#and a lot of my professional work was involving this kind of stuff

[racefortheironthrone]

Hi- er, this is my first-ever writer's strike, how does one not cross a picket line in this context? I know how not to do it with things like Amazon and IRL strikes, but how does it apply to media/streaming?

Hi, this is a great question, because it allows me to write about the difference between honoring a picket line and a boycott. (This is reminding me of the labor history podcast project that's lain fallow in my drafts folder for some time now...) In its simplest formulation, the difference between a picket line and a boycott is that a picket line targets an employer at the point of production (which involves us as workers), whereas a boycott targets an employer at the point of consumption (which involves us as consumers).

So in the case of the WGA strike, this means that at any company that is being struck by the WGA - I've seen Netflix, Amazon, Apple, Disney, Warner Brothers Discovery, NBC, Paramount, and Sony mentioned, but there may be more (check the WGA website and social media for a comprehensive list) - you do not cross a picket line, whether physical or virtual. This means you do not take a meeting with them, even if its a pre-existing project, you do not take phone calls or texts or emails or Slacks from their executives, you do not pitch them on a spec script you've written, and most of all you do not answer any job application.

Because if this strike is like any strike since the dawn of time, you will see the employers put out ads for short-term contracts that will be very lucrative, generally above union scale - because what they're paying for in addition to your labor is you breaking the picket line and damaging the strike - to anyone willing to scab against their fellow workers. GIven that one of the main issues of the WGA are the proliferation of short-term "mini rooms" whereby employers are hiring teams of writers to work overtime for a very short period, to the point where they can only really do the basics (a series outline, some "broken stories," and some scripts) and then have the showrunner redo everything on their lonesome, while not paying writers long-term pay and benefits, I would imagine we're going to see a lot of scab contracts being offered for these mini rooms.

But for most of us, unless we're actively working as writers in Hollywood, most of that isn't going to be particularly relevant to our day-to-day working lives. If you're not a professional or aspiring Hollywood writer, the important thing to remember honoring the picket line doesn't mean the same thing as a boycott. WGA West hasn't called on anyone to stop going to the movies or watching tv/streaming or to cancel their streaming subscriptions or anything like that. If and when that happens, WGA will go to some lengths to publicize that ask - and you should absolutely honor it if you can - so there will be little in the way of ambiguity as to what's going on.

That being said, one of the things that has happened in the past in other strikes is that well-intentioned people get it into their heads to essentially declare wildcat (i.e, unofficial and unsanctioned) boycotts. This kind of stuff comes from a good place, someone wanting to do more to support the cause and wanting to avoid morally contaminating themselves by associating with a struck company, but it can have negative effects on the workers and their unions. Wildcat boycotts can harm workers by reducing back-end pay and benefits they get from shows if that stuff is tied to the show's performance, and wildcat boycotts can hurt unions by damaging negotiations with employers that may or may not be going on.

The important thing to remember with all of this is that the strike is about them, not us. Part of being a good ally is remembering to let the workers' voices be heard first and prioritizing being a good listener and following their lead, rather than prioritizing our feelings.

#labor #unions #wga strike #labor history #labor 101 #boycotts

[togglesbloggle]

In Defense of Bad Things

'Bad' here meaning mostly 'amateur'; stuff made enthusiastically by people at an unprofessional level. Art with visible gaps between what the artist imagined and what they achieved, products of flawed craftsmanship. I suppose everybody can appreciate them to some extent, it's a rare parent that doesn't put up their kid's drawings on the fridge in one way or another. But it turns out to be a fully general skill you can cultivate, and the more I do, the more I'm glad I did.

Partly, it's the teacher thing; finding delight in amateur work is one of the ways to find delight in the process of learning. Cultivating a love of striving-qua-striving can help make you a force for good in the world, as people start to feel safe trying to do things when you're around, even when their efforts are wobbly. You get to participate a little more in the process of atoms spinning themselves into ideas, even when there aren't any illusions about whether you're helping cultivate some revolutionary genius in the field.

And partly it's a fabulous way to build community. By necessity, our professional-level skills tend to be at the service of other people, performed for economic benefit; that's kind of how you get professionally good at something in the first place. When we're acting for our own sake, and among friends, most of what we do with one another is amateurish. I only cook middling-okay, I can't hold a tune that well, I'll never be a speed runner for anything. If you can only enjoy singing from the hundred best singers in the whole world, manufactured and polished by major studios, then you and your friends will sit shoulder-to-shoulder and passively listen to music. But it's so much richer an experience to sit face-to-face, actually singing together, even badly; you expose yourself to so many new ways to appreciate and respect one another, building relationships on what you've accomplished and not just by witty criticism or liking the same things.

And partly it's because some of the most powerful and innovative artistic experiences are in high-churn environments with low expectations and low barriers to entry, if only because those catch the passionate and driven young people that have been otherwise overlooked by our systems. The golden age of webcomics meant that a ton of the actual art involved was pretty lousy, but it also produced work that people still talk about today. D&D began as a profoundly unpolished collection of handmade rulebooks sold at cons in a plastic baggie. By the time these products of enthusiastic amateurs filter themselves through various levels of popularity and absorb mainstream cash influx, they're often risk-averse and missing a lot of the bold spark that inspired their fans in the first place; others will simply never drift towards the mainstream at all. I'm not saying you should be the person who goes out to dig through the slush piles of the internet looking for overlooked art, unless you want to be-- but sometimes a work of actual staggering genius also happens to be a Supernatural fanfic by a first-time author who's a little hazy on commas, and if that's a dealbreaker, you're going to miss out on some profoundly valuable experiences.

And hiding behind all of these things is, like...

Our appreciation of beauty has an odd structure, right? When things are done very skillfully, by brilliant artists with years of training, we can usually appreciate those accomplishments. And when we're looking at nature without human influence, and especially when we think very deeply about natural processes and understand them in context, we often rediscover that sense of beauty. There's just this bizarre hole in the middle where we declare things 'ugly'; as if a little skill is worse than none at all.

I really don't trust that gap. It feels like a trick my brain is playing on me, you know? It has me suspicious that a lot of what I consider 'ugly' or 'bad' is not a very direct experience of the world at all, or an informed judgment. That it is, rather, a declaration of (self-, social-) identity; a desire to be seen as a person of good taste, or as somebody who does things well, or just more primitively as one of the monkeys who is in the good-stuff-tribe and not one of the monkeys who is in the bad-stuff-tribe.

[thelaurenshippen]

finally taking the time to read through the SAG agreement summary and oof, I hope they have an AI town hall soon because...well, there are things to discuss!

so, in case folks are curious, here are my immediate takeaways from the deal as a SAG actor, a SAG producer, and person who is not any kind of expert but spends a lot of time being skeptical of contracts I sign. this is a summation/commentary, not a holistic breakdown of every point, nor even an in-depth discussion of the points I do talk about. and it is, of course, in no way legal advice or voting advice.

this post is already maybe the longest post I've ever written on tumblr (lol) and I feel like I've barely scratched the surface. to be clear, nothing I'm saying here represents how I'm going to vote, how I think other actors should vote, or my be-all-end-all stance on a particular issue. this is me reading through, flagging what concerns me, and asking myself questions. and I'm here to take your questions too! though of course my expertise is limited.

(what?? something I wrote got annoying long?? in my tumblr? it's more likely, etc. huge write-up after the cut)

the good

self-tape stuff: this is one of the more niche/the thing that the general public will find least interesting, but they've put in a lot of provisions to make sure self-tape auditions have limits (# of pages, no stunts, no nudity, doesn't have to be professionally shot, etc.) which is amazing because these types of auditions have gotten out of control since the pandemic. this feels like a great gain

data transparency: in no world did I think the streamers were ever going to agree to any data sharing with either the wga or sag so even though the data is limited, this still feels huge to me.

folks who sing and dance will be paid for both of those things now, which is great

they've added MLK day and Juneteenth as holidays (about time)

a performer cannot be required to translate their own lines

principal performers are required to be given hair and makeup consultation or reimbursed for obtaining their own services - this seems like a small thing, but it's being put in here pretty much entirely because HMU services have generally been appalling when it comes to textured hair/a variety of skin tones. there's also stuff in here about working to hire more diverse HMU artists

it looks like it's going to be easier/provide a path for folks getting IMDb credits even if they're not credited on screen

miscellany: there's a bunch of gains in wage increases, P&H increases, relocation fees, franchise language etc. that all seem good to me, though my limited knowledge on those subjects prevents me from going in depth on them.

this is not important, but it tickled me, there's a term to replace all instances of "telegraph" in the contract with "email & text" which like...why has it taken us thirty years to do that lol.

the "...hm..."

intimacy coordinators: oof. when I watched the press conference SAG gave, I was fucking thrilled when they said that the new agreement required folks to hire intimacy coordinators for nudity and simulated sex scenes. that was almost reason enough for me to vote for it tbh - not requiring it is the exact reason I voted no on our last contract. however, reading the contract summary now, the exact language is: "Producer must use best efforts to engage an Intimacy Coordinator for scenes involving nudity or simulated sex and will consider in good faith any request by a performer to engage an Intimacy Coordinator for other scenes. Producer shall not retaliate against a performer for requesting an Intimacy Coordinator." this....sucks. "best efforts" and "good faith" are not the same as "required". IMO, an intimacy coordinator is the same thing as having a stunt coordinator or, like, any number of health and safety requirements. OSHA doesn't say you must "in good faith" put your "best effort" to providing fire exits. it's great that performers can request coordinators for any kind of scene, and this is still the strongest language we've ever had in a contract but....c'mon guys.

residuals: look, I can't speak to these new terms in any concrete way. there are increases, there are bonuses for streaming success, there's a whole thing about a fund regarding those successes that I need explained to me more in depth, but overall, it looks like we made some in-roads here. as someone who employs actors under digital distribution contracts that has no residuals (podcasts), I know how genuinely cumbersome the unholy trifecta of "views-success-profit" can be (as in views do not equal success, success does not equal profit, etc.). I also have no sympathy when the majority of companies dealing with that cumbersome trifecta are massive media conglomerates. anyway, long story short, idk if this is good enough, I'm hoping to attend the next info meeting sag has.

the bad

the new hair/makeup provisions are explicitly for principal actors. while I hope it leads to better, more inclusive HMU services all around I haaaate that this implies supporting or background actors (who oftentimes also have to sit in HMU) don't deserve the consideration. (then again, background actors are usually required to do their own HMU/bring their own costumes, but for productions where that's not the case, the same HMU provisions should apply IMO)

as with every contract, there's language that could be stronger, clarity that needs to exist, and important things missing - but this isn't the final contract and I'm not a lawyer, so I'm gonna leave that stuff to the experts.

