredibly proud of you.”
That smile of his returns and you can tell he has to refrain from rolling his eyes. “You weren’t so fucking innocent out there either.”
A faux affronted sound leaves you. “I was an angel.”
“Right,” he draws out. “You never got into it with anyone, Mean Fourteen.”
Your nose crinkles. “I liked it better when you hated that name as much as I did.”
“It’s grown on me. Mainly because it’s right.” When your frown gets deeper, he continues. “Even before the Cup at those Olympics. You were fucking tough out there. They could never get you to stay down.”
You rub your finger against the rim of your glass as you glance at the the highlights of the recent Arsenal game on screen. “Damn right. Got tackled into oblivion by Caroline Singer at the 2012 Semi-Finals. Launched me ten yards and dislocated my shoulder. Got up the second after and had my shoulder set in time for overtime.”
Roy chuckles lowly. “I remember that game. You hit a full fucking Locust in the air when she sent you flying,” he says. “You deserved that one. You were a fucking menace to her all game.”
You gape at him. “I deserved that?”
“You did. If I’m Singer and I’m being marked by someone like you during that game? I’m breaking your fucking jaw.”
While you scowl at the idea that you ‘deserved’ that, you find yourself having caught something much more interesting. “Also, rewind. Full Locust?” you ask with a leading sort of intrigue. “Like… the yoga pose?”
Roy’s hiding in his pint again, trying his best at indifference. “Is that what that is?”
But you know him better. A wide, disbelieving grin pulls at your lips. “Roy Kent, do you do yoga?”
“No,” he immediately replies, but you’re already laughing.
“Oh, my God. You so do yoga.”
The scowl on his face is deep. “Fuck off,” he says. “What the fuck is wrong with yoga?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” you respond, laughter dying down despite the smile that remains on your face. “I love yoga. I just never imagined you’d agree.”
“Well, I fucking do.” There’s a beat, and for a moment, you think he’s going to end it there. But then, “I do it once a week with some local mums in their sixties.”
Your mouth begins to part as you stare at him, grin widening. Your laughter starts back up in an instant. “This is the best day of my life.”
(Roy can’t exactly understand what compelled him to admit that, or why he’s indulging in this conversation with you, but there’s a small, suppressed piece of his brain that knows he did it to hear you laugh some more.)
“I have—” you pause to breathe. “—so many questions.”
Roy’s hand shoots up as Mae passes by to ask for another round. “No, you don’t.”
“How did this… come to be?”
He’s scowling, but chooses to answer with, “I was newly retired and borderline suicidal. I found their flier and called Maureen instead of the hotline.”
Your elbow’s now perched on the bartop, chin resting in your hand to stare at him in awe. “Is this, like, at a gym? Is it at one of their houses?” You gasp. “Do you host yoga?”
Roy looks as though he’s regretted every decision that’s led him to this moment. “We alternate weekly,” he mutters.
“Shut up. Tell me you guys hang out after. Like you grab drinks or do a book club or something.”
His hand goes up once more in Mae’s direction. “Yeah, gonna make that two, Mae.”
“Shut up,” you repeat. You don’t think you could be smiling any harder. “Do you drink rosé and read Colleen Hoover?”
“No,” he says, pointing at you like you should know better. When your brows go up, he shrugs. “We drink rosé and watch Lust Conquers All like respectable fucking adults.”
You do the math in your head and gasp again. “Does that mean you watched Jamie’s season?”
Roy’s lips twitch upward. “Yeah. Watched him be a proper fucking twat,” he says, then glances over at you in curiosity. “Didn’t realize you got that over in the States.”
“Jamie’s season was when it started getting popular there,” you reply with a shrug. “All my friends were in love with him.”
Roy’s brows shoot up. “Not you?”
A snort escapes you, and you shake your head. “Uh, no. ‘The island’s top scorer, sexually’ wasn’t exactly my speed.” Roy’s smile grows at your poor impression of Jamie. “But they were into it. They freaked out when they realized I’d be working with him.”
“Not your speed,” Roy repeats, taking a long sip of his pint. His interest appears to be piqued. “And what speed is that?”
You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, and you try to play it off with a roll of your eyes. “You know what my type is.”
That smile of his stretches into something more resemblant of a smirk. “It’s been eight fucking years,” he replies, feigning innocence. “Types change.”
“I guess you’re right,” you say, fully ready to play along and be just as much of an annoying jerk as he’s being to you.“Right now, I’m regressing to my French swimmer phase. Going pretty well, actually.”
“Oh, is that right?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you answer, biting back a grin. “Actually been talking with Luca for the last couple of weeks. It’s like we never left London.”
It’s Roy’s turn to roll his eyes, but it’s only half directed at you. “He was a fucking prick,” he says.
“He was not a prick,” you reply. “You just didn’t like him.” Your eyes narrow, turning to face him with that same sort of feigned innocence he had. “Remind me why you didn’t like him again.”
“Because he was a fucking prick,” he repeats. “Fucking twat wouldn’t even watch your games. Couldn’t handle you winning something when he wasn’t.”
The scoff that escapes you is loud. “I forgot about that,” you mutter. “He was a prick, wasn’t he?”
“Fuck yeah, he was.”
You shake your head, raising your glass to take a small sip. “Whatever. Wasn’t like I ended up spending much time with him anyway.”
Roy’s lips quirk up into that same smirk, but there’s more behind it. “No, you didn’t.”
Warmth rises to your cheeks at that, and you continue to hide in your glass. Asshole.
Luckily, Roy seems to have more to say on the topic of Luca. “He was never your speed,” he tells you. It’s a matter-of-fact musing. “He wasn’t in your fucking race.”
You spare a glance in his direction. “No?”
“Absolutely fucking not,” he says as if he can’t believe you even had to ask. “You were riding light years ahead of him. He couldn’t keep up.” With a soft scoff, he adds, “Not many people can.”
That warm feeling returns and it spreads down your neck. You suddenly feel yourself getting shy. “Maybe I should slow down,” you attempt to joke.
Roy’s shaking his head before you can even finish your sentence. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
You don’t mean to do it. It’s completely unconscious, almost like an instinct. But you ignore the way that that makes your entire body go ablaze and look at him. You hold his gaze for a long while, longer than you have since you started at Richmond. And he stares right back at you.
It’s hauntingly familiar and paradoxically comfortable. You don’t know if he meant to say that or if it just slipped out in the moment, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at you. Even if he didn’t mean to let something like that out with that sort of sentiment, he’s owning it. It warms your heart and makes your stomach flip upside down.
