#it was fun to write the descriptions from an outside perspective

[discokicks]

BOLT FROM THE BLUE - ROY KENT.

PART ONE of ACES AT THE WATER'S EDGE.

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

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

summary: with the departure of afc richmond’s wonderkid, the club is desperately on the hunt for a new coach. luckily for them, you’ve just been wrongfully terminated from your position over at west ham. however, with your outlook on the football world tainted and massive hesitation due to your past with a particular member of their coaching staff, you’re less than convinced about the job. but, that same member may just be the one to convince you.

word count & rating: 8.7k, R (too many roy kent 'fucks' to be pg-13)

chapter warnings: whole lotta swearing (it’s a roy kent fic, do i even have to say it?), talk of workplace misconduct, allusions to (no descriptions of) sexual harassment, roy and the reader are long-lost bickering, angsty enemies with a past, reader is a former team usa player and present coach, author is american (sorry </3)

author’s note! hello hello. so happy to have you here. welcome to my first tumblr fic. certainly not my first fic ever, but first fic on here! hooray! for the sake of this fic, we’re going to pretend like the coaching career of the reader is actually possible in the current misogynistic world football climate. it’ll be fun to fantasize. also, this takes place in s3, and reader is earlyish/midish thirties. also also, i know next to nothing about football/soccer and haven’t played since i was 10, but i’m doing my research! hope you enjoy and love u all tons. -mags

PRESENT DAY. (AUGUST 2023)

Your ex-boss's ex-wife is currently standing outside of your apartment and somehow, that’s not the most surprising thing to happen this week.

While yes, of course, seeing Rebecca Walton on your front steps at nine-thirty on a Thursday morning is shocking, the numbness that’s been coursing through your body since Monday takes some of the edge off.

She’s right before you, clutching her purse tightly, dressed in a fitted trench coat and aggressively expensive heels. Everything about her contrasts the four-sizes-too-big sweatshirt you’re sporting with the age-old pajama shorts with embroidered soccer balls that you’ve been rotting away in for the last three days. When your eyes finally meet once more and you see she’s been sizing you up just as you’ve been doing to her, she plasters on a wide, practiced smile.

“Hello,” Rebecca says. Her smile doesn’t falter.

You blink at her. “Hi.”

She motions to your door and you feel your hand tighten on the knob. “May I come in?”

Your lips part in a way that you’re sure makes you look like a moron. “Like, into my house?” you ask, head whipping to look at the current warzone state of your living room.

Rebecca’s smile gets slightly more genuine. “If that’s alright?”

The shock of her standing before you seems to have worn off, because you find yourself shutting the door slightly. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“It’s nothing—”

“Look, if you’re here to get me to talk to that Independent journalist who’s called me like, three times asking for a perspective on Rupert for his book or whatever, I’m really not interested.” Your frustration is clearly peaking through your typically reserved manner, and frankly, you’re not in any mood to mask it.

She doesn’t seem to mind. “Who? Trent?” You nod at Rebecca’s furrowed brows. “Oh God, no. We barely want him writing that thing anyway.”

Well, okay. “Then why—”

Rebecca motions to the door again. “May I?”

You suppose if she’s being so insistent about entering your home, it’s her funeral. You step back to allow her in, and the second she sees your living room, she seems to regret it. When she turns to face you, you can’t help the way your brows shoot up, everything about your demeanor saying I told you so. “The kitchen’s cleaner,” you tell her, nodding in its direction.

“Wonderful,” she says as she follows you through the hall. Her next question is hesitant. “So, is all this—”

“The result of getting fired on Monday?” you finish for her, turning to meet her gaze as you stand at your counter. Her eyes read pity and part of you already wants to kick her out. The other part of you wants to hug her. “Yeah. Things, uh…”

As you trail off, you realize something. That thing in her eyes isn’t pity. It’s empathy. Rebecca, more than anyone, knows Rupert. She knows how much of an asshole he is. She knows how special he can make you feel, only to have the rug ripped out from under you moments later. She knows what it feels like to be wronged by him. She knows.

Through your silence, you think she recognizes the sudden shift in tension as your expression morphs into something less hard, and you allow yourself a moment of vulnerability. “Things haven’t been great over here.”

Any sort of practice in Rebecca’s smile completely fades and is replaced with something more compassionate. “I can only imagine.”

You nod, crossing your arms over your chest. While the initial discomfort has passed, the awkwardness still lingers and you realize that you have literally no idea why she’s in your apartment. “Can I… offer you coffee? Or, uh, tea?” you ask.

“Oh, no,” she replies. “Thank you though.”

“You sure?” you try again. “I taught myself how to make an insane shaken espresso during my ACL recovery. Mastered it over the years.”

“Mastered it?”

You shrug. “It was either that or alcoholism. Chose the path less traveled by most washed-up athletes.”

Rebecca’s lips twitch upward. “Oh, what the hell. Why not?”

“Great,” you say, turning to your cabinet to grab your bag of coffee beans. Now for the moment of truth. “And while I get that together…” You stand on your tiptoes to reach the bag. “You’ve gotta tell me what you’re doing here.”

For a moment, you think she’s going to feed you some joke or some bullshit answer. You glance over your shoulder to watch her mouth even open to do so. But she suddenly decides against it.

And you drop the bag of coffee beans and have to stabilize yourself against the counter as she says, “I’m here to offer you a job.”

A job? She wants to give you a job at Richmond? She can’t be serious. Out of all the things that floated through your mind when you opened the door, this was the last thing you thought possible. A job. She’s here to offer you a job.

It has to be a pity offer. That’s where the pity of it all went. But no one knows about what actually happened, you remind yourself. She just knows you were suddenly let go. Well, then it’s just a revenge offer. Some petty thing to get back at Rupert. As much as you want to think that you’d be on board with that, you had no interest in being some sort of piece in the game.

You’re staring blankly at Rebecca as your mind goes to war, certain that you look like even more of an idiot than you did when you let her in. There’s a small pool of coffee beans sitting on your counter. But you can’t find it in you to care. A job. She’s here to offer you a job.

Rebecca suddenly clears her throat. “Is everything alri—”

“Why the fuck do you want to give me a job?” Is what comes out of your mouth, head too far gone to consider a filter. A smirk appears on her face at your words. “Sorry, I just… I don’t get it.”

She looks at you for a moment, taking a solemn pause to evaluate exactly what it is she wants to say. Her eyes flash to your embroidered soccer shorts peeking out from beneath your sweatshirt, then to the plethora of sport-themed mugs hanging beneath the cabinets in your kitchen, then to the framed photo you keep on the wall of your team’s 2015 World Cup win.

“Because,” she finally lands on, “when I see that the new, passionate, wildly qualified West Ham coach is suddenly fired less than two months after she begins, seemingly out of nowhere…” It’s her turn to trail off, and she shrugs. “Something tells me it wasn’t just leadership differences.”

You look away from her as she drops the famous press-release line. Discomfort floods your body as you remember Rupert’s smarmy smile when he asked for your badge. “No,” you say softly. “It wasn’t.”

Rebecca nods, as if her suspicions were confirmed. “Now, I don’t know what happened,” she tells you, “and I don’t expect to know. But as I said, you’re wildly qualified. You were a remarkable talent on the field and more so as a coach. Four Uni championships in a six-year career isn’t just impressive, it’s unheard of.”

You pause your coffee bean cleanup at that. Your brows shoot up and a wry smile crosses your lips. “You know my college coaching stats?”

Rebecca stares at you for a moment. Then, “Not until this week,” she admits quickly, forcing you to bite back a laugh. “But my coaching staff knew. Sang your praises.”

A pit forms in your stomach as you realize exactly who’s a part of that staff. Bull-fucking-shit he sang your praises. You think you’d despise him more if he had.

Attempting to brush off your sudden uneasiness, you try your hand at a joke while measuring out the beans. “Well, two-thirds of them are American, so I guess that makes sense.”

Rebecca chuckled. “Well, Roy Kent doesn’t say much of anything, but you did get a—’” She cuts herself off to make an affirmative-sounding grunt. You’re so thrown off by this that you almost forget to smile at her impression of him. “Which, you know, is about as close to singing as he gets.”

That it is. Because you do know. And that’s Roy code for ‘trying to be normal about this, but dear God, never speak about her to me again.’ You hope the mere mention of your name made him run out of the room. That the idea of you potentially joining the team keeps him up at night.

(The last three days haven’t been good for your dramatics either.)

A sigh escapes your lips and you avert your eyes. There’s an air of embarrassment as you shift uncomfortably. “This is going to be loud, sorry,” you apologize, turning the grinder on. You make a general estimation that this is what your brain would currently sound like if someone decided to listen in. After a moment, the machine turns off, but you don’t turn back to Rebecca. “Would this be a coaching offer?”

“I wouldn’t want you to be anything else,” Rebecca responds. Her tone shifts slightly as she looks at you. “Unless there’s—”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “There’s nothing else I’d want.” You shift again. “I just…”

Rebecca watches as you trail off. You still haven’t looked at her, focused solely on your espresso task at hand. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting when she arrived at your home, but it certainly wasn’t this. Every time she’d seen you, whether it was on the field, blowing past defenders with impossible efficiency, or coaching your college girls in a way that commanded respect despite the seemingly ever-present smile on your face, there’d always been this confidence about you.

An admirable sense of ego. A love and passion for the game that made every young girl want to wear the number 14. A spirit that made everyone look upon you fondly. A pleasure to be around, and an honor to work with.

Rebecca was now staring at what she presumed to be the shell of the woman she’d heard about. A woman distracting herself from the discomfort of this conversation with coffee-making, afraid of her own shadow. And as you spoke, she knew her assumptions were correct.

“Listen,” you manage to get out. You’ve already tamped the grounds and had returned to the big, fancy espresso machine bought for you long ago by a former friend. “I appreciate you coming over here, but…”

“But?” Rebecca questions.

The words feel dry in your mouth and you have to push them out. “I think I’m done with it.”

It’s Rebecca’s turn to blink at you dumbly. “Done with what?” she asks. “With coaching?”

Shame floods your body. “With soccer,” you reply weakly. That look remained on Rebecca’s face. “Football. Whatever. Whatever you want to call it, I’m done with it.” You turn to stable yourself on the countertop once more as the coffee begins to brew. “It’s just— I’ve spent the majority of my life doing this one thing. I’ve done the Olympic gold thing, I’ve won a World Cup, I’ve won college championships, I’ve been…” Your eyes shut, shoulders sagging. “I’ve just been. And I thought I could go a step further. Break a ceiling or whatever. I thought I was ready for it. And then everything I’ve worked for is fucking destroyed by some douchebag, diva athlete who doesn’t know how to keep his dick in his—”

You raise your hand to your mouth as if that’ll keep it all in, and you realize you’re shaking. You don’t have to turn around to know how Rebecca’s looking at you. “So, yeah,” you finish lamely. “I’m done. It was ruined for me. And I don’t want to go back.”

Rebecca says nothing for a long while. Taking everything you said in, drawing her conclusions, whatever. You grip the granite countertop and it feels cool beneath your fingers. Your eyes open when you finally hear her respond.

“You’re letting him win,” she tells you, voice soft. Slightly broken. Like she knows the feeling.

When you do turn back to her, Rebecca’s sitting at your breakfast bar with her hands folded together, anger poorly concealed. But it’s not anger at you, it’s just anger.

But then you start to feel angry. “I’m not letting him win,” you insist.

“You are,” she replies. Before you can let your temper get the best of you, she continues. “They’re calling you emotional, you know? They’re saying that the ’leadership problems’ were you just being abrasive. Joking that they should have never let a woman into the league because of the drama. Apparently, women can’t handle AFC-level coaching.”

You swallow. “I know,” you say. “I’ve seen it.”

“Who do you think’s pushing that narrative?” she asks.

It’s a rhetorical question, but you still feel like giving an answer. “Basement-dwelling losers who barely made their intramural leagues?”

It’s then that Rebecca smiles for real. It’s like she’s seen a flash of the woman she’s heard about and she couldn’t be more pleased. She makes a noise of agreement, then continues. “This is what he wants. He wants you to feel like this. He wants you to quit.” Her gaze bores into yours with an intensity that doesn’t allow you to look away. “If you give it all up, he wins. He beats you and he’s got another name under his belt. He doesn’t deserve your name.” Rebecca’s index finger jabs in your direction. “Don’t allow him to fucking win.”

The passion in her words is what gets you. Your throat clenches as you feel your eyes start to burn, knowing that everything she said had some amount of truth in it. There’s a frustration that rises in your chest that you don’t know how to handle.

You were letting him win. He took away your career and then threatened your reputation. He made you take the blame for everything. He allowed this to be ruined for you and played an active part in ensuring it. And here you were, cowering in fear at the notion of this small man.

She’s right, and the espresso has finished brewing.

You know she’s right. Rebecca knows she’s right. So, as you stand in your kitchen, fighting an inward battle that’s got you on the verge of tears, your scared, stupid, frustrated little brain can only think of one more thing to say as you pour the coffee over ice.

“Even if you were right—” you begin, not ready to admit that just yet, “—even if you were, and even if I did want to join Richmond, I refuse to work with Roy Kent.”

This takes Rebecca completely by surprise. She shifts back in her chair, eyes wide despite the drawing of her brows. “R-Roy?” she sputters. “Our Roy Kent?”

The word our tells you that he’s been embraced by the club and isn’t going anywhere. Not that you had expected him to. He’d clearly nested well into the team and had taken his coaching position in stride. Just like you said he would years ago.

“Yeah,” you say shortly. “That one.”

Rebecca’s expression remains the same. ”But he’s… I—” She cuts herself off with a question. “—but why?”

A mirthless grin crosses your lips, head shaking like you don’t have the energy to get into it all. “That’s an answer you should probably hear from him.”

Rebecca looks as though she’s trying to make sense of all of this. You want to wish her luck. Because you’ve been doing the same thing for eight years. “I understand he can be a bit… coarse. And intimidating. And hot-headed. But he really is—”

“I don’t care what he is,” you tell her with the most polite, tight-lipped smile you can muster up. “I know who he was. And I’m not interested in working with him.” The words leave your mouth with a bit more venom than anticipated and guilt floods your body. “But thank you for the offer.”

The Richmond owner continues to stare at you while you shake the coffee, still puzzled, but slowly coming to the realization that she’s not going to change your mind. At least not now. Maybe not ever.

She figures that trying to convince you to do anything would be pointless. Your stubbornness had made you a star on the field and had clearly transferred off of it. She supposed it made sense that you and Roy had apparently butted heads.

So, reading the room, Rebecca nods at you and stands from the stool behind your breakfast bar. “Alright,” she says, a somber, apologetic smile on her face. “Message received. Loud and clear.” You watched as she turned and began to fumble inside her purse, placing a white card on the bar when she’d found it. “But… please. Consider it. The offer’s good for the next couple of days. And I… I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think that you’d be an asset to our team. I truly mean that.”

There’s a genuine lilt in her voice that makes you believe her. Whether or not this was a pity offer, or if she just want to scoop you up to get back at Rupert, she really did want you with the team. You’re rational enough to know that there’s some merit in that.

“Thank you,” you say again, offering a truer smile this time around. You hold up the espresso. “Now, do you have a milk preference? Because I’ve got them all.”

Rebecca Walton left your apartment with the best fucking shaken espresso she’s ever had in her life and a phone held up to her ear.

“Hi, babes,” greeted the voice on the other line, cheery as ever. “I can’t remember the last time you called me this early. Not that I’m complain—”

Rebecca abruptly cut off her friend’s rambling by saying your name. “How the fuck does she know Roy and why the fuck is he the reason she won’t work for Richmond?”

Uncharacteristically, Keeley Jones went silent. Rebecca heard the static from the other end. And then, very quiet, and wildly serious, Keeley said, “Oh, fuck.”

The words made Rebecca stop in her tracks in the middle of the street. “What?”

“You want her to be the new Richmond coach?” Keeley asked, sounding a whole lot like she just scrambled to sit up in bed.

“I just left her apartment. She rejected the offer and sent me on my way with the best coffee I’ve ever had in my life,” she replied. “I want to be bitter about it, but it’s too fucking good.”

“Yeah, got it, she’s a fucking barista on top of being an Ace.” Rebecca wanted to ask about how frantic her best friend is right now, but didn’t get the chance. “Did Roy know you were doing this? Asking her, I mean?”

“He did. I asked him about her,” Rebecca answered. “And he grunted at me. Generally, that’s Roy Kent for ‘go on with it.’”

“Oh, that stupid, fucking self-sabotaging prick,” Keeley muttered. “Of-fucking-course he did. Put yourself in this kind of situation instead of dealing with your emotions like a normal fucking human, good on you, Roy—”

“Keeley.” The rambling stopped once more. “What happened?”