but, "lauren", you say, "what about all the AI stuff? where does that go?" well, reader, I was planning on including that in the above but it's the hot-button issue right now and I think it's wickedly complicated, so I wanted to break it down separately, after I had a chance to point out all the good-bad-in-between stuff that's not getting talked about.

a note: in my career, I've learned there's two big things to keep in mind when reading a contract you might sign:

what is the worst case interpretation of this language (thank you to my lawyer, prince among men, for teaching me how to do this in practice (that said, anything I say here is not legal advice, he'd also want me to say that lol))

what are you willing to lose/compromise on/what are the limits of your pragmatism? contracts are not about a company giving you everything you want out of the goodness of their heart - it is always a compromise. pragmatism has to be a part of the equation.

so, with that said, I'm going to play a little devil's advocate here, and a) try to find the good/the pragmatic and b) catastrophize the worst case scenario. but first, it might be handy to look at this SAG infographic for some basic definitions. let's go.

the AI good

a ton of stuff here requires consent. that is not a small thing, and the consent continues even after your death (whether it was a yes or no; though this can be complicated by your estate/your union)

the language does establish that the consent must be a separate signing from the employment contract, even if its in the contract, which is great (but more on that below - timing matters)

actors often do get paid for use of their digital replicas, though it's different based on the use/type of replica.

the actor must be provided with a "reasonably specific description of the intended use". this language is vaguer than I would like, because it allows producers to decide what "reasonably specific" and "intended" means - there's always going to be some vagueness when it comes to this specific thing, but a good start would be for producers to require not blanket consent, but conditional consent for each significant use of digital replicas.

if the replicas are being used in other mediums, that must also be consented to, thank god.

replicas cannot be used in place of background actor counts on a given day - if I'm understanding this correctly, this means a production can't just have a bunch of fake background actors by themselves, they have to engage real people up to a certain number first (which in this new contract is 25 for TV and 85 for movies). we're already filling in background with digital people or copy-pasting of the same crowd over and over and have been doing so since at least the late 90s, so it's good we're continuing to put up boundaries around that.

the AI "...hm..."

it's unclear (to me) when an actor can be asked to consent. IMO, everything is meaningless if the consent is happening as part of regular contract negotiations. these things have to happen when - and only when - the actor has already been engaged in a role and feels empowered to say no

the use of independently created replicas (replicas pulled from existing footage, not created by the actor) being allowed without consent under first amendment reasoning - this is obviously concerning a lot of people bc first amendment arguments are so broad. that said, there's a pragmatism part of me that understands this is already happening/has been happening for a while and used in ways I think are perfectly fine - I was just watching the new episode of For All Mankind (one of the best TV shows right now!) and it's an alternate history, which meant that in the opening scenes of this season they had some bonkers good deep fakes of Al Gore saying stuff he never said. I think that's okay to do in a fiction show that imagines a different US history! "but Lauren", you might be saying, "Al Gore isn't a member of SAG!" are you sure? are you positive? because I'm pretty certain he is - he was in several episodes of 30 Rock, way more people are in SAG than you think (every NPR reporter for instance), and the two worst presidents we've had in the last 50 years (yes, those ones), are both definitely members of SAG (even if one is dead). now, the other side of this is that public figures like politicians are under a different social contract than actors, and if they wanted to sue, they could, unlike the average SAG actor who might have their image abused. this is why this is in the "hm" column - deep fakes and parody/satire/commentary use of replicas is already here and there's always going to be a 1st amendment argument to make, so we need to figure out how best to limit those and protect the most vulnerable.

alteration: with this language, a project can digitally alter without consent if the script and performance stays "substantially" the same. again, this language is too mealy-mouthed. I don't know that I have a huge problem with a line of dialogue getting replaced with a digital version of that actors voice if, for instance, a word was mispronounced, or wind garbled the sound or whatever - yes, it would eliminate the need for ADR, but if we put some limit on it like..."if there are more than 5 lines in a given episode/movie that require digital alteration in the service of clarity, the actor must be engaged for an ADR session or paid for the digital replacement" then I could see this being workable. I'm also personally okay with things like costumes being digitally altered but, again, we need limitations on that. digital altering cannot replace the art of costuming but, for instance, if a costume needs to be altered to include a hate symbol or something, I think that's fine (example: I have friends who worked at the VFX house for an alternate history TV show that involved a lot of Nazi costuming and set design - a huge part of that VFX house's job was to put swastikas in places, rather than props making nazi flags. I'm okay with that!) but again, these fringe cases do not a compelling arugment make, and this contract language can be interpreted too broadly for my comfort! like everything else in this "hm" category, I need to see the final contract language to decide.

the AI bad

there's a bunch of circumstances in which actors don't get paid for creating their replica/use of it and those circumstances are too broad for my taste.

synthetic performers - this is just awful. no. no, we should not be allowing AI to generate entire actors. just............no. there's some language about the producers having to talk to the union if the synthetic performer is "used in place of a performer who would have been engaged under this Agreement in a human role" but this doesn't apply to non-human characters so....wouldn't that be all roles?? leaving the producers room to be like "this role has to be synthetic, we never would've cast a human!" is bullshit. also, even if we're having AI create a magical talking unicorn whole cloth (which, like, also no, we have artists for this), that unicorn still needs to be voiced by a human person. this whole section is a disaster.

the exceptions to consent for digital alteration are bad-bad. I talked about the potential ADR replacement above and that has a whole host of issues with it that I didn't even get into, but I can see the argument. the rest are very troubling:

there is an exception under "any circumstance when dubbing or use of a double is permitted under the Codified Basic Agreement or Television Agreement" - okay, so does this mean we can replace dubbing artists and stunt performers entirely? this section is about digital alteration, but who's to say alteration couldn't turn an actor broadly miming a fight into an entirely digital, expertly performed fight that usually a stunt double would have done? with AI translation technology, does this mean we're replacing VO artists for dubs entirely? bad!

similarly, "Adjusting lip and/or other facial or body movement and/or the voice of the performer to a foreign language, or for purposes of changes to dialogue or photography necessary for license or sale to a particular market" - Justine Bateman has a great twitter thread on the terrible puppetry potential of this but I want to draw attention to the particular market bit - we all know that selling to china is such a huge part of studios' strategies that they'll remove entire scenes or lines around queer stuff. to me, this clause makes all of that so much easier. I know the argument here is going to be "we can replace swear words and license it for kids!" which.......sure? fine? but, uh, we already have ways to deal with that? and the potential for abuse here is terrifying to me. with all the digital alteration stuff too, there's just so much icky implication for the beauty/body standard to get so much worse.

if a background actor’s digital replica is used in the role of a principal performer, they'll be paid as if they actually performed the days for that role, which, sure, but uhhhh why are we saying it's okay for a digital replica of a background actor to suddenly be a leading role!?!?! I can't think of anything more demoralizing than going to set to act in background (a job I've done! an important job! a fun job a lot of the time! but creatively limited) and then getting a much bigger role (the dream!) and.....not being able to, you know, act that role or be in scenes with other principal actors or do the thing that you've dedicated your life to doing. nightmare stuff.

woof. there's so much more to say but I'm going to leave it there. these are the concerns I'm going to go into SAG's meetings with, and the concerns I'll be considering as I decide how to vote. I know there are things I didn't address and very possibly things I misinterpreted or misrepresented - if you're an actor, I highly recommend a) reading that Justine Bateman thread and b) attending SAG's meetings to ask questions and express your concerns. and I'd love to hear what y'all think! my ask box is open.

#sag aftra #sag #sag strike #AI #me: I'm just gonna look through the terms #me: I'm just gonna do a quick write up before starting my day #clock: it's been almost two hours #not to keep hammering at the 'this is not me saying that I am correct or that I've made up my mind' bit #but this is the piss on the poor reading comprehension website so #I'M NOT SAYING I'M RIGHT #TAKE ALL THIS WITH A GRAIN OF SALT #i mostly have questions and concerns and am pleasantly surprised at some stuff #knowing that there *is* a degree to which we will have to compromise #and I'm WILDLY concerned about other stuff #would love to hear what other SAG members think

[jamiewintons]

All in a Day’s Work (Felix Fickelgruber/F!Reader)

Summary: Being Mr. Fickelgruber’s personal assistant involves a lot of duties that one might not expect, but you’re willing to go that extra mile.

Tags/Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY!), Oral Sex (M!Receiving), Desk Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Implied Exhibitionism, Unprofessional Behaviour, Boss/Employee, A little bit of degradation, softness towards the end.

A/N: Hope you enjoy 😘 The idea of Fickelgruber asking you whether you prefer the taste of chocolate or something else (😉) was inspired by @reluctantjoe