It’s so fucking confusing. But then again, this entire thing has been confusing. You had been sitting here for just about a half an hour, and half of those minutes were spent going back and forth in the way that you used to. You didn’t think it’d be so easy to fall back into that with him. To talk to him like that again. To banter with him. Even to fucking laugh with him.
That realization makes you feel as though you’ve been dunked in a pool of cold water and allows a weird, foreign feeling to settle in your chest. You’re angry at yourself and at him for slipping back into it so effortlessly. You hate how easy it is and always has been with him. But you also miss it. You’ve missed this. You missed him.
It’s an absolutely horrendous, life-altering realization and it slants your world sideways. You despise yourself for it. It’s something you force deep down into yourself, hoping it dies a quick and painless death, but you know that it won’t be the case. Not if he’s still around. And not if you two continue like this.
Luckily, for both of you, the television at the pub chirps out a loud noise as a penalty is called for the game on-screen. You two snap out of it, promptly tuning in to distract yourselves from whatever the fuck that was. Old habits were easy to fall into. They were dangerous. You couldn’t wait to pretend like that never happened.
However, something still lingers. Something sits upon your tongue as you watch the scene unfold on-screen, as the medical and physio team run out to help the injured Arsenal player who’s clutching at his knee. You can’t explain your motive and you don’t completely understand why you feel the need to keep this conversation going, but you want to extend that same kindness to him, with something you’ve been holding back for years. So you do.
“I almost called you,” you tell him. He glances over at you, brows raised in question. “The game you got hurt. I was watching. And I sat on my couch for two hours trying to figure out if I should call you.”
Roy blinks, absorbing this, then turns away. He swallows thickly before bringing his glass to his lips. “Glad you didn’t.”
It stings. Like, really stings. You nod, trying not to show just how much, but your voice still comes out dejected. “Oh,” you say. “Right.”
Roy sighs at your tone. “No, it—” He wipes a hand down his face and the pint in his other lands on the bartop with a thud. “If you’d called that night, it just… It would have… complicated a lot of fucking things for me. And I might have—” There’s a brief moment where he meets your gaze, but he quickly drops it. “I don’t know what I would have done.”
“Oh,” you repeat, but it’s quieter. Your focus is drawn to your glass. “Right.”
That dreaded silence returns and it’s unlike anything you’ve experienced with him. What did he mean? What would he have done? What would you have complicated for him? The way he speaks gives you a pretty decent idea of how drastic his actions would have been, but you can’t figure out what he means.
Would he have lashed out at you? Would he have wanted to see you? Would he have even picked up the phone if you had called? What did he mean?
You have millions of questions you’re too scared to ask, and you bite your tongue for fear of actually speaking them aloud. Roy doesn’t seem to like this and really doesn’t seem to like your answer, or lack there of (but truly, what exactly were you supposed to say to something like that?). You’re not sure if he thinks he upset you or made you uncomfortable, but when he speaks again, he’s taken on a bit of a softer tone.
“Just so we’re clear,” he begins. “I’m… happy you’re here.” He says it slowly, as if he’s testing out each word. “I’m happy you joined Richmond despite… well, fucking everything.”
You swallow hard, awkwardly shrugging. “I didn’t have a lot of other options.”
He gives you a look that tells you to stop being a smartass. You know it well.
“I’m happy you’re here,” he repeats, more sure this time. “I’m happy to see you again. But it…” Roy trails off, eyes locked on the bar top. “It’s fucking… strange. It’s strange to be here with you after I swore you off for the rest of my life.”
“Yeah,” you agree. “It is.”
“And I— I’m trying to be better at this,” he continues, still refusing to look at you. “Talk like this with someone. Be fucking open, or whatever. So, this is me being open.”
It takes him a minute to collect his thoughts, and you give it to him.
He scratches at the inside of his wrist. “All of my past… relationships were…” He trails off like he can’t find the right word.
“Fleeting?” you try, earning a glare in response. “Transactional?”
That look in his eye doesn’t falter. “I’m trying to be open here, for fuck’s sake,” he grits, though the slight whine in his voice makes you chuckle. However, before you can apologize, he sighs. “But, for lack of a better fucking word, yeah. That. Nobody stuck around and there was no… love lost or-- fucking whatever. And if it did end poorly, I didn’t have to worry about seeing them. I could ignore them or get a fucking drink thrown in my face and it’d be… done. It’d be over.” Roy shakes his head and takes a long sip of his beer. “I didn’t have to be around them, I didn’t have to see them, and I certainly didn’t have to fucking work with them.”
There’s a beat between you. It’s brief, but it gives you time to absorb this, and for him to take a breath. He shuts his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, he’s looking at you. It’s a gaze that’s warmer than before, but there’s still that distress there. The confusion. Sadness.
He continues, “I really thought I was never going to see you again. And I had, I don’t know, fucking resigned myself to that idea? I’d come to terms with it. So, being here?” That’s when he decides to meet your eyes. “I don’t know what the fuck to do. I don’t know how to act around you. Not when I’m still so… fucking angry with you. Not when you’re so angry with me. I’ve never done anything like this—” He motions between you two. “—and I don’t know how the fuck to do it.”
It’s a lot to take in, but you do so while nodding slowly. He doesn’t know how to do this? He doesn’t know how to act around you? This is confusing for him?
It wasn’t a contest, but you’d argue that, given everything, you were in the worse position. You were joining his team, a team he’d clearly nested into and made a life for himself in. You had been forced to ignore everything he’d done to you for the sake of your career because you truly had nowhere else to go. How the hell did he think that you were or would be doing any better than he was? Did he really think you were dealing with this in a healthier, more stable way?
After you’ve collected your thoughts, you ask, “You think that this is easy for me? I’m fucking drowning here, Roy.” Your voice is gentle, and almost immediately, you can see the tension in his body resolve into something more open. “I think we’re the first people ever on earth to be put in this fucked situation. It’s like some sick psychology experiment.”
“Sad fucking excuses for lab rats we are,” he mutters. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips. “What does it say about us that we agreed to it?”
“It says we’re masochists, Kent,” you say, and that smile grows as he shakes his head. You motion to the window where Beard and Ted still stand, taking turns with the binoculars every so often to check in on the two of you. “Who else would just go along with shit like this?”
Roy turns to the window. “Fuck. I forgot they were out there,” he mutters in disbelief.
You salute to Beard and his binoculars and he pulls them down to nod at you in response. “We’re sick, sick people who’d rather be uncomfortable than give this sport up.”
Roy huffs a laugh. “Cheers to that.”
He tilts his pint to yours and it feels like a peace offering. It’s like you’re finally on the same page about something for once. When you clink your glass against his and sip with him, it ratifies that agreement. You bite back a smile.
