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discokicks · 4 months

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THE KIDS AIN'T FINE, FINE - ROY KENT.

PART THREE of ACES AT THE WATER'S EDGE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

PRESENT DAY. (MID-AUGUST, 2023)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jamie nods. “But it’s on the table?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That Jamie actually scoffs at. “Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roy’s brows shoot up. “You?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LONDON OLYMPICS. (LATE JULY, 2012)

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

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

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

“Fuck off, you old twat!”)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You tripped me!”

“Bit dramatic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re fine. Get up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks over at you. “Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roy shrugs. “Sure. But—”

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

“I’m not the one being trained here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And as soon as he does, you’re on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You easily score on him not a second later.

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

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

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

PRESENT DAY. (MID AUGUST, 2023)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod back. “Yeah. Another time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roy’s brows rocket up. “Do you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not true—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(And it’s fucking irritating.)

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

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

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

You blink at it. “What is that?”

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

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

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

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

Roy nods once. “Crimm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...Fuck off?”

“Yeah,” you huff. “That.”

Roy’s head tilts. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug. “What’s the difference?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roy’s brow draws slightly. “Zava?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Parent Trap ‘em?” he asked.

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

“It wouldn’t be fair. We’d sweep.”

LONDON OLYMPICS. (LATE JULY, 2012)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You crack an eye open. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not a gnat,” you gasp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Court Jester?”

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

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

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

“My hair?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roy looks over at you cautiously. “Yeah?”

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

“A codeword?” he asks wearily.

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

“What the fuck is a Kent Rule?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I think that’s a great one.”

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

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

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

“Great.”

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

“Only fucking one?” he asks.

“Why are you saying it like that?”

“Because you ask a lot of fucking questions.”

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

“Can I Foxtrot this conversation?” Roy questions.

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

#roy kent #roy kent x reader #roy kent x you #roy kent fanfiction #ted lasso #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso fanfiction #aatwe #aces #the one who can't walk up stairs

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therottenkingsreckoning · 19 days

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Chapter 5! Sorry this took so long, mostly on account of wanting to get the OC art done as supplementary material. Promise it'll be the only time that needs to happen, and also that this will (probably) be the last time Frank stresses out over dumb shit in this story. Smooth sailing from here!

~Little Flame, Chapter 5~

The rest of the evening went as it usually did, comfy routines and familiar chatter being a welcome reprieve from the stress of the week. But Frank kept mulling over what Sally had said to him. Was it really so easy to tell what they were? How many others knew already? Not one had given an indication of open or silent judgement, always treating him with the respect they'd shown anyone else, and still clearly quite happy to seek (or demand) his company. But how could he tell if that was with knowledge or lack thereof? Could they be trusted to know?

"You're worryin' again, bug," Eddie said, snapping Frank out of their thoughts. "I can tell when you are."

"I'm not-" Frank began, but really it was no use. Eddie knew him too well, knew all the little ins and outs of his various moods in a way that only someone who truly cared about them would. With a sigh, he spoke.

"Well...I guess I was thinking. Things went...decently well earlier with our friends finding out about...that. Especially considering I wasn't out to Sally yet."

"Mhmm," Eddie nodded. "Not out to most folks around here, as far as I remember."

"Well, t-that's the point," Frank continued, "if it went well with her, I..." he trailed off, finding the words and confidence to say it out loud. "Eddie, do you think...they'd accept it? If I told them?"

Eddie's gaze softened, and he gently placed a hand on their shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Frank, I understand that you're scared. I'd be too in your place. But I promise, there ain't no one here that'd judge you. They all love you, just as much as I do." He chuckled. "Hey, they hardly mind that Poppy is trans, or when you'd told 'em y'ain't a man."

This gave Frank pause. It's true, they hadn't even thought of her, or how the last reveal had gone. Those did inspire quite a bit of confidence. Yet, just as soon as he'd begin to find resolve, the fears crept back. Those nagging doubts that said what if this time's too far?

They groaned in frustration, covering his face with their hands. "And it's not just that, I need to tell them about the baby too! But I can't say that without..." he sighed. "Tell me what I should do."

"Darlin', if it were up to me I'd be shouting it from the rooftops by now," Eddie stated confidently. "You know that. But it ain't my decision to make. You're the important one here!"

Frank gave an exasperated huff, still not looking up. "Why can't it be someone else's decision? That'd be so much easier."

"You... want someone to out you?" Eddie raised an eyebrow at this.

"No no," Frank sighed, defeated. "Look, I'll...think about it."

Eddie kissed him, gently cupping their face with his hand. "There's time enough to think. S'pose they'll have to know eventually though- only so long you can hide a thing like that."

"Again, you're right," Frank grumbled. "Geez, I'm hungry right now. I'm gonna get some food."

~~~~~~~~

It was later on that night, while the two lay in bed, nearly asleep, that Frank turned to his husband. "Eddie?"

"Mmm?"

"I think I'll tell them tomorrow."

~~~~~~~~

It was all well and good to say that during the night. But when tomorrow came, Frank was pacing in circles round the kitchen table, Egg cradled in their arms.

"Can't keep 'em waiting forever," Eddie said, glancing out at the gaggle of neighbors stood outside.

"Yes I can," Frank protested. "I've kept them in the dark about it this long, I can go longer."

Eddie narrowed his eyes. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

"Oh, why can't we just forget it? We'll send them all home, and try again never."

"Nope," the man's tone was firm but gentle. "You've come this far, shooin' em off now now won't do ya any good." He put an arm around love reassuringly. "Look. I'll be right here beside ya. You'll be fine."

Frank let out a desperate whine and buried his face in Egg's soft white fur for a moment, the cat purring soothingly. Then, taking a deep breath, they set him down, and looked directly into Eddie's eyes. "Ok. I'm ready."

Outside the door to the yellow house, the others waited impatiently. "What's takin' em so long?" Howdy huffed. "I've got work to get back to."

"Dunno," Barbie said with a shrug. "It must be something important, 'ol Frankie seemed real anxious to tell us about it."

Sally and Julie merely shrugged, each trying their best not give away that they knew too much.

Finally, the door swung open, and the couple emerged from inside, Frank still held close by the one-armed embrace of his husband. "Good afternoon everyone," they stated calmly, though Eddie could still feel them shaking just slightly.

"Hi Frank, hi Eddie," Wally answered jovially. "How are you?"

"Are you well?" Jaya asked. "You seemed terribly anxious when you told us to meet you here."

"I'm, well..." Frank swallowed hard. No turning back now. "I brought you all here for a reason. As you know, I am non-binary."

"Mhm.." the others all nodded agreement, seeming a little confused. Where was he going with all of this?

"Well, I...haven't been fully forthcoming with all the details in that regard." They straightened up, shutting his eyes and steeling their resolve. "I am also trans."

"What, you're a girl now?" Honey asked quizzically after a moment, readjusting the baby she held. "It's fine if you are."

"Catching labels like you catch your butterflies," Barbie added with a laugh.

"No! No no," Frank snapped frustratedly, waving the question away with their hands. "I've been through all that before and I hated it. No, I mean the gender, the...well, maleness I have now is by choice. Transmasculine."

"That's what you wanted t-" Howdy began, before stopping short at the death glare Eddie shot him.

"Wow, that's cool," Wally said, voice calm though he was (to all who knew him) still clearly excited. "Nice to know I'm not the only one."

"Wait, you are?" Frank asked incredulously, head whipping around to look at him.

"Yea," the demon answered simply. "Not as fancy as yours is, but I'm trans."

"That's four of us then!" Poppy stated cheerfully, gathering Frank to her breast with a soothing coo. "Oh come here sweetheart, I'm proud of you for saying it. I know how hard that is to say."

Frank felt lighter than air right now, all the stress lifted off of them in an instant. I really should stop doing that, he thought absentmindedly, hugging her back as they spoke up again. "Well now that that part is out of the way, I can tell you about the other thing."

"And what's that?"

"I'm pregnant."

Dead silence. For a moment, the scientist feared the worst. Lifted up by the rising poof of Poppy's feathers, they met her widened eyes.

"What?" she squeaked.

Frank chuckled nervously. "Surprise? I-"

Words cut short as the bird grabbed his face with her wings, looking directly at them with a mix of many emotions but primarily love. And fear. "Oh goodness, Frank! T-that's wonderful news! Are you feeling well? Healthy? Will you need any help? I can-"

"I'm doing fine, Poppy, really, I am," they reassured. "Plus, I have Eddie with me."

Eddie beamed at this, proud papa vibes on full display.

"They're doing well thus far, from what I see," Jaya stated confidently, gently prying her girlfriend away from the other. "Just about six weeks in most likely. When things progress further, then you me & Bea can step in to help things along. But they can handle this part himself."

Poppy fussed a bit more, still clearly full of her usual worries. But she finally, reluctantly let go, giving room for the others to step in and offer their congratulations.

"Heh, welcome to fatherhood, big guy," Jack said, giving Eddie a light punch in the shoulder with one of his many arms. "You'll do great, I know it."

Eddie laughed softly. "I-I sure hope so. Thanks."

"Suppose it does explain one thing," Barbie said with a gesture towards Frank. "You smell different now."

"Oh?" they asked, raising half of his unibrow curiously.

"Yeah!" she continued. "Thought at first it might've been a different shampoo or somethin', but that didn't make sense to me." Chuckling softly and rubbing her neck, she added, "plus, I don't know of any shampoo that'd make me suddenly really wanna hug you."

Frank smiled warmly, heart full of love, and held open his arms. "You know what? I'll let you do that, just this once."

"Wh- really?"

"Yes, what the hell. I'm feeling good right now. Come here."