Word Count: 1922

Fickelgruber Tag List: I don't have one yet!! Send me an ask (off-anon or with the blog you want me to tag noted in the ask) and I'll make sure to tag you anytime I write stuff for him ❤️

~~~

Things like this certainly hadn’t been in your job description, but at this point, you weren’t really complaining. For starters, the pay was amazing, and Mr. Fickelgruber gave you all kinds of perks when you did a good job. He wasn’t the most generous man you’d ever met, but he always appreciated your hard work.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice strained as he tangled his fingers in your hair. You moaned softly at the praise, and the vibrations sent bolts of pleasure through his entire body. That made him moan too, and tug gently on your hair.

Your knees were beginning to ache where you were kneeling, but honestly, you didn’t mind too much. You were far too focused on the task Mr. Fickelgruber had assigned to you to think about the pain, because you were nothing if not efficient.

Your tongue swirled gracefully around his shaft as you took him deeper into your mouth, the movement making Fickelgruber’s hips buck upwards slightly. It almost made you gag, but you were used to it - you’d been his personal assistant for nearly two years, and you’d been fulfilling his… non-professional needs for just under half that time.

And because of that, you could read him and his reactions quite well. You could tell from the sound of his breathing and the way his fingers were rubbing against your scalp that he was getting close. Any moment now he would either cum down your throat or pull out of your mouth - sometimes he’d cum on your face, while at other times he’d want to fuck you properly (and that’s how you knew when you’d done a particularly good job).

Then, like clockwork, he used his grip on your hair to pull you off of him. He hadn’t cum yet, so you knew that meant your work was far from finished. His free hand grabbed for the box of chocolates that he always kept in his desk drawer for these exact occasions. Your mouth was still open, and Fickelgruber placed the little treat on your tongue once he’d removed it from its wrapping.

"There you go, my dear," he said in a tone that was almost affectionate, but it was offset by the nearly painful grip he still had on your hair. The chocolate was absolutely delicious, and you couldn’t help but close your eyes and moan while you savoured the taste. This made him smirk, a quiet, dark chuckle escaping him. "Tell me, which do you enjoy more? The taste of my cock, or chocolate?"

Once you’d swallowed the chocolate, you spoke. "I can’t decide, sir," you said softly, staring up at him with your eyes wide. "I like both too much. I don’t think I could pick one over the other."

"Well, I suppose that’s an adequate answer." Fickelgruber smirked, finally letting go of your hair. Whether it was his cock or his chocolate that you were tasting, it was all him, wasn’t it? He pulled his chair back slightly so that you could stand up, and once you had, he reached out to idly play with the hem of your skirt. "Now, you know what to do, my dear." He held his finger up and twirled it around - a silent order for you to turn around.

You did so, and anticipating what he would ask next, you bent forward over his desk. Your skirt - which was scandalously short by professional standards, though Mr. Fickelgruber had called it your 'special uniform' - rode up so that Fickelgruber could get a glimpse of your panties beneath.

Fickelgruber snickered. "Oh, I am so glad to have an assistant that takes the initiative." His hand trailed up the back of your thigh until he reached your skirt, which he then pushed up. Now that he had a proper view of your undergarments, he let his finger brush over the wet spot that had formed there. "So wet already, dear, and I haven’t even touched you yet," he told you in a teasing voice. "You really must love having my cock in your mouth."

"Yes, sir," you moaned, trying to push your hips back against his finger in an attempt to get some more friction. In response, Fickelgruber laughed softly and gently swatted you on the backside. You whimpered slightly at the sting, and immediately ceased your movements. "Sorry, sir."

His fingers found the waistband of your panties, and he slowly began to pull them down your thighs, savouring the sight of you bent over for him. Fickelgruber loved how obedient you were, how needy you always were for him. But most of all, he loved that you were all his, and that he was the only man who had the pleasure of having you like this.

You heard Fickelgruber stand up from his chair, and then you felt his warm fingers teasing your pussy, moving from your clit down to your entrance and then back again. It took all of your willpower to not squirm. His finger dipped into your wetness for a moment, before he pulled it back out. He leaned over you to whisper into your ear. "I think you’re more than ready. Isn’t that right, my dear?"

"Mmm, yes, sir… please…" You nodded frantically, bracing yourself for him to finally enter you. He stood back up straight behind you, and you felt his cock against your entrance. He didn’t push inside right away, however - instead taking a few moments to tease you. You didn't complain, because you knew that it would be more than worth the wait.

You let out an almost pathetic whimper - which you tried to cover up by clapping your hand over your mouth, but you weren't quick enough - when you felt him sink inside of you. Though you couldn't see, he smirked at the noise, and placed his hands on your hips.

Fickelgruber let out a deep sigh, giving the both of you just a few seconds to adjust before he began to move. He moved slowly but deep and hard, making sure you felt absolutely everything with each thrust he made inside of you. You were sure that your brain had switched off already, resting your cheek against the surface of the desk beneath you. If you weren’t careful, you’d probably end up drooling. It wouldn’t be the first time.

You didn’t even realise how much noise you were making, but your curses and pleas of "sir" and "Mr. Fickelgruber" were echoing throughout the large room. Fickelgruber loved it - the idea that he could turn such an intelligent and hard-working woman into an absolute mess who could think of nothing but him and what he was doing to you. He valued the power he had over you more than anything else, though he’d probably never admit such a thing out loud.

When he pulled out suddenly, you whined in annoyance, but Fickelgruber simply tutted before flipping you over so you were laying on your back. Before you could even open your mouth to say anything - if you were even capable at this point - he’d already grabbed onto your thighs and thrust himself deep inside you once again.

"You’re being so noisy, my dear," Fickelgruber said with a somewhat mocking tone, leaning down over you so that he could whisper in your ear as he sped up the pace of his hips. Then, he brought his mouth to your neck so that he could suck bruises into the sensitive skin, which you’d have a lot of fun trying to cover up so none of your coworkers saw it. Of course, this did nothing to keep you quiet, only making your moans louder, but that was exactly what he wanted. "If you’re not careful, someone might hear you, and come in here to check what’s going on. Is that what you want, hmm? For everyone to see what a little slut you are for me?"

Having locked the door yourself before you went down on him, you knew that there was no chance of someone walking in and seeing what was happening. But the thought of it alone, combined with the way Fickelgruber was whispering in your ear, made your pussy clench around his cock. He laughed, loving how easy it was to affect you, but it quickly turned into a moan.

"Oh, you like that idea, do you? I suppose you’re even more naughty than I thought." Fickelgruber’s words were scolding, but you knew very well how much he loved having you like this. "That’s what you want, is it? For people to see you getting fucked over my desk like a whore? Maybe next time I’ll take you up against the window, and let everyone on the street below see that you belong to me."

That was it. That was what pushed you over the edge. The combination of possessiveness and degradation that made your head spin. You let out a loud sob as your climax hit you, writhing helplessly beneath him as he continued fucking you through it. Fickelgruber shifted so that he could kiss your lips to quiet you down a little - you really were getting loud enough that it might draw attention now, and he liked keeping you as his little secret. For now at least.

Eventually, he couldn’t hold himself back any longer - not with how your warm, wet walls were squeezing him for dear life - and he came as well, buried as deep inside you as possible while his warmth flooded you. He moaned against your lips, and the way your name sounded when he uttered it in such ecstasy made you feel like you could finish again. But thankfully, you didn’t, which was probably a positive since you were already exhausted after one orgasm.

"Good girl," Fickelgruber mumbled breathlessly, pressing kisses against your neck and jawline as both of you slowly recovered from your highs, and there seemed to be a genuine softness in the way he spoke to you that hadn’t been present the first time you’d done this. Now that you thought about it, it almost seemed as if he’d become more and more fond of you each time you had sex, and he’d certainly become more possessive as of late. Almost as if he actually had feelings for you. Maybe. Your stomach fluttered at the possibility.

He gave you one last kiss on the lips as he slowly pulled his softening cock out of you, gazing approvingly at the sight of some of his cum leaking from your pussy. Fickelgruber quickly pulled your panties back up for you, keeping any more of it from dripping out. That was quite the contrast to your first tryst also - he’d been somewhat dismissive then, and this was the first time he’d ever helped you redress, even if it was just helping you put your underwear back on.

"I suppose we had better get back to work, hadn’t we, dear?" Fickelgruber told you with a smile as he fixed his trousers and rebuckled his belt, before sitting down in his chair once again. With shaking legs, you stood up from his desk, intending to walk back to your own workstation, but he grabbed you by the wrist to stop you before you could get too far. Then, he gave you another quick kiss before letting you go.

It’s safe to say that you found it difficult to concentrate on your work after that, but you powered through, as you always did. Fickelgruber was glad that he'd hired you, for oh so many reasons.

#fickelgruber x reader #felix fickelgruber x reader #wonka x reader #wonka 2023 x reader #felix fickelgruber imagine #felix fickelgruber fanfiction #felix fickelgruber smut #wonka 2023 imagine #wonka 2023 fanfiction #wonka 2023 smut #x reader smut #x reader fic #x reader fanfiction #mari's stuff

[genericpuff]

I don't know the term for creators who became popular outside the traditional steps to "make it" in their profession; then when people started taking their work seriously and giving them criticism, these creators saw it as an attack because they are not used to mentors and studies.

Smythe's professional training is vague at best, being a folklorist. Then there's the creator of the popular hell cartoon that became her own executive producer and director in her 20s (I'm not going to say her name since it tends to attract her rabid fans) and becomes reactive to any kind of criticism on Twitter. Then there's that TikToker Devon Rodriguez, who became popular for sketching people on subways, and when an art critic gave a mild review to his art gallery, Devon unleashed his fans on him.

Like am I seeing a pattern here for artists? And I guess, what do you think we can learn from it.

Ah, so this is a very interesting (and broad) topic that we've touched on in discussions in ULO and other webtoon-related communities. So buckle up, it's time for an ✨essay✨

I think the best way I can sum up my thoughts on this issue is: the vast majority of people who become paid content creators don't seek out a job as content creators, a job in content creation is just something that happens to them.

I say "content creation" because this is something that applies to a lot of other platforms and online mediums as well, such as the examples you included (TikTok, Youtube, Twitch, etc.). And don't get me wrong, it's not like every successful content creator out there didn't work their asses off to get to where they are, but for many... it still involves an element of luck. People don't go to school for it, people don't "apply" to become influencers, and much of it relies entirely on just making stuff until it gets seen and propelled into success.

I think a lot of these issues arise with the creators themselves and how they view their own work. The reality is that many of us artists have been treated as the "rejects" of society, we constantly feel like we're misunderstood and have some deep inner pain that we express through our art, and instead of going to therapy, we come up with OC's. It's a lot more fun and it's a lot cheaper LOL Webcomics naturally wind up being the perfect lightning rod for people who feel that way, where we can pour ourselves into the characters, the world, the narrative, in a way that perfectly mixes our talents for art and our need to express our innermost thoughts and feelings about ourselves and the world around us. So when our art gets criticized or rejected ... it can be hard for a lot of artists to not feel like it's a criticism of the self, a rejection of our identities, an attack on our feelings and experiences, because we've tied so much of ourselves to our work. And this can make that transition very difficult for people who are trying to go pro, because being professional demands separating yourself from your work, at least enough that you can view it objectively, recognize its flaws, seek out pathways to improvement, and not take every bump in the road personally.