The other line was momentarily silent. Then Keeley sighed, long and heavy. “Well, I don’t know it all,” she began. Her voice was soft. “But I know they knew each other a while back. Like ten years ago, when they were both still playing.” Keeley sighed once more. “But he said he, uh… apparently fucked her over somehow. Didn’t get into it or say what he did, but I think it was pretty bad. And then she got back at him for it and fucked him over. And it… really messed him up. Like, totally broke his heart.”

Rebecca stepped out of the way of someone passing by. “Broke his heart?” she asked, eyes closing at the implication of that. “Were they—”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. He wasn’t exactly open about it. Which I thought was weird because he became pretty open about everything else,” Keeley said. “All I know is that whatever it was, it ended ugly. And that they haven’t spoken to each other since.”

Whatever Rebecca had been expecting, it surely wasn’t that. “Oh,” she said lightly.

Keeley hummed in uncomfortable agreement. “Maybe I’m reading too far into it,” she continued. “Maybe it wasn’t like that. But, he… never talked about anyone like that. Or, y’know, refused to talk about anyone like that. And you know Roy.” Rebecca said nothing, leaving Keeley to ask the million-dollar question. “Are you sure you want to follow through with this?”

“I want her. She’s the only feasible prospect I’ve liked who hasn’t been a fucking twat so far.” Rebecca’s voice was sure. Final. “And I won’t allow for another woman to be quietly taken down because of Rupert. Especially not if what I think happened actually did happen.”

“Well, then babe,” Keeley said, “I think you might need to have a chat with your coaches.”

Then, as Rebecca stood on the edge of the sidewalk, picturing the look on her coaches’ faces as she prepared to integrate Roy Kent, the gravity of the situation hit her like a freight train. “Oh, fuck.”

“ROY FUCKING KENT!”

The entire locker room froze at the voice of Rebecca Walton echoing down the hall, each click of her heels sounding as dangerous as the next. Immediately, all eyes are were on Roy. From Kitman Will to Coach Ted Lasso himself. Not a word was said and Rebecca’s stomping started to sound like a death march.

But when she rounded the corner into the Coaches’ Office with a fire in her eyes that screamed run; that’s when Roy started to sweat.

Immediately, a million things ran through his mind. He wondered if this was about his break-up with Keeley, then realized that she was the one who wanted a break from him, so Rebecca’s got no reason to be mad about that. Had he said something stupid to a reporter? Been photographed poorly? Did something come up in a tabloid from his past? Roy wished he could identify one singular thing he’d done back then in poor taste, but he had a fucking laundry list.

Beard quickly jumped up from his chair to shut the door to the locker room so that the team couldn’t hear whatever was about to unfold in this godforsaken office, and pulled the blinds too. He heard the beginnings of an objection from the boys as they began to race to the window, and sent them all a look before the shade fell.

Rebecca walked further into the office, eyes never leaving Roy’s. If she weren’t so fucking mad, she figured she’d bask in the fact that she was able to make the great, big, scary Roy Kent nervous, but she was currently seeing red. She decided she’d reflect on that later.

“I had a fascinating conversation this morning with a prospective coach,” she finally said, voice eerily calm. “Your name came up. A lot.”

Roy didn’t dare say a word. He wasn’t even sure if he could. Thankfully, Ted chimed in. “Well, Boss, we’ve got a lot of those. Would you mind narrowing down which one you talked to?”

But Roy doesn’t need it to be narrowed down. There’s only one name that’s been floated around that could possibly have garnered this reaction and level of anger. But his stomach sank further as a wild smile crossed Rebecca’s lips.

“Oh, just our Ace Olympic gold-medalist, World Cup-winning, four-time college coaching champion, West-Ham-hating top prospect,” she said, gaze pinning Roy to the wall. “Who apparently has not only been fucked over by Rupert but has also been fucked over by our own Roy Kent.”

All eyes flashed to Roy in surprise. Rebecca hadn’t been lying. Roy hadn’t objected to her name being considered as seriously as it was, and had given absolutely no indication to anyone in the room that there could potentially be conflict with this hire.

“Oh,” Ted said. “Well, that’s a bit of an issue.”

Roy looked at Rebecca evenly. “What did she say?”

“Nothing,” she replied, knowing that that was the very issue. “She just said she refused to work with you. Told me to ask you for the details.”

Roy nearly scoffed. God, that was really fucking like you, wasn’t it? Somehow making his life harder without scorching him alive, leaving him to be the one to burn himself down. Because you could if you wanted to. You could burn him to the ground if you chose.

(And you had. But he wasn’t sure what was stopping you from doing it again.)

He eyed Rebecca, knowing his boss and the way she thinks. There was a piece of him that was curious as to whether or not she’d drop the bomb in front of Beard and Lasso. “And what did Keeley tell you?”

That seemed to take his boss by surprise for a moment. But, as she caught on, it was made clear that she had the intention of saving his ass. For now. “Nothing that you didn’t tell her yourself,” Rebecca said. “Which was pretty much nothing.”

That was true too. There wasn’t much he hadn’t told Keeley, but he drew the line at you. Not only would Keeley look at him differently if she knew the truth, but you were just… too hard to talk about. Way too hard for him.

Which is why when Rebecca threw her hands up in question, desperation in her eyes as she asks, “So, what the fuck did you do to our prospective coach?”, Roy had to calm himself for a moment.

Between his rapidly increasing heartbeat and freshly clammy hands, Roy knew he had to figure out a way to not appear one hundred percent, completely freaked out about this. Besides his vague talks with Keeley, he can’t remember the last time he spoke about you. In fact, he’s not sure he’d ever spoken about you. And he certainly wasn’t in any headspace to do it now.

So, Roy being who he was, looked at the expectant expressions of his coaching staff (and Trent fucking Crimm, who he still couldn’t believe had managed to weasel his way into the club) and sighed. He knew he couldn’t be as intentionally vague with his explanation, especially now that the careers of those he knew and respected were in the mix, but he sure as hell was going to try.

“We—” Roy’s voice came out gruff and he cleared his throat with the roll of his eyes. “We knew each other a while back. I met her at the London Olympics. We were… fucking friends. For a while. And then we weren’t.” Roy shrugged, as if that would get rid of the discomfort he felt. He still hadn’t made eye contact with anyone. “I did some shit I’m not proud of. I hurt her and then she fucking hurt me. We haven’t talked since.”

Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest. “Exactly how long haven’t you spoken for?”

Exactly? Roy knows exactly how long. He could tell her the exact fucking day. But that was neither here nor there.

“I don’t know,” he chose to answer. He’d never faked indifference well. “Couple of years? Eight, nine?”

Beard pursed his lips in confusion. “And you didn’t think to… mention this conflict of interest?”

He’d taken the words right out of Rebecca’s mouth. “Or tell me there was an issue so I didn’t look like an idiot?”

“There’s no fucking conflict of interest!” Roy shouted. Rebecca’s brows rose dangerously at the tone and volume of his voice, forcing him to take a moment to collect himself. His voice was more even as he said, “I didn’t fucking say anything because I didn’t think it was important because we’re fucking adults and I didn’t want to be the fucking reason she didn’t—”

Roy’s words died in his throat, chest heaving as he forced himself to stop short. He finally looked up, glancing between his colleagues. He tilted his head back as he realized that each of them were trying to figure out whether or not to believe him.

He was telling the truth. He hadn’t said one lie. They just didn’t get it. And he wouldn’t allow them to get it. Not yet, at least.

“Well,” Rebecca said after a beat, “inadvertently or not, you are the reason she’s not joining the team.”

(Those words alone sting Roy in a way he wasn’t prepared for.)

Rebecca wasn’t done. “But I want her, Roy. More than anyone we’ve seen. She’s the best we’ve had a chance with so far. And if I have to go with another coach or one of those pricks we interviewed because of that?” She shook her head as if the idea repulsed her, then pointed squarely at Roy. “Fix this.”

His jaw went slack. “Fix— How the fuck am I supposed to fix it?”

Roy was shocked to find that Ted had his back. “I’m with Roy on this one, boss,” he said hesitantly. Rebecca blinked at him in surprise. “I want her too. I’m all for having this Ace up our sleeve. But this all seems like a lot to be fixed overnight.”

“Send her flowers, send her a singing telegram, get on your fucking hands and knees and beg— I don’t care how you do it! Just try!” Rebecca’s gaze had turned back to Roy, this time a bit more pleading. “Please. Fix it.”

And with that, Rebecca left the office, leaving two coaches and a journalist staring at Roy Kent.

This was the worst day of his life. It had to be. He’d never prepared himself to see you again because he was convinced that there was no probability it would happen. Selfishly, he’d figured that you coaching here wasn’t a true possibility, not because of any sort of lack of skill, but because some other team would scoop you up. But it was happening. This was a reality and Roy was sure he’d died and finally gone to hell.

And now he was expected to fix this? To interact with you? To potentially see and speak to you again? He was going to fucking throw up.

With this settling in, Roy released a deep, shuddering breath, heartbeat ringing in his ears. “Fuuuuuck,” he muttered, grabbing his keys from his desk and storming out of the room.

And then there were three. Ted broke the silence with a question directed at Trent. “Y'all have singing telegrams over here?”

Trent nodded. “Oh, yes. And I’m sure they’re just as awful as American ones.”

As Ted hummed in agreement, Beard narrowed his eyes at how his best friend’s attention was back on the open laptop in front of him. “You looking up where to get one?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Ted replied, eyes glued to the screen.

Beard got up from his chair. “Move over.”

Roy Kent is standing on your doorstep, and somehow that’s not the most surprising thing to happen to you all week.

However, you are surprised. So much so that the second you see him, a mix of red-hot anger and panic run through your veins, making you instantly slam the door in his face. Tragically, he’s quick enough to slip his foot between the door and the frame, not allowing you to keep him out. You see him grimace through the slit.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “That’s a fucking heavy door.”

“Yeah?” you ask, continuing to push on the door like a five-year-old. “Surprised your reflexes were fast enough to pull that one off, Grandpa.” You glance down and do the math. “With your bad leg, too. Impressive.”

You see him wince at the pressure. “If you keep pushing on that door, we’re going to have an actual fucking problem.”

“Ooh, I’m so scared,” you reply. “Do I get a headstart when you have to pop the knee back in?”

Roy grunts. “I think it’s fair game with that ACL.”

You push harder on the door.

Roy’s had enough. His weird, Superman strength peaks through as he holds out an arm to push back, making you stumble slightly. “Can you fucking… stop?” His voice strains on that last word, finally opening the door enough to free his foot and keep it open. You know him well enough to know that trying to push back is useless. However, as you hide yourself behind it, your hand remains on the door, just in case.

“How the fuck do you know where I live?”

“I frequent the West Ham directory,” he answers dryly. You move to push on the door once more, but he speaks before you can. “I fucking texted Rebecca. She somehow knew.”

While you were also weirded out about how Rebecca knew your address, her presence was much less off putting than the man’s before you. If he’d texted Rebecca about you, that meant you’d been talked about. Which meant that Rebecca had confronted Roy about your conflict. Which meant that he was here to…

The implication of it unnerves you. But still, you ask, “Why are you here?”

“I just want to talk,” he replies.

You scoff. “Well, we talked. I’m good for another ten years.”

It’s then that he says your name. Your actual name. Not your last name, or your number, or the stupid nickname he used to call you. And it’s said so softly. So much more gentle than you ever remember his voice being. It straight-up ambushes you, and the remainder of the grip you have on the door fades.

“Please,” he says in that same way. “Give me five minutes.” You rest your forehead on the door, wanting nothing more than to shut it in his face again and walk away. “Five minutes, and then you can tell me to fuck off.”

You’re not sure what makes you do it. You’re not sure why your resolve suddenly crumbles and you start to consider his words. Maybe it’s because you’re still surprised to see him. Maybe it’s because you’re exhausted from this last week. Or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last four hours mulling over Rebecca’s offer and have realized you may actually want this.

Whatever it is, you groan dramatically, say something that sounds a whole lot like fine, fucking fine to Roy, and open your door all the way to really look at him for the first time in eight years.

The sight of you seems to catch him as off guard as he does for you. He looks older, years more mature than the last time you saw him. But it’s not just in the face. His entire presence seems matured. Healed. It’s jarring.

He’s well-groomed, a vast contrast to the guy you met back in 2012, but similar to the man you left in 2015. It’s just more so. Everything about him is… more. More well-polished. More striking. The TV spots you’ve seen don’t do him justice.

(You mentally kick yourself for even thinking that and immediately feel like you need to wash your hands.)

The dark Richmond Coaching shirt he wears nearly blends in with his eyes, but you swear they’ve gotten lighter. However, the intensity of his stare hasn’t changed. And that’s the first thing you notice as you realize he’s been doing the same sort of evaluation to you.

However, that stare stays on the stupid embroidered soccer ball shorts you now really wish you’d changed out of after Rebecca had left. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face as he says, “I can’t believe you still have those fucking shorts.”

A sudden, overwhelming feeling of… something washes over you and you can feel tears prick at your eyes. Because you don’t know what to say to that, and because you’re not sure you can respond to that in any sort of way, you cross your arms over your chest. It takes everything in you to keep your gaze on him. “Five minutes,” you tell him.

Roy seems to snap out of whatever headspace he was in, any trace of humor disappearing. Instead, he straightens up, rolls his shoulders back, and clears his throat. He’s standing as if he’s about to make a grand speech, and it leads you to believe he’s rehearsed this. You may have laughed at him if you weren’t anticipating whatever the hell was about to come.

So, as Roy opens his mouth, you brace yourself for impact and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

But nothing seems to come out. He’s stuck there, like he’s frozen in time, as if he’s some sort of animatronic that’s glitching out. You glance around to double-check that the trees on your street are still blowing in the wind.

Your head tilts, and you awkwardly press your lips together. “I think you’ve got four minutes now.”

Roy glares at you. “Can you just fucking—” He cuts himself off, pointing to his G-Wagon that’s parked outside of your apartment. “I spent two fucking hours in that car figuring out how I was going to fucking do this and then another hour outside of your fucking flat trying to work up the nerve to knock on your fucking door, so can you just shut the fuck up?”

Your hands go up in surrender. “Okay, okay,” you say lightly. Then, you mutter, “You just like, gave yourself a time limit and—”

When he grits out your name, you raise your hands higher and shut your mouth.

A good thirty seconds go by before he finally says, “You played for how many years?”

You blink at him. That’s his big opening line? He knows how long you played— “Seven?”

“Yeah, I fucking know you played professionally for seven. How long overall?”

You have to think about it for a moment. “Since I was three,” you answer. “So, twenty-five years.”

“And how long did you coach?”

He knows this too, but you assume he’s doing it to prove a point. “Six,” you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Six,” he repeats. “That’s over thirty years you’ve devoted your life to football. Three fucking decades. That’s your entire fucking life.”

That same frustration you felt when Rebecca was talking to you this morning rears its ugly head. “What’s your point?”

Roy doesn’t think he could roll his eyes any harder. “My point is,” he says, “you’ve been in this game for three decades. Why?”

“W-why?” you stammer, staring at him like he’s insane. Nobody’s ever asked you that before. “What do you mean why?”

Roy returns the look. “There’s gotta be a reason you’ve been doing this shit for thirty years. Why?”

“I don’t know,” you answer, shaking your head. “Because I’m good at it? Because it’s literally all that I’m good at? Because it’s all that I’ve ever known? I don’t—”

“No,” he says firmly, and for a moment, as he steps forward, you think he’s going to grab you by the shoulders in the way he used to. To get you out of your head and focus on him. Thankfully, he doesn’t. “Fucking nobody does anything for that long just because they’re good at it. That can’t be the only reason.”

As he stares at you expectantly, you start to understand his train of thought. What he’s trying to get you to admit. What all of this has been about since you first kicked a ball at three years old. What allowed you to sport the number 14 for twenty-five years. Because it’s only ever been about one thing, and he, more than anyone, gets it.

So, as your shoulders slouch and your head bows slightly in an annoyed sort of surrender, he knows he’s got you. Roy fucking Kent, anger-management case study and hothead of the millennium, has got you. And he’s showcasing the type of speech and traits and breakthrough abilities that told you eight years ago that he’d be a fantastic coach. Not that he believed you. Or took it very well, for that matter.

Then, you hear his voice again. And this time, it’s a bit softer. As if there’s a fraction of a smile on his face. “So, why the fuck have you been playing this game for thirty years, you stupid fucking Yank?”

The nostalgia of the name hits you like a bus, and you’re thankful you’re leaning on the doorframe because you truly may have stumbled over. However, there’s no time to dwell on that. You’ve got an answer ready and it takes everything in you not to smile.