Tail wagging, she cheerfully embraced them, gentle as she could. Soon Eddie joined them, then all the others as well (even Howdy). It feels nice to be held, Frank thought. Nice to be so loved and cared for, by all of my friends. "I love you guys," they sighed, contented. "I couldn't ask for a better place to raise a family."

"You're awfully sentimental," Sally teased.

"I blame the hormones," he replied.

~~~~~~~~

When they finally broke apart, Frank turned to head back inside, a big part of them still eager to call the ordeal over. But a tap on their shoulder stopped him, and he looked up to see the smiling face of a certain shopkeeper.

"So...about that test you stole..."

#welcome home #welcome home fanfic #Little Flame #welcome home frank #frank welcome home #frank frankly #welcome home eddie #eddie welcome home #eddie dear #eddie x frank #frank x eddie #frankly dear #franklydear #fluff #stuff i said #Ember's art

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magicalgirlmindcrank · 4 months

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Hey. my Name is Elster, and i wanted to tell you that your story, dog of war helped our host, Crocus, realise that we're plural. i am not good at giving compliments the way the rest of us can but i want to say that your art is worth a lot to us and we hope to see you continue honing your craft, that you feel positive from practicing it, and that your future is bright like the stars above. Also, more personally, the portrayal of princes's character and way of thinking touched me specifically very close, and for that i am thankful. This is only a start of our journey, Crocus still doesnt let toyself accept the plurality, so i will hide this memory and message from it, but you need to understand that it and specifically the compliments to your art are very much honest.

Thank you so much for sending this! We do have a lot of fun writing but it's still a lot of hard work, and it's things like this that really help drive us. It's pretty wild and kinda funny that our self discovery has helped so many other folks (we didn't even know we were plural when we started writing princess Like That) but its mostly immensely touching. It makes us proud to have made something that has reached people the way it has, and we cant wait to share what we're cooking up for this final arc!

Speaking of cooking up- we'll be taking a nap soon and posting the new chapter once we're up! Its just over 23k words and something been wanting to share for months.

#dow

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tamberlanecomic · 10 months

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August Newsletter

I have a LOT of updates to share with you, so let’s dive right in!

Art Fight

I participated in Art Fight last month and had an amazing time drawing for folks! Thanks to everyone who drew for me too, it was really fun! You can see all of my “attacks” on my Art Fight account here.

View All Art

I plan on doing a few more attacks after the Kickstarter book madness has passed. I’ll keep you apprised!

New Art

Aside from Art Fight, I’ve been quite busy on the art front in general. Here is a birthday gift for my mom, a drawing of one of the art dolls she made named Maud Marvel, the aged but agile avenger.

Here’s a badge for my friend Peek, who is the very same Peek as the one in Tamberlane!

A Patreon commission for Scott

And finally, a patron commission for Whyaylooh!

Kickstarter Status

We just dropped a huge update on the Kickstarter with some extremely exciting news! You can read it here! Or you can get the highlights here:

As it turns out, due to wanting to really make everything the best it can be, we've wound up taking a *lot* more time than we initially budgeted for. (Kickstarters. Amirite?) We spent all last month completing final edits and creating supplemental bonus content, such as Q&A illustrations as well as the Trissol dictionary.

In addition to the brand new Q&A questions we've illustrated, we also went back and edited/redrew the original Q&A's from Chapter 1, like this one:

Here’s Tamberlane signing “Abroad” and “family”

I also drew a handful of headshots to use for the annotations in the Omnibus. Here's an idea of what a page of annotations looks like:

I mentioned we're wanting to make this book the best it can be, and we've been making a (hopefully) final QA pass on all of the pages. I'm absolutely thrilled as we've been doing everything from smoothing out speech bubbles to tightening up characterization…

...to bringing dialogue in line with current lore!

However, as a result it’s taking a lot longer than I expected, meaning that books will likely not arrive until November. I promise it will be worth it though, we’re taking a lot of care and pride in delivering you the best possible product, so we appreciate your understanding!

Important Kickstarter News

The long and short of the news is we have a new printer we’re working with that will allow us to do large runs of the Omnibus and Chapter 4, and reprints of Chapters 1-3! That’s another reason why the delivery date is delayed. But as a result, we’re able to put more money into the quality of the books and pay out some bonuses to the team.

For more information about our new printer, see the Kickstarter post!

We’ve also just closed our Backerkit shop! Even though it turned out we didn’t need to hit $95k to do reprints, the extra funds will definitely help us out. Thanks so much to everyone who grabbed something and helped us reach our goal!

Thank you everyone for taking the time to read all of that! Have a great month!

#animals #cute #art #illustration #webcomic #adorable #kickstarter #book #fantasy #furry #furry comic #furry art #furry community #digital art #indiecomic #indiecreator #tamberlanecomic

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mallowstep · 1 year

Note

i hope you’re doing okay. 💙 it’s ok if you don’t answer this, i just wanted you to know folks are still thinking about you and wanting good things for you.

thank you babe (and thank you to everyone else who sent a message to this effect; i will answer them when i can)

i'm doing pretty well right now. i've been very busy at work, working on a top secret classified project (god only knows when you'll get more details than what i've already shared ;3), and also just. recovering from depression. there is so much of my life that even months out from the worst of it, i'm still trying to pull the pieces back together.

i have been writing a little. it's been difficult, mostly because of numerous incidents regarding writing and mental health (if you've been here for a while, you probably know about them; if you're new, the tldr is "mallowstep went off the wall for a bit and he's fine but it left him feeling bad"), and now i face down the summer which is...rough, mentally.

i don't know what normal looks like for me right now. i want to write but i don't know how it will fit into my life. i'm still making space for myself, in all the chaos and reconstruction. i know writing will be a part of normal for me. i just don't know where it fits yet.

it's been a while since i've felt like myself. the hollow feeling is abating. i am finding words to describe emotion again, that are more than just there or missing. i have been thinking about the stories i have yet to work on. what i want to tell next.

it has been an incredible two years for me. when i started this blog, i had just been broken up with by my boyfriend of three years, only a month or so after my childhood cat and dog had died one day apart. i was coping with so much impossible grief: i wrote the second chapter of i'll come back to you someday soon myself after my grandmother died, and i did not write anything after that for quite a while.

my wrists are healing. they hurt a little today and i'm not sure why, but they are healing.

i'll be going back to university as a natural resources major. i want a job that lets me protect and cultivate the forests i find so much comfort in. the complex webs of their ecosystems bring me so much delight. did you know trees talk to their daughters? did you know they care for their children? protect them?

it has been an incredible two years. i met my now-partner, learned how to actually trust people, and failed out of a year of college due to collapsing mental health. i went through approximately one million assessments to get a diagnosis and understand what was happening to me. i had a doctor tell me i was being undermedicated to an astounding degree. i had to let go of my beloved plants because i couldn't keep myself alive, much less then. i found a job i love so much i am eager to go to work every morning.

i honestly don't think i would've recognized who i am now, back when i started out here. i have become someone who trusts. who has connections with people. who does not fear so much. (i have also become someone who cries as i drive home from work sometimes. i have also become someone who needs to sit on the floor and count all the pieces of art i can see. we move in spirals, not straight lines.)

all of this is to say, i have been quiet on here for quite a while because i have been recovering from two years (a lifetime) of some truly exhausting events, as well as letting myself find things i enjoy. when i got out of high school, i loved what i was doing academically. i had very little passion. it had been bled out of me.

i am incredibly grateful to each and every one of you. your support, even in my period of dormancy, has meant so much. my relationship with writing sometimes feels like i am fighting my double, trying to balance both my need to use writing to understand myself, and my tendencies to ruin myself in the process.

i still don't have any promises to make, because i really don't know what's next for me. but i am still here, and you all still mean something to me.

with all my love, mallow

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romaine2424 · 11 months

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Daily Blog June 23, 2023

When I used to post on LJ I would often have a post called Tidbits, that is what I think today's post will be like. A lot of unrelated things, but then again some are. Hope you enjoy.

What I'm Reading:

The Light More Beautiful by @firethesound. It's 4 chapters and around 81K. I'm close to finishing chapter 3 and will do so later tonight along with the last chapter. Family and house responsibilities intruded on my fandom fun. LOL I'm so enjoying the story. I really really like reading and writing about older H/D (meaning not Hogwarts or 8th year). Here, I think they're in there late 20's. The fic is canon divergent at some point in HBP where a potion accident happens that effects them greatly, however, the main part of the story takes place 13 years later.