A lot of successful creators are people who just never made that transition. It's led to an abundance of professional creators who know how to film themselves or react to content or, in the case of webcomic artists, write stories about their OC's, but don't know how to actually navigate the industry at a professional level. They don't know how to read and negotiate contracts, they don't know what deals are actually good for them and which ones are better left on the table, they don't know how to manage teams of people, they don't know how to react to the attention, praise, and criticism of their audience - they're just doing what they've always done, but now they're making money doing it.

None of this is to speak ill in any way of the creators who've found success and are still just doing what they've always done for money. None of this is meant to be a slight on the creators who are using webcomics and art as an expression of their deeper selves (I do it myself, it's very cathartic!) because ultimately that's what makes your work your work, the fact that you made it, with all your good parts and bad. Many of these creators are capable of running their platform without any issues because they've learned how to play the game, or because their platform is made up of people just like them so their audience is more like just a social circle.

But many of them still also can't operate on a professional level and those are the ones we often see getting called out and held accountable when they do shit like, I dunno, scamming their audiences for money or making alt accounts to manipulate user reviews or plagiarizing from other people's work or just being really REALLY shitty to their own audience.

Often times these are people who are just doing what they'd normally do as a hobby, became well known for it, and managed to turn it into a living. But they never actually learned how to turn their hobby into a job, and themselves into professionals.

And artists especially are prone to this because, let's face it, a lot of us are just weebs having fun drawing our blorbos, so of course if we get a chance to monetize that, we're gonna! We should! We should want to be paid for our work and time and efforts!

But we also have to remember that it's a different ballgame, especially if you're turning your audience into customers. "I'm just a baby creator doing this for fun" doesn't and shouldn't apply anymore once you start signing contracts, selling your art as products, taking people's money to fund your projects, etc. because now it's not just your art, it's what you're expecting people to pay for so you can eat and pay your bills and live.

As much as our art is often personal and should be cherished as such, you can't expect people to want to pay for it if you're not setting a bar and meeting it, or if you're not treating your audience with any amount of dignity or respect.

I'm not saying you're not entitled to having feelings or still wanting to treat your art as art, but the line between art and products is there for a reason, it's to set people's expectations and ensure that both sides are having those expectations met. Webtoon creators suffer from the same thing that a lot of Youtube creators and other types of content creators suffer from in this transition, and I feel like HBomberGuy summed it up best:

"In current discourse, Youtubers simultaneously present as the forefront of a new medium, creative voices that need to be taken seriously as part of the 'next generation of media' - and also uwu smol beans little babies who shouldn't be taken seriously when they rip someone off and make tens of thousands of dollars doing it."

It's not gatekeeping a medium, it's not telling people they aren't allowed to have feelings or to want to still have that personal connection to their work in spite of the professional level it's achieved, it's simply just expecting people to actually live up to the label of 'professional' that they're using to make money.

And this especially goes for someone like Rachel, who claims to be a 'folklorist' despite all the contrary evidence that says otherwise. This is the same person who copy pasted the first result on Google as her source on a simple word definition:

There's a second part to that HBomberGuy quote that also actually applies to Rachel really well in this discussion, concerning how she labels herself a "folklorist" and how that's affected and influenced the greater discussion surrounding Greek myth:

"But on the opposite end, Youtubers who act like serious documentarians gain a shroud of professionalism which then masks the deeply unprofessional things they do. We just saw that with James. I think [James] partially got away with what he's doing for so long because he acts so professional about it, so people assume, 'there's no way he could just be stealing shit!' so they don't check. And on top of that, a lot of James' videos contain obvious mistakes and made-up facts... but because they're often presented next to well-researched stuff he stole, no one questions it. I've seen James repeat a lie in his videos, and then other people claim it's true, and link his video as the proof. He has helped to solidify misinformation by seeming like he's doing his diligence."

There's always going to be discourse over what's legitimate and what isn't when it comes to Greek myth, there are loads of things we still don't know simply due to the knowledge being lost to time. But there's something to be said about a white New Zealand woman using her self-insert romance comic and platform to build a veneer of professionalism and legitimacy around herself, as if she's the authority on the subject, while simultaneously relying on first result Google searches and citing works that have no real foothold in the way of scholarly or "folklorist" discussion.

All that's to say, you're right, her professional training is vague at best. She's never completed a longform comic prior to LO, she's not doing her due diligence in actually engaging with the media she's trying to "retell" and exposing herself to the voices of those from the culture that's tied to it, and she's not holding herself to any sort of standards when it comes not only to being a professional, but a professional who's been held on a pedestal for all these years. She's still operating the same way she was 5 years ago - drawing and writing whatever pops into her head and sending it to her editor for uploading, with next to no intervention or guidance. Except now it doesn't have the benefit of being new and having "potential", it's getting noticed and called out more now than ever because it's been 5 years of this shit and it's been getting worse on account of her clearly being burnt out (or just giving up/not caring) and the readers can't be sold on "potential" anymore.

And that's all I have to say on that.

#ask me anything #ama #anon ama #anon ask me anything #lore olympus critical #anti lore olympus #lo critical

[discokicks]

THE KIDS AIN'T FINE, FINE - ROY KENT.

PART THREE of ACES AT THE WATER'S EDGE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

PRESENT DAY. (MID-AUGUST, 2023)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jamie nods. “But it’s on the table?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That Jamie actually scoffs at. “Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roy’s brows shoot up. “You?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LONDON OLYMPICS. (LATE JULY, 2012)

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

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

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

“Fuck off, you old twat!”)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You tripped me!”

“Bit dramatic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re fine. Get up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks over at you. “Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roy shrugs. “Sure. But—”

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

“I’m not the one being trained here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And as soon as he does, you’re on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You easily score on him not a second later.

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

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

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

PRESENT DAY. (MID AUGUST, 2023)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod back. “Yeah. Another time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roy’s brows rocket up. “Do you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not true—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(And it’s fucking irritating.)

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

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

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

You blink at it. “What is that?”

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

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

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

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

Roy nods once. “Crimm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...Fuck off?”

“Yeah,” you huff. “That.”

Roy’s head tilts. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug. “What’s the difference?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roy’s brow draws slightly. “Zava?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Parent Trap ‘em?” he asked.

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

“It wouldn’t be fair. We’d sweep.”

LONDON OLYMPICS. (LATE JULY, 2012)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You crack an eye open. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not a gnat,” you gasp. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Court Jester?”

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

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

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

“My hair?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roy looks over at you cautiously. “Yeah?”

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

“A codeword?” he asks wearily.

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

“What the fuck is a Kent Rule?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I think that’s a great one.”

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

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

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

“Great.”

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

“Only fucking one?” he asks.

“Why are you saying it like that?”

“Because you ask a lot of fucking questions.”

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

“Can I Foxtrot this conversation?” Roy questions.

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

#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

[carrrrino]

Wow! I cannot believe you're working on all this mostly alone? Lord, I've been trying to bring attention to this as much as I can recently, but after reading your last post, I'mma try to double up the efforts on trying to get you some support. When I originally saw the animation, I seriously thought a whole production company was working on a UTMV project with the quality of the animation. Seriously, your animation has inspired me a lot, and seeing SD in an animation made me so happy. He's a personal favorite of mine, and truly makes me giddy to see that he's gonna be involved in this! I do feel like once this is put out, you'll gain a loyal and supportive audience. I'm here for the ride, and been keeping up with updates for a good while now, I believe in you! You're pulling off a MASSIVE feat, and the fact that you haven't given up is utterly insane. You should start calling yourself Frisk with the sheer determination you're showing. I'm excited to see future progress, (p.s Error looks so flipping amazing that my jaw dropped.) and honestly more stuff on No-Name. His concept so far is awesome dude. Very unique, intriguing and interesting. Take your time, and don't burn yourself out! Make sure to take care of yourself, and have fun with this. Much love <3 And Good luck!!

Thank you for the kind words, and double thank you for the support! I'm really glad my animations inspire you (and look a bit professional), I never thought I'd have that kind of influence. I'll make sure to take my time as well; this is a pretty big project now. Sometimes I can't help myself though, I'm so excited — and I'm glad you guys are too :)!

I'm answering other asks as well, sorry it's taking so long ^^'!

#undertale au #undertale multiverse #no name sans #no-name #take this smol piece o' art #his colors havent changed #just the lighting lol

[tgmsunmontue]

More than movie magic... 3/?

Hangster AU. Explicit (eventually). Jake is a Hollywood actor and Bradley is a stunt coordinator. Jake's about to make a few self-discoveries.

ONE TWO

THREE

                “Have you seen this?”

“What?” Bradley asks, looking up from where he’s doing his stretches; they’re meat to be practicing parkour today. Natasha gives him an eye roll and he takes the proffered phone from her outreached hand, gives her a look when he sees Jake Seresin's face paused on the screen.

                “Do I want to watch this?” Bradley asks her, because he knows his little crush didn’t go unnoticed,

                “Yeah you do. It’s only about thirty seconds. You've got a fan...”

                “What?”

                “Just watch it.”

                He presses play and it’s a promo interview for the film which is due to come out in about six weeks. It’s been over a year since he worked on it, worked with Jake, and he may have followed Jake on a couple of social media platforms just to stay up-to-date on his whereabouts. Not that he trusts them, too used to false trails sometimes being laid by Mav. But there are still the pretty pictures, and Jake Seresin is definitely a pretty picture. He turns up the sound and ignores Natasha’s snort of amusement.

                “So, Jake, there was a lot of stunt work in this movie. Did you have to prepare for it in any particular way?”