“But there’s some truth in that, I guess,” you continue. Roy’s brow pinches. “I couldn’t give this up. I would rather be uncomfortable with this than let go of this opportunity. Because, I…” You take in a deep breath, scoffing softly as you release it. “I really thought I blew it. I thought my career was over after West Ham fired me. I didn’t think anyone was going to want the girl who couldn’t even last three months at an AFC club.” You can feel yourself getting choked up and you blink away the telltale burning in your eyes. “And then out of the blue, like a fucking miracle, Rebecca’s at my door asking me to join Richmond. So… yeah, Roy. This is so fucking weird. And you’re right, I’m still mad at you. I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for what you did. And I don’t expect you to ever forgive me.
“But this… this job, West Ham… I couldn’t allow my career to end like that,” you say, and your chest starts to tighten again. Fuck, was it always going to be this hard to talk about this? “You were right when you told me I couldn’t let them take what I love away from me.” Your voice is quieter when you say, “I can’t allow someone to dictate my career for me. Not again.”
You see Roy’s eyes close out of the corner of your own. His head bows ever so slightly and as he mutters, “Yeah. That shouldn’t happen again.”
Now you feel like the asshole. You know it’s deserved, but the somber, regretful note in his voice makes your perpetual guilt complex rear its head. You’re getting emotional whiplash from the highs and lows of this conversation and you wonder how much time has really passed by. You can’t tell if it’s been twenty minutes or an hour.
But, however long it’s been, you think it’s a miracle that you’ve been able to get to this point with such little time.
“I’m not…” The words get caught in your throat and then escape like a sigh. “...ready to talk about what happened yet. I don’t know when I’ll be able to, but it’s certainly not now. I… It’s too hard to, I don’t know, look at you and talk about that.” You look wearily over in his direction. “And I don’t think— I can’t be your friend,” you tell him softly, watching as he bows his head. “Or be whatever our coworkers want us to be. I’m not… I don’t think I can do that yet. And I think you feel the same.”
There’s a long, pregnant silence, one that drags out and makes everything between you two feel heightened. Then, Roy nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Not yet.”
You figured as such. It’s almost reassuring to know that you’re at the same point. However, after this conversation, after sitting here with him, forgetting about everything for just a moment to laugh and joke around with him for the first time in years, you’re comfortable enough to say your next words.
With a deep breath, you tell him, ”But, whatever comes before friends. Whatever that is, I’m willing to give it a shot.”
Roy’s eyes meet yours. He lets that statement sit with him, absorbing it, then stares at you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. It’s as if he wasn’t expecting you to say that and can’t believe that you did.
You’re not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing until he clears his throat and says, “You are?”
It’s something soft and sincere, asked with an uncharacteristic hesitance. “Yes,” you say. “Are you?”
You’re sure you’re imagining it, but you swore you could have seen the beginnings of a smile twisting at his lips. “Yeah,” he replies. “I’d really fucking like that.”
Unconsciously, you feel yourself copying the smile you’re positive was an illusion. “Good,” you say gently, turning back to face the TV above the bar. “Would have been really awkward if you’d said no.”
Roy’s laugh is one of surprise. “God-fucking-forbid things were awkward between us.”
“I’m just saying,” you insist with a shrug. “I wouldn’t have known what to say if you’d said no. Finish my beer in silence and just get up and go. Hand in my two weeks and head back to America.”
“Leaving two teams in under a month would have been a league record,” he notes, lips quirking as you narrow your eyes at him. “And don’t act like you wouldn’t have stayed just to spite me.”
“You’re right,” you agree almost immediately. “I’m much more vindictive than that.”
It’s then that Roy grins at you, and the look in his eye sends you right back to 2012. “Damn fucking right you are.”
You toe the line between hatred and acceptance as a familiar warmth spreads across your chest and makes a home there.
This, you know, will be impossible to shake.
LONDON OLYMPICS. (EARLY AUGUST, 2012)
so sorry to see you boys lose, says the text you send to Roy after their penalty-kicks loss against South Korea. devastating way to go out. not sure if this is a bad time, but i do believe there was a standing deal that whoever lasted longer in the tournament got whatever they wanted from the other?
It’s a rather brutal text, especially after a loss like that, but you don’t care. He was so sure that your team was going to be knocked out before he was. It felt good to be better than him at something for once.
You’re sitting in your Olympic dorm room, perfectly happy to be alone for the night. After your win against New Zealand last night, you’d spent the night celebrating (or what constituted for celebrating in the Village, which was just staying up with your girls and watching bad British made-for-TV movies) and had not had a minute to yourself since. You were unfortunately a person who needed their alone time and having a career as time-consuming as soccer made it virtually impossible to not have people around you at all times.
Mel was out for the night, having gone upstairs to find Paige (the UK women’s team had lost in a gnarly game against Canada last night), taking advantage of the circumstances to ‘comfort’ her. Or, whatever Mel constituted as comfort.
(“She just so sad,” Mel had said, lacing up her shoes. “I told her I’d come up and cheer her up.”
“And how exactly are you doing that?” you asked skeptically from your bed. “You have horrendous bedside manner.”
“I’m going to figure out a way. I hate seeing her sad,” Mel said innocently. “Do you think restaurants deliver here? Maybe I can get her something to eat.”
You scoffed. “Yeah, she’s gonna be eating something, alright—”
You’re cut off by a memory foam slide slipper being chucked straight at your head.)
There was no way Paige didn’t see through her or what she was doing. However, it helped that everyone could see that she was totally into Mel, and you were thankful that your best friend’s mega crush wasn’t unrequited. Extremely thankful. Mel did not take rejection well.
Speaking of rejection, you think, as you feel your phone vibrate on your chest. The text from Roy stares at you from your phone screen and you can practically hear his words as you read them.
That was the deal if one of us won the tournament, he tells you. You’ve still got two games to go, Yank.
It’s the type of response you expected, but you’re unsure of the validity of his claim. i recall that deal differently.
His reply is lightning quick. Of course, you do. Your memory’s as shit as your jokes.
someone’s sounding bitter, you answer. i can hear you pouting all the way from your apartment.
You don’t get a response for a moment, and for a minute, there’s a small part of you that thinks you actually may have pissed him off. There’s no way that he’d get upset about something like that, would he? You know how much he cares about football, but the Games are mostly just… fun. For the men’s side, at least. It means leagues more to the women.
However, before you can get too in your head about it, your phone starts ringing in your hand, Roy’s name popping up on your screen. You press your lips together to keep yourself from smiling too hard.