Draco has been trained as an Auror in the US and specializes in creating spying instruments and other things that help Aurors (think of Q in James Bond). Harry is training Aurors since he was waylaid by an injury, which I've yet to discover what happened to him. Draco returns to the UK to find out Pots and Pans (I love this so much), who are Harry and Pansy are best buds. And Draco also returns with his huge crush on Harry fully intact. The interplay between H/D is top notch with lots of sparks, hilarious banter, but also soft moments. Truly lovely. Oh and the acronyms!!! Highly recommend! Can't wait to finish it tonight.

Tumblr Posts of Interest:

Francesca Coppa, one of the original OTW founders, made a post about joining @fanhackers (A place where fans, academics, aca-fans and all manner of enthusiastic fannish people can come together and squee over cool research.) If you enjoy meta and fandom research definitely give a follow, too.

2. The the @thedrarrylibrarian hosts Happy Hour on Fridays with friends of the Library. I'll do a separate post later about @thedrarrylibrarian because they're awesome! But what caught my eye is their hosting @phdmama. Usually, the person they select recs a story that they love that hasn't gotten much play. @phdmama, however, chose to discuss re-reads. This is the way she so artfully stated her reasoning, "Reading, quite literally, has saved my life and transformed it. So I thought I’d highlight of few of those fics that have impacted me so profoundly. These fics are comfort food for my brain. These are fics I come back to, over and over and over again. They live in my soul." And I nodded my head reading her choices. I hope you check out the post and her selections.

What crossed my mind while reading the post was that there are fics that are in my top 10 favs, that I've only read once. I call them my Saving Private Ryan fics. Seeing that movie was an experience, one I'll never forget, but I don't think my heart could handle a second time. I put Frayach's The Price We Pay for Wings in this category. I will never understand how that fic is only 13K. It was written in 2007 for hd_holidays, and remains one of the most beautifully written h/d stories bar none.

Add-ons for yesterday's blog:

For Fan Fair, @phoenixacid heavily promotes commenting on Fair's fics, artwork, and podfics. There is a contest where you are put in a group of random folks who've asked to be involved. And the groups compete against each other for points. Points are given for comments and more points for a rec. So I'm not the only one commenting on all the fics. LOL @caroll-in and I were on the same team last year, I don't think that will happen again. We killed the competition!

@snowingalway commented on my blog yesterday with further clarification of what art is archived and what is reblogged. I found it very helpful. Here's the link with her comment at the end

Older Fic Rec:

So as I mentioned above, I hadn't re-read The Price We Pay for Wings, but when I went to get the link, I discovered something I didn't know existed...a sequel. I didn't know that Frayach had written one, I had left fandom just before. A Flame Undampened is as beautiful as the first, though I do think I could and will read it again. Scorpius had loved and is loved. And that candle, yep, it's a symbol. The fic is around 5K and was written in 2012 in honor of the Newton, CT slaying of innocents.

Oh FFS how can The Price only have 46 comments and Flame 25 ?????? sorry, just got to me. This is a subject for a later blog. :)

Have a good weekend! Rom

#romaine2424 daily blog #June 2023

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frodo-with-glasses · 2 years

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PSA for new followers!

Just wanted to set some expectations for this chapter! There are almost TWICE as many of you now as there were when I finished Two Towers (thank you so much!!), and with so many new faces, I felt it was only fair to get you all up to speed on how things work around here. Buckle up, folks, ‘cause you’re about to see a LOT of Frodo and Sam.

What there WILL be on this blog:

Memes

Unexpected angst

Drawings of exactly what happens in the book

Terrible haircuts (because Frodo and Sam haven’t seen a barber in literal months)

Clever shot composition to protect Frodo’s decency despite him walking around in his birthday suit

What there will NOT be on this blog:

Anybody’s lad bits

Romantic tension

As always, those who ship SamFro can feel free to interact with this blog—it’s not like I could stop you anyway 🤣🤣—but I reserve the right to include a disclaimer on all my art that such is not my intention, and I politely ask that all of you lovely people recognize and respect that, and don’t claim that you understand the meaning behind my art better than I do.

This chapter is one of my favorites in the book, but I also understand that it has a LOT of content that could easily be misconstrued. That’s why I’m making this disclaimer now. I’m sure you all understand. 💚

Further FAQs and inquiries will be answered under the cut. Have a great day!

Q: Why don’t you ship SamFro?

A: Answered in detail here. TL;DR: I see my own friendships reflected in Frodo and Sam, and I treasure a platonic relationship as strong as theirs is.

Q: But they cuddle while Frodo is naked! What’s your heterosexual explanation for that?

A: When Lady Glasses was but a young little monocle, she and her sister used to take baths together in The Big Tub, because it saved time and water (and in a lower income family, water = money). I’ll say this very plainly: Nakedness does not always equal sexuality. There are many instances when it means something very different, such as vulnerability or innocence or practicality or simply “orcs took all my clothes and all I’ve got left is my skin”. In addition: Being comfortable seeing someone’s naked body does not always mean you did—or want to—have sex with them. Sometimes it can mean quite the opposite: that you are uninterested, and therefore very blasé. If you think that uncovering parts of the human body that are normally concealed always correlates to sex, I shudder to imagine what you think of a surgical theatre.

Q: What will happen if I tag your posts as “SamFro”?

A: Nothing you can prove 💚

#blog maintenance #samwise gamgee #frodo baggins #lord of the rings #lotr #my art #my writing #fig tree au

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spookymystery67 · 6 months

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I Wish I Could Walk In Heels

AN: Oooh, so close to Ada! Not this chapter though. Sorry lol. I, once again, did not re-read fully. I glanced at it. So mistakes may be possible. Have fun folks!

TW: Language, zombies, gore, guns, Brian Irons (fucking hate that guy), ect. The usual Resident Evil stuff. Enjoy.

Chapter 6:

-September 29, 1998-

By the time you had back tracked and made it through the gate it was past midnight. Early morning 12 am on September 29th. Here's to hoping this day will be better. You don't know how much more shit you could take.

First goal, get into the police station. Easier said than done considering all the entrances were blocked. Either by items or by the undead.

Oh wait, an open window. Bingo. Only thing is you had to take out a few zombies trying to make their way through. You managed to do so fairly easily. At this point, you're a zombie killing pro. You know exactly what part of the head to hit to make it explode in one shot. The morbid part of you is weirdly satisfied when that happens. But it's nice not to waste 5 shots on one zombie. My, how far you've come.

You shimmied the window open and climbed through, carefully and quietly shutting it behind you. You don't know what could be in here.

You turned and your stomach dropped at the sight before you. This isn't good. Looks like the police station was overrun. How do you know this? Well, the first thing you saw when you turned around was blood. Blood and dead bodies. At least, you hoped they were dead. You didn't want to use up more ammo than necessary.

Okay, next mission, find Ben. Again, easier said than done. You've never been to the former art museum, now turned into a police station. You have no idea where you are currently. Just that it was dark and bloody and there were bodies.

You see a door down the hall to the left and one down the hall in front of you. You tried to think. You entered from the far left of the building, the first window. So if you walk forward, you might reach the main hall and find survivors. Survivors who can hopefully help you find Ben and you can all leave this city, living happily ever after knowing Umbrella will get shut down after this incident.

I mean, there is no way they can sweet talk their way out of it, right? They caused an outbreak and a mass genocide of over 100,000 people. Oh, and let's not forget the animals. No creature was left unscathed. They fucked up. They fucked up big time.

Fuckers.

You decided to just carefully walk to the forward door and see where you end up. You opened the door and saw what you believed to be the reception room. Unfortunately, there were more bodies. You see another door and decided to try it out and see where it leads.

You opened the door into a big, grand and fancy room with marble statues. Okay, this is promising. You saw the big double doors and decided that this was the main entrance.

Now you just need to find survivors.

"Ma'am? Are you alright? You're not bitten are you?" A man's voice asked, startling you.

You jumped and gasped, hand on your chest to calm your heart. "Holy- no. No. This isn't my blood." You awkwardly gestured to yourself, as you turned to face the man. A police officer, judging by the uniform. Funny

If it wasn't for the circumstances you're sure you would have been arrested immediately waltzing in a police station in blood covered clothes.

"Ah. Zombies?" He asked.

"And the like. Lots of stuff happening out there." You said awkwardly. He nodded.

"And in here. Barely anyone is left anymore. I have a man searching for a way out for those of us who remain. But the longer we stay here the more our numbers dwindle." He said.

You nodded in understanding. "Oh, I'm Y/n by the way."

"I'm Marvin Branagh. Nice to meet you. Where'd you come from?" He asked.

"Oh, I climbed through a window. Had to kill some zombies in the process. Sorry for, you know, breaking and entering."

"You killed some of those things trying to get in. I'm not mad." He laughed. You studied the man closely.