A heavy, labored, dramatic sigh escapes you, and you open your eyes to look at him. “Because I love it.”

“Because you fucking love it,” he echoes, and that fraction of a smile you heard in his voice happens to be hidden amongst his perpetual scowl. He takes a step closer to you, pointing at you and tapping on your shoulder. “Don’t you dare let that prick take that away from you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and look away from him. He’s right. Just like Rebecca, he’s right. You hate that he’s right, but he’s right. It’s been years since you’ve seen him be right, but it hasn’t gotten any less annoying.

You think back to what Rebecca said this morning. Don’t let him win. You didn’t want to. There was actually nothing less that you wanted than to allow him to have that sort of power over you.

But still, the fear lingers. It sits in your stomach and churns it. He said he’d ruin you. Turn the world against you. It’d be your word against the club’s and more importantly, your word against football darling and West Ham star, Tom MacDonald’s.

(“Sure, you can go public with it,” Rupert had told you, basking in the anger written in your expression. “But to be completely honest, love, I’m not sure anyone’s going to believe you.” He shrugged. “Only female coach in the league suddenly crying sexual harassment after she’s been fired? Seems a bit convenient to me, don’t you think?”)

You don’t mean for your voice to be as small as it is when you say, “But what if I’m actually done?”

Vulnerability’s never been something you’ve embraced, especially with your career path, and you hate the way you sound. Weak. Timid. Afraid. As you meet his gaze once again, you realize that you hate the way that Roy’s looking at you even more.

“You’re the furthest thing from done. Done hasn’t ever been a word in your fucking vocabulary,” he tells you. There’s no room for argument. “You wanna know why?” You shrug at him in response, cueing him to continue. “Because unfortunately, I fucking know you. And I know the only time you’d ever be done with this sport is when you’re fucking dead.”

This time, you do allow yourself to smile. It’s small and humorous— a tight-lipped agreement, but it’s enough for Roy to know he’s gotten through. You want to laugh, partly because you know he’s right, partly because you can’t fucking believe that you’re smiling at him, but you’re strong enough to keep that in.

“So, yeah. Don’t let that prick kill you. Don’t let any prick keep you out of this game. Especially coaching.” Roy shakes his head, pausing for a beat, as if he’s making an effort to say, “You’re too… fucking good.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Took a lot to get that one out, huh?”

Roy’s quick with a response. “You’re lucky you got it at all.”

You scowl, but there’s not much in it. You’re used to that type of compliment from him. If you can even call it that. Still, the familiarity of it makes you the most uncomfortable you’ve been all day.

However, you’re distracted by one thing. Don’t let any prick keep you out of the game. He’s said it so casually, like he’d actually meant it. As if he had no sense of irony about it. It boils your blood and stirs something ugly in you.

That feeling prompts you to meet his gaze. “What if one of those pricks is right in front of me?”

For the first time all night, his stoic expression falters, as if that was the last thing he’d ever expected you to say. It was only a fraction of a second. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment.

But you hadn’t missed it. You’d seen the Tin Man facade crumble, even for just a second. You’d seen the hurt in his eyes, the regret. You’d celebrate it if it didn’t make you feel so unexpectedly awful.

He abruptly clears his throat with a solemn nod. “Well,” he says gruffly. ”Then don’t let me take that away either."

You look away from him, because you know that’s all you can do right now. Your mind’s racing a million miles an hour, thinking about him, about Rupert and West Ham and Tom MacDonald, and about the Richmond job. There’s a piece of you that wants to believe that everything that had happened this week was leading to this. To seeing him again, to being offered to work with him, to gain an opportunity for redemption in more ways than one.

But the more logical piece of you knows that’s all bullshit. And it’s that thought that puts you back in a more comfortable headspace.

“You know I can’t forgive you for what you did,” you tell him, meeting his eyes once more. The weight of your words is heavy on your shoulders and you lean against your doorframe again. “I won’t forgive you.”

Roy nods stiffly. “I know,” he says. “And I can’t forgive you.”

You return his nod in understanding. “I know.”

His gaze leaves yours for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out how to phrase what he wants to say next. How to work up the courage to do so.

“But if—” Roy’s voice comes out strained and he clears his throat. “If this is something you want, this coaching thing at Richmond, then I…” He looks at you and all you can see is sincerity. You hate it. “It’ll be professional. Civil. I won’t let there be any issues or… fucking whatever.”

He appears to be just as bad at this as he was when you last saw him. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold in your laughter. By the way his face becomes instantaneously annoyed, you can tell he’s noticed.

You’re already talking before he can retract his statement. “How’s the team?”

If he’s offended by you not thanking him for doing the bare fucking minimum, he doesn’t show it, and takes your change in topic in stride. “Good,” he replies. “Pretty fucking good. We’re still trying to figure some shit out when it comes to—”

“No,” you interrupt him. “I’ve seen you guys play. I know you’re good. I mean—” Your throat suddenly gets tight, a pit of anxiety forming in your stomach completely out of nowhere. A shaky breath leaves your lips. “The team. The guys. Are they…?”

Roy catches on. “They’re good lads,” he says, his voice telling you that it’s not a statement, but a fact. “Some of the best I’ve ever played with. Easy to coach too.”

Your brow quirks up. “Easy?”

“If two fucking clowns from Oklahoma and fucking… me are saying they’re easy,” he says, looking at you with intent as he trails off.

That same pit of anxiety bubbles up once more. “And, uh… Jamie Tartt? Is he—?” Roy’s brow furrows. “I’ve just heard some less-than-great things. Him being the star and all. Football darling or whatever. Are they true?”

Your over-explanation of the Richmond striker makes Roy narrow his eyes in suspicion. He opens his mouth to question it, but then realizes it’s you. There had to be some personal reason for you to bring it up. Whatever issue it was, he knew he was no longer personal enough with you to ask.

“He was a prick,” Roy finally settles on. “Now he’s less of a prick.”

The fond look in Roy’s eyes tells you that he’s warmed up to Jamie more than he’s letting on, and it puts you at ease. You nod in acknowledgment. Silence fills the air between you two, neither of you knowing what else to say.

You think about the team you’ve watched quietly on TV, studying up for your rivalry games with them when you were preparing to coach at West Ham. You think about your prospective coaching staff and the vitriol you heard in Nathan Shelley’s voice when you asked him about Ted Lasso. You think about the job and what evidently comes with it.

But most importantly, you think about the potential of this new position and the potential of this new beginning.

And while you’ve got questions, you realize they’re all for yourself. Not for Roy.

You’re out of questions and he’s out of time. Way out of time.

You remember this as you rock back on your heels. “I think you’ve gone over your five minutes.”

Roy looks at you expectantly. “Are you going to tell me to fuck off?”

“You? Absolutely,” you tell him, earning yet another eye roll. “But Richmond?” You pause, trying to ignore just how quietly hopeful he now looks. You sigh, shoulders slumping. “Tell Rebecca I’ll consider it.”

Roy releases a relieved, thankful breath, nodding at you. “Good,” he says.

You nod back at him. “Wouldn’t want you to spend another three hours in your car trying to figure out how you’re gonna break the bad news to her.”

That eye roll returns, but there’s a bit of levity in it. He looks at you for a moment longer, biting the inside of his cheek like he's contemplating saying something else. Your brows furrow in interest, and as soon as they do, he seems to decide against it.

Roy turns to go down your steps with a shake of his head. “Get out of those fucking shorts and stop your wallowing, Fourteen,” he throws behind him as he walks away. “And clean your fucking flat!”

Glancing behind you, your jaw drops in outrage as you realize there’s no way in hell he saw your warzone living room from where he was standing. “You can’t even see into my apartment!”

He doesn’t turn around when he says, “I don’t need to see! I just fucking know you.”

You manage to suppress the urge to actually yell at him to fuck off at that, and instead choose to live with the wildly strange and undefinable feeling that overtakes your body, one that doesn’t dissolve until you watch him speed off down your street.

This fucking week, man.

You shut your door and turn to face your living room, a newfound disgust for the vile state that it’s in. Your lips curls up and you sigh, walking into your kitchen to grab a trash bag, making a plan of action for the night as you shake it out.

You replay your first conversation with Roy in eight years as you tidy up your apartment. You make a mental pros and cons list of the Richmond job as you take the longest, most necessary shower of your life. You chuckle to yourself at the idea of Rupert and Tom’s faces if they were to see that you’d been picked up by Richmond.

You sleep well for the first night in three days, on clean sheets, in clean pajamas, embroidered soccer ball shorts joining your dirty laundry.

You’re bounding into your kitchen at nine the next morning to grab Rebecca’s card that you left on your counter, brewing an espresso as you call her.

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

[carlyraejepsans]

I really respect your dedication to these characters and the fine nuances in writing them with pinpoint accuracy but lord it must be really really hard to find any amount of fanfics by people who feel the same and don't unintentionally do something kinda ooc once that makes you stop reading a story. With short comics and art and whatever you have to go out of your way to mischaracterize characters since there's not a ton of internal substance, they're just kissing or telling a line of dialogue, but with fic it's so descriptive and so much more thought on how a character's inner workings carry on, and I feel a lot of people have fun writing fanfiction in a way that does not result in 100% accurate characterizations because that would take so much continual, constant effort and very thorough character analysis skills and applications to get right pretty much all of the time. I'm not sure what I'm trying to say beyond it must be tough for you specifically to find stories that don't annoy you- or perhaps that is not accurate! I don't read much fic so I don't know, it just seems like it'd be exhausting from an outside perspective

BAHAHAHA the eternal struggle of the Hater. I'm kind of obsessed with how you described it here. You're mostly correct! And kind of missing a crucial detail at the same time.

It's true, it is extremely difficult to find fanfiction that agrees with me--especially for a fandom like Undertale with 1) a very young audience and 2) a very heavily character-centric form of storytelling, which inevitably results in nuanced personalities that are hard to grasp without full context (which means analyzing the canon... a lot!)

There's two very important things you should note though!! Undertale is a HUGE fandom. As hard as finding really accurate fics might be, they ARE out there, and when i find them I'm so invested in their accuracy and analysis that I enjoy them 10000 times more than someone who just... doesn't think about this stuff. It's about quality over quantity.

The other thing is: being this ""picky"" and analysis focused doesn't actually stop me from reading fanfiction. Just lately I've been going through the entire fandom tag on ao3 in reverse alphabetical order and trying out anything that doesn't immediately put me off via tags/summary. Is there a lot of stuff that reads ooc or that I just plain don't like? like, a LOT of it? absolutely. But at the end of the day, that ALSO becomes an exercise in analysis. Why did this portrayal come off as ooc? Was the character voice accurate to canon? If not, what made them differ? Was it the way the character acted, rather? Is this the author's bias or exaggeration? Why do I feel like it would be at odds with the person they are in canon? Would they ever be driven to behave like this? What would push them? Was that accurately justified in this fic? and so on.

it's true that engaging with fandom on the regular can heavily skew your perception of the original, but i feel that engaging with fanon and habitually returning to the canon as a point of reference, as contrast, as fact checking, is one of the best ways to truly understand both the characters and the fan communities that they gathered around them. overall, it's good fun!! well worth the occasional cursed content, and even then it gives me something to inflict psychic damage on my friends with.

#answered asks

[woodchipp]

Currently replaying OMORI because I'm a masochist with my best friends @beevean and @the-crow-binary providing emotional support lmfao. Even despite how soul-crushingly boring it is, I think we're still having some sort of fun with this clusterfuck of a game

Highlights (and the misc. problems we've managed to spot) so far include:

I already knew that this game's length was detrimental to it during my first solo playthrough, but this playthrough is helping me put into perspective just how bloated OMORI is, even when it comes to an aspect like dialogue. For example, a single conversation between Space Boyfriend and the main cast took us approximately 5 minutes to get through, and it's not like the writing is gripping enough to make us give a shit about the characters or anything they're saying

Speaking of the dialogue, you can just see how hard it tries to be witty and Quirky™ the way Earthbound and indie RPGs like Undertale were. Needless to say, it fails horribly, and the end result of that was me having to fast-track some conversations because they were unfunny and weren't relevant at all

I got unintentionally (!) stuck in White Space for 15-20 minutes because I couldn't find the map the game needed me to find to let me open the door. Beev came to hate the repetitive 8-bit BGM the area had by the time I finally found the map lol. game_design.exe

Headspace's music is so ear-gratingly abysmal oh my god. I can only call it "dollar-store Kirby music" because that's the most appropriate description that comes to mind and I'm pretty sure Lost at a Sleepover gave Beev severe PTSD. Of course, the music of Faraway Town isn't any better: the "track" that plays in the first fight with Aubrey is less music than it is the result of an .exe file being put through an audio player. Sonic Chronicles might have some serious competition in the "worst video game soundtrack" category asdfghjkl

The plot of the Faraway Town segments is so cookie-cutter that it genuinely hurts to sit through. Character writing (or the lack thereof) aside, Sunny and Kel spend half a day loitering around the town and asking Aubrey's cronies where she is even though Kel could've easily gotten that information from Mikhael had he just indulged the latter's delusions of grandeur a little bit

Faraway Town's daytime sky is literally a scrolling JPEG of a cloudy sky. The battle backgrounds of the real world segments are edited JPEGs as well. Everyone's houses look exactly the same on the outside save for some of them being a different color. The developers spent six years and more than $200,000 on this game.

Sunny's fights against his fears are boring. You just need to wait until a particular turn when the game grants you a special skill you use to end the fight immediately. What was the point of designing these hallucinatory monsters if the player doesn't get to fight them at any point during the main route?

Aubrey (ostensibly) swinging a nail bat at Sunny is not treated with the same degree of realism as Sunny slashing her with a knife. Additionally, Aubrey rides away on her scooter just fine even though she's supposed to be bleeding

Mari's picnic baskets are inexplicably scattered all across the town and fulfill the exact same function as they do in Headspace. So much for realism!

I won two of the fights against Aubrey's goons even though I was trying to lose. gameplay.exe

Sunny is even more unpleasant than I remember. He doesn't respond to Basil - who is supposedly his best friend - when the latter talks to him, stays silent while (and after) Kel vents to him about Hero yelling at him and barges into the church despite Kel advising him to wait until the sermon ends. Why should I feel bad for him again?

Kel generally seems to treat Sunny like an actual baby, spelling out incredibly obvious things to the latter (e.g. that Sunny shouldn't be carrying a knife or walking in the road because it's dangerous) and making all of Sunny's decisions for him, to the point of not allowing Sunny to return into his own house until nighttime under the pretense of "there's so much to do! it's a brand new day!"

Finally, the "fight" against Sunny's fear of spiders comes completely out of nowhere since nothing triggered said fear during Sunny's adventures outside

Peak game, everyone.

And it's going to get way worse down the line!

#omori #omori game #wood et al play omori #ig that's a tag now lol

[femmefatalevibe]

Aspiring Writers Guide: Part II

Tips For Writing Fiction:

Study your subject and the primary motivations, desires, insecurities, and fatal flaws that would plague the characters within the chosen setting/plot. Consider your narrative's culture and structure its "norms." How do your characters navigate these settings – conform, rebel, lead, follow? Structure your plot points around dilemmas, successes, and tensions that the reader would expect to occur within the plot you've set up.

Develop characters that you illustrate how they are a "product of their environment." Allow readers to get inside the characters' minds. Ideally, each character struggles with their own "moral dilemma" that they contemplate or attempt to work through over the course of the story. Build tension through plot points that provide contrast between characters with different "moral" scripts to undercover something deeper about each character and the fabric of their "society."

Embrace the "ugliness" inside of each character's mind – the deep or unprovoked thoughts that others relate to, but outside of a literary context, wouldn't dare to say out loud. Use show, not tell to display their flaws, triumphs, and other natural ebbs/flows that come with existing.

Have a plan for writing, but let the work finish itself, depending on how the characters develop themselves

Use descriptions, not observations to set the stage. Evoke and show provoked emotions, not describe the characters' feelings directly

Tips For Non-Fiction Writing:

Dive deep into a subject of interest, and consider its history, trends, and innovations. What conclusions or new perspectives can you articulate from this information?

Develop a multi-layered "thesis" to organize your ideas and clarify your POV. How do these interpretations help us come to unique and a deeper understanding of previous studies, research, anecdotes, and developments within this field of interest?

Begin your story on an unexpected or controversial note. Consider using a personal story or historical "fun fact" to draw the reader into the piece. Introducing your story with a personal story, question, or seemingly deviant question can easily hook your audience.

Give them a chance to ponder your new insights or thought-provoking ideas while reading your story. Use personal stories and research study findings to give authority to your story. Extract the main takeaways from these anecdotes, and use them to offer questions about the situations, dilemmas, or overall subject matter to your audience.