“I had to prepare for the physical presentation aspect of the role and look good with my shirt off, but in terms of stunts, well. No. I did as much as I was allowed, but Bradshaw and his team are very good and very dedicated about ensuring no-one gets hurt on set. I wasn't deemed experienced enough for a lot of the particular stunt work involved.”

“That’s a shame. Maybe you need to do a movie where you can tap into your experience doing rodeo.”

                “Yeah, maybe. Can you imagine the insurance required though?”

The studio audience laugh and Bradley decides he needs to find out what kind of rodeo Jake did exactly, because there isn’t any mention of him doing any of that type of stuff now, which makes sense given how busy he is as an actor. He misses the next question the interviewer asks, but his attention is on Jake anyway;

                “Bradley, uh, Bradshaw, is very good at what he does. He kept everyone performing the stunts incredibly safe.”

                “Look at him getting all flustered about using your first name,” Natasha says, poking him in the shoulder and Bradley thinks she might have a point.

                Hmm.

                Interesting.

                Later that night he finds the interview again and rewatches it. He’s well aware of the image that is crafted for actors in Hollywood, the careful dissemination of information and pictures released in order to create a narrative. He grew up watching it all and already knew he didn’t want to be a part of it, at least not front and center like actors are. Of course he’s still working in the industry and has helped formulate parts of those narratives. Jake was not born to parents who worked in Hollywood.

                There was a time before, a time when Jake was maybe captured on film before his image was carefully maintained and presented to the world and he wants to see it, needs to see it. Of course it feels a little skeevy to be searching for old videos but he can’t find it in himself to care. He could say he’s seeking a professional point of view on exactly what Jake’s past experience is but no, he’s simply curious as to what the interviewer was referring to.

                There are lots of videos. Whole channels dedicated to Jake Seresin’s days as an up-and-coming rodeo star before he was scouted to audition for his first role at the age of seventeen. There are compilations. Some are set to music and the comments make him remind himself to not read any more comments, even if he does agree with them.

                Fucking hell.

FOUR

#Hangster #Sereshaw #more than movie magic #Top Gun Maverick

[charliethomascoxuniverse]

Charlie Cox: ‘I love being a superhero — I thought that ship had sailed’

Charlie Cox on the return of Daredevil, the joys of sea swimming in Dalkey and his rewarding character-driven work in RTÉ’s Kin

Kirsty Blake Knox   April 27, 2023 (X)

Charlie Cox is a busy man; he smiles widely from the back of a car as it ferries him from a physical therapy session to the set of Disney’s Daredevil.

“We’ve just kind of started, it’s really great. Pretty intense, hence the physical therapy,” he says.

Cox has returned to play Matt Murdock, the blind lawyer-slash-superhero.

The show started life on Netflix and ran for three seasons before it was cancelled in 2018.This resulted in an online #SaveDaredevil campaign which resulted in 400,000 signatures begging Marvel to bring him back.

It took a little time; a contractual clause prevented any characters from the Marvel-Netflix shows from appearing in any non-Netflix projects for two years after cancellation.

And now Cox is suiting up again in his Spandex costume, running around punching people in the face and fighting for justice. It’s a demanding shoot — the series is 18 episodes long. And he is a fan of doing as many of his stunts as possible.

“I kind of get involved as much as I’m allowed to and is appropriate. Obviously, the stunt team are professionals and there are things they can do that I can’t even get close to,” he says. “I feel like the name of the game is to get as involved as you can… it makes the scenes more realistic.”

Cox took on the role, which had once been played by Ben Affleck in 2015. At the time, landing the role came as a shock.

“I never thought of myself as being appropriate casting for an American superhero. That never really occurred to me,” he says. “And in my 20s, a lot of my friends, and a lot of British actors, had gone and done that already. So when I got to 30 I was pretty confident that ship had sailed. I was very fortunate to get a character that I’ve now been playing for almost 10 years. It’s unbelievable.”

Cox is a father to two young children (seven and three) but they are a little young to fully grasp the role their dad plays in the Marvel Universe.

“I’m not sure they quite understand… One of the books we read him (his three-year-old) is called Superbat. A bat who is a superhero. But that’s his only real understanding. And so he thinks that I’m Superbat,” he laughs.

Cox realised he wanted to be an actor while in school and studied at Bristol Old Vic drama school. His first big break came in 2007 when he starred in Stardust alongside Robert De Niro and Michele Pfeiffer.

He has performed on the West End and Donmar Warehouse, in dramas like Treason and took on the role of Owen Sleater in Martin Scorsese’s Boardwalk Empire. For Irish viewers, we can see Cox on our screens every Sunday night, as Michael Kinsella in gangland drama Kin.

It’s pretty unusual for Marvel Universe actors to appear in a homegrown Irish drama. But Cox’s wife is executive producing the series. When another project he was attached to fell through, he read the scripts and felt compelled to be part of it.

“I’ve been working probably 20-plus years, and there’s a handful of times where I’ve read a script and felt like I’m reading something written by a truly brilliant writer,” he says. “And that quality of scripts never ceased. Sometimes you can get a really good pilot episode. But then as you get deeper into the season, some of the writing starts to disintegrate a little bit, but with Peter (McKenna) that was never the case.”

Obviously, the scale of production is a lot smaller on Kin than other productions, but he says these productions can be just as, if not more, rewarding to work on.

“If you have a limited budget, the way you handle that is you write long character-driven scenes… So weirdly, the lower budget stuff often is more appealing. Because you get to really get deep into the character and the relationships and the dynamics… it’s sort of like theatre. So, from my point of view, sometimes that stuff is more appealing.”

He continues; “I’ve learned I’m not precious about my character’s involvement. I don’t care much if my character does cool stuff … what I care about is, ‘are they moving?’”

He says this is some of the appeal of playing Michael.

“This life that he’d come from…and now he’s trying to rekindle a relationship with his daughter. [The] vulnerability, and the desire, and the need to fundamentally change his nature. That was really exciting to me.”

Cox perfected his Irish accent by listening to the voice of former Dublin goalkeeper, Shane Supple. He got up to speed with Ireland’s gangland scene by listening to podcasts featuring award winning crime journalist Nicola Tallant.

“I was kind of blissfully ignorant of the whole thing,” he says. “When I actually read the first two scripts, I just thought it was all fiction and then I agreed to do the part and I started doing my research. I was like, ‘oh, shit, this stuff is happening. It’s current and it’s happening right now.’”

Despite the violent nature of the series, he found filming and living in Ireland to be idyllic.

He and his family were based in the seaside village of Dalkey — where Matt Damon was holed up during lockdown. Cox became a sea swimming fanatic while residing there.

“I absolutely loved being there… I had conversations with my wife about moving to Dublin because I loved it so much. It’s not really viable with my job… Season one, we’re in lockdown. We lived in Hanover Quay, which was delightful…

“Season two, we moved to Dalkey. I felt like it was one of the best kept secrets in Europe… I was swimming in Vico every day… I found it to be like a haven. And I would love an opportunity to go back at any stage.”

Cox is extremely polite and amenable. And modest — despite his success, Cox says he still suffers professional insecurities.

“I never think I’m going to be hired,” he laughs. “I read years ago that Christopher Walken always thinks his job he’s doing is going to be the last time he is hired. I don’t quite have that, but I certainly identify with it. I’ve never felt like ‘Oh, I’m always going to be hired.’”

He says this comes with some advantages, as it makes him more present.

“I’m filming in New York and I’m lucky enough that I’m still able to play a kind of a lead in a TV show,” he says. “You know, the time is ticking on that in a big way. And so I certainly don’t want to wish that away.

“It would be easy to kind of bemoan the amount of hours you have to work, and missing the family, but there’ll come a time where I would kill to be able to be the lead in the TV show. I think the trick is to really enjoy it while it lasts.”

As he makes his way out of his car and towards his makeup chair, I ask if he has any projects outside of Daredevil coming down the tracks.

“I’m going to be doing this until the end of the year. And then I’ll be back on the panic station wondering if I am ever going to work again,” he laughs.

~*~

#finally a new interview at last!!! 😁💗✨ #I just spent the last hour running this through at least half a dozen applications to get around the damn paywall #I was starting to worry nothing was going to work 😬 but it finally came through \^.^/ #charlie cox #michael kinsella #matt murdock #kin amc #daredevil #daredevil born again #interview #article

[souryogurt64]

I enjoyed your essays and i feel that they were things you should be proud of having made

Ok yes I am proud of the essays. 

However, at this point, I have said basically everything I wanted to say in them and I don’t really know if I want to write any more of them. 

I also intended to become a music journalist someday when I started the zine. I don’t really want to become a music journalist anymore because it seems like it actually sucks. 

I also know I will never be able to achieve that, because I was recruited to market AI before ChatGPT was a thing and the overall public developed a very deep hatred for AI and anyone associated with it. 

While this comes with its own challenges, I thrive in tech startup environments and the career I have achieved is incredible and more than I could have ever hoped for considering my age and educational background.

However, the main issue is that very frequently, I get plagiarized, or people take an incredibly inappropriate amount of credit for things I have worked hard to achieve, in order to very successfully further their own endeavors. 

I have not been really good at turning the essays into some kind of huge success for myself, and that’s what I want. I deliberately do a lot of things to keep the essays contained to a certain degree. I have known multiple people personally who achieved a high level of indie success, and I have seen the horrible stuff they went through because of it, and I do not want that kind of circus in my life, especially considering the fact that I am happy with where I am professionally. 

However, it is still incredibly hurtful and upsetting to be taken advantage of like this over and over when so much time and love goes into these essays. 

For example, someone on Tumblr who does not like me plagiarized my first Panic essay, inserted a bunch of mean digs at me being crazy in it, posted it on Reddit, and got more upvotes than I got views. 

A famous YouTuber with over 500K subscribers based a video around my essays, inserted a dig at me into the video, and then got 155K views on this video. A real journalist that was interviewed for the emo history book commented on this video saying how amazing and well-researched it was. 

A girl who ran a podcast interviewed my favorite writer, very obviously implied to him during the interview she found all his old articles and all this lore about him on her own and had been a fan of his since the 2000s, and then advertised this podcast in my ask box. The guy who wrote the aforementioned book also interviewed him and like I can’t prove these people read my essays but the timing is certainly, well, suspicious. I know I do not own or invent this information but given how obscure it is and the fact she was probably advertising herself in my asks it is pretty obvious what happened here. These essays aren’t just one google search that anybody could have found, putting all of that together and finding all of those sources was a ton of work. 

Finally, I don’t want to give a lot of details about this out of respect, but someone I used to be friends with heavily used the zine to get a job in music and meet a member of MCR. I personally felt like during our involvement, which ended about a year before this happened and because of the following, she intentionally misrepresented the percentage of labor she was actually doing, pushed a lot of “dirty work” like transcription onto me in order to obtain all the benefits of networking with publicists and musicians without doing the work, and sabotaged the most important interview I ever did with this specific goal in mind. 

Everybody seems to think this kind of thing is completely OK and it’s OK to treat me this way because like just a crazy juvenile fangirl that needs mental help so I don’t matter and I didn’t do any real work, whereas they’re LEGITIMATE and SERIOUS and COOL so it’s okay to steal my ideas and my research to further their own shit. I am getting really sick of it and it hurts my feelings. 

I also had a lot of bad and stressful things happen to me recently (grandma dying unexpectedly, dumb injury, best friend at my job getting laid off, little brother needing emergency surgery essentially on my birthday, cat shelter being closed) and privating the essays is something pointless I can control to make myself feel better. 