Marvin had a short, buzzed haircut and a goatee on his dark skinned face. Looking in his eyes, you could tell that he was just as tired as you were. If not more. The weight of everything has taken a toll on him.

"I'm actually looking for someone. A friend of mine was arrested just before this all started. You think you could help me find him?" I asked.

"Hmm, well the prisoners were all released from what I was told." Your heart sinks, maybe Ben wasn't here.

"Who told you that? Irons?" You asked.

He nodded. "I haven't been to the cells since this all started, though, so I may be wrong. There are quite a few obstacles to get there. The undead and locked doors alike. You'd have to work to get there." He wished he could be more helpful, but this station is expansive and crawling with zombies and Lickers. He couldn't afford to go running around when he still had a few survivors to take care of.

"You can't help me?" You questioned.

He shook his head. "I have a few survivors left to look after. I can give you a map, but otherwise, you're on your own on this one. I'm sorry."

You shook your head. "No worries. I understand. Focus on getting your people out of the city. I'll go see if my friend is still around and then join you."

"Alright. Here's that map I promised you. First, second and third floor. Don't lose it. I don't have another one to give you." He warned.

"Thank you. I appreciate it." You tell him, before studying the map. Looks like the only way to get to the holding cells is through the parking garage. The only way you see to get there is through an elevator in Irons office.

"Any chance you can point me another direction that leads to the parking garage?" You asked Marvin.

"The only other way is blocked. So unfortunately going through his office is the only way to go. Be careful though, people have been "mysteriously" dying when he's present, and I just know he has something to do with it." He told you.

"What do you mean?" You question.

"Well, he started off by giving us strange orders. Like locking all the doors and scattering our weapons throughout the station. Then he went one step further and separated the survivors into separate groups. Haven't seen any of them since." He told you.

Smart man. Finally catching on to how shifty his Chief of Police actually is. I guess the outbreak is making Irons show his true colors.

"I assume I need a key." You said.

"Yes, the diamond key. There are at least two hidden around the station. Where exactly, I'm not sure. I wish I could be of more help." He said.

"It's fine. I'll figure it out. I'll break the damn door if I have to. Thank you."

He nodded. "Meet back here when you're done. I should be here when you get back."

You smiled and nodded. Turning on your feet, you made your way up the stairs to the second floor to explore and see if you could find anything useful. Like a key or lock pick. Or a grenade. It's a fucking wooden door. It can break.

One way or another, you're getting through that room.

-September 29, 1998-

You explored about every damn inch of the second floor you could access and didn't find a damn diamond key. You found more ammo for your guns though. And grenades and more guns, but you just took one grenade and left the rest for someone else who may need them more. It's not like you're a weapons expert here.

You might just blow up the door. You're just worried about attracting what survivors had deemed "Lickers" in the process. Lickers. Not a name you would have chosen, but fitting I suppose.

As you were about to head to Irons office, you heard gunshots from the main entrance area.

You quickly ran out the door and down the stairs, coming across Marvin. He was clutching his side in pain.

"Hey! Hey, what happened? Are you hurt?" You asked him as you ran up to check on him.

"Stay away from me!" He exclaimed, panicked. He pushed you away and ran through a door. Where was he going?

The door to the front entrance opens and you turn to see who it was, hand on your gun ready to shoot, only pausing when you recognize who it was.

"Tyrell?" You asked.

"Y/n? What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"A mission. You?"

"Same here. Sort of. Need help with anything?" You offered as he walked over to the computers on the desk meant to be for the receptionists.

As Tyrell was about to respond, the door opened again and you saw another familiar face.

"Where'd that cop go?"

"Don't know, don't care. We got a job to do. If our intells still worth a damn, then Bards' in the S.T.A.R.S office. Let's find him and take him into custody." Tyrell said.

"Custody? I thought this was a rescue." Carlos said, before pausing when he finally noticed you. "Y/n?"

"Hey. Small world, huh? Don't worry, I'll be out of your hair in a moment. Just a heads up though, if you hear a loud boom coming from upstairs, that's me with a grenade." You tell them.

"Do I wanna know?" He asked.

"Eh, it's just that nearly every damn door has been locked. I've been unlocking everything upstairs and trying to find one key to a certain room. Haven't had any luck though."

"What key? Maybe I can keep an eye out." Carlos offered.

"Not if I blow it up first. But if you find a diamond key lying around, then let me know."

"Alright, will do. Good to see you, Y/n."

"You too. Later boys. Stay safe. Oh, and watch out for Lickers. They're nasty little fuckers."

"What?"

"Lickers. Mutated monsters with no skin and long tongues that can pierce skin. Not fun. Anyways, good luck." You tell them as you walk back upstairs to make your way back to the office. You listened to their conversation as you went.

"Carlos, take a look at this. I've located the S.T.A.R.S office. Remember, Bard had access to Umbrella's darkest secrets. He knows we'll try to keep him under our thumb." Tyrell said.

"So this "search and rescue mission" is really more like "find and detain". Right. Good to know." You hear Carlos's voice fade the further you went.

Is Nathaniel Bard here? You very much doubt it since Marvin hadn't mentioned any survivors in the S.T.A.R.S office. And what do they plan to do when they find him?

You shook your head. You have no time for more side quests. You have to find Ben.

You made your way to his office and as you turned the corner, the door slammed open and Irons walked out. Quickly turning around, you opened a closet door, sliding in, shutting it, and listening with bated breath as he stomped away from his office and down the hall where you had just been standing moments ago.

You waited until you were sure the coast was clear before carefully opening the door and peaking out into the hall. No sign of Irons. You walked out of the closet and made your way back to the office door. You checked to see if it was unlocked. Nope.

Just as you were about to break the damn door down, it slammed open and you lightly screeched as a body collided with your own.

"Get off me!" A voice yelled. A familiar voice.

Backing up and looking at the owner of the voice, your eyes widened. "Katherine?" You questioned in disbelief.

Katherine looked up with tears in her eyes when she recognized you. "Y/n!" She quickly pulled you in close and held you tightly.

You lightly shushed her and pushed her into the room, shutting the now unlocked door behind you. "What are you doing here? I thought you would have been long gone by now. With your father."

"He left me." Katherine said, anger in her tone. "He left me in the care of Irons and got out of the city as fast as he could as soon as things started to go down. You were right about him. And about Irons. We need to go. This is the first time he's let me out of his sight." She began crying slightly, the stress from everything getting to her.

You broke the hug and looked over her appearance. She was wearing a pretty white dress and her hair was half pinned back. She didn't look outwardly harmed. You would have killed Irons if she had.

"Did he do anything to you?" You asked as you dragged her outside to the balcony leading to the elevator to the garage.

"No, but I watched him kill all those people. I know I'm next. You were right, Y/n. He's a horrible person. And we need to leave before he gets back." She grabbed at your arms, desperate that you understand.

"Okay, we will. We just need to make a pit stop first." You said as you made it to the elevator. You pressed the button, summoning the elevator.

"The parking garage? Why?" She asked.

"Because that also happens to be the only way to get to the cell block."

"For, Ben? Irons said he killed him. He's gone, Y/n." She said sadly.

The elevator opened up and you dragged her in, quickly pressing the button once you both cleared the doorway.

You shookyour head. "I refuse to believe that. We at least have to check before we go." The elevator started descending and you grabbed your shotgun and checked that it was fullyloaded. Lord knows what's down there.

"Do we have any chance of escaping the city?" She asked you.

"Dwindles with each passing day. You remember how to shoot a gun?" You asked her, remembering how she briefly took a class on the subject.

"Yeah. Of course." She nodded.

"Great. Here." You hand her the handgun and a pack of ammo. "Make sure it's fully loaded. I have plenty more ammo in my bag, you just have to ask and I'll hand you more. Seeing as you don't have pockets."

"Well, excuse me. I wasn't exactly dressing for a zombie apocalypse." She deadpanned. You snorted.

"Nope. Just for your boyfriend. You look good, by the way. Ben will be happy to see you."

"Don't get my hopes up." She said as the elevator door finally opened up to a room.

You walked out of the elevator and toward the door leading out to the garage. Before you opened it, you turned to Katherine.

"You ready?" You ask, shotgun in hand.

She cocked her gun and nodded. "Ready."

You both carefully walked out the door, keeping your eyes peeled for any zombies. You hear aggressive barking in the distance. Turned police dogs, you assumed. It sounded like they were still in the cages, so you should be alright.

Once you determined the coast was clear, you grabbed your map to check you were in the right place.

"Alright. This way. Stay close." You told Katherine, shoving the map back into your pocket. She nodded and you made your way through the cars parked haphazardly to the door you needed to get to.

"Please be unlocked." You mumbled as your fingers wrapped around the handle and turned it. You grinned when it opened. "Nice."

Walking into the cell block, you both stay close to avoid the zombies reaching out through the cells and into the hallway in an attempt to grab you. You almost gave up, only seeing a bunch of undead, when you came across a cell in the corner with a man sitting on his bed, smoking his cigarette.