Be clear about your structure and how you organize your points. Ensure there's a logical flow between paragraphs, grafs, and sections (or chapters).

Don't forget to evoke emotion through your language and word choice. Allow your humanity to come through, use clever, relevant, humor. Make the audience feel like they're entering an educational fantasy land where the "storylines" envelop your mind as much as they do the page.

#writing advice #writing #fiction writing #nonfiction #character development #essay writing #storytelling #femme fatale #dark femininity #dark feminine energy #writeblr #creative writing #tips and tricks #personal growth #language skills #life lessons #career advice #career tips #femmefatalevibe

[irlcats-bracket]

Bracket 5 Semifinals 1

Handsome Stinkerbutt-Jones Boy vs BEYLA

check their descriptions and incredible propaganda for both of them under the cut!

HANDSOME

He's dumb as rocks and loves cheese and eggs. He will army crawl under the couch and scamper fast as lightning up the cat tree. He is the very best bastard boy and submitter loves him so much.

BEYLA

Beyla is submitter's lovely 6 year old pastel tortie! She is FIV positive, asymptomatic, and very very sweet. In the 3 years they've had her she's never once bitten or scratched on purpose, and if she doesn't like something she prefers to just.. walk away or turn the other direction. She spends most of her time sleeping next to submitter (which she is doing as they're typing this) and only likes to be held belly up so she can look at the world from an upside-down perspective. Submitter loves beyla so much she is their light their shining star precious baby their cat special interest is very happy she is around

CATPAGANDA

BEYLA

Some fun Beyla facts:

One time she ate an entire pasta noodle. This was around when we first got her but I still think about it sometimes. She hasn't done it since.

I was hyperfixated on learning about Norse mythology when we named her so her name comes from Beyla, a servant of Freyr and a goddess of bees herself. Fittingly one of the nicknames we have for her is Bee

She managed to move her dinner time to one hour earlier than it was originally by sheer force of will and nonstop pestering

She constantly looks kinda mad when she's just chillin' but it's just her face shape. If she was mad we would be informed in the way of her getting up and walking away.

As i'm writing this down she's loafing on top of my art supplies :D

HANDSOME

HE WAS AN OUTSIDE TRASH CAT AND NOW HES AN INDOOR TRASH CAT THAT LOVES HIS PARENTS SO MUCH!!! Hes so sweet and lovey but a bastard. he also likes to bite lick toes.

Want even more? Handsome has an additional catpaganda post!

#cat #cats #polls #catfight five #catfight five semifinals

[pharawee]

As it turns out, I unfortunately don't have the time to both gif I Feel You Linger in the Air and write commentary (also, it kind of feels like cheating since I've read the novel and know what's going to happen. I've read some of my mutuals' theories but joining in on the conversation kind of feels like ruining people's fun 😔).

That being said, I love the novel not just as a BL novel but as a beautifully written and crafted (and translated - it comes with so many footnotes!) story in general. Definitely check out the official translation if you like IFYLITA and want to support its writer. It's well worth the money.

I've written before that I was very curious about how the series would approach the way the novel almost treats the past as its own character. Descriptions of history and culture and architecture (and language but unfortunately some of that gets lost in translation by necessity) are so vivid and colourful, and it's such a big part of why I love the novel so much.

You'd need a huge budget (and lots of cgi) to translate this attention to detail into visual form - to the point where it would probably detract from the story itself - but IFYLITA found such an amazing workaround that adds so much depth and colour to the narrative: instead of relying on the environment to tell a story about the past it concentrates on the characters itself.

And tbh at first I was a bit irritated by the large cast of secondary characters (most of which exist only at the very fringes of the story in the novel) because I thought it would take away from Jom and Yai's story. There's an episode early on where 20+ minutes pass without either of them appearing or being talked about.

Only, the story as it exists in the series would simply not have the same impact without Ming and his aging mother, or Fongkaew's tragic backstory, or Prik's family background, or Ueangphhueng and Mei's quiet love story, or the sympathy the series extends towards characters like Khamsaen and James (Robert can get f'ed in both the novel and the series though). It's the intricacy of their relationships and social standing that paints a picture that's just as vivid and vital as Jom's observations of the past in the novel - and I love that. It's such a natural, visual way of storytelling and it complements the novel incredibly well. It's like the novel offers an inside look through Jom's perspective, and the series provides an outside look through showing the characters and their lives.

There's so many other things I'd love to write about eventually (like how the series portraits Yai when in the book we almost always view him through Jom's eyes, or how the series visualises the mystery and horror of Jom's time travel, or how both novel and series treat karma) but giffing comes first because silly moving images is what I'm here for. 🙏

#i feel you linger in the air #ifylita #bl meta #ifylita meta #jane watches stuff #why use many word when few shiny picture also do trick lmao #in which i really really love the novel ok #so everything ifylita-related i write is basically a love letter

[perplexingluciddreams]

I have pictures of AFOs to show, Friday I got them back with new adjustments! Here is some pictures plus photo of new shoes I will get (not have yet, but Mum order, so will get soon) :D

Current shoes pressure in bad way, a bit too small and narrow. New shoes will hopefully be much better fitting - I fit into 2 biggest kid sizes (so I can get cool kid pattern/colour!!). Biggest kid size is out of stock in both shoe options that I like, so I got 2nd biggest (I hope it is not too tight squeeze, from sizing chart I think it will be okay)!

[Image description: A photo of Ezra’s legs with AFO braces and shoes on them, taken from Ezra’s perspective. His trouser legs are rolled up. There is two black straps over the front of his calves, just below his knees. The straps have rectangular pads under them, to protect his skin, they are also black. There is another strap over the top of the foot, at the part where the foot meets the leg. There is another same pad over there too. The photo is taken from above, at a slight tilt, so only the edges of the AFO braces are visible. Ezra is wearing grey Nike trainers, with bits of pink and purple. The right shoe is untied. The laces on both shoes are stretched wide, because of the extra space the braces take up. End ID.]

[Image description: Another photo of Ezra’s AFO braces, taken from the side. The leg closest to the camera is extended out to show off the camouflage pattern on the braces. The other leg rests in a relaxed position over the edge of the bed he sits on. End ID.]

[Image description: A side-on image of a shoe, taken from the website where they were ordered from. The shoe is a trainer style and is mostly army green and black, with black laces and a white sole. It has a red zip along the outside of the shoe. The zip goes from the heel to the top of the laces, allowing the shoe to be opened in a way that is easier to put on with an orthotic. Above the zip is a patch of camouflage pattern, and there is another small patch on the tongue. The inside lining of the shoe is red, of which a hint is visible just along the edge of the opening. End ID.]

This shoe is called “Kids Excursion Camo”, from the company “Friendly Shoes”. They are UK based, and have kid and adult shoes for AFOs and disabilities! Not all of them have the zip in the same place. They have several different styles and colour options. I am happy I fit into kid sizes because they have the most fun colours! They have their own sizing system, with a clear size chart and measuring instructions on the website.

I will do a post about the shoes once they arrive! I just really hope they fit (since I had to go with the second biggest kid size, instead of biggest kid size - I don’t want it to be too tight of a squeeze. But they say lots of width on the website, and the length fits according to my measurements, so I don’t worry too much 😊). I am excited about shoes and AFOs pattern match!!!

On sort-of-related topic, I bring up possible option of posterior walker (walker that go behind with handles at sides) to Mum, and she say she will speak to physio about it. I don’t know if it will be the best option for me, but it is worth a try! It might help me walk further and go out places, since it has optional add-ons like fold down seat, forearm platforms, pelvic stabiliser, and various other straps and supports. I am excited about having more options (even if I am stuck in bed with muscle spasm-y pain in whole left side upper body right now writing this 🥲🥲).

#words from my head #snapshots of my life #image #described #afos #ankle foot orthotics #orthotics #leg braces #shoes #disabled #disability #physical disability

[444rockstargf]

hii! omg okay so i absolutely love your works and your writing style and i wanted to know how you started up writing on here because i’ve been wanting to for a while but have no idea how to start 😣

thank you so much for this question! I'm gonna answer it in detail and feel free to dm me if ur confused abt anything!

OLIVIA'S (almost) COMPLETE WRITING GUIDE!

the basics.

i'll start off really easy. to begin, find someone (preferably famous). if this person is in any films, watch a few to get a taste of a couple different characters. this will help you form a hyperfixation to a character. this will be who you write for. for me, it's rory culkin & spencer reid. from here, now we can get to the fun part.

your aesthetic.

your theme is the next thing that will draw in an audience. I'm completely aware of the trillions of different aesthetics in the world, but more popular ones tend to draw a larger audience (odd, I know.) currently trending aesthetics include 2014 grunge (shades of black, pink, and lots of soft filters), coquette (pastel pinks and soft cremes, can be followed with slightly disturbing content), and my favourite, gothic. (falls into 2014 a little. i include themes from my favourite album. music will draw in a crowd too.) but this part is extremely flexible, so choose any style that you want!

friends & your fandom.

one of the best things you can do to give your account a kick start before even starting is to make friends in a fandom. reblog fics you like, leave kind comments, "sneak" into dms and leave encouraging messages. this'll earn you some followers and supporters right off the bat. if you're comfy with it, tell your friends outside of tumblr to follow you too (but I totally understand where that can get messy, so no pressure.)

writing + visuals.

now we're getting to the good part. fanfics are categorized into 3 main parts: smut, fluff, and angst (all I'm sure you've seen on my page.) smut is sexual stuff, fluff usually has a more cozy atmosphere around it, and angst is all the gut-wrenching stuff that really tugs at your heartstrings. as you write for either one of these things, keep in mind that your visual should support whatever the theme of the fic is. idk how long you've been supporting me, but ever since the start (august 2023) I have included some sort of visual in my content. first I only used gifs and ordinary fonts, then I branched out and began putting together my own photos and making the title match. your visual will reflect the quality of your writing.

when writing for anything, second person is usually my go-to (you went to the store, you took a walk, etc). it is the most commonly used perspective and prevent any confusion for the readers. when writing smut, there are certain words and phrases that'll be good with readers, and some that won't. when referring to the vagina, "cunt" and "pussy" will do better than "coochie" or "bearded clam" (yes, I've actually seen that used in a fic). when writing angst or fluff, create a mood by using sensory words that paint a picture in the reader's mind. practice this by googling good descriptive words and weaving them into your fics. this'll boost your writing by a ton, trust me.

conclusion.

this was a lot to take in, I know. when I first started publishing fics on this account, my content was far from good, but I promise you will improve as you go. remember to pace yourself, don't force yourself to write if you just don't feel like it. any writer on this app will understand that feeling. leave your inbox open most of the time to receive good ideas from your supporters, but let them know if you ever need to close it because of an excessive workload. i don't know if you're in school, but finding a good balance between schoolwork and writing fics is a huge part of this whole thing too. thank you so much for the wonderful ask, and my dms are open if you have any more questions.

xoxo, olivia.

#liv's (almost) complete writing guide . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. #444rockstargf

[xerith-42]

Thanks so much answering my last post! I have few more questions:

Is your rewrite published yet? If so what is it called and where could I read it?

Also- your descriptions of Irene and Shad/Araphel are awesome and I would love to hear more of them (of all the divine really). Was Irene the lover of Shad? How did she rise to power, and what was she like before she fought him (also how exactly did the fight start? You said he got into a rage due to obsessing over something he couldn't have (Irene's whole undivided attention/love, but does that mean he grew to be violent towards her and the other warriors? Did he fall into jealous fits upon seeing her interact with its members?)

Lastly- Was Edmund and Enki in love with Irene in your rewrite, or have you changed it to more familial love and duty? Similarly, is Xavier in your rewrite? If so, what part does he play in the story, and was he also in love with Irene?

Question 1: No, neither of them are. If you want to read some of my writings you can check out my AO3, but most of my writing on there is a different variety of gay block men, and I only have the MID works and reuploads of my Garrance week stuff as something in the Aphamu fanbase.

Question 2/3: Absolutely. Araphel and Irene had a very toxic romance with one another, one that could have looked good to an outsider, but was clearly awful from the perspective of everyone watching. Not from the start, they were once very loving and kind people towards one another, largely because they met before the relics came into play in their lives. It was once the relics showed up and started gving them responsibilities outside of each other that Irene became distant, and Araphel became jealous.

Before things fell apart, I could absolutely see the two of them happily lying in one another's arms in a river that once ran through the cursed forest. They could be caught gallivanting off onto another romantic vacation, going off to see if they could find more relic holders once they got theirs. Irene used to be a woman full of life, wonder, and ideals. Someone who sought out others to bring humans together. It was only when she saw how jealous Araphel became that she realized the folly of man, how susceptible they are to their vices.

It was a slow building sort of jealousy too. At first it was just wanting to be around her all the time, then it was getting angry when she was gone for too long, questioning her on who she was with and what they were doing. Then it became basically stalking, where Araphel didn't trust Irene on her own and made sure she wasn't seeing anyone else when she disappeared for so long. If she showed even the slightest interest towards Esmund or literally anybody else, Araphel would threaten them. Irene obviously became fed up with this behavior, but when you're both humans turned into demi-gods, your lovers spat becomes less of a petty argument, and into the kind of thing that can cause an all out war and ripping open dimensions with the help of giant intelligent flying lizards.

Wait who the fuck is Xavier and why is everyone mentioning him? [one wiki check later] Oh! Huh, well I hadn't thought about him in a minute. I don't believe Xavier was a relic holder, for one. I think he was Irene's childhood best friend who harbored feelings of love towards her that he never expressed out of fear of rejection, and eventually gave up on once Araphel came into the picture and he realized that Irene wanted something else. He still loves Irene and held no resentment towards her, only wishing for her to be able to return to the bright eyed optimistic girl he fell in love with while playing in their old village.

As for Enki and Esmund, Esmund is still very in love with Irene in my rewrites. There's even a scene in the Epic I wrote that has the person who inherited Kul'zak's relic making fun of Garroth for the fact that Esmund, Araphel, and Irene couldn't figure out the obvious solution they already figured out to this conundrum. The solution is polyamory. I really don't like Enki having a crush on Irene, I think it's just not a good choice for his character because it essentially makes the Divine Warriors just a bunch of guys fighting over one girl while Kul'zak and Menphina watch from the sidelines eating popcorn.

Which is basically the dynamic in my rewrite, but Enki is also on the sidelines with them and sometimes has violent make out sessions with Kul'azk while Menphina just rolls her eyes and starts simping over her favorite toxic couple.

#text post #minecraft diaries #aphblr #aphverse #mcd headcanons #mcd rewrite #divine warriors #shad the destroyer #araphel the realm breaker #i know it's not a tag I just want it to be #irene the matron #enki the keeper #esmund the protector #kul'zak the wanderer #xavier the admirer #Mephina the fury #answering asks #queued post

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

writing patterns

[list the first line of your last ten fics and see if there's a pattern.]

Oooo~ Thank you for the tag, @cealesti!! <3 This looks fun!

Let's see...

thrown into the nest - HP

Harry had assumed he was a beta.

2. There's Love (if you want it) - HP

The night he returned from delivering Gryffindor’s sword to the Forest of Dean, Severus Snape sat in the headmaster’s office – ostensibly his office, though he’d never felt more false in his nearly twenty years as a double agent than he did in this new role – and made a decision for himself.

3. like those palaces in fairy tales - HP

The end of the war is a blur to Harry.

4. A long, hard road - HP

When Harry comes to in a dark room with no real idea of where he is, his body and mind freeze, immediately kicked into a loop of fear and pain and nononononotagain–

5. unfailingly ingenious at having a good time - HP

It had started with academic curiosity on Hermione’s part; Ron might have been a little quick on the follow-through, though.

6. wake-up call - HP

It happens while he’s having a long-overdue visit with Ginny.

7. at the seams - HP

The thing about being an outcast who has no hope of being included is that you can watch other people from the outside.

8. engrave the silhouette of you - HP

He comes to in a pile of rubble, dust slowly settling around him in vaporous drifts.

9. __-tober 2023: The Promptening - HP

There’s a man crouched in front of him, and Harry’s not sure why or when that happened.

10. crave gets slaked - HP

Harry found himself thinking about that night.

I hadn't realized how many stories I've written from Harry's perspective lately. I flip between POVs in a few of these fics, but it looks like I like to start with Harry.

I'm glad that most of these fics start with fairly short sentences. I know I can get carried away with n-dashes and semicolons and endless commas (giving you some side-eye, #2). But at least the introduction to most of these fics isn't that rambly.

These sentences also show I tend to focus on the characters and their interactions. I don't usually bother to include much description. It's something I worry is a weak point in my writing, but whenever I try to include more it feels clumsy and excessive. Perhaps it's just part of my style.