[thelaurenshippen]

this is a genuine question not at all meant as a rude gotcha, but I feel like I've seen lots of people cite the relatively low barrier of entry as a huge advantage of podcasts as a medium, "if you have access to decent audio tech you can make a podcast" etc etc. So where does the need to sell a script come in? Is it a financial thing, and IP thing, something else?

this doesn't read like a rude gotcha at all, it's a really good question! there is a much lower barrier to entry when it comes to podcasts compared to tv, film, theater, etc. (though not as low as writing a book if we're talking about hard resources - you can technically write a book with just a laptop and a dream and then self publish! though as a writer who has written a lot of scripts and four books (3 published) writing a book is a much bigger psychological burden imo lol).

the need to sell a script, for me, is entirely a financial thing. if I had the money to produce podcasts at the level I want to entirely independently, I would! I know how to do it! but, unfortunately, I really only have the funds to produce something like @breakerwhiskey - a single narrator daily podcast that I make entirely on my own.

and that show is actually a great example of just how low the barrier is: I actually record the whole thing on a CB radio I got off of ebay for 30 bucks, my editing software is $50/month (I do a lot of editing, so this is an expense that isn't just for that show) and there are no hosting costs for it. the only thing it truly costs me is time and effort.

not every show I want to make is single narrator. a lot of the shows I've made involve large casts, full sound design, other writers, studio recording, scoring, and sometimes full cast albums (my first show, The Bright Sessions had all of those). I've worked on shows that have had budgets of 100 dollars and worked on shows that cost nearly half a million dollars. if anyone is curious about the nitty gritty of budgets, I made a huge amount of public, free resources about making audio drama earlier this year that has example budgets in these ranges!

back in the beginning of my career, I asked actors to work for free or sound designers to work for a tiny fee, because I was doing it all for free and we were all starting out. I don't like doing that anymore. so even if I'm making a show with only a few actors and a single sound designer...well, if you want an experienced sound designer and to pay everyone fairly (which I do!), it's going to cost you at least a few thousand dollars. when you're already writing something for free, it can be hard to justify spending that kind of money. I've sound designed in the past - and will be doing so again in the near future for another indie show of mine - but I'm not very good at it. that's usually the biggest expense that I want to have covered by an outside budget.

but if I'm being really honest, I want to be paid to write! while I do a lot of things - direct, produce, act, consult, etc. - writing is my main love and I want it to be the majority of my income. I'm really fortunate to be a full-time creative and I still do a lot of work independently for no money, but when I have a show that would be too expensive to produce on my own, ideally I want someone else footing the bill and paying me to write the scripts.

I love that audio fiction has the low barrier to entry it does, because I think hobbyists are incredible - it is a beautiful and generous thing to provide your labor freely to something creative and then share it with the world - but the barrier to being a professional audio drama writer is certainly higher. I'm very lucky to already be there, but, as every creative will tell you, even after you've had several successes and established yourself in the field, it can still be hard to make a living!

anyway, I hope this answers your question! I love talking about this stuff, so if anyone else is curious about this kind of thing, please ask away.

#answered #writing #audio fiction #producing #also I say I don't like doing it anymore #but that's exactly what briggon andrew and I are working on #it's gonna be a show where we just split profits equally bc I can't afford to pay them lol #and I'll be sound designing it myself #so apologies in advance #also my GOD lauren can you be succinct once in your GODDAMN LIFE #why are all my posts so long i'm so sorry #also I don't get into it in this post #but using my book example as a jumping off point #obviously it is MUCH more complicated than that #bc self publishing/promoting/etc. #and writing the book in the first place! #is an ENORMOUS effort #as is making an audio drama! #also the grand irony in this #is that the show i was referencing in my original post is a show i first came up with to do independently lol #a two person show for briggon and andrew in fact #and then I happened to mention it to some producers I know and they liked it #so that's a show I COULD make for no money! #but they want to pitch it out and there's no harm in asking around #and in the meantime i just came up with another show for briggon and andrew haha

[kinodraws]

hello! I was wondering if you had any tattoo machine recs for a total beginner?

LOL i literally made a thread about this on twitter the other day!

Here's a bunch of stuff for someone who's learning to tattoo.

DISCLAIMER

DO NOT TATTOO OTHER PEOPLE FOR MONEY IF YOU ARE NOT WORKING IN A SHOP

DO NOT TATTOO OTHER PEOPLE OUT OF YOUR HOME OR ANY PLACE THAT IS NOT A SHOP

TATTOO FRUIT, PIG SKIN OR SILICONE FAKE SKIN

TATTOO YOURSELF IF YOURE BRAVE AND CAN ACCEPT THE RISKS INVOLVED

That being said:

MACHINE PICKS: - high end: bishop power wand packer ($1200 for full set, $649 on sale at kingpintattoosupply.com rn for the machine itself which would require purchasing a separate battery) - midrange: FK Irons spektra xion ($574 on painful pleasures, requires power supply or battery) - beginner: MAST archer ($179 on Amazon) Be aware that with this machine, the battery is rechargable but NOT replaceable, so if the battery dies, the machine dies. IMO not a big deal at $179 tho. You can also get coil machines from just about anywhere but they're less foolproof and you need to know how to tune and maintain them, and they aren't cordless so there's much more risk of dragging the clip cord through contaminated material which is gross and dangerous

POWER SUPPLIES: - Critical is kind of my go-to for everything. If you buy an RCA compatible machine, you would need a critical RCA Battery which comes in two configurations, the regular one gives you about 10 hours of running tattoo time and the shorty gives you 5.

BLACK/WHITE INK PICKS: - Allegory BLAK - Dynamic black - Empire white COLOR INK PICKS: - Electrum (flows nicely, doesn't crust over if left exposed to air in the ink cap for a long time) - SOLID Ink - (flows nicely, highly pigmented, haven't used this much) - Eternal ink (good all rounder but most of their opaque highly pigmented colors tend to go thick over time and do not flow easily)

CARTRIDGE PICKS: - High end/best for very experienced artists - Black Claw - Midrange: Kwadron, Electrum - Budget: MAST

Other things you need to tattoo safely: - Tattooing/medical tray - Cling wrap - pen covers/clip cord covers - masking tape - ink caps - stencil printer - stencil paper - shaving razors - green soap - wash bottles - madacide/cavicide/opticide (NOT OPTIONAL) - Paper towels - vaseline - single use individually wrapped tongue depressors - Fake skin (get it at pound of flesh or amazon) - Scissors - Stencil transfer solution (I prefer Dynamic's stencil magic) - Wash bottle bags - Rubbing alcohol - Dental bibs - Laser/Inkjet printer - GLOVES

ALSO GET YOUR DANG BLOODBORNE PATHOGENS CERTIFICATE! IT's $30 on the red cross website and cheaper on other sites!

you also need like at least some cursory drawing skill and the knowledge of how deep to go in skin to prevent blowouts and faint lines! There are lots of folks on youtube who can give you the rudimentary knowledge you need to get started, but the best way to get into tattooing professionally (if that's what your after) is to build up a portfolio of flash pieces that you feel best express your style, and to start getting tattooed at local shops by artists you like & respect.

Anyway! Hope this helps!

#tattooing #tattoos

[accio-victuuri]

💟 yh family concert vlog cpns & some yibo thoughts…💭💬

thank you to yibo-official for feeding us with some content this weekend. it’s been kinda quiet since friday, so this is a sweet treat for everyone before monday comes in.

( excuse this very extra gif i’m using for this post. lol. i’ve just been obsessed w/ how yibo looks in this. the way he turned his head is so cute. soooo… ☺️ )

YBO is back. or the question is, did they ever leave? lol. ever since that news/rumor came out, together with the lrlg post, I was still 50/50. Because it’s hard to confirm things, especially ones that involve his career and what’s allegedly going on. However with the content that’s being released, from OnO to now, it has the same feel as the original YBO. who knows. I’m just happy, like everyone else, to see this kind of updates from his team.

Yibo is not really one to share much personal stuff anymore on his social media accounts so YBO is so important. Plus the fact that they regularly update their IG too ( remember to interact on their please! ) for us international fans gives them plus points in my book.

It’s also a relief to see the negative comments wind down to being non existent. I truly understand why some fans feel the need to complain, but ybo is not really that place. I personally don’t like the idea of acting like an anti in a space that represents yibo. that could just be me tho.

Anyway, I hope we get more! I wanna see the bts footage they have with BTF & One and Only! I feel like they spoiled us with HB’s 1 hour + BTS footage so we’re all expecting to get the same for BTF & OnO. BTF has some restrictions i guess with what they can share since some filming were done in military sites.

Now I wanna highlight this portion of the vlog, with WYB being in a good mood during the last part of the concert.

This was the part where some people were saying that he looked ‘unhappy’, implying that’s because he didn’t wanna be there / cause there are mostly bxgs who attended. however, this clip, and a lot of the moments on the blog told a different story.

He was obviously not dragged in there — crying and screaming to perform. He was invested with his performance. He looked happy to be with his professional “family”. It’s an example of some fans having their own biased interpretation with this event. I respect those who decided to not attend, it’s their choice and money. But it was really irritating to see them nag and bitch about those who decided to support yibo. Plus it’s their own money. They can spend it however they want.

Funny thing is, those big name accounts who were so vocal about being against Yuehua Ent. & attending — did in fact, attend the concert 😂😂😂 so yeah. It’s an age old story. Don’t believe big name accounts, especially on weibo. These KOLs that “lead” fan opinion can be very shady. At the end of the day, we’re all here to support WYB and his projects in the best way we can. 🙏🏼

=====================================

🍫🍦 TIME FOR SOME SUGAR/CPNS !!!! 🍭🧁

=====================================

The fact that the video is 8:05 minutes long which is an example of how kadian/numbers are important. Well, not all the time, but the team takes that into consideration. So if you see them pulling a 10:05, that would be very sus 👀

As usual, some editing similarities….

Again, editing similarities, even if there are so many could still be a coincidence but it’s fun to still pay attention.

Also the details in YIBITO. He has the apple watch! I will never get over the fact that this “detail” is being highlighted like this when it is a popular cpn among turtles and we always look for it.

Some also noticed this “….” Which we don’t know the relevance of, but it could be a clue that LRLG is from Bobo’s team. This is unusual for me, cause ellipsis are usually “…” right?

I’m taking it as a galaxy brain cpn 🌌

ZZ also allegedly got off work today at 19:22, and then ybo posts @ 19:36. Yes, WYB has his own team but since we CPN that their staff could overlap — this timing is interesting. Maybe it needed a final sign off from the other boss? 😂😂😂😂

SHOUT OUT TO BOTTLED JOY, cause WYB was seen using some during the bts. He also took one with him in the Thailand roadshow. So i guess it’s safe to say that he has a good relationship with the brand, despite what others feel about them. He wouldn’t be showing off if he wasn’t. I’m looking forward to his renewal with them and what new stuff & campaign will be in place. BXGs will surely be lining up to support.

-END

#yizhan #bjyx #there is no science here i’m just clowning like i always do

[aerodaltonimperial]

I believe that everyone should evaluate relationships when those relationships are not working for them any longer, and that means it's one of those times that I have to do the same for myself in fandom, so.

As a caveat, I have a really fraught relationship with writing. If you've followed me for awhile you've probably started to put the pieces together, but yes, I do try to do it professionally, and no, it's not going well. Like, at all. Like, I'm actually really bad at it. Fantastically, laughably bad at it. And I've been trying to be successful for well over a decade, and at this point, fic is the only positive association I've got with writing at all. So my involvement in fandom is already colored by my failures outside of fandom, and it sucks that all of that ends up bleeding into this. But those failures are, unfortunately, huge, and equally unfortunately, massive issues inside my self-confidence.