"Ben!" Katherine beat you to it, running towards the cell and reaching for him.

"Katherine!" He grinned in relief, running up to hold her through the bars. "I thought you were dead." He said.

"I thought you were dead too!" She nearly wanted to sob at the thought. She almost left him thinking that Irons was telling the truth.

You watched the heartfelt reunion with a smile, happy for your friends. Though it dropped into a face of mock disgust when they started to kiss each other through the bars.

"Ew. Yeah, I'm here too. Still." You said, gaining their attention.

"Hey, Y/n. What the hell took you so long?" Ben joked.

"Oh you know, I just got a little distracted from the hordes of zombies and others running through the city. My bad. Next time I'll try to be more punctual." You sassed back. Katherine snorted at your interaction, always an amusing scene for her.

"You better. Or I'll have to revoke your pay. Unless… you happen to have a key or something to get me out of here?" He asked.

"Ah, I didn't really think that far ahead. Let's see what we have to work with here." You turned away from the couple to study the lock as they continued to enjoy each other's company. Looked like an electric mechanism of some kind. And it's missing three chips.

You sighed and popped the gum in your mouth. Hmm, theoretically, you just need something metallic to act as a conductor for the electricity. To get it from point A to point B. At least, you think that's how it works. You're no scientist.

Wait, aluminum is metallic. Your gum wrappers are metallic. That's it! You grabbed your bag off your shoulders and began to look through it for your gum.

You froze when you heard a gun cock and felt something hard against the middle of your back.

You turned your head slightly to see Katherine and Ben looking your way with wide eyes. You sighed, closing your eyes in frustration. "Is that a gun in your hand, Chief Irons, or are you just happy to see me." You weakly joked.

"Can't it be both? Drop the guns, the bag, and put your hands up." Irons spat, pressing the gun deeper into your back, making you hiss from your bruises being pressed onto.

You wished you could do some badass maneuver to kick the gun away and shoot the bastard. Sadly, you are but a normal, boring, human who didn't want to take any chances getting shot. You should have invested in those self defense classes.

You put the safety on and slowly crouched to put the gun and bag onto the floor. Katherine followed, looking at you with worry. You slowly stood and raised your hands up once more.

"Turn around." Irons demanded you. You hesitated, and he pressed the gun further into your back. "Don't make me say it again."

You slowly turned around, arms still up, and made eye contact with the man. You glared with hatred as he looked you up and down.

"Hmm, you're a pretty little thing. A hot mess though." He said as he glanced at your bloodied and dirt covered clothing. "You just got here? I would have recognized you amongst the other survivors."

"Yes." You spat. You didn't like the way he was looking at you. The same way Katherine had described last week at the diner. Like he wanted to murder and sleep with you.

"You should have stayed away. Katherine over there, well, she has a prior engagement she will be attending to." You didn't like the way he said that.

"Yeah right. She's not going anywhere with you." Ben spat as you glared at the man, fully ready to fight him, even if he had a gun to you, if so much as glanced at Katherine.

"You're really in no position to make that decision. Now, back up toward the cell, girl." He gestured to the cell Ben was in.

You didn't move, making him more aggressive. He pointed the gun to Katherine and you gasped, quickly stepping back and in front of her, once more in the line of fire.

"Stop! Okay, stop. I'll do as you say. Just, please don't hurt her." You begged. Begging to him left a bitter taste in your mouth, but there was nothing else you could do.

Irons grinned a nasty grin. Clearly enjoying the power he held over you three. "That's more like it. Back up." He backed you up to the cell where Ben was at. Your back was pressed against the steel bars and you stood right next to Katherine. You blindly reached out for her hands as you watched Irons closely. She grabbed your hand and squeezed so tightly that you felt the bones would shatter at any moment.

She's terrified.

Irons quickly reached forward and grabbed Katherine, wrapping his left arm over her chest and holding a gun at her temple with his right hand. She screamed in fear and you lunged forward to take her back. Ben shouted and banged angrily against the bars. Zombies from the neighboring cells growled and groaned louder from the noises, making the atmosphere feel even more unsettling.

"Ah ah ah. Don't move. I won't hesitate to pull the trigger. You both know this." He said to you and Ben. You paused, before you slowly backed away, a few tears escaped and trailed down your face. Katherine was openly sobbing, eyes pleadingly staring at you for help.

"Please, let her go. Take me if you have to just, please. Don't hurt her." You begged.

You have no control over the situation. And that scared you.

He seemed to consider your offer for a moment, but shook his head. "No, she'll stay with me." He puts the chips into the slots, still holding Katherine at gunpoint, and opens Ben's cell. "Now, why don't you join your friend in that cell? Keep him company until I come back for you two."

You don't move, making him shoot the wall beside you. You jumped and Katherine screamed.

"Just do it, Y/n! Do as he says! For once, don't be a hero! I'll be fine!" Katherine sobbed. You and Ben didn't believe her. Neither did she. She knew this would be the last time she saw you. But she didn't want her best friend or boyfriend to die for her. She didn't want anyone to die for her.

You reluctantly walked into the cell. Ben went to run out and attack Irons, but the cell quickly slammed shut before he could. You leaned against the bars and held onto them with a tight grip, glaring at Irons. If looks could kill, he'd be long gone by now.

"Have fun you two. I'll be back later. Maybe." Iron laughed as he walked away with a sobbing Katherine.

"I love you, Ben! I love you, Y/n! You were the best friend I've ever had. Protect each other!" Katherine yelled. Tears streamed down your face as you watched your best friend be dragged away. You failed her.

"Get back here you son of a bitch!" Ben yelled.

"Katherine! Katherine! Don't you dare give up! You fight! Please fight!" You yelled desperately.

You sighed in defeat as they walked out of sight. You wiped away your tears and looked for a way out. Your bag. You see your bag on the other side of the hall and sit on the ground, reaching as far as you could through the bars to get it. But it was too far away.

You grunt and hit the ground in frustration. You noticed Ben's bag in the corner of the cell and crawled to it.

"Hey! What are you doing?" Ben asked incredulously.

"Looking for something to get us out." You told him as you shuffled through his bag.

"There's nothing. Believe me, I've already looked in the last week I've been here." Ben sighed.

You let out a shout of frustration and threw the bag to the ground. His stuff fell out and he quickly rushed to put it back.

"Hey! Careful. The tape recorder is in there."

"The one from the Annette interview?"

"Yeah. I have it just in case." He said as he sat on the bed.

"I gave the drive to a S.T.A.R.S member. Jill Valentine. I figured she could get further with it than we could." You said as you sat on the bed beside him.

"Probably for the best. We don't have much use for it stuck in here." Ben sighed as he lit a cigarette, offering a box toward you.

You debated for a moment before shaking your head. You're not a smoker. And if you somehow miraculously survived all this, you'll be damned if lung cancer was the thing that took you out.

"Suit yourself." Ben shrugged, taking a drag of his cigarette. "When's the last time you've slept?"

You snorted. "I don't know. What day is it?"

"Might as well get some sleep, Y/n. Not like we can get out of here anytime soon. Here, I'll even sit on the floor for you." He said, moving off the bed to sit on the floor.

"How thoughtful." You deadpanned as you laid on the bed. You looked at your watch and sighed. It was broken. When did that happen?

You looked to the ceiling and hoped, to whatever entity out there, that Katherine will be alright. That all three of you will be okay.

This day wasn't any better.

#ada wong x reader #ada wong #resident evil #resident evil x reader #claire redfield #jill valentine #leon kennedy #raccoon city #idk what else to tag

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bougiebutchbitch · 1 year

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Congratulations, you made me start reading White Knight! I'm not a fan so far, but I believe you said it gets better?

lmao, I am shaking hands with you and pretty much every other Batjokes fan!

It does get better. By a lot. I would encourage you to keep going!

The whys & wherefores are below the cut - but I have to give the obligatory disclaimer that this is all personal opinion. I know this is a bit of a contentious comic in the fandom, for reasons I fully understand! I'm not looking to get into a debate - just to ramble a little and share my love for this series with folks who, hopefully, will appreciate that x

The most egregious issue I had with White Knight was that Jack seemed to be an entirely different character from Joker. So... why should I even care about him?

Like. He started wearing a suit? And working out to get the Stereotypical Superhero Bod rather than rocking that classic scrawny Joker look? And he became a freaking politician? Bullshit.

Add to that the shoddy mental health depictions (that's... really not how DID works, DC) and the blatant homophobia of "We will literally say ON THE PAGE that Joker is in love with Batman, but only when he's evil - when he's good, he's in love with Harley and hates Batman".... Yeah, the initial comic has issues, to say the least.

BUT. I do think that in the later chapters, after Jack's 'death' - so, in the Beyond the White Knight era! - Jack's characterisation gets wayyyy more believable. He reads like a good incarnation of Joker! He's annoying - purposefully, irrepressably so! He's a dork! He's hyper-intelligent but also just plain ol' hyper! He does his own sound effects! He goofs about because he thinks he's hilarious (and Bruce kinda indulges him and it's very cute)! He's A MASSIVE Batman fanboy, and hooooo boy does it show!