As for the titles, I really need to pick a capitalization style and stick with it... Also, the contrast between the trying-to-sound-deep ones and the silliness. It's a thing.

I'm getting nervous about tagging people because I don't want to be a pest. (Which is silly, because I was thrilled to be tagged in this, so other people probably would be, too. And yet...) So, if you see this and you want to participate, do it! And tag me so I can see your responses, please~

#tag meme #tumblr game #the anxiety is loud today #harry potter #tomarrymort #writing meta #talk about your fics

[mangohobbit]

Soap and the artist

(Soap x y/n)(civilian)...I think that's how it goes? I'm still learning fanfiction language 😅😅

Authors note: So this is my first fanfiction ever and I am honestly terrified of posting it but FUCK IT! I have seen various styles for fanfic writing but I was really bad in trying to copy that so I just went with what I was most comfortable with.

-Just a few little notes before you get started so you aren't completely lost. 1) Setting is wherever you would like. The 141 are in a foreign country to their own so have fun with it. (make one up if you want. I kept it vague so you could use your imagination although I am descriptive on the setting being a mountainous region) 2) Anything italicized means you're speaking in another language (again, have fun with it) 3) I hope my jumping between perspectives is alright? Again, this is my first fanfic and I'm still getting used to this writing style so please bear with me 😅 Enjoy 🥰

(P.S : No NSFW warning....for now. This will be a slow burn. Just alot of flirting and tension)

Word count: 2820

Chapter 1: Sunbeams

The late afternoon air was setting in with an unfamiliar peace that Johnny had not felt in some time. It had also been awhile since he smelt the air of a new base. Everything about this place smelled of new. New walls, new floors, new paint, new everything other than his team that now walked its halls. His team of the 141 had been assigned for the training of some soldiers in the province of some small country that never came onto his rader from how small and insignificant it was. He thought it a shame that he had never heard of such a place considering he had been all over the world at this point. He also thought it a shame because of how beautiful it was. Although he had only seen the military airport and the roads that lead to the base which didn’t lead to any city, town, or village; only some spread out farms, the land was lush and green and the climate cool for the season; which seemed to be spring. He did see the outline to town from a distance once he was on the base. Once he had unpacked what he needed, him, and Gaz decided to explore the new place together. Ghost locked himself in his room for some much needed sleep as he tended to be a bad sleeper on plane rides. “I think the hairs on my nostrils are vaporizing from the smell of new paint,” Gaz rubbed his nose. 

“We’ve smelled our own funk and of others for so long that this is definitely a weird whiff for our noses,” Johnny laughed. 

“Kinda smells like a fresh mopped shopping center doesn’t it?” Gaz chuckled.

“Yeah,” Johnny laughed back at the comparison. 

The two friends found themselves on a balcony outside a small communal lounge area on the second floor. Underneath them was an open dirt field where some thirty young, newly appointed soldiers all lined up in rows and columns listening to their commanding officer give them some sort of speech. Majority were some pretty young lads. Looking at them made Johnny reminisce about his first few years in the military. He honestly wasn’t that much older than those boys down there but he wasn’t considered a “young adult” anymore and those years now seemed so far away with everything that he has seen and experienced. 

From this balcony is where he could see the outline of the town that seemed to sit by the river that the base sat next to as well. The area that the base was on was where the river expanded itself into some small marsh lands covered by a variety of tall grass, small bush, and tree’s. Rising all around them were some majestic mountains that loomed over them from all angles. The familiar views of long expanded valley’s made him nostalgic for his homeland. It was rather uncanny how alike the landscape looked from the views he saw growing up. 

“Why do you think Price accepted this assignment?” Johnny asked. “We’ve never been trainers or mentors before.

“Perhaps the world is finally at peace for once and the captain just wanted to keep us busy,” Gaz replied. “But knowing Laswell, this whole thing reeks of a deeper plot.”

“You think the captain and Laswell have another reason for us to be here?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised Soap. Would you?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I was told one thing only to be saddled with another…and another,” he leaned against the railing, letting his elbows hold him up. 

“The plot will eventually thicken. Just you wait,” Gaz positioned himself in the same way as well. 

“Maybe we’re here for good reason?” Johnny wondered.

“Ready to be someone’s knight in shining armor Soap? Gaz released a small snort. 

“More like someone’s dog. Ready to fetch the ball.” Johnny sighed. 

“Come on Soap, normally Ghost is the pessimist.”

“Agh, you’re right. I think I’m just tired from the flight,” Johnny huffed. 

“You still have some time to rest up. Price said we wouldn’t be properly introduced until tomorrow morning,” Gaz patted his friends back. 

The two men started their route back to the barracks when they passed by the security office. Price was in there talking back and forth with an officer. Johnny and Gaz were able to catch what the conversation was about. 

“Alright I’ll have someone check out the sensor,” Price began to walk out the door when he spotted two of own lingering outside. 

“Everything alright Captain?” Gaz asked

“Security has just informed me that a motion sensor has been triggered,” he informed his boys about the alarm. 

“Couldn’t it just be an animal?” Johnny reasoned.

“I thought that too but the sensor is designed to go off only when anything that weighs more than a hundred pounds passes by it. We should check it out either way. This place is new and it already has some heads turning our way,” the captain crossed his arms. 

That was when Johnny knew Gaz was right about something more than training some new armed recruits was their purpose for being here. “We’re already up and dressed captain so we’ll go ahead and take a look at it,” Johnny looked to his crewmate. 

“Gear up and go find out what it was then. It was the northmost sensor, number T110.” the captain let them know. “Leave in five minutes and give me a radio check when you reach it,” Price headed back towards his new office.  

Geared up and armed the two soldiers headed towards the sensor. They were going in blind to this not only because they didn’t know what tripped the sensor but also they didn’t know the lay of the land just yet. They knew which direction of the base's perimeter was north but they came up to two others before coming up to the right one. It had a small light that was blinking red. It wasn’t hard to see that the place was disturbed…by a human. Clear footprints came from the fences direction and headed out towards the river. There was a clear path where the footprints were stamped on. Seemed to be a frequently used forest path to get to the river banks. 

“Let’s see if our guest is still here?” Johnny followed the path while Gaz walked from behind. To get to the river it was a slight downhill in the land with small curves that avoided the tree’s.

“These are some small prints Soap. It’s not like there are hardy boots or anything,” Gaz took note of the pattern of the prints which looked more like sneakers. 

“You’re right,” Johnny replied. “Maybe some local kids getting to their regular spot. We should be ready to not look intimidating if these are just local civilians,” Johnny began to speak quietly as they got near the riverbank. 

“Copy that,” Gaz nodded. 

The sounds of the flowing water started to get louder and louder as they tracked the footprints. A giant boulder crushed between two large trees blocked their sight of the river which was now in view. They could hear some shuffling going around the other side of the large chunk of rock. The two men put their backs and eyed one another in silence, giving each other hand signals on how they were going to approach this. Just as they were about to creep to the other side, the sudden bark of a dog that jumped in front of them made the two men flinch. 

“Shit,” Johnny cursed. 

“Who’s behind there!” 

Johnny’s mind did a mental gasp at the sound of a woman’s voice. It was speaking in the native tongue of course.

“Oli, get back here!”

“Recall your dog miss! Gaz shouted. “We’re from the base!” The woman’s voice shouted for her dog once more and the medium sized mutt retreated back to its owner in a huff. 

“We’re going to walk out! Don’t move an inch!” Johnny commanded; although he didn’t know if the person could understand him in the first place. It was a hunch at the very least since the dog did back up once its name was called when Gaz told the mystery intruder to do so. 

“You can come out now,” The voice spoke in English this time with a slight accent. 

Soap nodded his head forward for Gaz to follow him around the boulder. With their guns up they slowly crept into the view of the stranger standing within the shallows of the river. With your overalls rolled up to your knees and the sun rays that peeked through the tree’s which created a gold halo around your silhouette, Johnny was left speechless at the sight of you.

“I’m not armed…unless you count this small stone,” you held up her arms decorated in an array of beaded bracelets while holding the stone you warned them about. 

“What’s in the bag?” Johnny pointed out the stuffed canvas messenger bag on the ground. 

“Paint supplies,” you replied. 

Johnny approached the bag, lifted its flap, then revealed the said paint supplies. He rummaged around just in case. You did not like that as she yelled at him to keep his hands out of it.  

“You do know you are trespassing here, miss?” Gaz questioned you. 

“Yeah well up until eight months ago this place was open to everyone,” you had an angry tone to your voice. The stare of annoyance in your eyes gave Johnny a slight shiver up his spine. 

He didn’t have to be so aggressive in looking through your things. Damn those pretty blue eyes that looked up at you as your hands were up in the air so as to not provoke them. They were holding some pretty big guns at you and your dog. Luckily your furry companion was behaving for once and listening to your command of staying still, but they were ready to pounce at any time now. 

“Please don’t hurt my dog,” you said to the soldiers. 

“What’s his name?” The soldier with the silly mohawk asked you. 

“Oli,” you responded. “He’s just cautious but he’s nice if you approach him slowly…and not sneak from behind,” you said the last part in a scoff. The mohawk guy noticed and smiled a crooked grin your way. Damn he’s cute, you bit your tongue. The soldier carefully extended his hand to your dog with some soft words of encouragement to smell him. 

“Oli, safe,” you said to your dog. Oli yapped a happy bark and jumped onto the soldier’s chest with an unstoppable wagging tail which made their bottom wiggle back and forth. 

“Oh what a good dog you are,” the mohawk guy said in the usual “happy that a dog is happy” kind of voice. 

The other soldier with the baseball cap also crouched down to pet Oli with a smile. It put you at ease that Oli was calm and happy with them around. “Can I put my hands down now?” you asked. 

“Yes, miss,” the baseball-capped soldier said.

With your arms now resting you headed back to the riverbank. On the sand of the bank you unloaded your pockets of different stones. “That’s all I have, I swear.”

“Even though you’re not an armed threat you still haven’t answered what you’re doing here,” mohawk guy questioned you. 

“You know normally introducing yourself with your name is the polite thing to do. Or do they not do that sort of thing anymore around the world,” you jested. 

“You’re the one on our side of the fence so why don’t you start with introductions. What’s your name miss?”

Dick. Why did he have to be a cute dick. “I’m (Y/N) , I live in the town that overlooks that ugly thing,” you pointed at the gray blocks that made up the military base. 

“I take it you’re not a fan of your new neighbors?” Mohawk asked. 

“It would’ve been nice to not have it block my spot. Maybe if you built it not here then I wouldn’t mind it so much. I think it would look great in the mountains…on the other side,” you jested again.

"Your spot?” Mohawk asked. 

“Yes my spot, Mohawk! I’ve been coming here since I could walk and that damn fence isn’t going to stop me!”

Those cute angry eyes were definitely going to be the death of him. Calm yourself Johnny. A pair of batting lashes shouldn’t put your defenses down. But oh how he wanted to. 

“Oh, you already gave me a nickname?” 

“Well it’s not like YOU introduced yourself or your friend Baseball Cap over here,” you put your hands on your hips. 

“I’m Sergeant MacTavish and this is Sergeant Garrick,” he finally introduced himself. 

“Well Sergeant, if you’ll excuse me I have some business to attend to before I lose the light,” you approached your bag. Taking out your collapsible easel, you unclipped it and tried to position it in the right direction. 

“No miss you cannot make camp here,” MacTavish was about to reach for your easel when you swatted at his hand with a loud smack. “Hey!” he yapped. You could hear his friend smile with a chuckle. 

“I’m not setting up camp. Don’t you know an easel when you see it, soldier? I’m going to paint. Now if you will, I would appreciate some silence,” you only continued doing your usual set up. 

Johnny wasn’t about to deny that he was both surprised and slightly turned on from the hand smack you placed on the back of his hand. Not too often does he meet many people with such fearlessness. Your determination was admirable but he had a job to do and you weren’t supposed to be here. He backed away from you and came up to Gaz with a whisper. 

“So how do you want to play this?” Gaz asked. 

“Well she’s not a threat but she can’t be here,” Johnny pointed out. Peering over his shoulder he saw how you carefully set up her easel which transformed into a mini table on the side and took several other tools out. A jar of water, a pouch full of paint brushes, and a small palette with some nice looking paints. Looking at the tools brought the soldier back to his elementary art classroom. It used to be his favorite subject. His art teacher was the only one who cared about his doodles and scribbles. She would even hang her favorite ones on the wall. Nostalgia from a better time in his life flooded his mind. He felt bad having to move someone like you who just wanted her creative space back. With a huff and grunt he turned to Gaz. “You go Gaz, I’ll stay behind and wait for her to finish. It’s almost dark anyways,” Johnny sighed. 

“You’re going to let her stay?” Gaz asked. 

“Yeah, just head back. I’ll radio Price in a sec to let him know.”

“It’s your head Soap,” Gaz snickered. 

“I know,” Johnny huffed. 

“Have a goodnight miss,” Gaz said his goodbyes. “Goodnight Oli,” he patted your dog one last time before heading back and disappearing behind the tree’s.

“So you’re going to babysit me?” You jeered.  

“I’m no monster to disturb a creative mind. Plus, I don’t feel right leaving a damsel in the middle of nowhere when it’ll be getting dark soon,” Mohawk got himself comfortable on a stone. 

“How noble of you, Mohawk,” you huffed at the man. “Suit yourself,” you hunched your shoulders. Unbothered by the results. As long as you got to paint, all was good. Though, you wish you didn’t have to have a huge burly, mohawked, military dude breath down your neck. Cute for sure, but annoying nonetheless. 

As much as Johnny tried to admire the serenity of the location, which had much to look at in nature, he couldn’t help looking at you.  You were barefoot with your toes curled in the sand. Your back stood as straight as an oak. Your gaze aimed for the tree’s to the south of the riverbank. A landscape that was now disturbed by what you described as “those ugly things” which still left a laugh in Johnny’s chest. Your focus is what he couldn’t stop looking at the most. Christ was it mesmerizing to see how your eyes pierced through the landscape in trying to capture your little painting. You began to quickly work on what he could only describe as the best bloody sunset landscape he had ever seen. The soft pinks and purples were so similar to the real thing. 

“Y-you’re really talented,” he was finally able to get a compliment out of his mouth. 

In an elegant turn of your head the military man was captured by your stare. He gulped at your glare. “Thank you,” you smiled.

#cod mw2 #call of duty #john soap mactavish #soap cod #soap mw2 #soap fanfic #soap x y/n #soap x reader #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty fanfic

[russellrustles]

Showbiz, Baby - Chapter 3

a/n: and it’s finally here… and it’s getting a little more convoluted… I must admit that I quite enjoyed writing this chapter. The usual thanks go out to @f1tingz for being a fabulous proofreader (and for threatening me whenever I stopped writing).

warnings: recreational drinking, swearing, flashback and description of a (racing related) crash, hospitals, mentions of (nearly) vomiting, a bit of a smutty buildup

word count: 9.1k

masterlist

showbiz, baby playlist

(adding some George tags once again because the first half features a lot of platonic George)

——————————

The hardwood floor of your apartment does a good job at sucking any of the final dregs of warmth and content out of you. Late afternoon sunlight illuminates the London skyline and filters in through the windows, but its steadily weakening rays do nothing but gradually drop your home into increasing darkness.

Sitting on the floor like a dejected child, you open the guitar case and lift up the acoustic guitar by the neck. The dying rays give the deep cognac a fiery tint, but the longer you look at the guitar, the further and further away your thoughts drift from London, and the closer they get to Monaco.

Against your will, they take you back to all the evenings spent with you sitting on the floor and Charles on the piano stool, producing a bizarre, sometimes grating, sometimes mellow array of music. The oddity of the combination of the two instruments hadn’t bothered you in the slightest - all that you had cared about was that you had played together, as one, and had fun whilst doing so.

Shaking your head free of the thoughts, you rise to your feet and move to the spare room in which you hold the more miscellaneous parts of your life. You unceremoniously (yet still respectfully) place the acoustic on a stand amongst a rather hefty collection of guitars. If it will only bring back bittersweet memories, then you can leave it here to face them another day, when you’ll be more ready to accept what had happened and move on.

But deep down, you know damn well that wallowing in your own self-pity is the only thing you’re capable of achieving right now.

You scold yourself mentally, acknowledging how pathetic it must all seem from an outside perspective. Shouldn’t you be getting your life together, rebuilding yourself as an individual?

The familiar, yet unwelcome, ring of the doorbell forces you to leave the room and walk towards the door. You’re expecting an unpleasant confrontation, most likely somebody from a nearby apartment complaining about the volume of your music or the scraping of you moving your furniture around whilst impulsively remodelling your living space.