“Hello?” you say, the humor in your voice evident.
“I don’t fucking pout,” is his greeting, which earns him a soft chuckle.
“The fact that you’re calling me to whine isn’t making for a compelling argument,” you reply.
“You know,” he begins, and the sudden accusatory inflection in his voice has you pushing your lips together again, “you’re being really fucking mean to someone who’s got the power to run you until you pass out tomorrow.”
You roll your eyes. “Oh, I’m terrified. Tell me, are you going to be breathing down my neck now that you’ve got nothing to do?”
“Thin fucking ice, Fourteen,” he warns, but you swear you can hear his smile. “One more fucking word and I’ll replay footwork day.”
That has your mouth shutting almost immediately. “Okay, now you’re actually scaring me.”
It’s then that Roy laughs, and the sound sends a rush through you. It’s such a rare occurrence that every time you hear it, it feels like an accomplishment.
“I’m sorry you lost,” you finally say. “That was a tough game to watch.”
“Tough fucking game to play,” he replies through a sigh. “We shouldn’t have let it get to that point.”
You tilt your head back against the pillows stacked up behind you, attempting to get comfortable on your horribly uncomfortable, tiny bed. “If it makes you feel any better, I thought you played well.”
There’s an uneven beat of quiet and the line crackles. “Yeah?” he asks. His voice is calmer and slightly warmer. You’re not expecting it.
“Yeah,” you say. “You had a couple of good shifts in the second half. That last pass you sent up the field would have been an insane assist if Lowell didn’t miss.”
You hear him sigh. “That wasn’t Lowell’s fault. That sweeper was a problem for all of us.”
“Didn’t say it was his fault. We all miss,” you state. “I’m just saying if it had worked out. That would have been crazy.”
“It would have been,” he finally agrees, which you know is the closest you’re going to get to him complimenting himself. “You play Monday, right?”
“Yup. Canada. I’m supposed to be in charge of taking care of Caroline Singer which should be, y’know, a joy.”
Roy snorts. “She’ll start swinging at you before the half.”
“That’s the goal. I’ve been told to piss her off as much as I can.” Before he has the chance to make the layup joke you’ve just handed him, you beat him to it. “Which shouldn’t be too hard.”
“I’ve seen her play,” he says. “She doesn’t do well when she’s flustered. You’ve got a talent for getting in people’s heads. We can work more on that tomorrow.”
You grin. “So, no footwork?”
His voice is a low growl with a lilt of a chuckle. “Don’t push it.”
There’s a moment that passes between you two where you know you’re both smiling, sitting on the phone in your respective make-shift Olympic homes (one, much nicer than the other, you’re sure), knowing that this conversation is probably over for the night, but finding that you don’t want to hang up. It’s an odd, giddy sort of feeling, one you haven’t felt in years. You never expected to feel it again here, of all places, with fucking Roy Kent, of all people.
You don’t know exactly what possesses you to ask, but the question floats out of your mouth before you can stop it. “Are you really going to stay in London to train me until we’re out of the tournament?”
It was something he’d implied during your practices and once joked about, but he’d said it enough to make you think he was serious. When you’d once questioned him about it, he’d said something along the lines of making sure he saw through his investment or wanted to see your deal through. He’d called himself a man of his word, which you also had questioned, but again, it felt like he was incredibly serious about this.
His answer catches you off-guard, but you suppose you shouldn’t have expected anything less.. “I thought you were winning the fucking thing.”
An abrupt laugh leaves your lips. “Roy.”
He sighs again and then replies with something more in-line with what he’d said previously. “I made a deal with you. We’re seeing this fucking thing through.” There’s a noise on his line that sounds as though he’s shifting. “And besides, you’ve got what? Two games left if you make it to the Gold round?”
“When we make it,” you correct.
You’re nearly positive that he rolls his eyes. But, he says, “I’m sticking around.”
The sentiment of it all fills you with a warmth that travels down your body. You’re still not sure what this is. You’re not sure why he’s doing this. You don’t completely understand why he seems to like you, why he’s sticking around to train you, or why he chose to train you in the first place. Everything about this is so out of left field and nothing about it makes sense. You couldn’t have predicted this if you’d tried.
There’s nothing about this situation that you completely understand, but you know one thing: you’re starting to become grateful it did.
You don’t question him. You don’t ask the things that are swirling around in your head, and you don’t verbalize anything you’ve started to feel the last couple of days. Instead, you just say, “Well. I suppose if you insist.”
He makes a low sound, something that you may think is a laugh of disbelief. He’s quiet for a second as if he’s going to say more, but he clears his throat instead. “I’ll let you get to bed.”
There’s a brief moment where disappointment swells in your chest, but you quickly shake it off with a silent scolding. “Yeah,” you agree. “Probably a good idea to be asleep when Mel gets back.”
“Back?” Roy questions. “Where’s Rivera?”
“Consoling Paige,” you say, air quotes implied. Roy huffs. “She’s consistent if nothing else.”
“She’s fucking relentless is what she is. I’ve never seen someone pine so hard for someone who clearly fucking likes them.”
You shrug, but then realize he can’t see that. “Mel’s not the make-a-move type. She’s more of a let-me-stare-at-you-and-telepathically-tell-you-I’m-in-love-with-you type. Which I get. But it’s still frustrating.”
There’s a beat between you, one that has you raising a brow. “You're not the first-move type, huh?”
Blood rushes to your ears and it spreads down your neck. His tone is leading, and it sets off every siren in your brain. “No,” you get out, and thankfully it’s more casual than you thought it’d be. “Never been my thing.”
“Huh,” Roy muses. “Good to know.”
Your stomach churns in anxious anticipation, once again not completely sure what he means by that. You’ve got an idea, but Jesus, he loves to be vague. You would have never pegged him to be coy.
Before you can respond, he’s speaking again, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Goodnight, Fourteen. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He then hangs up on you, leaving you stunned with your phone in your hand, mouth slightly ajar, and the best kind of nerves coursing through your body.
You can’t help but laugh at it all.
PRESENT DAY. (MID-AUGUST, 2023)
You awake to your phone ringing on your bedside table next to you. It’s a call that’s earlier than your alarm, one that has you throwing your arm to the table, slapping your hand around blindly to find it.
Once it’s in your possession, you crack your eyes open to see Mel’s name on the screen. Your interest is piqued enough to answer. “Hello?”
Your greeting comes out as more of a groan, but you think Mel gets the message. Either that, or she doesn’t care. Because she leads with, “You want to tell me why I’m getting Twitter updates about you and The Dark Lord hanging out at a bar like it’s 2012?”