There's a gigantic Queer Undertone to his relationship with Batman - even more so than is the norm, for Batjokes. One need only look at the little heart emoticon when he talked to Bruce in the Valentine's Day issue. Or the whole 'Harley gets to call you Bats but I don't? :pout:' part. Or the 'those two bicker like an old married couple' bit, or the part where Jack asks Batman if he can ride on the back of his motorcycle ("You won't even feel my arms around you ;)" - holographic flirting at its finest!), or even Bruce's relationship with Harley!

I'm serious. You do NOT need to be wearing the Queer Viewing Goggles in order to interpret Jack wholeheartedly supporting Bruce and Harley getting together and being happy together, with or without his involvement, in a very OT3-sorta-fashion.

Buuuuuut if you're after explicit statements that Jack is still in love with Batman as Jack, rather than Joker, you won't find them in this comic. I would argue that there's enough implicit stuff there to see Jack as 100% bisexual, in love with Bruce and Harley, but, as usual.... that reading remains implicit. Instead, there is enough ambiguity for Comic Dudebros to argue that The Magic Brain Pills 'cured' Joker both of his mental illness and his love for Batman. Which... sigh. :/

In other news, I genuinely like the depiction of Bruce in this comic! So driven, so stoic... But he's also learning slowly how to be vulnerable with the people who love him, how to accept and live with his panic disorder, and how to impart affection to his sons! He's learning that he's allowed family, happiness, and peace! Those are arcs I will never tire of.

Harley is also a delight - a take-no-shit, smart yet fun interpretation of the character. She doesn't really read like the Harley I know and love, but regardless, I'm invested in her and her story!

So, yeah. Awesome art, decent storyline (not exceptional, but far from the worst out there!), fascinating Elseworlds look at the entire Batfam, and strong, strong implications of an m/m/f OT3... There's a lot not to love. But there's a lot to love, too!

I hope you enjoy!

#batjokes #white knight #joker #batman #batman x joker #joker x batman #harley quinn

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queer-and-dear-books · 1 year

Photo

Title: My Brother’s Husband

Author: Gengoroh Tagame

Genre: Comics | Family | Friendship | LGBTQ+

Content Warnings: Homophobia | Death

Overall Rating: 10/10

Personal Opinion: Quite possibly my most favorite manga of all time. I own a lot of Tagame’s works so I’ve always been a big fan of his art style. To see it in a mainstream book all about educating people on queer folks? That is just chef’s kiss perfection. It’s wholesome, it’s intelligent, it’s refreshing, and it will break and fix your heart over and over again. Please purchase a copy for yourself.

Do I Own These Books? Yes! I own both volumes and I even have the first volume signed by Tagame himself!

Spoilers Below For My Likes & Dislikes:

Likes:

- First and foremost, the art style. I personally love it. And not just because of the details of Yaichi’s and Mike’s muscles when they’re bathing. No, I just adore all of their character designs and the vibes they give off. Yaichi is a single dad who is a bit unsure of himself, I can see that in how he stands in volume 1′s cover. Kana is a precocious child but a child nonetheless, I see that in how she stands in volume 1′s cover. Mike is Mike. I see that in, well, you know already.

- Kana is the most adorable thing. She has a very pure view of the world that was unaffected by her father’s bigoted views because he never taught them to her. And it is mainly through her that Yaichi, her father, begins to understand queer folks better. When she says she doesn’t get why gay people can’t marry, he pauses and rethinks his position. It’s adorable and inspiring witnessing a parent learn from their child and being open to learning from them too.

- That’s the thing I love most about these books. Yaichi has a lot of bigoted and narrow-minded opinions concerning his brother’s sexuality. But a lot of that is because he was never educated on it. After Ryoji tragically passed away and Mike came into his life, he realized it wasn’t too late to learn more about his estranged brother. Because here was someone still connected to Ryoji and probably knew him better than most people. Mike taught Yaichi a lot and Yaichi was open to learning. He kept his bigoted thoughts to himself, never actually voicing them out, and instead took in everything Mike told him and grew from it. By volume 2, Yaichi was even prepared himself to tell people about his brother’s husband from overseas and how it’s perfectly normal.

- Mike is just a giant teddy bear and I find him to be adorable and hot. Mainly though, I just like him for being such a big-hearted fellow. He’s proud of himself, he’s open about his sexuality, he’s curious but respectful of the culture around him. He’s the ideal man in my opinion. And I just love the role he took up as the jolly uncle in Kana’s life. They were so wholesome playing together in basically every chapter. Ugh, my heart still breaks for Kana when Mike had to go back to Canada. She loved him so much.

- Speaking of Mike being open about his sexuality, it’s a little hard to see (for my color blind eyes anyway) but his shirt on the covers include a pink triangle. It was once a badge of shame employed by Nazis to identify LGBTQ+ people but was later reclaimed to be a symbol of pride. Mike knows this and that’s why he wears that shirt and that’s why I love him so much. Yes, know your history Mike!

- Kana’s mother, Natsuki, and Yaichi are divorced. But they maintain a healthy and friendly relationship. I fucking love that. They acknowledge that they were a bad match when they were married and that they’re better as individuals and as Kana’s parents when they’re separated and I find that to be so wholesome. But I also just love that Natsuki was so open-minded about Mike herself when she met him. These four characters all together make such an adorable family unit.

Dislikes:

- Yaichi admits his mistakes and homophobic outbursts were wrong but damn did I cringe at some of the things he thought. The story is mainly about his growth though so I’ll give it a pass.

- There’s honestly nothing I really dislike about this story. Everyone should go purchase a copy for themselves.

#Booksbooksbooks #Book Rec #Book Review #Book Blog #Comics #Queer Comics #Manga #My Brother's Husband #Otouto no Otto #Gengoroh Tagame #LGBTQ #Queer Representation

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nayialovecat · 2 years

Text

Mushrooms and poisons (fragment)

Hey, folks… Because you liked my sketches with Helob and Sozo so much, and for my own pleasure, I decided to translate and publish an excerpt from one of the chapters with these two loved dumbs. To be exact - an excerpt from their first meeting.

Title: Mushrooms and poisons Script: Helob, on the advice of the Lamb, went to the Spore Grotto, where he wants to get a recipe to make even the most unhappy and scared creature happy. However, the famous king Sozo… well, he's different than he expected, ha, ha.

A little explanation: Helob thinks with his belly. Literally everyones are food for him, and he can see no one another way but as delicious morsels. Sozo, on the other hand… well… is more drugged than he has ever been in the game. And he mixes various stimulants very dangerously. This is a very bad idea.

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chapter: Mushroms and poisons (fragment)

He entered a new grotto. He looked around with interest at the little cavern, quite nicely decorated. He recognized the crystals from Anchordeep that cast a rainbow of light on the floor. He saw the sculpture to the right and walked over to it - it represented... a being, an insect, as far as he could tell by the number of limbs, with a mushroom on its head. Helob tilted his head... He was never very familiar with art, he didn't quite understand it - but he could admit that the sculpture was very pretty. He heard a noise, turned around.

Someone came out of the tent on the other side of the cave. Helob blinked intrigued. The thing was covered in something yellow, it was trembling all over. It had its head bowed, so he could see the hat of the great red mushroom most of all - but all mushroom-people had something like that, in different colors, yes. But this creature was larger than the mushroom-people.

"Who the hell... YOUR KING SOZO SAID THAT HE WANTS NOT TO SEE ANYONE WHEN HE IS ON ACID!" the creature roared towards the entrance to the grotto and staggered. The yellow blanket or coat fell off them, and they straightened in all their glory, swaying slightly and unable to stand on their feet. And Helob opened his mouth from the impression, after a while feeling the flow of saliva to it again.

The creature was a slender ant, as far as he could judge, yes, yes, giant ants lived far beyond the reach of the Old Faith. Their face and limbs were gray, but their abdomen was red, slightly covered, as was their chest, the middle segment of their body with a pink, tattered robe with short sleeves, and their neck was surrounded by white fluff like fur. Helob had never seen an ant with fur, and he saw a few ants, his trades were a long reach, yes, but they were never fluffy, no... Big eyes with dark pupils cast dispersed glances before they focused on Helob, and he felt his legs soften under him, as he involuntarily crouches to pounce. Ah, to hunt for such an appetizing morsel, yes... this craving was strong in him. He barely fought it off.

"What do you want? Someone sent you? These traitors sent you, right? They want to kill Sozo, but it's impossible... DAMNED TRAITORS EVERYWHERE" a growl came from the ant's mouth, and then he grabbed his head with the first, thicker pair of limbs. "Ouch... don't scream... Sozo's head can't stand it... Poor, poor head..."

They groaned and dropped to their knees. They looked like they wanted to throw up. Helob approached them as if in a trance, his saliva dripping onto the cave floor, marking his trail. He stood close, almost a step. He smelled the smell and realized... it's a male ant, yeah, a giant ant... but not just an ant... There was something, something else, mmm, the smell of mushrooms, so appetizing... Helob tried mushrooms, sometimes he added to the soup, gave flavor... but here... here was a mushroom and a meat in one, mmm, so appetizing, yes... yes...

He shook his head. No, no, he promised Lamb. Helob won't break a word. He can't...

"How long will you be standing over me and dripping saliva?" he heard a snarl.