Instead, upon opening the door you find Gabi and George, both looking far too hyper considering the time of day. They’re not wearing casual outfits either - Gabi’s wearing a short, merlot-coloured dress that compliments her black hair whilst George is in a shirt and jeans that you specifically recognise as being some of his ‘going out’ clothes.

Oh no.

“Well, hello, hello!” Gabi beams, barging past you and into your home, already rushing over to the kitchen presumably to grab a drink or snack. George just gives you a small shrug as he walks past before following Gabi into the kitchen.

After having shut the front door, you make your way into the kitchen as well, observing the two of them pouring themselves glasses of juice and grabbing some snacks from the cupboards. Something like this isn’t a particularly uncommon occurrence for the three of you; however, you usually would have received a bit more prior notice.

“So, did you come over for any particular reason other than plundering my kitchen?” you ask eventually once they seem satisfied with their stolen collection of crisps, dried fruits and biscuits.

“We’ve come for a very good reason, now get to the bedroom,” Gabi replies, striding past you once again with George in tow as she heads towards your bedroom with her loot.

Slightly confused by what’s occurring, you attempt to add some humour to the situation, “Shouldn't you take me out to dinner first?”

“Hurry up!” George yells from the bedroom, clearly unentertained, and you don’t really have any other options than to cave in to their demands.

They’ve laid all the snacks out at the end of the bed and their drinks are on the nightstands. George sits on the bed, propped up against a pile of pillows against the headboard whilst Gabi is already rummaging through your dresser seemingly searching for something, but ruining your strictly-organised clothes instead.

“Can either of you please just explain what you’re doing?” you sigh, exasperated.

Gabi finally finds your stash of dresses, digging some out and chucking them onto the bed, before turning around to face you. “You made me cancel the birthday party plans after that France fiasco,” she begins, pointing a finger at you, “But that doesn’t mean that you get to sit around all depressed. We’re going out for some overdue celebrations, so pick a dress and get going.”

“You can’t be serious,” you mumble. Quite honestly, you had been aiming to do nothing until your next race, so this sudden upheaval of your plans is coming much to your distaste.

“She is very much being serious,” George responds, still sprawled out across the majority of your bed, “Now try some dresses on before we run out of time. You can start with that pink one.”

Groaning, you roll your eyes and snatch the dress from the bed, petulantly stomping into the en-suite bathroom. Slamming your phone onto the countertop, you begin stripping your clothes off and putting the dress on. It’s a blush pink bodycon dress, with nothing particularly special to it, but at the end of the day a dress is a dress.

Taking a deep breath, you open the door and walk back into your bedroom. Your posture is undoubtedly atrocious as you awkwardly stand before your miniature audience, wishing that you could just hunker down under a pile of blankets and watch films all night long.

Gabi and George are both reclined on your bed, sharing a pack of crisps, and irritating the hell out of you when you start thinking about how many crumbs they’ll be leaving behind. They look you up and down, and Gabi is the first to speak, “Next. This one just doesn’t have the razzle dazzle.”

“Alright you diva,” you laugh, before yelping as George throws an black dress with gold accents at you and it hits you in the face. You facetiously flip him off before scurrying off to the bathroom again.

This time when you’re about to leave, hand already on the door handle, your phone begins to ring. You turn around and pick it up, deciding that a few more minutes of waiting won’t hurt Gabi or George. However, upon checking the caller ID, your heart sinks.

Charles ❤️

You’re going to have to change that.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen, debating whether talking to him is a good idea or whether it’d throw your mental state back to square one. After a few more seconds, you close your eyes and accept the call.

“I know you probably don’t want me calling you, but this is urgent,” he blurts out, his mellifluous accent slightly distorted over the phone in a way that makes it lose its familiarity.

“What are you on abou-“

“What’s taking you so long?” Gabi hollers from the other side of the door, knocking a few times to get your attention. You panic, gasping and hanging up before dropping the phone back onto the counter, feeling like a teenager who’s about to be busted for stealing alcohol.

A pang of regret shoots through you as you head towards the door and open it. What if Charles is being serious, and something has actually happened? Surely if you had made it clear that you no longer want anything to do with him, he wouldn’t be contacting you unless it truly is an emergency.

Gabi examines you for a second, before giving her opinion, “I like this one, this one’s good.” The two of you look over at George who’s tapping away at something on his phone. Gabi sighs, grabbing a hairbrush from the top of your dresser and chucking it at George with terrifyingly precise aim, sending the man hurtling off the bed not from the force of the impact but from the sheer shock of being hit square in the chest.

You try your best to stifle your giggles as his head pops up from behind the bed, and he quickly looks you over before raising a weak thumbs up, “Nice dress.”

“Wonderful!” Gabi exclaims, clapping excitedly, “You go get your shoes on, I’ll grab your stuff.” You nod and leave the bedroom, George standing up from the floor and following you out. Wordlessly, you both put your shoes on and just idly stand by the front door, not quite making eye contact, but not quite avoiding each other.

“So, who’s driving?” you ask, trying to start a conversation.

“We’re walking,” he replies simply, picking at the little bits of skin around his nails.

“Oh, okay.” Clearly the chances of a good discussion with him today are low.

Gabi comes over with a small handbag of yours in one hand and your phone in the other, holding it away from her as if it’s radioactive. “You might want to check that,” she mumbles, handing the device over to you as she puts her shoes on. You feel George leaning over your shoulder to take a look as you turn the screen on.

Written out across the screen is a disconcertingly straightforward text message from Charles.

You need to come back to Monaco.

George immediately takes a step back, and you look over your shoulder to see him pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing in defeat. In front of you, Gabi has a pained grimace on her face, deathly silent as she awaits your reaction.

It’s overwhelming, really - the sudden silence has a weight to it, a crushing sort of weight capable of making you feel utmost discomfort and borderline pain in your heart. You feel your throat tightening as you unlock your phone, feeling the need to type some sort of reply despite your mind being devoid of any possible response.

Without warning, Gabi lunges forward to grab your phone and throw it in your handbag. “Not tonight. Let him wait,” she chides, passing the crossbody bag over to you.

You find it rather humiliating that you have to fight back tears as you reply, “But what if it’s urgent?” Perhaps Charles isn’t perfect, but he surely isn’t cruel enough to fake an emergency.

“Getting back in time for your birthday date was urgent, but did he give a shit?” she retorts. Her brutal approach to the matter hits you with the force of a sledgehammer, but you can’t deny the fact that she’s correct.

Standing perfectly still, entangled in your thoughts, you eventually feel George put a hand on your shoulder and begin ushering you towards the front door with an emotionless comment of, “Come on, let’s get going to the first club.”

—————

The three of you enter your first destination after a brisk walk in the fresh early-night air. You find yourself immediately surrounded by blaring music and colourful lights, the venue filled with the sort of pounding bass so loud that it seems to shake your organs.

As much as you want to take this as a chance to step away from everything going on in your life, at the forefront of your mind you find the usual thought: what if someone recognises you or George? Obviously it’s not necessarily a bad thing if it does happen, but it doesn’t always look good for your public image if photos of you drunk in some random club start circulating around the internet.

Gabi grabbing your hand forces you to pay attention to her instead of your own thoughts. “Come on, George will get us some drinks,” she tells you, dragging you off through the throng of people as George disappears into another direction. She only stops leading you once the two of you reach a slightly quieter section of the club.

“So, the plan for tonight,” she begins, turning around to face you and hold both your hands, “You’re going to have some fun and finally let go of all the recent drama, even if it’s just for the night, yes?”

You nod in acquiescence - it’s not like she’d let you argue anyways.

“Have some drinks, find some random guy that suits your fancy, go wild. Me and George will get you back home, don’t you worry,” she concludes.

Being given this much free-rein would normally be an exciting opportunity, but tonight it only seems intimidating. Perhaps a part of you is concerned that if you truly let go, you won’t be able to rein yourself back in.

It doesn’t take long for George to find you both, making his way over with three drinks in his hands and passing two over to you and Gabi. You don’t bother asking what it is, and instead just take a sip, immediately realising that it’s something on the stronger side as you savour the burn in your throat.

You spend a few minutes leaning against your friends, occasionally sipping your drink or making small talk, before you decide that it’s time to get moving instead of just standing there. Gabi and George seem delighted that you’ve finally decided to do something of your own volition, absolutely beaming as they follow you while you weave through the crowd and towards the dancefloor.

Letting the music flow through you, you begin an awkward sort of dance, but you don’t really care about what you might look like right now. The music and dancing are borderline hypnotic, making you completely lose track of time as you move your body. You’re not particularly aware of where your friends are either, only seeing them occasionally when they come over to take an empty glass and give you a new drink.

When Gabi comes over with your third drink you spend a few minutes dancing with her, the alcohol beginning to kick in and filling you with a steady sense of euphoria. “I knew you’d have fun eventually!” she rejoices, squeezing your cheeks before shoving the drink in your hand and moving away.

For quite a while, you remain on the dancefloor, dancing next to girls you’ve never met before and grinding against guys you’ll never see again, no longer bothered about protecting your reputation or public image - the media has already done a good job at shredding it, so having some fun can’t possibly do much more damage.

However, at one point you start getting a little lightheaded, not just from teetering on the edge between tipsy and drunk but also from the suffocating heat and roaring noise of the venue. You leave the blond guy you had been dancing with without saying anything, ignoring his brief protest, and start winding your way out of the packed section of the club.

You spot George leaning against a wall, and you assume he’s taking a breather from the energy of the crowd too.

“Hey Georgie, where’s Gabi?” you ask, leaning against him as he brushes some hair away from your face.

“She’s been dancing with some group of girls for the past ten minutes, I don’t think either of us will be able to get her attention any time soon,” he laughs. Typical Gabi, always managing to make herself the life of the party. “Are you alright?” he says, turning his attention back to you.

“Yeah, yeah, I just need some fresh air. Hold my drink.” He takes it without complaint, covering the top with his palm and you give him a smile before heading to a door.

The frigid night air is refreshing, a pleasant contrast to the hellish heat inside. For the first few minutes you just stare at the passing cars, but soon enough you get bored and dig around in your bag to grab your phone.

Much to your dismay, despite having gone unnoticed by the public so far tonight, one person certainly hasn’t forgotten about you.

5 missed calls from Charles.

You groan, throwing your head back and stomping your foot on the concrete beneath. Now you’re really starting to get concerned, still unsure whether he just wants to talk or whether something is actually going on.

But, on the other hand, he hadn’t cared when you had tried to contact him while he had been out with his friends. Maybe you’ll just be lowering yourself to his level by ignoring his calls, but what right does he have to ruin your fun after everything you’ve been going through because of him?

Still, you feel the savage jaws of distress chewing away at you as you make your way back into the club. Perhaps trying to limit your contact with him is doing you more harm than good.

By the time you’re back inside and nearing George, you’ve given up trying to contain the tears, needing to vent the conflicting emotions in some way. Unsurprisingly, George seems rather alarmed to see you reentering the building with tears on your cheeks.

“What happened out there?” he inquires as you snatch your drink back from him and down the rest of it. Screw pacing yourself.

“Charles keeps calling me. I don’t know what’s going on.” You try to remain blunt, laconic, distancing yourself from the situation at hand but clearly failing to do so.

It’s at this point that Gabi makes a sudden reappearance with another drink in her hand, passing it over to you absentmindedly before suddenly catching a glimpse of your face and realising what’s going on.

“Oh, not again, girl,” she whispers, her voice heavy with pity, “This is your night, you can handle anything important tomorrow morning. Go crazy, and ignore what’s going on.”

You nod weakly and take a sip of the new drink.

—————

“Just fucking suck it,” George groans, grabbing your hair into a makeshift ponytail and shoving the lollipop back into your mouth. After another round of you crying in a corner of the second club you’d visited after thinking of Charles, Gabi - currently the most sober of the three of you - had come up with the bright idea of buying a pack of lollipops as you walk back to your apartment with the sole intent of shutting you up.

Gabi comes out of the small store for a second time, this time carrying a massive bottle of ice tea. She makes her way over to you and George sitting on a bench outside the store and hands the bottle over to him. He immediately takes a few big gulps before passing the bottle over to you, and you do the same. It’s a slight attempt at sobering up a little, and you appreciate Gabi’s help as she slips into her ‘mother of the group’ mode.

Eventually, after a few more minutes of you and George giggling like fools as he passes you lollipop after lollipop, she herds the two of you to stand up and continue the journey back home.

The three of you head down the near-empty streets, holding hands and occasionally stumbling, with complete disregard as to how loud your obnoxious laughing or occasional shrieks are. Let people think what they want, let them take photos and videos and spread gossip around, you don’t care anymore, the alcohol having killed off any final traces of self-consciousness within you.

When you encounter a streetlight, you take turns recording each other as you twirl around it, and then Gabi ends up on the ground, laughing hysterically as you and George mock ballroom dance in the light it gives out. There are few people to witness the scene, and the majority of the people who pass either just give a disapproving glare or smile a little to themselves with amusement.

By the time you’ve made it back to your apartment (and have presumably woken up every single other resident of the building), it’s well past three in the morning. None of you can shut up, still cackling and giggling, yelping as you trip over your own feet once you finally open your apartment door and the three of you haphazardly enter your home.

Immediately after shucking off your shoes, you all pile onto the sofa, dizzy and lacking total control over your own limbs.

“Film?” you ask, not quite ready to end the night just yet.

Gabi and George nod, mumbling some comments of assent. You quickly find some random film to put on, but it’s rather difficult to focus on the rapidly moving images on screen, and, soon enough, you find yourself drifting off.

You don’t wake up until the sun is streaming in through the windows and onto your face, rudely yanking you out of your sleep. Groaning and rubbing your eyes, you try your best to wiggle out from the awkward tangle of limbs that’s taken over the sofa, George sprawled out on his back with one arm dangling towards the floor while Gabi is curled up on the other end.

A faint ringing draws your attention to the kitchen, and you slowly tiptoe over towards it with the intention of grabbing a glass of water whilst you find the source of the noise.

Discovering the culprit isn’t terribly difficult - your phone lays on the kitchen island, abandoned after last night, and it’s incessantly ringing. Desperate to get rid of the clamour which only worsens your already pounding headache, you pick up the phone without checking the screen and answer the call.

“Hello?” you ask, your voice hoarse.

“Oh my god, finally,” you hear, and you nearly choke on the water you’re sipping when you recognise the voice, “Why weren’t you picking up all night?”

A pang of guilt stabs at you as you remember the excuses you had made up last night at the club, “I… I was busy.” It’s pathetic, really. You’re almost fully certain that he’s aware that you had been ignoring him, but it’s too late to hang up now, too late to try and escape from this uncomfortable situation which you have created by yourself.

“Please, this is serious, you need to get to Monaco,” Charles begs, and you sigh, ashamed of yourself and your previous disregard for the matter. It must genuinely be serious if Charles sounds so vexed over it.

“Can you please just tell me what’s going on?” you complain, still rather confused as to what has actually proven to be such a source of distress.

“Maman’s in hospital.”

Holy shit.

This can’t be happening. Especially not after you had spent the entire night worried about if it was an emergency or not.

“No, no, I- shit, I’m so sorry,” you blurt out, any post-alcohol grogginess immediately dissipating as you realise the magnitude of the situation. What a tremendous asshole you had been, ignoring the calls that in fact weren’t about your abhorred ex, but about the woman that has been a second mother to you for more years than you can remember.

Regardless of the recent tensions between you and Charles, you have no intention of forgetting about the woman that had stuck by you through thick and thin.

At your request, Charles gives you some further details, before you end the call and rush to your bedroom, cramming some final items of clothing and toiletries in the suitcase you had already half-prepared for the next race weekend. Dragging the suitcase behind you, you practically sprint back into the living room. Grabbing both of them by the legs, you shake George and Gabi awake and throw a spare set of keys in their general direction.

“What the hell?” Gabi asks, unsurprisingly perplexed to see you lugging a suitcase around the apartment whilst still wearing last night’s dress.

“It’s not about Charles, it’s Pascale,” you reply bluntly, running towards the door and grabbing the comfiest pair of trainers you had laying by the doormat.

You hear the two of them shifting around on the sofa, sitting up, and George adds, “How are you getting to Monaco with zero prior notice?”

Suddenly realising the flaws in your shoddy plan, you stop rushing around for a second, “I… I don’t know, I’ll book a flight or get on a jet…”

Shaking your head, you turn back to the front door and open it, stepping out, “Thanks for last night, guys. Lock the door when you leave.”

You close the door behind you before they get a chance to protest.

—————

FOUR YEARS EARLIER

You had raced in Monaco before, making it a familiar track, but certainly not your favourite, known for its narrow streets and notoriously difficult overtakes.