You open your eyes, squinting at the sun that’s peaking through your window. “Roy and I are relevant enough to be getting Twitter updates?”
“After that press conference you gave? Uh, yeah. You’re a bit of a celebrity to the football side of Twitter,” Mel says, sounding only slightly incredulous that that’s what you choose to respond with. “You’re relevant enough to have people spamming this picture someone took of you two last night.”
You hum. “How do I look?”
Mel scoffs. “You look incredible. The Dark One looks scary.”
“Scary how?”
“Well, he’s smiling for one, which is always a jumpscare,” she says. “And you’re smiling back at him which is even more horrifying. So, you know, just a scary photo all around.”
A huff of a laugh escapes you, and you put your arm over your eyes. “You wouldn’t believe why we were there if I told you.”
“It better be some fucking Twilight Zone, cosmic occurrence, because that’s the only explanation I’ll accept as to why you’re laughing with each other.”
“Will you take Coaches Ted Lasso and Beard Parent-Trapping and holding Roy and I hostage until we talked out our issues?” you offer.
You’re met with approximately thirty seconds of silence before Mel responds. You can picture the perplexed look on her face as she asks, “Do they understand the depth of your issues? And that trapping you at a bar without a neutral third party and law enforcement present is an outlandish and potentially fatal situation?”
“We were actually very civil,” you reply casually. “Found out he does yoga now. Watches Love Conquers All.”
“Hmm,” Mel hums. “Does he do that before or after his day job of kicking puppies and burning down orphanages?”
The laugh that escapes you is involuntary. “Mel,” you whine.
“I’m glad you’re laughing. Because I’m certainly not,” she says, and the tone of her voice tells you you’re about to receive the scolding she clearly called to give you. “Because it sounds like you’re back on the Kent Train and I’m going to have to pick you up when he inevitably fucks you over again.”
“I’m not ‘back on the Kent Train’ or whatever the hell you just said,” you mutter, turning to lay on your pillow. “You knew that working at Richmond meant us working together. I knew that. Our coaching staff is insane, but they have a point. We can’t work well together if we’re fighting and not getting along.”
Mel scoffs. “You can work with people you don’t like. It’s called being professional. The only thing you have to be on the same page about is the team.”
“Richmond isn’t like that,” you tell her. “It’s unlike anywhere I’ve ever played or worked. These people are a family. And not in like, a corporate ‘we’re a family here’ way. They all really care about each other and spend Christmas together and do karaoke together. It’s actually really sweet.”
“And what? You’re scared they’re not going to accept you if you don’t join the cult and sing kumbaya?”
You shut your eyes in frustration at her words. “No, Melanie,” you say, and the edge to your voice has her scoffing again. “It’s not about joining the cult. It’s about the fact that I refuse to lose another job. Especially not this job. I can’t imagine any other club being as warm and accommodating as they’ve been. And frankly, no other club wanted me after the shit show that was West Ham.” Mel’s gone quiet and you exhale in resignation. “So, yeah. If that means I have to be friendly with Roy and sing their song, then fucking… hand me the guitar, I guess.”
Once again, Mel’s quiet. You think she’s hung up on you until you remove your phone from your ear and see the call time’s still running. It takes a moment, but she finally, finally releases a long and heavy sigh that lets you know she’s back on your side. “I just don’t want to see him hurt you again.”
“He won’t,” you say without hesitation. “I won’t allow him to. I’m never…” You shake your head. “I’m never going back to that. We’re colleagues. Nothing more, nothing less.”
You can hear her shake her head against her phone. “I really wish I believed that.”
“I mean it,” you insist. “You have full permission to kick my ass if anything else happens.”
Finally, you get something like a laugh from the other line. “Gleefully holding you to that.”
“I know you are.”
“Haven’t kicked your ass since 2015,” Mel says, sounding almost rueful. “I miss it. You’ve ignited a fire in me and it’s burning.”
“Does Paige know about your thirst for violence?” you ask. “I can’t imagine she wants Oliver exposed to that.”
Mel scoffs. “Not only does she know but he knows. I passed it on to the little fucker,” she mutters. You note the hint of pride in her voice. “Speaking of Roy, Oliver’s finally old enough for the baby leagues and he pulled a very Kent versus Man City move in his first game. Scuffed up the poor kid’s leg and everything.”
You snicker and roll on your back, eyes cast up to the ceiling. “I cannot possibly imagine my sweet baby boy doing anything of the sort. It must have been someone else,” you tell her. Then, you chuckle again. “Roy and I actually just talked about that game. He still refuses to admit that he did anything wrong.”
“Glad to see nothing’s changed on that end.”
You suppress a smile, but your voice comes out as a warning. “Mel…”
“Hey, you can be nice to him all you want,” she replies. “Never said anything about me having to.”
Fair enough. You know that this is the best your going to get from her, so you let it slide. “You’re still coming to the game this week, right?”
“Recent events have given me second thoughts—” Her response is cut short by your groaning, and you hear her sigh on the other end. “Of course, I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss your first home game for the world. Or any home game for that matter,” she says. “I do draw the line at away games, though. Don’t love you enough to drive that much.”
“Understandable. And we’re still on for dinner after?”
“If you’re paying. That AFC coaching salary better join us at the table.”
You roll your eyes. “Good to know where your priorities lie.”
“I’m joking,” she says, but the way that the volume of her voice increases tells you that she’s not saying that for you, but for her wife, who must be in the room. When she speaks again, it’s much lower. “I’m not joking.”
“Oh, I know,” you respond. “Tell Paige I say hi.”
“I’ll do it when it’s less suspicious.”
You grin, shaking your head. “I’ll see you on Saturday, asshole.”
“See you then,” she says. However, before you can hang up, you hear her voice calling your name once more. When you put your phone back up to your ear, she says, “Please. Please be careful. I mean it.”
Her soft worry holds a certain weight that makes your eyes screw shut. “I will. I promise.”
“Okay,” Mel replies, a little more certain. “I love you, kid.”
“Love you too,” you say. “See you Saturday.”
And with that, you hang up on your best friend, letting your phone fall onto your chest with a strikingly heavy thump, letting each and every one of her words sit with you as you pretend that the new pain in your chest doesn’t exist.
The next morning, Ted Lasso gets to the Richmond Coaching Offices early.
He’s even earlier than you, something of which has proven to be a difficult feat, as you’re typically stationed at your desk reviewing film before anyone else has even considered coffee or put on a shin guard.
But today, he’s done it. He has no idea when you’re going to be in, but to be on the safe side, he figures he should be quick. The wrapped book is carefully grasped in his hand, making sure not to fold or crease the bow he tied around it as he opens the door to your and Roy’s office.