He directed his three eyes down. He cocked his head curiously. The other was looking at him from under the red mushroom hat on his head. His dark circled eyes showed fury. The spider noticed so closely that thin, long mushrooms grew out of the ant's fur.And that the ant's pupils almost completely filled the iris in the colour of rot, green mold. The ant had nice eyes, nice colour, too bad so little colour.

"What are you looking for?" he added, trying to get up. Helob even didn't know when he offered him help with one of his arms and put the ant on his feet. "King Sozo didn't invite guests today... someone sent you? You look like a killer..."

"Thank you," Helob beamed, then touched the chest. "Helob... hunter and seller of... food. Yes, yes, food. Helob came to this king Sozo, yes, Lamb said... Where's the king?" he looked around curiously.

The ant looked at him doubtfully. And then he stepped back, almost yanked his arm out of the spider's grasp, and lifted the first pair of arms up. From the other pair of hands, he put one on his stomach, the other stretched down. Then he made a deep bow, staggered and nearly flew forward.

"King Sozo welcomes you to his doorstep," he mumbled. "Bad time to visit... Today... there was acid... and was bad..." After these words, king Sozo closed his mouth and staggered towards the large vessel standing in the corner of the cave. Helob heard vomiting sounds. "Uh... I shouldn't drink every thing that makes funny bubbles when mixed with mushroom juice..."

"Helob... a bit confused... Beautiful mister is... Sozo?"

"KING Sozo, if you please," the ant stammered, then vomited again.

After a while, he seems to have finished. He managed to straighten himself and walked over to the spider. The spider, slouching a little, didn't take his delighted gaze away from the king. Saliva was still dripping from his mouth.

"You know... that you're leaking, right?" Sozo observed and looked down.

"It's your majesty's appetizing smell that affects Helob so much, yes, yes... but Helob will not eat, Helob promised Lamb... but yet... one little bite..." He licked his lips, staring longingly at the ant king's shoulder.

The other only raised an eyebrow a little, then reached out one arm from the middle pair toward him.

"Feel free to."

"W-what?" Helob went dumb. In front of his face, he had the king's hand outstretched in a gesture as if he was giving it for Helob to a kiss. Sozo looked to the side so as not to look in his direction.

"Come on... do it quickly... Now I don't feel anything, my nerves paralyzed... ha, ha, this strong stuff is Plimbo selling, I have to buy more next time... just for the future - to do not mix with mushroom juice. I don't feel anything. So enjoy."

Helob trembled excitiment. He touched the arm and moved closer, licking his lips again. He practically got drooling. He swallowed loudly, still glancing at Sozo, but Sozo didn't seem to be joking. Will... will Lamb be angry? Formally... formally the snack was offered to Helob, it isn't proper to refuse the king, right? No, no, Helob doesn't want to be tactlessness, by any means, Helob knows his place and respects crowned heads...

Crunched. Sozo squeezed his eyes and teeth together for a moment, then took a deep breath as he lowered his arm. It now ended just below the shirt sleeve, on the second segment. He took what looked like a tube filled with something like grass from the pocket of his robe, then lifted it to his mouth and lit one end after a while. Helob, on the other hand, eagerly devoured his limb, closing his eyes in delight. Yes... yes, yes, it was as delicious as he thought... no, better, more perfect... the delicate meat he dreamed of, immediately seasoned with mushrooms, tender, crispy, crunchy...

He was breathing hard, overwhelmed by this otherworldly dining experience. King Sozo, meanwhile, blew out a puff of smoke, never taking his eyes off him. Helob licked his lips.

"It tasted?" the ant king asked politely after a moment.

Helob nodded. After a moment he looked embarrassed. "Now Helob has remorse..." he muttered uncertainly. "Stupid, stupid..."

"Do not worry. It will grow back in a few days."

Helob cocked his head. "He didn't know ants like starfish..." he remarked.

King Sozo laughed, exhaling another puff of smoke. He only smoked for a moment, and his eyes slowly took on a new hue as his pupils narrowed a little, revealing more of their greenness. Helob couldn't take his eyes off those eyes, so beautiful, so green, like the lichen on the mossy skulls in his hideout, like the mold on the undigested debris...

"King Sozo is eternal, long live the king, this king will not die!" Sozo intoned unawares, then laughed, and then his laughter turned into a short cough. He cleared his throat and looked at Helob with unexpectedly sharp eyes. "So Lamb sent you? What does he want from pathetic, piteous Sozo?"

"Helob does not find the king pathetic," the spider observed pleasantly. "Helob sees Sozo great king, gracious... yes, yes, not pathetic..."

King Sozo raised an eyebrow slightly. "You're probably the only one," he grunted. "Even his subjects, they treat King Sozo like a fool... like a little child... They put him to sleep, tell him to rest, so that he doesn't worry about anything, that everything will be taken care of, ha, ha... THE LITTLE TRAITORS... Not scream... head..." he groaned, then took a deep drag from the smoke tube and stared glumly into space for a moment. He blew smoke twice before speaking again. "We were talking about Lamb, right?"

"Oh yeah! Helob remembered." He reached on his back. "Helob a gift for the great king, yes... The gift is ready earlier, but now Helob wants to give it more, yes, yes... Helob wants nothing, yes, he wants nothing, the great king has already made Helob happy, yes..."

He handed over the silk package. Sozo wiped his hands on his robes, then took the package in them. He looked at its suspiciously and partially helplessly.

"Oh, Helob forgot... yes... packed too tight, yes... I'll unpack, your magnificence will wait, yes, yes... Good king, patient..." Helob took the package back, then deftly working with all three of his arms, he quickly unraveled his own thread. He handed the ant king the box and folded his hands in anxiety and anticipation.

King Sozo looked a little suspicious. But he took the box, and then, tilting his head slightly, opened it. And then his eyes lit up. He bent over the package. "Perfect..." he whispered, pulling out one of the small, luscious purple mushrooms.

"Helob collected them himself... Lamb said, king Sozo likes mushrooms, rare varieties, yes... Helob knows where corpse mushrooms grow, he picked, yes... Corpse mushrooms inedible, no, poisonous, yes, but they give a spicy flavor, Helob sometimes season the soup, yes..."

"Hmm... are you eating these mushrooms? You're not dying from poison?" The king put the mushroom back in the box.

"Helob himself venomous," he noted, pointing to his abdomen. In his soft, woolly fur, apart from the gland with which he made his silk nets, there was a venom spike right next to him. "No harm poisons. Even a deadly venom. Useful when you are hungry and you can't hunt. Rotten meat is not a problem for Helob, yes... But guests shouldn't eat anything from his pot, ha, ha, yes, yes... unless they want to land in it themselves, yeeeeesss..."

King Sozo watched him closely. Helob began to feel strange. Slightly embarrassed, a little ashamed... he put two pairs of his hands on his stomach, the third hesitantly began to clean his fur, just to take care of something.

"You are... an interesting person, Helob," the king remarked after a moment, then took out one mushroom, sniffed it, and dropped it in his mouth. Helob got scared all at once.

"Poison kills giant ants like a great king!" he cried desperately. Sozo chewed the mushroom calmly, closing his eyes with obvious satisfaction. The spider watched him uncertainly, then began to rub his own fur in his hands. "When the beautiful mister, the good king dies of poison, can Helob snatch another piece? The whole maybe?"

"Not that kind of stuff tried to kill me," Sozo remarked as he swallowed. He smiled. Then his pupils filled the entire irises again. "Oh yes! EXCELLENT. FRIEND!" he said, then hugged the spider tightly. The other was amazed at this sudden closeness. But King Sozo still wasn't dead, so he guessed that - perhaps through the fungus in his body - he was partially immune to the poison of the violet ones. "FRIEND! REQUEST WHAT YOU WANT! ONE MORE ARM MAYBE?"

Helob swallowed the saliva that was already pouring into his mouth. He liked the acquaintance more and more, and the ant king smelled so beautiful, so delicious. He was already opening his jaws, ready to take the offer, but then shook his head. He slipped out of the dazed Sozo's grip, then bowed slightly.

"Your appetizing favors me, but no, no... that's enough, yes... Helob don't want to abuse his hospitality..." After a moment he remembered why he had come here. "But there is a thing... yes, yes, there is a thing..."

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I dla moich ewentualnych polskich czytelników, oryginalna polska wersja:

rozdział: Grzyby i trucizny (fragment)

Wszedł do nowej groty. Z zainteresowaniem rozglądał się po niewielkiej kawernie, całkiem ładnie przystrojonej. Rozpoznawał w niej kryształy z Anchordeep, które rzucały tęczowe światło na podłogę. Dostrzegł rzeźbę stojącą na prawo i podszedł do niej - przedstawiała... istotę, owada, na ile mógł stwierdzić po ilości kończyn, z grzybem na głowie. Helob przekrzywił głowę... Nigdy nie był specjalnie zaznajomiony ze sztuką, nie do końca ją rozumiał - ale mógł przyznać, że rzeźba była bardzo ładna. Usłyszał hałas, obrócił się.

Z namiotu po drugiej stronie jaskini wyszedł... ktoś. Helob zamrugał zaintrygowany. Istota była okryta czymś żółtym, cała dygotała. Miała pochyloną głowę, więc widział przede wszystkim kapelusz wielkiego czerwonego grzyba - ale wszyscy grzybowi ludzie takie mieli, w różnych kolorach, tak. Lecz ta istota była większa od grzybowych ludzi.

- Kogo do licha... WASZ KRÓL SOZO MÓWIŁ, ŻE NIE CHCE NIKOGO WIDZIEĆ, KIEDY JEST NA KWASIE! - ryknęła ta istota w stronę wejścia do groty i zatoczyła się. Żółty koc czy płaszcz opadł z niej, wyprostowała się w pełnej krasie, lekko zataczając się i nie mogąc ustać na nogach. A Helob z wrażenia aż otworzył usta, po chwili czując znów napływ śliny do nich.