But I genuinely love being part of fandom. I've been in fandoms since I was 14 years old, for about 25 years of my life. I love being a part of the fandom environment, and I love the interaction, and I love the enthusiasm and flailing and just adoring whatever the source material is. Fandom is, honestly, one of the biggest things in my life, and it has been since I was a teenager, and I don't see that changing any time soon. And typically, I give 150% in fandom! I LOVE being part of it and creating things, and that's just something I've always loved doing, always used my time on. I know that I cultivate kind of a reputation of being CAPSLOCKY and flaily and just very excited about stuff and that's awesome, I love that I get to be so unfiltered and myself in fandom spaces because I feel like I always have to temper myself down in the "real world!"

But. I just don't think I can be the same in fandom any longer, not like this. I've been burned by people I thought were friends, and it's starting to feel like a very unequal distribution of enthusiasm, and I've got a full-time job and a young kid and I already have very little time for myself. It starts to feel really shitty when I'm giving so much of that time and it's just no longer coming back. And this is fine! Fandom ebbs and flows and that's just life; that's the nature of following something that involves real people, you know? Haha, things change and the source material shifts, and that's how it works. But I also know myself and my relationship with writing and self-confidence, and I know enough to know I can't keep doing this. When I start crying about fandom, it's time to step back. When fandom feels like throwing my time and love and energy into a black hole, it's time to step back. It's not good for my mental health any longer. I get too much silence and failure in real life, the last thing I need is to heap more on myself.

Again, this isn't anyone's fault! It's the nature of the beast. I brought a lot of this on myself by stepping away from half of the pairing that I really spearheaded in this fandom, and I'll own that. I don't regret that, even though that was when a lot of people also stepped away from me. And it's like, that's cool. I'm not making what you want any longer, and that content was what I was good for. But it's time for me to start conserving my energy as best I can, because I am still trying to (stupidly, fruitlessly) be successful in real life aspects of this dumb word-making hobby. So if you no longer see me showing up with silly capslock and excitement on your stuff, I'm sorry. I know that people liked it, and I was happy to give it out when I could. I'm happy with how I contributed to fandom during the boom, and I'm happy with who I was in the fandom. I'm still here, still watching, still obsessed, but I'm really stepping away from the creation/interaction side.

And maybe I'll feel better and start writing again and maybe I won't, and that's okay, too. I just didn't want people to think that I hated them or what they were creating because I'm not sliding into comments the way I used to. 💚 Anyway. Been quite a ride. I guess at the end of the day, I hope that I wrote something that you really liked, and that I was able to make you feel really warm and happy inside if you also wrote fic or made art. That's the impression I'd like to leave on people. 💚

#you don't need to read this #but i think it's been a long time coming

[venus-haze]

Chain of Fools (Yandere!Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: Growing up with your mother, you only knew your father from the occasional visits and holidays every year. He was always busy as part of Elvis Presley’s “Memphis Mafia” but during the summer before your final year of college, he invites you to spend the summer in Las Vegas. You were looking forward to the opportunity to reconnect with your dad, but find him busy as ever. You spend more time with Elvis, the Colonel encouraging you to help him reach audiences your age. Initially reluctant, Elvis starts to see you as the answer to all of his problems, personally and professionally.

Note: This is based on an anonymous request and takes place during the Vegas era, some timeline stuff might be off for plot purposes, the usual. I did change the request a bit so the reader didn’t really grow up knowing Elvis. The reader is gender neutral in this. Please look at the warnings before deciding if you want to read this fic. Do not interact with my blog or my content if you’re under 18 or post ED/thinspo content.

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: This is a yandere fic, so expect dark themes such as emotional blackmail, financial abuse/exploitation, and obsessive and manipulative behavior, which some people may find disturbing or triggering. Some sexual content that involves coercion, but nothing overtly explicit. Do not interact if you are under 18.

You’d gotten to Las Vegas at the end of May, just before Memorial Day, hoping to enjoy the summer away from home in between semesters and reconnect with your dad. Instead, you hardly saw him apart from the first week you arrived, where he brought you all over Vegas. Majoring in music education, you were even planning a short trip to Los Angeles to explore the city where so much of your favorite music came from. You had hoped you and your dad would take the trip together, but it was looking more and more like it would be a solo trip as he seemed too busy with work. Regardless, you were excited. Music had always been your passion, and you wanted nothing more than to share that with and encourage the next generation of young minds.

Counting yourself extremely lucky to spend the summer in the vicinity of such an influential musician like Elvis, you were taken aback when the Colonel asked you to speak with Elvis about music, help him connect with younger audiences. You obliged, but weren’t sure what you could even talk about. You weren’t music of a musician yourself, you just loved music, all genres, with every fiber of your being. You supposed that way one thing you inherited from your father, a music fanatic and one of Elvis’ so-called “Memphis Mafia.” 

The first time you tried to talk to Elvis about music as the Colonel requested, he was kind but disinterested in what you had to say. Not that you could necessarily blame him, he hardly knew you outside of what your dad had told him, and he had his show to focus on. It was looking to be a lonely summer, and you considered moving your Los Angeles trip up a few weeks and then just heading back home. 

You couldn’t feel completely comfortable in the hotel. Sure, the room you stayed in was nice and your dad told you not to worry about running up room service and other amenity charges, but he preoccupied with work, even though he promised you two would finally get to spend time together. Not really knowing anyone else there, you made use of the hotel’s pool and went out window shopping, but it wasn’t what you wanted to do for the whole summer. 

One afternoon, you finally allowed yourself to use the stereo system in the room that probably cost more than your tuition, which was a lot, even with your parents helping how they could. Earlier in the week, while scouring the record stores in Vegas, you bought Aretha Franklin’s newest release ‘Young, Gifted and Black’. You’d only heard a few of the singles on the radio but didn’t have the chance to listen to the full album yet. 

Sitting on the floor in front of the stereo, which you’d turned up so loud you’d probably end up with some kind of hearing damage, you couldn’t help but smile as soon as the first song played. Aretha’s vocals always blew you away, and the accompanying instrumentals were perfect. 

When the first side of the record finished playing, you finally noticed someone knocking at your door. Am I seriously getting a noise complaint? You opened the door, feeling a pit in your stomach when you saw Elvis standing in front of you.

“I’m sorry, is it too loud?” you asked.

He shook his head. “I was just tryin’ to ask if you minded some company.”

“Sure,” you said, surprised, yet welcoming him inside your hotel room.

“You’ve got good taste,” he said, looking at the dozen or so albums you had laid out on your bed.

“Thanks. I went kind of crazy in the record stores earlier this week, but I love music, so being in them is like heaven for me.”

“That’s what you’re goin’ to school for, right?”

“Music education,” you said. 

“You know, when I was in school, my music teacher said I had no future as a musician.”

He intended the anecdote to be a funny joke to try to break the ice with you, but your face fell, hurt and concern evident in your expression.

“I’m so sorry,” you said, your voice strong and sincere. “Teachers should encourage kids, especially when feeling comfortable enough to express themselves through music. That takes a lot of vulnerability, and to discourage that is just messed up. Music saves people.”

“Well, at least I proved her wrong.”

“But if you hadn’t–how many kids were told the same thing and gave up? How much music we’ve missed out on because of teachers like that? I couldn’t live with myself if that were me,” you said.

“You really care about this, huh?”

“Music is everything to me.”

“So why aren’t you goin’ into the business, then?”

“What’s the saying, ‘Those who can’t do, teach’,” you shrugged, giving him an embarrassed smile. “I just want people to love music the way I do.”

“Who’s your favorite musician?” he asked. “And don’t say me just because I’m here.”

You laughed. “I don’t know if I can choose just one. I mean, I listen to every genre out there, even global music.”

For the next few hours, you and Elvis listened to your records and talked about music, sitting on the bed until he pulled you up to dance with him. He was a lot more receptive than when you first spoke to him, and he seemed to take your opinions to heart. You hadn’t noticed how much time had passed until he said that he had to leave to get ready for the show. He was surprised when you told him that you hadn’t attended his show yet, despite being there for nearly two weeks.

“I know how hard it is to get tickets. I didn’t want to take a seat from someone else,” you said.

He shook his head. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll work it out so you can come tomorrow night, best seat in the house.”

“Okay,” you smiled, “thanks Elvis.”

“‘Course, Y/N. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

For all the years your dad worked for Elvis, you’d never actually heard the man sing in person. Of course, most of the time you spent with your dad was when he’d take time off work, but that was less and less frequent as you grew older. In fact, you’d only met Elvis once before this summer, when you were fourteen and your dad begrudgingly let you onto one of the movie sets to get Elvis’ autograph on your copy of the ‘Blue Hawaii’ soundtrack. It was a short meeting, with your dad apologizing to Elvis and ushering you away as quickly as possible to bring you to Disneyland for the rest of the day. You doubted either of them even remembered that. 

You ordered room service and decided to rent a movie from the pay-per-view options that the hotel had. You’d fallen asleep with the TV on, but awoke to the phone in your room ringing. Reaching over to the nightstand, you groggily answered.

“Hi sweetie, how’s Vegas?” your mom asked.

“Hi mom,” you said, sitting up in bed. “It’s been really good, actually. How are things back home?”

“Everything’s fine, same as usual. You know, I got a call from your college this morning saying your tuition and fees were paid out through the rest of the year. Did you get a scholarship or something?”

“No, not that I know of. Did they say who paid for it?”

“I didn’t ask. It completely slipped my mind.”

“It’s okay; I can call back and see if they know.”

“Alright, well, have fun on the rest of your vacation, Y/N.”

“Thanks, mom,” you said. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You hung up, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. The university usually didn’t bill you for the semester until a week or so before classes started. You went ahead and called up room service for breakfast before dialing the college. When you got through to the financial aid office, they got your file and informed you that the balance of your tuition, fees, and room and board had been paid in full earlier that morning by Presley Family Enterprises. Taken aback by the news, you thanked the person on the other end of the line. Why would they go ahead and pay for your school?

Startled from your thoughts by a knocking at the door, you got up, opening the door to let the hotel worker bring the food you’d ordered into your room. When you went to grab a piece of toast from the tray, you noticed a thick envelope with your name written across it next to your food. 

Taking a bite out of the toast, you turned to ask who the envelope was from, but found the worker had already left. You picked up the envelope, opening it to find a stack of cash and a note. 

‘Buy yourself something nice to wear tonight. See you then, baby. - E.P.’

Checking the clock, you realized you had a few hours to go shopping, but would probably need time to get ready before the show. Something nice. Did he have anything specific in mind? Surely he had a different definition of ‘nice’ than you did. You figured you’d know what exactly to get as soon as you saw it. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen so much money in your life, and you certainly weren’t going to put it to waste.

You scarfed down your food before getting ready for the day, shoving the cash into your bag. Double-checking that you’d have everything you needed, you headed out. You spotted your dad in the hotel lobby and waved at him. He ended the conversation he was having, and walked over to you and gave you a hug.

“Hey dad,” you said, hugging him back.

“Hey kiddo, where are you headed off to?”

“Elvis gave me some money to go shopping,” you said.

“He’s a good man, always generous like that,” he said. “He told me you’re going to see the show tonight.”

“Yeah, I’m looking forward to it. Will you be there?” you asked.

“I’ll be helping out backstage, but you have fun.”

You tried to hide your disappointment. “Okay, well, see you later.”

The Las Vegas Strip was bustling, and you walked up the street into one of the designer clothing stores, feeling immediately overwhelmed by the selection–and price tags. You spent the afternoon going in and out of designer stores, hesitant to actually spend the money that weighed your bag down like a brick. Elvis had given you the money, he wanted you to spend it, but between the tuition and the cash, you felt guilty even considering doing so.