It’s only when the book is placed on your desk that he realizes he forgot to write the message he’d planned on the outside of the wrapping paper. His face scrunches up as he scans your desk for a pen or some other writing utensil, but comes up empty.
He then turns to Roy’s desk, hoping to find something there. Sliding over, he gives the tabletop a once over, frowning as he realizes Roy’s got nothing too. It’s then that Ted remembers something.
Roy kept pens and dry-erase markers in his top drawer. Ted only knows this because three days ago, he saw Roy pull one out to chuck at Jamie as he barged into your shared office unannounced. He figures he can let that one slide if Roy forgives him for going into his desk.
Ted pulls the drawer out to find Roy’s neatly organized stash of utensils, grinning as he picks up a pen. However, before he can shut the drawer, something catches his eye.
There’s a frame shoved into the back, showcasing a photo Ted had seen from afar on Roy’s desk a million times but had never looked at close up. It’s of Roy, who’s wearing the closest thing to a smile that Ted’s seen on him, his sister, and… you.
You’re positioned in the middle, grinning from ear to ear with your arms tight around both Roy's and his sister’s shoulders. It’s an older picture, one taken at the high-top table of a bar. Both you and Roy are younger, and while Ted can’t figure out the exact time period of which this was taken, something else catches his eye.
It’s something small, probably something that would seem insignificant if he didn’t know you two. It’s your hands. While your arms are draped around Roy and his sister, his hand is covering yours.
It’s something that could be considered friendly, but Ted gets the feeling it’s not. It’s only then that Ted feels as though he’s looking at something he shouldn’t and closes the drawer.
With the pen he was looking for in hand, he returns to the book he’s left for you and scribbles down the message he wanted.
No— I must keep my own style and go on in my own way. —Jane Austen.
He only hopes Persuasion isn’t too on the nose for your situation as he slips out your office door and into his own.
hi, @frostedsugarcookiehearts has forced me to create this post or i will die. so here are my favorite writers in the chuckleblr community.
charlie slimecicle
can i kiss you sleepover? (@medlarmeadows) is so cute i’ll die. WHAT THE FUCK. also, the best of us, the worst of us (the last of us)? if i am being real, i cried to this at twelve in the morning. it’s so gut wrenching. my stomach twisted. tears poured down my face.
caught in my web IS SO CUTE. i have various drafts of superhero au chuckle trio rn and this is a MUST read. i love @p3achslimes no one gets it.
why don’t you sit right down and stay awhile? … @frostedsugarcookiehearts i love you. that is all i will say.
feeling groovy like a drive in movie. now. I ALWAYS LOVE A GOOD MEET CUTE AND FRIENDS TO LOVERS. @forslimslime, you’re my goat.
@pupslimes, @bio-hazard, & @saystrinity (trin… save me, trin… trin, save me… /ref) are also very good charlie writers! i always love every piece they release, genuinely adore them.
ted nivison
@k4lenz is my ABSOLUTE favorite ted writer. their recent post (i loved you first) is impeccable. only the first chapter is out and i already adore it. gut wrenching. jaw dropping. absolute masterpiece.
would it be horrible to say that kal is the only ted writer i read?
jschlatt
for you i’m an insomniac by @burdenandacrop makes me giggle and kick my feet. FUCK I LOVE THIS SO MUCH.
@laambfuzz my beloved. favorite schlatt writer of all time. zero explanation needed. writing is amazing. always.
my heart is buried in st lucia is an AMAZING series by @memento-rory. genuinely you can’t get better than this. actually, ANYTHING by rory is fucking fantastic.
@kkentobox’s his tender loving IS SO FUCKING ADORABLE. NOTHING ELSE TO SAY. I LOVE IT.
i will probably periodically add to this once i realize i forgot to add someone, but, nonetheless, i appreciate all writers in the chuckleblr community. that being said—i personally nominate @laambfuzz & @p3achslimes to do this (& anyone else who’d like to participate—spreading love has no restrictions, not to sound cringe).
the morning light is soft, spilling through the curtains in hazy golden streaks, and the room feels warm, cocooned in a quiet stillness. charlie’s arm is draped over your waist, his chest pressed against your back, his breath slow and steady against your neck. he’s not fully awake yet, but you can feel him stirring, his hips shifting lazily, his hardness pressing against you in a way that makes your stomach flutter. his fingers trail down your side, brushing over your hip, and he lets out a low, sleepy hum, his voice rough and gravelly.
“mornin’,” he mumbles, his lips brushing against your shoulder, and you can feel the way his cock twitches against you, already leaking, already eager. his hand slides between your thighs, his touch feather-light, and you gasp softly, arching into him. “s’wet already,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep, his fingers slipping through your folds, teasing you, making you whimper. “fuck, baby… always s’ready f’me, yeah?”
he’s not in a rush, his movements slow and lazy as he lines himself up, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance. he sinks into you with a low, shaky breath, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his hips pressing forward until he’s fully sheathed inside you. “god, y’feel s’good,” he whispers, his voice trembling, his hands gripping your hips as he starts to move, his thrusts slow and deep, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you.
charlie’s not in a hurry, his rhythm steady and unhurried, and you can feel the way his cock twitches inside you, already so close, but he’s holding back, his breath hitching as he fucks you with long, lazy strokes. “s’too good,” he mumbles, his lips brushing against your skin, his voice barely audible. “s’perfect… always s’perfect f’me, baby.” his praise is soft, almost incoherent, but it makes your chest ache, makes you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering for a moment before he regains his rhythm.
when he comes, it’s with a low, broken moan, his hips jerking against yours, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you. but he doesn’t stop, his thrusts growing sloppier, more erratic, as he fucks you through his orgasm, his cock twitching and leaking, still hard, still filling you so perfectly. “fuck, baby,” he gasps, his voice rough, his hands trembling as he holds you close. “s’too much… y’feel t’good.”
you can feel the way his cock pulses inside you, the way his hips grind against yours, chasing every last bit of pleasure, and you don’t want him to stop, don’t want him to pull away. it’s too good, too perfect, the way he fills you, the way his breath hitches when you clench around him. “stay,” you whimper, your voice trembling, and he nods, his lips brushing against your skin, his body heavy and warm against yours.
he’s still inside you, his cock twitching as he softens, and you can feel the way his cum leaks out of you, warm and sticky, but you don’t care. you just want to stay like this, wrapped up in him, in the quiet, lazy morning light, his breath soft against your neck, his hands gentle as they stroke your skin. and he stays, his body pressed against yours, his lips brushing against your shoulder as you both drift, tangled together, in the warmth of the morning.
it starts with charlie kissing you like he always does: messy, eager, like he’s been craving you all day. his hands are on your shoulders, your jaw, your hair—like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like he wants to be touching everywhere at once.
you’re used to him being desperate when he kisses you, but tonight there’s something else, something deeper, something needier.
his hands find yours, his fingers lacing between yours, and then—gently, hesitantly—he guides one of your hands up, up, up, until your palm is resting against his throat.
he lets out a soft, shivery breath, kissing you harder, like he’s encouraging you, like he’s begging you.
you squeeze, just a little, just to see what happens.
charlie fucking whimpers.