Stworzenie było smukłą mrówką, na ile mógł ocenić, tak, tak, gigantyczne mrówki, żyły daleko poza zasięgiem Starej Wiary. Jego twarz i kończyny były szare, ale odwłok czerwony, okryty nieco, podobnie jak pierś, jak środkowy segment ciała różową, postrzępioną szatą z krótkimi rękawami, jego szyję zaś otaczał biały puch, niby futro. Helob nigdy nie widział mrówki z futrem, a widział kilka mrówek, jego handel sięgał daleko, tak, lecz nigdy nie były puchate, nie... Wielkie oczy o ciemnych źrenicach rzucały rozbiegane spojrzenia, nim zogniskowały je na Helobie, a ten poczuł, jak miękną pod nim nogi, jak mimowolnie przyczaja się do skoku. Ach, upolować taki apetyczny kąsek, tak... to pragnienie było w nim silne. Ledwie je zwalczał.

- Czego chcesz? Ktoś cię przysłał? Ci zdrajcy cię nasłali, tak? Chcą zabić Sozo, ale się nie da... WSZĘDZIE CI PRZEKLĘCI ZDRAJCY - z ust mrówki wydobyło się warczenie, a potem złapał się za głowę pierwszą, grubszą parą parą kończyn. - Aj... nie krzycz... głowa Sozo tego nie zniesie... Biedna, biedna głowa...

Jęknął i opadł na kolana. Wyglądał, jakby chciał zwymiotować. Helob podszedł do niego jak w transie, a jego cieknąca ślina kapała na podłogę jaskini, znaczyła jego ślad. Stanął blisko, niemal o krok. Czuł zapach i zdał sobie sprawę... to samiec mrówki, tak, gigantyczna mrówka... ale nie tylko mrówka... Było coś, coś jeszcze, mmm, zapach grzybów, taki apetyczny... Helob próbował grzybów, czasem dodawał do zupy, nadawały smak... ale tutaj... tutaj był grzyb i mięsko w jednym, mmm, tak apetyczne, tak... tak...

Potrząsnął głową. Nie, nie, obiecał Jagnięciu. Helob nie złamie słowa. Nie może...

- Długo będziesz tak nade mną stał i kapał śliną? - usłyszał warknięcie.

Skierował spojrzenie swoich trojga oczu w dół. Przekrzywił głowę z zaciekawieniem. Tamten patrzył na niego spod czerwonego kapelusza grzyba, który znajdował się na jego głowie. Jego podkrążone oczy wyrażały wściekłość. Pająk zauważył z tak bliska, że z futerka mrówki wyrastają cienkie, długie grzyby. I że źrenice mrówki niemal w całości wypełniały tęczówkę w kolorze zgnilizny, zielonej pleśni. Mrówka miała ładne oczy, ładny kolor, szkoda, że tak mało koloru.

- Czego tu szukasz? - dorzuciła, usiłując się podnieść. Helob sam nie wiedział kiedy, zaoferował jej pomoc, jedno ze swoich ramion i postawił mrówkę na nogi. - Król Sozo nie zapraszał dzisiaj gości... ktoś cię nasłał? Wyglądasz na zabójcę...

- Dziękuję - rozpromienił się Helob, a potem dotknął swojej piersi. - Helob... łowca i sprzedawca... jedzenia. Tak, tak, jedzenia. Helob przybył do tego króla Sozo, tak, Jagnię powiedziało... Gdzie król? - rozglądał się z zaciekawieniem.

Mrówka popatrzyła na niego z powątpiewaniem. A potem odsunęła się od krok, niemal wyszarpnęła swoje ramię z uścisku pająka i uniosła pierwszą parę ramion w górę. Z drugiej pary rąk, jedną położyła na brzuchu, drugą wyciągnęła w dół. A potem oddała głęboki pokłon, po którym się zachwiała i niemal poleciała do przodu.

- Król Sozo wita w swoich progach - wybełkotała. - Zły moment na odwiedziny... Dzisiaj... był kwas... i był zły... - Po tych słowach król Sozo zatkał usta i zatoczył się w stronę wielkiego naczynia stojącego w kącie jaskini. Helob usłyszał odgłosy wymiotowania. - Uch... nie powinienem pić każdej rzeczy, która po zmieszaniu z sokiem z grzyba wypuszcza fajne bąbelki...

- Helob... nieco skonfundowany... Piękny pan to... Sozo?

- KRÓL Sozo, jeśli łaska - wybełkotała mrówka, a potem ponownie zwymiotowała.

Po chwili chyba skończyła. Zdołała się wyprostować i podeszła do pająka. Ten, lekko się garbiąc, nie odrywał zachwyconego wzroku od króla. Z jego ust ciągle kapała ślina.

- Wiesz... że przeciekasz, tak? - zauważył Sozo i spojrzał w dół.

- To apetyczny zapach waszej królewskiej mości tak wpływa na Heloba, tak, tak... ale Helob nie zje, Helob obiecał Jagnięciu... chociaż... jeden mały gryzek... - Oblizał się, spoglądając tęsknie na ramię mrówczego króla.

Tamten tylko uniósł lekko brew, a potem wyciągnął rekę ze środkowej pary swoich kończyn w jego stronę.

- Nie krępuj się.

- C-co? - Helob zgłupiał. Przed samą twarzą miał dłoń króla wyciągniętą w takim geście, jakby tamten podawał ją do pocałunku. Sozo skierował wzrok w bok, aby nie patrzyć w jego stronę.

- No, dalej... rób to szybko... I tak chwilowo nic nie czuję, sparaliżowało mi nerwy... ha, ha, mocny towar ten Plimbo sprzedaje, muszę kupić więcej następnym razem... tylko na przyszłość - nie mieszać z sokiem z grzyba. Nic nie czuję. Więc korzystaj.

Helob zadrżał. Dotknął ramienia i przesunął się bliżej, oblizując znów wargi. Praktycznie dostał ślinotoku. Przełknął głośno, zerkając jeszcze na Sozo, ale ten nie wyglądał, jakby żartował. Czy... czy Jagnię będzie złe? Formalnie... formalnie poczęstunek został zaproponowany Helobowi, nie wypada odmówić królowi, prawda? Nie, nie, Helob nie chce popełnić nietaktu, w żadnym razie, Helob zna swoje miejsce i szanuje koronowane głowy...

Chrupnęło. Sozo zacisnął na chwilę oczy i zęby, a potem odetchnął głęboko, opuszczając ramię. Kończyło się teraz nieco poniżej rękawa koszuli, na drugim segmencie. Wydobył z kieszeni swojej szaty coś, co przypominało rurkę wypełnioną czymś, jakby trawą, po czym uniósł do ust i po chwili zapalił jeden koniec. Helob tymczasem z zapałem pochłaniał jego kończynę, przymykając oczy z rozkoszy. Tak... tak, tak, to było tak wyśmienite, jak sądził... nie, lepsze, doskonalsze... delikatne mięsko, o jakim marzył, od razu doprawione grzybami, delikatne, kruche, chrupiące...

Oddychał z trudem, przytłoczony tym nieziemskim doświadczeniem kulinarnym. Król Sozo tymczasem wydmuchał kłąb dymu, nie spuszczając z niego oczu. Helob oblizał wargi.

- Smakowało? - zapytał po chwili uprzejmie mrówczy król.

Helob pokiwał głową. Po chwili zrobił zakłopotaną minę.

- Teraz Helob ma wyrzuty sumienia... - bąknął niepewnie. - Głupi, głupi...

- Nie przejmuj się. Odrośnie za kilka dni.

Helob przekrzywił głowę.

- Nie wiedział, że mrówki jak rozgwiazdy... - zauważył.

Król Sozo roześmiał się, wypuszczając kolejny kłąb dymu. Przez chwilę tylko palił, a jego oczy powoli zyskiwały nowej barwy, gdy źrenice odrobinę zmniejszały się, odsłaniając więcej swojej zieloności. Helob nie mógł oderwać wzroku od tych oczu, takie piękne, takie zielone, jak porosty na omszałych czaszkach w jego kryjówce, jak pleśń na niestrawionych resztkach...

- Król Sozo jest wieczny, niech żyje król, nie umrze ten król! - zaintonował nieoczekiwanie Sozo, a potem zaśmiał się, a po chwili jego śmiech przeszedł w krótki kaszel. Ochrząknął i spojrzał na Heloba nieoczekiwanie bystro. - Więc przysłało cię Jagnię? Czego chce od żałosnego, budzącego litość Sozo?

- Helob nie znajduje króla żałosnym - zauważył przymilnie pająk. - Helob widzi, Sozo wielki król, łaskawy... tak, tak, nie żałosny...

Król Sozo uniósł lekko brew.

- To chyba jako jedyny - burknął. - Nawet jego poddani, traktują króla Sozo jak głupca... jak małe dziecko... Układają do snu, mówią, żeby odpoczął, żeby nie przejmował się niczym, że wszystkim się zajmą, ha, ha... MALI ZDRADLIWI... Nie krzyczeć... głowa... - jęknął, a potem zaciągnął się głęboko z palonej rurki i przez chwilę ponuro patrzył w przestrzeń. Dwa razy wydmuchnął dym, nim ponownie przemówił. - Mówiliśmy o Jagnięciu, tak?

- A, tak! - Helob sobie przypomniał. Sięgnął na swoje plecy. - Helob prezent dla wielki król, tak... Prezent gotowy wcześniej, ale teraz Helob bardziej pragnie go podarować, tak, tak... Niczego Helob nie chce, tak, nie chce nic, wielki król już uszczęśliwił Heloba, tak...

Podał jedwabny pakunek. Sozo otarł ręce o swoją szatę, a potem wziął w nie paczkę. Przyjrzał jej się podejrzliwie, a po części bezradnie.

- Och, Helob zapomniał... tak... za mocno zapakowane, tak... Zaraz rozpakuję, wasza wspaniałość poczeka, tak, tak... Dobry król, cierpliwy... - Helob przejął z powrotem pakunek, a potem zręcznie pracując wszystkimi trzema parami swoich rąk, błyskawicznie rozplątał własną nić. Podał mrówczemu królowi pudełko i złożył ręce w niepokoju i oczekiwaniu.

Król Sozo wyglądał lekko podejrzliwie. Ale wziął pudełko, a potem, nieco odchylając głowę uchylił je. A potem jego oczy zaświeciły się. Pochylił się nad paczką.

- Doskonałe... - szepnął, wyciągając jeden z niewielkich, soczyście fioletowych grzybów.

- Helob sam zbierał... Jagnię powiedziało, król Sozo lubi grzyby, rzadkie odmiany, tak... Helob wie, gdzie rosną trupie grzyby, nazbierał, tak... Trupie grzyby niejadalne, nie, trujące, tak, ale nadają ostry smak, Helob czasem doprawia zupę, tak...

- Hmm... jadasz te grzyby? Nie umierasz od trucizny? - Król odłożył grzyba do pudełka.

- Helob sam jadowity - zauważył, wskazując na swój odwłok. W jego miękkim, wełniastym futrze poza gruczołem z pomocą którego produkował swe jedwabne sieci, tuż obok niego krył się kolec jadowy. - Nie szkodzą trucizny. Nawet trupi jad. Przydatne, gdy czas głodu i nie da się polować. Zgniłe mięso nie problem dla Heloba, tak... Za to goście nie powinni jadać nic z jego garnka, ha, ha, tak, tak... chyba, że sami chcą w nim wylądować, taaaaaak...

Król Sozo obserwował go uważnie. Helob zaczął czuć się dziwnie. Lekko zakłopotany, lekko zawstydzony... złożył na brzuchu dwie pary swoich rąk, trzecią niepewnie zaczął czyścić swoje futro, byleby czymś się zająć.

- Jesteś... interesującą osobą, Helob - zauważył po chwili król, a potem wyjął jednego grzyba, powąchał i wrzucił sobie do ust. Helob naraz przestraszył się.

- Trucizna zabija gigantyczne mrówki, jak wielki król! - zawołał rozpaczliwie. Sozo ze spokojem przeżuwał grzyba, przymykając oczy z wyraźnym zadowoleniem. Pająk obserwował go niepewnie, a potem zaczął miętosić własne futro w rękach. - Gdy już piękny pan, dobry król umrze od trucizny, Helob może sobie jeszcze uszczknąć kawałek? Całego może?

- Nie takie rzeczy próbowały mnie zabić - zauważył Sozo, kiedy przełknął. Uśmiechnął się. A potem jego źrenice znów wypełniły całe tęczówki. - O tak! DOSKONAŁE. PRZYJACIELU! - rzucił, a potem objął mocno pająka. Ten zdumiał się tą nagłą zażyłością. Ale król Sozo nadal nie padał trupem, więc domyślał się, że - być może przez grzyby w swoim ciele - był częściowo odporny na truciznę tych fioletowych. - PRZYJACIELU! ŻĄDAJ CZEGO CHCESZ! JESZCZE JEDNĄ RĘKĘ MOŻE?

Helob przełknął ślinę, która już napływała mu do ust. Coraz bardziej podobała mu się ta znajomość, a mrówczy król pachniał tak ładnie, tak apetycznie. Już rozwierał szczękoczułki, gotów skorzystać z oferty, ale zaraz potrząsnął głową. Wyślizgnął się z uścisku otumanionego Sozo, a potem lekko skłonił.

- Jego apetyczność zaszczyca mnie, ale nie, nie... już wystarczy, tak... Helob nie chce nadużywać gościnności... - Po chwili przypomniał sobie, po co tu przyszedł. - Ale jest rzecz... tak, tak, jest rzecz...

#Cult of the Lamb #Cult of the Wrath #King Sozo #Sozo the ant #Helob the spider #Sozo x Helob #mushrooms #warning: drugs #warning: vomiting #warning: eating alive #my novel

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