Having just been sent out on new tires after a pit stop around two-thirds of the way through the race, you were finding the new slicks to be an absolute pain to warm up. Every time you wanted to speed up, there was someone in front of you, and every time you needed to slow down there was someone else breathing down your neck. No matter what you did in an attempt to salvage the situation, the tides just kept turning against you.

It was only when some others near you pitted that you finally got the chance to move at your desired pace. However, the tires were still not in the mood to cooperate.

All it took was one malicious curb.

The world transformed into a blur around you. Screeching, the damned tires sent you spinning and careening straight towards a barrier. It all happened so rapidly that there was no time to even process it enough to feel any shock or horror. The last thing you registered was dropping the steering wheel in an attempt to save your wrists.

Din and clamour a short distance away from you were what finally brought you back, forcefully yanking you back to consciousness. Groaning weakly, you slowly opened your leaden eyes, squinting at the bright sun above you until your view abruptly changed to the ceiling of a vehicle.

Now you were really starting to freak out.

Feeling the rising panic, you began trying to sit up, only to be met with the gentle hands of uniformed people softly lowering you back onto the stretcher. This did nothing to soothe your fright, only further fueling it as you failed to understand the circumstances, and prompting you to try and dig yourself out from the blanket covering you. You continued to play this repetitive game of you trying to move whilst the paramedics attempted to limit unnecessary movements until you finally heard a familiar voice amongst all the frenzy.

Pascale.

The woman was arguing with a paramedic outside the ambulance, insisting that she should be allowed in with you as you had no family at the race. After a few more seconds of a backwards and forwards debate, the paramedic finally gave a sigh of defeat and allowed her in.

She immediately rushed towards you, cradling your face with a delicate hand. For the first time since you had regained consciousness, you relaxed enough to let the paramedics secure you for the ride to what you presumed would be the hospital.

“I crashed, didn’t I?” you whispered as people began leaving the back of the ambulance, only Pascale and one other woman remaining. You were still a little perplexed by the sudden incident, trying to piece together the events that had been snipped out of your memory.

She nodded in reply, still stroking your cheek.

To you, she had always been a steady source of support in your life. Ever since you and Charles had started racing together a few years ago and had become close friends, Pascale had treated you with an indescribable kindness and fondness.

“So, am I right to say that it was quite bad?” you continue, trying to work out the most obvious parts of the missing plot first.

“Yeah… you really scared me,” she admitted with a sigh, “It’s okay now, though. They’re taking you to the hospital. You’ll be okay, I promise.”

You couldn’t tell who she was trying to reassure more: you or herself.

She was finally allowed to see you again in the late hours of the evening, after an endless series of tests and scans of all sorts had been performed to check for any possible injuries or damage. The two of you remained in comfortable silence, the only noise in the room being the rhythmic beeping of various machines which you were sure were important, but the only one you recognised was a heart rate monitor.

By now, you were used to the occasional nurse coming in to check on you, but what you weren’t expecting was to see Charles poking his head into the room, checking if he had arrived at the correct destination.

“I told him he could come see you. He was extremely stressed when he found out the red flag was because of what happened to you, so I hope you don’t mind,” Pascale whispered to you as Charles entered the room, putting on a smile that was obviously masking some deeper emotions of anxiety.

He sat on a stool on the other side of the bed to his mother, who excused herself saying that she needed to grab a drink. The silence in the room was no longer relaxed - it felt tense, loaded with an energy that was struggling to escape to elsewhere.

After a few more seconds of awkward fleeting eye contact, Charles placed a hand on your forearm, gently moving his thumb in soothing patterns.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked quietly, as if even speaking too loudly would have been enough to further damage your already fragile physical state.

“Could be better,” you mumble half-heartedly, “They said it’s just a nasty concussion, so I’m very grateful that it’s nothing far more serious.” You were well aware of the destructive potential of the consequences of a severe crash.

Charles nodded in understanding. “I didn’t see it happen but when they told me it had been you I was terrified,” he tells you, tightening his grip on your arm ever so slightly, “The footage of it - oh my God - it was-“

“I don’t think I want to know the details yet, Charles,” you admit. As much as you wanted to know what had happened, over the past few hours you had begun slipping into exhaustion, and you weren’t sure if you had the energy to process any heavy, sensitive information at that current moment in time.

Charles briefly apologised for his cut-off ramble. You saw him take a deep breath, before he shifted his hand from holding your forearm to tenderly holding your own hand. He didn’t make eye contact, nor did he move in the slightest, presumably awaiting your judgement and either your rejection or approval.

Still in need of some comfort after the day’s events and slightly addled by exhaustion, you decided that some extra physical contact wouldn’t do you any harm, accepting his touch and intertwining your fingers with his.

Half an hour later, Pascale walked back into the room to see you peacefully sleeping whilst her son held the hand of the girl he knew he loved, yet was too afraid to let her know.

—————

PRESENT DAY

The hospital staff put up quite a solid verbal fight when you ask to see Pascale. After all, considering the state of your hangover, you do slightly feel as if you look like you’ve just escaped the hospital mortuary, despite your change of clothes. You bicker back and forth, yet trying to remain as respectful as possible despite your urgency, until they ask if you’re a family member and you answer with an exasperated, “Oui! Puis-je la voir maintenant, s’il vous plaît?”

Surely having been a potential daughter-in-law is close enough to count as family, right?

They finally show you to her room, and you thank them profusely before shutting the door behind you. You’re relieved to see that she seems alright, casually sat up on the bed watching TV, with no beeping machines in sight. In fact, the room doesn’t even have the sterile atmosphere that a hospital typically has, and seems quite cozy instead.

“I’m sorry that I took so long, if I had known-“

“Shush, just sit down,” she scolds you for your sudden outburst, gesturing over to a chair near the bed, “Arthur left around two hours ago, so I’m getting quite lonely here. Why don’t we catch up?”

You nod silently and hurry over to the chair, facing the TV to look at whatever program she’s watching. No matter what the situation may be like between you and Charles, you’re determined not to lose your close friendship with Pascale.

“How are you?” you ask. It’s a stupid question, really, considering the circumstances, but it seems like the safest place to start the conversation for now.

“Very well, thank you. They’re only keeping me here to make sure I’m not dehydrated, and they’ll let me go home soon,” she tells you, smiling warmly, and you feel the weight of the guilt on your shoulders beginning to lift, “I do admit, though, I haven’t really been keeping up with the racing recently - terrible me, I know - Charles told me you’re doing very well this season, though,”

Please don’t bring him up.

Does she know? And if she doesn’t, how will you tell her? Should you even tell her, or let her remain blissfully unaware?

“Yeah, it’s going well. I’m fighting for the championship this year,” you reply, not giving out many further details and hoping for a swift change of subject.

“Ah, he told me so. He cares very deeply about you, you know. I heard him trying to call you immediately after all this-“ she gestures around the room, “happened. I trust that he’s been treating you well?”

Your heart plummets and your throat closes up, preventing you from replying right away. You’re struggling to pull apart the tangled strings of your relationship with Charles - does he actually still care? After what happened on your birthday, you had been almost fully convinced that you mean nothing to him.

But Pascale doesn’t seem to know. She hasn’t heard of the recent chaos and turmoil, and you just can’t bring yourself to be the one who breaks the news to her when she’s already gone through enough stress.

“Yes, he’s good to me.” The lie slips off your tongue smoothly, and you put on a smile to try to be even more convincing. Oh, how you wish that it could be the truth.

All she does is return the smile, and then ask you to hand over a cup of water from a nearby table.

Soon after, you get a text message from Charles.

Where are you?

Part of you doesn’t want him here, desiring to keep the serenity of the room for you and Pascale only, and not let him lay waste to it by making you feel nervous and uncomfortable. On the other hand, he’s the one that had insisted for you to come here, and you won’t be able to hide away from him for much longer anyway.

I’m with Pascale.

It only takes him around 20 minutes to appear in the doorway of the room, but not without gently knocking on the door first. You two share a brief moment of eye contact, and you immediately look away, attacked by a flurry of conflicting emotions, still unsure to what extent you should trust Pascale’s words.

Much to your liking, he ignores you at first, walking over to his mother instead and having a brief conversation about her leaving the hospital soon. You take this as the cue to grab your suitcase - having immediately come here from the airport via taxi, you hadn’t had the chance to leave your belongings anywhere else. Promising Pascale that you’ll see her soon, you give Charles a terse acknowledgment in the form of a small nod before leaving the room.

The brisk air of the monégasque morning hit you as you left the hospital, prompting all the adrenaline that had been coursing through you for the past few hours to dissipate, and suddenly making you realise just how groggy and nauseous you feel. Taking deep, steady breaths, you make a mental note to yourself to buy some water as you begin heading in no direction in particular.

“Hey! Hey! Wait!”

You whip around, shocked to suddenly hear someone yelling at you, only to see Charles half-jogging, half-speedwalking down the street towards you. The only logical thing you can do is awkwardly stand in the middle of the empty path and wait for him to catch up to you.

“Thank you for coming, I’m sure it means a lot to her,” he begins, and then waits for a response. You stay silent. “Where will you be staying?” he continues when he’s met with no reply.

“I think I’ll just find a hotel, or something like that,” you mumble, looking down at the ground and lightly kicking a pebble as some form of distraction for yourself.

“No, no, come home with me. You can stay with me.”

You freeze up. Slowly, after a second of hesitation, you raise your head and finally make eye contact with him. His expression is one of unadulterated candour, his eyes sincere and hopeful.

You really do need a place to stay, and maybe a familiar place would be more welcoming than a plain hotel room. And besides, surely a night or two would be just about bearable.

Mulling over the matter for a few more seconds, you eventually concede, “Yeah, okay.”

A bright smile appears on Charles’ face, and he grabs your suitcase from you. “Come on, let’s go,” he says, leading you in the opposite direction. You have mixed feelings about how this may end, but, ultimately, you’re willing to put up with some bullshit in exchange for a comfortable place to stay.

When you reach his Ferrari you don’t give him the chance to act like a gentleman and open the door for you, as you know he will. Instead, you rush over to the passenger side and get in, put on the seatbelt, and close the door all by yourself. They may seem like tiny things to do, but in a situation in which you don’t have much control they help you feel some sense of independence.

The drive to Charles’ apartment proves to be horrifically nauseating. Your earlier sense of general malaise, partnered with the winding, twisting streets of Monaco leave you with your head leaning against the window and your hand covering your eyes, trying to block out every little beam of sunlight.

“When did you get back home last night?” Charles suddenly asks, a stark change to the prior silence of the entire ride up until this point.

“What are you on about?” you ask in return, still screwing your eyes shut.

“Oh, come on, I’ve seen you hungover more times than I can count. It’s pretty obvious that you’re not in the best state right now.” He isn’t lying - even before you had started dating, almost every time you’d crossed the metaphorical line at a party Charles had been the one to take you home, tuck you in and prepare a glass of water and painkillers for the next morning. In return, you had always done the same for him.

With a sigh, you admit, “I’m pretty sure it was around three in the morning, but I still stayed up for a bit after that.”

Now it was Charles’ turn to give out an exasperated sigh, “Alright, are you going to take a nap when you get in?”

God, why does he care so fucking much?

There’s a battle going on inside your mind, with one belligerent trying to convince you that Charles is still a selfish, fidelity-lacking bastard, whilst the other is pleading for you to take into consideration his sudden shift regarding his newly rediscovered benevolence.

Just so that he doesn’t get the satisfaction of thinking you’ll be complacent, you give him a small ‘hmph’ of impertinence and shift in your seat to have your back to him.

He says nothing and continues driving.

The lift is even worse than the car. You cling onto the small handrail, refusing to look at yourself in the mirrors lining the walls of the steel cage out of pure shame. As the lift begins to rise, a wave of nausea hits you and you cover your mouth. You’re almost fully certain that the nausea wouldn’t go beyond causing some dry heaving, but you don’t even want to think of anything beyond that occurring.

Charles’ neutral expression suddenly changes to one of worry, and he rushes forward, grabbing you by the waist and leading you over to stand in front of the doors that are about to open. “No, no - don’t you do that in here,” he scolds you gently, before half-guiding, half-shoving you out of the lift and towards his apartment.

Him doing so quite honestly pisses you off, having no desire to be close to him, let alone touched by him, but you’re in no state to protest receiving help either, so you just go along with it to allow himself to feel like some sort of saviour for the time being.

“You’re acting as if I’m blackout drunk,” you grumble, complaining, but accepting the assistance as he helps you stand before his door and unlocks it. Upon entering the apartment, he finally gives you a chance for a little independence by allowing you to take your shoes off by yourself.

“Are you getting into bed?” he asks from the other side of the apartment.

Is this boy mad? Perhaps you’re willing to spend a day or two in close proximity, but sharing a bed is far out of your comfort zone for now.

“Fuck off, Leclerc,” you hiss back, getting a glass of water for yourself.

“Alright, alright,” he gives in, entering the living room with a blanket over his arm and his hands raised in defeat, “Would you prefer the sofa, then?”

After putting down your now empty glass, you give him a small, almost sheepish nod. He pats the sofa, gesturing for you to come over, which you somewhat reluctantly do. You lay down, purposefully keeping your back to him, but he doesn’t seem bothered. Instead, he gently lays the blanket over you, making sure that you’re fully covered below the neck.

“There you go,” he whispers, fixing part of the blanket that had slipped and uncovered your arm, his touch lingering for slightly too long to go unnoticed, before walking away.

You’re not sure if he hears your quiet reply of, “Thank you.”

—————

The euphony of skillful piano playing delicately guides you away from your dream about a picnic in a meadow and back to real life in the waking world. You stretch out on the sofa, the morning sun warming you and resulting in you kicking the blankets off both you and the sofa in an attempt to escape the heat.

A few days had passed since you had arrived in Monaco, and, despite not being entirely happy about it, you had given in and agreed to stay in Monaco until you had to leave for your next race. Charles’ argument had been that there’s no point in you going back to London if you would have to pack up and leave again pretty much the next day, and he certainly hadn’t been wrong.

As much as you hate to admit it, you’ve really missed hearing him playing piano. Suddenly, midway through a piece, the music comes to an abrupt stop.

“I know you’re awake,” he calls out to you, and you sit up on the sofa.

“Alright, you creep,” you retort, but in a jocular manner rather than an insulting one, and you’re somewhat surprised at the fact that you’re not spitting venom at him at every opportunity.

Getting up and walking to the bathroom, you mull over the current situation. Charles has been nothing but lovely to you for the past few days, and in a way you’re finding it difficult to acknowledge that this is the same Charles who had been making out with some random girl on your birthday. His sudden shift in character doesn’t seem right - is he being manipulative, or is he genuinely penitent for his sins?

You don’t stick around to find out. Instead, you spend the day shopping with Pascale, helping her restock on groceries after her return home. Once you’ve finally laid all the bags out on her kitchen table, she sends you back off to Charles’ apartment with a hug and some tiramisu that she had made the night before.

When you arrive back at his place in the early evening, it’s oddly quiet. The lights are off throughout most of the apartment, with the only source of light being the dying rays coming from the setting sun. Despite knowing that he isn’t obliged to tell you what he does when anymore, you can’t help but wonder if he’s just suddenly gone out without telling you a thing.

The faint clink of porcelain on the kitchen counter allays your rising confusion, and after slipping your shoes and coat off you head over to see if Charles is in the kitchen. Rounding the corner and placing down Pascale’s tiramisu, you see him plating pasta in an unhurried manner, clearly unaware that you’ve entered the apartment, but still preparing two bowls regardless of that fact.

He still doesn’t seem to notice you, completely caught up in what he’s doing, so you speak up, “That looks really good.”

The poor guy completely startles like a spooked horse, dropping the (thankfully empty) pan into the sink and clutching the edge of the counter as he turns around. You immediately feel bad, not having expected such a visceral reaction to your unexpected appearance, and begin apologising profusely.

He holds his palm out towards you, signalling for you to stop, before grabbing two forks and the bowls of pasta. “I made carbonara for us,” he says simply, walking past you and to the dining table, where he puts down one bowl opposite the other and gestures for you to sit down.

“You really didn’t have to,” you tell him, yet you still sit down and take the fork from him.

“I wanted to. I know it’s one of your favourites.” He gives you a wide grin, then sits down himself.

No, oh God, you just can’t keep forcing yourself to hate this man when for the past few days he’s been the paragon of a caring individual. It’s almost like he’s the Charles that you used to love once again. But you also can’t keep allowing yourself to think like that - despite the close proximity, this is just a temporary arrangement and he’s only being a good host.