“fuck,” he gasps against your lips, his fingers tightening around yours where they still rest against his throat. “fuck, that—keep doing that, please—”
you’ve never seen him like this before—so flushed, so desperate, so needy—but god, you love it.
you tighten your grip just a little more, your thumb pressing into the soft, sensitive skin beneath his jaw, and charlie practically melts against you, his whole body shuddering as he gasps into your mouth.
his hands are shaking when they grab onto your shoulders, his nails digging in just enough to leave a mark. you can feel how hard his pulse is beneath your fingers, how it quickens every time you move your hand even the slightest bit.
“fuck, baby,” you murmur against his lips. “this is really doing it for you, huh?”
he whines, his hips jerking forward, like he can’t help himself. “shut up,” he mumbles, cheeks burning, but he doesn’t let go of your hand.
he wants this.
he needs it, even.
and fuck, you’re more than happy to give it to him.
it starts with charlie kissing you like he always does: messy, eager, like he’s been craving you all day. his hands are on your shoulders, your jaw, your hair—like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like he wants to be touching everywhere at once.
you’re used to him being desperate when he kisses you, but tonight there’s something else, something deeper, something needier.
his hands find yours, his fingers lacing between yours, and then—gently, hesitantly—he guides one of your hands up, up, up, until your palm is resting against his throat.
he lets out a soft, shivery breath, kissing you harder, like he’s encouraging you, like he’s begging you.
you squeeze, just a little, just to see what happens.
charlie fucking whimpers.
“fuck,” he gasps against your lips, his fingers tightening around yours where they still rest against his throat. “fuck, that—keep doing that, please—”
you’ve never seen him like this before—so flushed, so desperate, so needy—but god, you love it.
you tighten your grip just a little more, your thumb pressing into the soft, sensitive skin beneath his jaw, and charlie practically melts against you, his whole body shuddering as he gasps into your mouth.
his hands are shaking when they grab onto your shoulders, his nails digging in just enough to leave a mark. you can feel how hard his pulse is beneath your fingers, how it quickens every time you move your hand even the slightest bit.
“fuck, baby,” you murmur against his lips. “this is really doing it for you, huh?”
he whines, his hips jerking forward, like he can’t help himself. “shut up,” he mumbles, cheeks burning, but he doesn’t let go of your hand.
he wants this.
he needs it, even.
and fuck, you’re more than happy to give it to him.
it starts with charlie kissing you like he always does: messy, eager, like he’s been craving you all day. his hands are on your shoulders, your jaw, your hair—like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like he wants to be touching everywhere at once.
you’re used to him being desperate when he kisses you, but tonight there’s something else, something deeper, something needier.
his hands find yours, his fingers lacing between yours, and then—gently, hesitantly—he guides one of your hands up, up, up, until your palm is resting against his throat.
he lets out a soft, shivery breath, kissing you harder, like he’s encouraging you, like he’s begging you.
you squeeze, just a little, just to see what happens.
charlie fucking whimpers.
“fuck,” he gasps against your lips, his fingers tightening around yours where they still rest against his throat. “fuck, that—keep doing that, please—”
you’ve never seen him like this before—so flushed, so desperate, so needy—but god, you love it.
you tighten your grip just a little more, your thumb pressing into the soft, sensitive skin beneath his jaw, and charlie practically melts against you, his whole body shuddering as he gasps into your mouth.
his hands are shaking when they grab onto your shoulders, his nails digging in just enough to leave a mark. you can feel how hard his pulse is beneath your fingers, how it quickens every time you move your hand even the slightest bit.
“fuck, baby,” you murmur against his lips. “this is really doing it for you, huh?”
he whines, his hips jerking forward, like he can’t help himself. “shut up,” he mumbles, cheeks burning, but he doesn’t let go of your hand.
he wants this.
he needs it, even.
and fuck, you’re more than happy to give it to him.
it starts with charlie kissing you like he always does: messy, eager, like he’s been craving you all day. his hands are on your shoulders, your jaw, your hair—like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like he wants to be touching everywhere at once.
you’re used to him being desperate when he kisses you, but tonight there’s something else, something deeper, something needier.
his hands find yours, his fingers lacing between yours, and then—gently, hesitantly—he guides one of your hands up, up, up, until your palm is resting against his throat.
he lets out a soft, shivery breath, kissing you harder, like he’s encouraging you, like he’s begging you.
you squeeze, just a little, just to see what happens.
charlie fucking whimpers.
“fuck,” he gasps against your lips, his fingers tightening around yours where they still rest against his throat. “fuck, that—keep doing that, please—”
you’ve never seen him like this before—so flushed, so desperate, so needy—but god, you love it.
you tighten your grip just a little more, your thumb pressing into the soft, sensitive skin beneath his jaw, and charlie practically melts against you, his whole body shuddering as he gasps into your mouth.
his hands are shaking when they grab onto your shoulders, his nails digging in just enough to leave a mark. you can feel how hard his pulse is beneath your fingers, how it quickens every time you move your hand even the slightest bit.
“fuck, baby,” you murmur against his lips. “this is really doing it for you, huh?”
he whines, his hips jerking forward, like he can’t help himself. “shut up,” he mumbles, cheeks burning, but he doesn’t let go of your hand.
he wants this.
he needs it, even.
and fuck, you’re more than happy to give it to him.
it starts with charlie kissing you like he always does: messy, eager, like he’s been craving you all day. his hands are on your shoulders, your jaw, your hair—like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like he wants to be touching everywhere at once.
you’re used to him being desperate when he kisses you, but tonight there’s something else, something deeper, something needier.
his hands find yours, his fingers lacing between yours, and then—gently, hesitantly—he guides one of your hands up, up, up, until your palm is resting against his throat.
he lets out a soft, shivery breath, kissing you harder, like he’s encouraging you, like he’s begging you.
you squeeze, just a little, just to see what happens.
charlie fucking whimpers.