You settled on some clothes and shoes that were in the clearance section of one designer store, which made you feel somewhat better when the shop assistant told you the total for your trip. Handing her the cash for the purchase, she looked at the money and then at you, curiously. It didn’t surprise you, you certainly weren’t dressed like the type of person to go to designer stores with wads of cash.

It was an hour before the show was set to start by the time you finished the shopping trip, so you booked it back to the International. There was already a line of people waiting outside of the showroom to get to their seats. You changed quickly in your room, doing your best to freshen up before heading back downstairs for the show.

You got in the back of the long line, and it hit you that you didn’t even have a ticket for the show. All you had was Elvis’ word for your admission, and you could only imagine how many people in line would try to pull that one over on the usher taking tickets. Biting your lip, you were just about to step out of the line when you heard your dad calling your name.

“Y/N, I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said. “C’mon, let’s get you to your seat.”

“You got here just in time,” you laughed.

You chatted with your dad as he led you past the people waiting in line, who huffed and complained as you walked straight into the showroom. The massive auditorium was packed, and as you stepped closer to the stage, you realized you’d be sitting in there by yourself. Everyone around you seemed to be with someone. Your dad gave you another hug when you got to your seat and then disappeared into the crowd.

Elvis wasn’t exaggerating when he said you’d get a spot up front. You could touch the stage if you wanted to. The curtain was down, but you could hear people moving and talking behind it. 

As soon as the curtain rose, the crowd erupted in cheers and applause. The horns section blared, echoing through the auditorium. You felt like you were in a cathedral, the music ascending to otherworldly heights and permeating your chest. Elvis’ voice sang out and filled the room once the curtain fully rose over him. His gaze immediately dropped down to where you were sitting, and he smiled at you. 

You watched in awe, this was how music was supposed to be experienced. It was supposed to take over your body and make you feel like you could fly. You always liked Elvis’ music, but this brought his place on your list of favorite musicians way up. Sure, a lot of bands went with more casual shows and concerts, but Elvis’ showmanship was unmatched. 

As the night went on, you noticed Elvis focusing a lot of his attention on you. At one point, he was practically thrusting in your face, and you were embarrassed at his antics, hardly able to conceal your bashful smile. Of course, he worked over the whole crowd, talking a bit and cracking jokes in between songs, but he always ended up back where you were. You didn’t want to assume it was just you; it was part of the show. He was Elvis Presley, after all. 

When he introduced the next song, the soft piano playing behind him, you gasped. You knew it was cliche, but ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ was one of your favorite songs of his. You could remember the first time you watched ‘Blue Hawaii’, tears streaming down your face when you first heard the ballad. You watched him intently as he began to sing.

You couldn’t fight back the smile on your face as he leaned down to serenade you. Then, he did something that truly took your breath away. He kissed you. Tenderly, passionately, like it wasn't just for the show. He gave you a handsome smile and a wink when he pulled away and went back to singing.

Before you knew it, he was bowing and thanking the crowd. You couldn’t believe how good the show was, it’d be the one you’d compare all other concerts to going forward. A man walked up to you, letting you know to follow him to get backstage. You went down a narrow hallway and through two heavily guarded doors. A dozen or so people stood around talking, but Elvis was the only one who looked up when the doors closed behind you. Immediately, he made his way over to you.

“Y/N, you look great,” Elvis said, giving you a hug.

“Elvis! That was absolutely incredible; you were incredible! I don’t know what else to say, but that was the best performance I’ve ever seen in my life,” you exclaimed.

He laughed. “It was all for you, darlin’.”

“Well, thank you, for everything. My mom told me this morning that you paid for my last year of college,” you smiled.

“I’ve been in a slump for a while, but talkin’ to you yesterday, Y/N; it put things into a whole new perspective.” he said.

“I’m glad.”

“Let’s go up to my suite; we can talk more there.”

“Sounds good,” you said.

You gushed to him about the show on the way up to his suite, excited to talk more about music with him. As soon as the door shut behind him, he pressed his lips to yours, far more passionately than during the show. When you tried to pull away, he only held you tighter, groping you through your clothes. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, feeling lightheaded the longer he kissed you. After a few minutes, he pulled away to hungrily kiss your neck.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you protested breathlessly.

He scoffed, lifting his head. “Don’t you think you owe me somethin’, Y/N?”

“Why would I owe you anything?” you asked.

“I paid for your school, your little shopping spree, and don’t even get me started on that bill you’ve been runnin’ up with the hotel since you’ve been stayin’ here.”

“I didn’t ask for any of that. You did that on your own,” you countered.

You didn’t miss the way Elvis’ jaw clenched. You hadn’t given him the answer he was expecting by disagreeing with him. In an instant, though, his expression shifted, his face calm, but his eyes were burning through you.

“Your dad’s a good man. I’d hate to see him without work ‘cause of how ungrateful you are,” Elvis said.

Your eyes widened. “You–you can’t do that.”

“I can’t?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “I can’t make one phone call and have you both out on the street?”

You and Elvis stared at each other in silence until he walked over to the phone. He picked up and began dialing a number, stone-faced as he did so. When you heard the dial tone, you panicked. 

“Wait.”

“That’s better,” Elvis said, a smirk on his face as he hung up the phone. 

You felt helpless as he made his way over to you, smug that he’d gotten his way. Even though you weren’t all that close with your dad, you couldn’t let him lose his job if you could help it. Elvis was one of the most influential people in the world, one word and he could make your dad unhirable. 

Elvis held your face in his hands. “You’re gonna finish your last year of school and get your degree, then you’re gonna come right back to me and–”

“And do what?” you asked.

“I’ve got it all under control, baby. You don’t have to worry ‘bout a thing,” he said, kissing you again.

You kissed him back, reluctantly, but he didn’t seem to care. He helped himself to you, felt entitled to it. You felt more like a possession than a person when he undressed you, the clothes technically his, anyway. Why couldn’t he take them off of you when he wanted? Your whole life was his. The rest of the summer went this way, with Elvis giving you money and buying you things you didn’t ask for while holding it over your head to keep you with him. You were looking forward to the semester starting so you could at least get away from him and try to find a job teaching somewhere far from Memphis or Vegas, anywhere he’d be regularly. Most of your last semester would be student teaching, and you hoped the school would be interested in hiring you for the following school year.

Even on campus, though, you couldn’t get away from Elvis. He made you give him a copy of your class and student teaching schedule each semester, and called whenever he knew you’d be in your dorm. If you didn’t answer when he called, he’d give you hell when you did eventually pick up, and threaten your dad’s job and your future. As a result, your social life became completely non-existent as your friends slowly stopped inviting you to study or hang out when you kept declining. By the time the spring semester ended, you were miserable and lonely, absolutely dreading graduation day. All of the time and effort spent toward getting your degree for nothing. 

During one of the final classes of the semester, one of your classmates excitedly approached you once the professor dismissed you all. “I heard you got a job already! Congrats!”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, as you gathered your things.

“C’mon, Y/N, everyone in the major is talking about it. I mean, Elvis Presley starts a foundation to teach kids about music and hires you right out of school to help run it. He even made a big donation to the education department. I guess you really impressed him during your interview.”

“I–thanks,” you said, unsure of how to respond. You weren’t sure when all of this happened, but it figured everyone else knew but you. That’s how things always seemed to be with him. If financial threats weren’t enough, the mind games were.

“Hey, if they have any openings, put in a good word for me!” your classmate said.

I’d be doing you a favor if I didn’t. “Yeah, of course,” you said. “See you around.”

You held back tears as you made your way back to your dorm room. It wasn’t fair. Not only was your dad’s livelihood caught up in Elvis, now yours was too. Making the donation to your university’s college of education was a brilliant move, you had to admit as much, everyone was singing his praises at his generosity. You didn’t want any of it. Your only dream was to help kids develop a love of music and have someone who believed in them, and he made it into an inescapable nightmare. 

While he didn’t go to your graduation ceremony the following week, he had you flown out to see him in Vegas, as he usually did when you had a longer break from classes. Again, you supposed since he basically owned your degree and now your career, he’d get to choose how you spent your graduation day. 

You didn’t try to conceal your displeasure when you saw him, and he didn’t appreciate the coldness you displayed. He practically threw the bouquet of flowers he was holding at you, dragging you inside his suite by your arm.

“You’re the most ungrateful brat I’ve ever met in my life,” he snarled, his lip curling in anger toward you.

“I didn’t ask for any of this! I didn’t want it!” you argued.

“Well you got all of it, so you better act like this is everything you ever prayed for,” he said, backing you into the door, seeming to tower over you. 

“What do you even get out of this?” you asked, looking up at him in fear and desperation. “You’re bleeding yourself dry and for what?”

He grinned, sending a shiver down your spine. “You.”

#austin!elvis x reader #elvis x reader #yandere!elvis x reader #yandere x reader #elvis presley x reader #austin!elvis #elvis 2022

[jamiebuckleys]

Unpopular, or just unconventional, headcanon about Roy Kent? Any other shows you’re into?

I think my most unpopular opinion is that I don't think he had some deeply traumatic relationship with his parents that seems a bit classist and horrific tbh. Most of the stuff I see about his parents just makes me feel so icky bc it feels like 'bc his parents were poor and maybe had to spend a lot of time working' they didn't care/were terrible/were happy to have one less mouth to feed and it rubs me the wrong way. My headcanon for Roy's childhood really is like, I think he loved and spent a lot of time with his grandad/his grandad drove him to Sunderland bc he was older and probably didn't work. It seems like he and his sister are close and I think probably his parents couldn't necessarily take the time off to get him there or go visit - also it's weird to see people saying that they sent him away dramatically to make money for the family as a) for a 9 year old it would have been a HUGE honor for him to get asked to go train with a (at the time) premiere league club - that's very young to get scouted so we know he was *good* and b) he would not have had any kind of professional/paying contract at that time. He probably would have had a family he stayed with up there, as well, from what I've heard of youth leagues from friends who grew up into the sport. I think he loved his grandad but him missing his grandad a lot doesn't mean he didn't have a positive relationship with his parents and I think the assumption that he had a shitty relationship with them always uses a lot of tropes that involve oh poor people are bad parents/parents who spend a lot of time at work to earn money for their family don't care about their kids/aren't interested.

Roy lived his dreams and his parents allowing him (ALLOWING...not sending or forcing) their 9 year old son to go away to the north for months and months at a time in order to play a sport shows that they wanted the best for him. It's clear his sister had big hopes and dreams as well and they clearly also encouraged and supported her, so the assumption that he must have had shitty parents just feels really weird and baseless to me. Roy's got issues but they mostly seem to have more to do with him growing up in sports toxic masculinity bullshit culture than him just having shitty parents. (ted: you just found out your dad is a little racist. roy: my dads from south london and he's in his 60s of course he's a little bit racist reads to me more like someone who has a positive view of his father but also recognizes how he's a bit shit about some things rather than someone who has a really shitty relationship with his dad). Also Roy seems proud and defensive of where he came from. IDK. I guess I do have a lot of opinions about Roy headcanons lmao.

As for other shows, Doctor Who maybe???? I don't watch a lot. I mostly listen to podcasts.

#roy kent #answered