“fuck,” he gasps against your lips, his fingers tightening around yours where they still rest against his throat. “fuck, that—keep doing that, please—”
you’ve never seen him like this before—so flushed, so desperate, so needy—but god, you love it.
you tighten your grip just a little more, your thumb pressing into the soft, sensitive skin beneath his jaw, and charlie practically melts against you, his whole body shuddering as he gasps into your mouth.
his hands are shaking when they grab onto your shoulders, his nails digging in just enough to leave a mark. you can feel how hard his pulse is beneath your fingers, how it quickens every time you move your hand even the slightest bit.
“fuck, baby,” you murmur against his lips. “this is really doing it for you, huh?”
he whines, his hips jerking forward, like he can’t help himself. “shut up,” he mumbles, cheeks burning, but he doesn’t let go of your hand.
he wants this.
he needs it, even.
and fuck, you’re more than happy to give it to him.
valentine's day w charlie <33 || fluff but minors dni
this isn't being posted late idk wym it's valentines TODAY guys !!! ❤️❤️❤️
you had texted charlie the second you got on your break, complaining about how shitty work had been so far
it was valentines but you weren't really feeling the love
if a customer wasn't yelling at you, it was one of your coworkers telling you off for one thing or another
you wanted to just go home and pretend the day hadn't even started
the thought of hiding away from the world in charlie's arms was the only thing keeping you going right now
he texted back saying he was sorry and he'll do his best to make you feel better
charlie was never one to let a celebration go by without some sort of fanfare but you had plans for the next day, agreeing that the restaurant might be less packed
so you really didn't expect much
the rest of your shift dragged on and strangely, charlie didn't answer any of your texts after that
but you did get a few notifications and saw that a fan had met him in public, and in his hands were a few bags of shopping bags with valentines themed things sticking out of them
you couldn't help but wonder what he was doing
when you were finally free from work you quickly made your way home, ready to drop into his arms and eat some sweets and maybe watch a few movies
but as you opened the door, you weren't met with the sound of charlie running to kiss you and welcome you home like usual
the lights were off, there was distant music playing and the whole place smelled of... roses?
when you stepped in, there was something slippery on the floor and you looked down to see you had stepped on a few rose petals, then noticed a trail of them leading deeper into the house
had charlie dropped a bouquet or something?
you hung up your items and kicked off your shoes, carefully following the trail of petals
the scent only got stronger and mixed with cinnamon and vanilla as you got closer to the bedroom
the door was slightly ajar, and you slowly pushed it open to see charlie covering the bed with more rose petals
there were candles all around the room and a few decorations of pink and red hearts all over the place as low, romantic music played
"charlie..?"
he whipped around to face you, having obviously not heard you come in, then quickly dove onto the bed, winking at you as he tried to look all sexy
"hey, babe."
"what is all of this??"
he sat up, looking a little sheepish now
"well you said you had a bad day at work today, but our dinner reservations are for the weekend and..."
he got up and took your hands, pulling you closer to him and kissing your knuckles
"i wanted to make it up to you. wanted to make you feel special."
you can't help but melt at this, following him onto the bed as the two of you kissed
"thank you, charlie... you're so sweet. i wish i had planned something-"
"nope."
charlie shook his head
"you being here is more than enough.. oh! wait!"
he hopped off the bed, leaving you a little confused as he rushes over to the dresser and grabs a chocolate rose, bring it over to you
"will you be my valentine?"
you laugh and smile fondly as you take it
"of course."
...
"charlie how do you plan on cleaning up all these rose petals?"
“look at you,” schlatt murmurs, voice thick with amusement, “fallin’ apart on me already.”
you whimper against his lips, clutching at his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. you’re in his lap, legs spread over his thighs, his hands gripping your waist like he’s the only thing tethering you to reality.
it’s too much. yet it’s not enough.
he’s been kissing you for what feels like forever, slow and deep, pulling soft little noises from your throat that you can’t even be embarrassed about anymore. every time you try to chase more—tug at his hair, grind down against him—he just hums, steady and unbothered, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
“shh, sweetheart,” he coos when you whine, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “quit bein’ so impatient.”
you squirm, frustration bubbling up. “can’t help it,” you breathe, tilting your head to kiss along his jaw, your lips shaky and desperate. “need you, johnny—please.”
he groans, his fingers flexing against your waist, and you know you’ve got him.
“yeah?” his voice is rough now, his restraint slipping as you roll your hips against his. his hands slide down to your thighs, squeezing, grounding.
“yeah,” you gasp, barely able to think past the warmth of his touch.
he laughs, low and teasing, before capturing your lips again, kissing you harder, deeper—like he’s finally giving in, finally ready to ruin you like you want him to. <3
charlie was always eager—touchy, affectionate, practically vibrating with excitement whenever he had the chance to be close to you. you were used to it by now, used to the way he latched onto you like it was his instinct.
but right now? right now, he was too much.
his hands were everywhere, scratching behind your ears, petting along your tail, gripping your hips like he couldn’t get enough. his kisses were sloppy, desperate, all tongue and heat as he pressed you into the couch, his tail wagging so hard it thumped against the cushions.
you were already trembling, barely keeping up, your body reacting too strongly to every touch. the overstimulation was creeping in fast—your ears flicking wildly, your tail twitching under his fingers as he tugged on it without even realizing what he was doing.
“mph… c-charlie, slow down,” you tried to mumble between kisses, but he just whined against your lips.
“but you’re so soft, babe,” he panted, nuzzling against your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. “feels so nice—can't help it.”
a choked noise slipped past your lips when his fingers rubbed at the base of your tail again, your whole body shuddering at the sensation. “hah—charlie, ‘m sensitive…”
his ears perked up at that, and he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his big blue eyes wide and concerned. “oh—shit, too much? ‘m sorry, baby, i just—”
you shook your head quickly, your breath still coming in uneven pants. “no, no, just—just gimme a second,” you mumbled, swallowing thickly. “feels like… a lot.”
charlie immediately softened, his hands slowing down as he cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your heated skin. “you’re doing so good for me, kitty,” he murmured, his voice lower now, gentle. “so good, bein’ so sweet for me. promise i’ll take it easy.”
your ears twitched at the praise, a small, involuntary purr rumbling in your chest. you could feel the way charlie practically melted at the sound, his tail giving a few happy wags.
“yeah?” he murmured, pressing a softer kiss to your cheek. “like when i tell you how good you are for me?”
you huffed, but your body betrayed you, leaning into his touch. “shut up,” you grumbled, only making him chuckle.
“never,” charlie said, grinning as he nosed at your ear, his voice dripping with affection. “not when you make such pretty purrs for me.”