The two of you dine in near silence, only occasionally making small talk about the weather or Pascale or the upcoming Hungarian Grand Prix. It’s a somewhat comfortable sort of silence, but there’s a slowly rising level of palpable tension in the air, and as you look at Charles from time to time you can tell that there’s something he’s not telling you.

After sharing the tiramisu that Pascale had made, you thank him for the meal, offering to clean up in exchange for him having cooked. The empty kitchen is a good place for you to gather your thoughts once again, and make up your mind: you’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning. You definitely take far too long cleaning up, only needing to rinse off two bowls and put them in the dishwasher, but moments of solitude since you’ve returned to Charles’ apartment are rare and you decide to savour this one.

As usual, however, it doesn’t last long. He corners you in the corridor as you’re trying to pick a book from the bookshelf, and you don’t really have any way of escaping this interaction.

“I know this sounds stupid,” he begins, fiddling with the rings on his fingers, “But, maybe, do you want to give this - us - another chance? Privately? Away from the paddock and the media?”

You just stand there perfectly still, astounded by the absolute audacity that this man has to ask such a question when he himself is the root of the very problem. He doesn’t say anything more, instead waiting patiently for your reply with pleading eyes.

The little voice in your head is cheering and whooping, delighted to be presented with such an opportunity. However, the logical part of you is what bluntly responds with, “I don’t think I can trust you anymore.”

Charles sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I know, and my promises probably don’t mean anything to you, but there would never be a repeat of… that situation ever again,” he says.

“Sure, until the next time you get drunk,” you retort scathingly. Turning away from him, you begin walking towards the door, with every intention of putting your shoes on and getting away from him and his empty promises.

You hear his footsteps hurrying after you and his harsh comment of, “You’re no saint either, I’ve seen the way you look at George.”

Whipping around to face him again after such an accusation, you lose your patience, “Have you gone insane? He’s like a brother to me - a brother, Charles!”

Why, pray tell, is he getting George involved in this mess?

The two of you glare at each other, both frustrated, both confused, and both sick to death of everything that’s been happening recently. Charles is the first one to make a move. He looks away for a split second, before rushing forwards and pressing his lips against yours.

You don’t reciprocate the kiss.

He takes a step back, looking into your eyes imploringly, begging, “Tell me to stop.”

You can’t. You’re so damn frustrated, filled to the brim with pent-up emotions threatening to overspill. The entire situation just keeps changing directions and moods and you can’t keep up with it, and, perhaps, in this case going with the flow is the easiest way out. Besides, as much as you feel loathing towards Charles, you’ve also missed him. So, if there are no strings attached - at least from your perspective - what harm will giving in do? It’s just one instance anyway.

You shake your head no. You won’t tell him to stop.

He grabs you by the hips, walking you backwards until you’re up against the wall, and leans in once again. This time, you grip his hair, pulling him in even closer, because if this is just going to be a one time thing then you’re going to make the most of it. The cloying familiarity of his lips on yours is emotive, bringing back memories of lustful romance that you’ve been trying to suppress for the past week or so.

His hands drift lower, down to your thighs, and you let out a light moan in response to his bruising grip. He smirks a little as he lifts you up slightly and slots his knee between your thighs. Desperate for more, and perhaps even craving a brief return to what life with Charles used to be like, you grind against his leg.

“That’s it, good girl,” he whispers in your ear after pulling away from the kiss. You quash the thought of giving him an earful for acting cocky, and instead respond with a small whine.

In part, you’re slightly ashamed to be the one falling apart while he remains composed, so you decide that it’s time for some equal treatment. Dropping one hand to his shoulder, you use the other to lightly trace his abs through his t-shirt and then you begin attempting to undo his belt one-handed. It proves to be a difficult task, vexing you as you struggle to undo it, but instead of helping you out Charles just chuckles lightly and moves his leg, causing you to bite down on his shoulder and moan.

Eventually, you give up with the belt, instead resorting to pressing your palm against his crotch and feeling a sense of satisfaction as you elicit a groan from him. In return, his hold returns to your hips and he starts controlling your movements on his thigh.

Throwing any last semblance of self-restraint out of the window in exchange for some pleasure, you start begging, “Please, Charles, please, I want more - I need more.”

He partially fulfills your request by kissing and lightly nipping at your neck, just delicately enough to not leave marks. However, just as you tilt your head back, he suddenly removes his knee from between your legs and sets you back down on the ground.

You whine at the loss of contact, leaning against the wall and looking up at him with begging eyes, all previous inhibitions lost, but him shaking his head shatters your rose-tinted glasses and brings you back to harsh reality.

“No, you’ll regret it,” he tells you, taking a step back, “I don’t want to be a part of something that’ll leave you even more upset afterwards.”

Oh, what a fool you had been, thinking that this would just end in a quick fuck with no further complications. Charles’ sudden shift in demeanour has proven otherwise, but perhaps his words do have some truth to them. If you had ended up sleeping with the very same man who had cheated on you just a few weeks ago, would you have lost some respect for yourself?

Feeling surprisingly crestfallen, you give him a slight nod before walking away, grabbing your phone from the coffee table and picking up your suitcase from where it stands beside the sofa, unmoved since the day you had arrived. You’ve lost the desire to stay for any longer, certain that today’s entire debacle would do nothing but make the atmosphere in the apartment tense and awkward.

Neither of you say anything as you put your shoes on and grab your coat, opening the door, yet not leaving quite yet. Just like the last time you had unceremoniously left his apartment with your guitar, you refuse to turn around and look at him, afraid that the sight of him may change your mind on what you’re about to do.

“Thank you for letting me stay, I hope it wasn’t too much of a hassle,” you say simply. It’s disjointed, impersonal, strictly professional and respectful. Weighed down by your contrition, you leave his home heartbroken once again.

——————————

a/n: a massive thank you for all the previous support once again. Also, please let me know whether you’d like to be on a taglist for everything I write, or just showbiz, baby :)

TAGLIST: (let me know if I missed you or tagged you incorrectly)

@alternativemadchen @enjoymyloves @laura-naruto-fan1998 @x-hey-its-paige-x @rockyhayzkid @disneydaydreameralways @ferrarifwendvale @lovingroscoee @watermel0nsugarhigh @obnoxioussmiley @xoxoloverb @hannahholland1811 @chiogarza @in-some-fandoms @oyesmendes @imreallylosingit @ninnypoosworld @mrsspector-grant @tall-tanned-tattoo @bleedsweatcry @sawendel @seastarapiaries

#i wrote a significant part of this whilst travelling abroad #charles leclerc #showbiz baby #sb #charles leclerc fanfiction #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x y/n #f1 fanfiction #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #george russell #george russell fanfiction #george russell fanfic #george russell imagine #cl16 #gr63

[fixfoxnox]

I am so sad that the story is coming to an end, it’s been so fun reading every update and all the amazing drabbles and headcannons you’ve written here! I love how much time, love and thought you’ve put into your writing

Is there any chance of a drabble of makarovs point of view when TF141 storm his base? Him trying to find Roach, finding out that price is alive and his uncle is dead etc.. It’s my favourite chapter so far. 💛💛

The Raid

Description: Makarov's perspective of Chapter 19

Warnings: Torture, implied dub-con, fantasizing, Makarov gets turned on by seeing Roach in pain (sorry guys)

Makarov knew the second that he heard the first explosion. He could feel the way that it shook the little building that he’d been calling home for the past several months. He knew. He wasn’t a fool, sure he could be a bit blinded by the man in the upstairs room, sure he’d let his guard down over the past few days, but he wasn’t a fool. 

He could feel another explosion rock the building, gunfire began outside. His council, the group of little idiots that he’d slowly been shrinking, were pale. They each looked scared shitless and, for a moment, Makarov almost laughed at them. They all claimed to be able to stomach what it took to win a war, they all claimed to be able to stomach the smell of blood in the air and dead bodies piling up around them. They were all liars. 

Makarov stood from his seat calmly, pulling a gun from his desk and loading it quickly. He looked around the room at the men, “Come, we will go to the airfield.” It was the emergency exit plan that he’d informed the men of, the emergency exit plan that he didn’t even plan on taking himself. He wasn’t a fool, he knew it was a death trap in a situation like this. A death trap he would take advantage of. 

He led the group of men out of the room, rounding up several troops to help escort them to the airfield. He didn’t bother with Roach, he knew that the little American would come after him. He’d walk right back into his arms, whether he knew it or not. He would deal with his little insect later. For now? He was going to take advantage of the opportunity he’d been given. 

The council members followed him like ducklings, flinching at the noises that wrung around the base. Explosions, screams, gunfire. They were all politicians, not warriors. They were okay with sending men to their death, but they would never go themselves. Makarov despised them, he was going to enjoy their deaths. 

They left out the back of the building, hearing fighting growing closer to them from all sides. Makarov wasn’t concerned, not when he and the other men loaded up into an armored vehicle, driven by one of his best. He was still calm, he had no plans to die that day, no matter what his little insect had planned for him. 

He wondered what the other man was doing at that moment. Perhaps he was celebrating his success, his trick against him. Perhaps he was fighting his way through the building, trying to chase after him in an attempt to end his life, as he’d likely come here to do. Makarov leaned back against his seat, closing his eyes and giving a playfully little hum as he let his mind run wild with the images of it. 

His little Insect, hair mussed and out of breath as he fights his way through enemies. He could see the way that the other man would be wincing in pain, fighting through his wounds from Makarov’s own hands. Just the thought sent heat flushing over his skin. Let all of his little friends see those bruises, see those marks. Let them see the evidence of Makarov on his skin. He was going to ensure those marks remained for some time. 

He had plans. He would take Roach again, this time without whatever tracker he had on him and he would punish him. He would hurt him, would make the other man feel him for weeks to come, but he wouldn’t kill him. No, he wouldn’t kill him. He would have Roach how he wanted, truly, honestly. He would have the other man as his and his alone and he would kill anyone who dared to get in his way. 

“What is our plan Makarov?” He twitched in annoyance, broken away from his thoughts of cutting into plush thighs to make sure that the mark of him would be permanent. He rolled his neck, trying to keep the annoyance from his face. 

“We are going to the airfield,” he said slowly, opening his eyes to face the other men, “There is a chopper there, it will take all of you to safety.”

“All of us?” One of the men questioned, “Not you?”

The corner of Makarov’s mouth ticked up, it seemed at least one of them was smart enough to question him. A shame it didn’t matter. “I will stay back to ensure that the intel from the airfield is properly destroyed,” he checked his nails casually before adding, “We wouldn’t want the Americans to get access to our information, would we?” 

None of them answered, but several yelps did leave their mouths as the vehicle they were in began to bump and rumble dangerously. Makarov raised an eyebrow before calling to the front, “What is going on up there?”

“Apologies sir, we’re breaking through a line of soldiers by the barracks.” 

“Soldiers,” one of the men called, his face pale, “Americans?”

“Some,” their driver called back casually, “Some are ours.” 

“If we want to keep the party alive and strong,” Makarov called out to the group, noting their wide-eyed looks. He couldn’t help the grin that crossed his face, “It is much more important that we live. No matter the sacrifices.” None of the men spoke, they only exchanged hesitant looks between themselves. Makarov wanted to laugh at them, but he resisted the urge. They were all idiots. 

Makarov sat inside the little airbase building comfortably, watching with a smirk as the members of his council were loaded onto the chopper. All he had to do now was wait, wait, and watch the show. He had time. He let his eyes close again, bringing back that picture from earlier that had warmth shooting down his spine.

He could see it so clearly. He could hear it so clearly. The way that Roach would curl in on himself, the way that he would struggle against his touch but be powerless to do anything with his injuries. The way he would whine for him and cry so prettily. He gave a short groan out into the air, opening his eyes only slightly, enough that he could watch the helicopter outside begin to take off. 

He heard talking. He froze for a moment before pushing himself up so that he could peer from the window. Joy leapt up his throat, pulling a grin to his face excitedly. Roach was right on time. 

He was quiet as he crept outside, sticking close to the building. He could hear Roach calling into his comms about the chopper, he watched with amusement in his chest as the other man didn’t notice him. The only weapons he could see on him were knives strapped to his waist. He didn’t underestimate him though, he knew what a man could do with a knife. 

The sound of an explosive hitting the chopper was what brought Makarov back to himself. His eyes turned to carefully watch as the explosion lit up the sky and the chopper began tumbling back down to the ground in a fiery ball. He gave a bright grin as the chopper hit the ground, exploding into a ball of flames. 

He couldn’t let himself celebrate too much though, not yet, not when Roach was still in front of him, unaware of his presence. He moved closer, making his way slowly and quietly up behind the man. As he moved closer, he could hear him speaking. “I don’t think Makarov was on the chopper.” Makarov smirked to himself as he drew even closer, his gun gripped tightly in his hand. “Listen, just stick by the plan and meet me at the airfield. I have a bad-”

Makarov pressed himself close to the younger man, digging the end of his gun into the small of his back. “Turn off your communicator, Insect,” he practically purred the words to the younger man, relishing in the way that his body went tense, “And turn around very slowly for me.”

Makarov could hear as the younger man flicked his communicator off and he stepped back as he began to slowly turn around. Something pleasant filled his chest at the knowledge that his Insect was actually listening to him. He loved it when the younger man was obedient, just as much as he loved it when he wasn’t. He could see the way that the younger man’s jaw clenched as he looked at him, anger simmering under the surface of his skin. 

He took a moment to take in the younger man, noting the sweat and dirt sticking to his skin, as well as the patch of red that was seeping from his upper thigh. He readjusted the grip on his gun. He hadn’t done that, so who had shot Roach? Who had hurt what was his?

He refocused himself, letting his eyes trail over to the burning wreckage from the chopper. “Well,” he started carefully, trying to hide his grin, “I do have to thank you. I’d planned to have you kill those men eventually. I suppose this was one way to have done it.” His eyes scanned back to Roach’s face, a smirk rising on his lips. He could tell that it irked the other man. “This was all very clever of you, Insect. I do have to ask, how did you get your location to the Americans?” 

He was sure he knew. He still had Petrov’s words about the potential tracker in Roach’s wrist ringing around his head, but he needed to know for certain. He needed to know so that he could get rid of it. Sure enough, Roach was holding his wrist up for him, “You weren’t the only one with the idea for a tracker.” 

Makarov couldn’t help but let out a tut, annoyance filling his veins as he realized Petrov had been right. Petrov had been right and Roach had planned this, which also likely meant…

“Hmm, how very clever of you,” he tried to keep his voice calm, “I can assume, as well, that Captain Price isn’t actually dead?” His hand tightened on his gun and he could feel anger, fear, and frustration flood him as Roach nodded. So it was true, the man who had killed him once was still alive. “Of course,” he bit the words out, anger still tainting him. He needed to focus though. He could deal with Price later. For now? Now he needed to take that tracker out of the picture and get Roach firmly back under his control. “Well, we’ll have plenty of time to rectify that. For now,” he paused, gazing appreciatively over the man in front of him, his eyes stopping on the knife attached to his belt, “I want you to take that knife from your belt and cut the tracker from your wrist.”

He admired the way that Roach’s mouth fell open at his request, shock, confusion, and fear crossing his face before he practically squeaked out, “What?”

He could feel amusement slowly replacing the fear he felt at learning Captain Price was alive, “Take that knife,” he motioned to the other man’s belt, “and cut the tracker from your wrist.”

Roach stumbled away from him, his face giving away the terror that was so clearly filling him. Makarov followed him with measured steps forward, joy running through him at the sight of the other so panicked, “I don’t, I don’t understand. Aren’t you going to-?”

“Kill you?” Makarov filled in, grinning at the younger man. “Oh, Insect, you still don’t quite understand what you mean to me, do you?” He stepped toward Roach then, pulling out the makeshift knife from his belt and tossing it off somewhere. He had to admit he was a bit impressed with the younger man’s ingenuity. He grabbed the actual knife next, holding it up so that the younger man was forced to look at it. “You’re coming with me. So we need that tracker gone.” He had everything planned, he always did. A backup for everything that he thought up, contingencies for his contingencies. He would take Roach to an underground bunker nearby where they would stay until it was safe to move to a more permanent location. And, once Makarov had Roach alone, he would enjoy taking the other man apart. Violently. “Either you can cut it out yourself, or I can knock you out and cut it out myself.” He would enjoy the sight of it either way. 

“You’ll kill me,” Roach provided weakly. He’d gone pale and he was shaking like a leaf, “You’ll kill me when this is all over.” 

“I won’t,” Makarov tilted his head at the younger man, “There will be a punishment, naturally, but you will live.” 

Roach took a step away from him and Makarov was quick to react, dropping the knife in his hands to grab the younger man’s wrist. He tugged him closer, pressing the gun to his abdomen, where he knew the younger man’s stab wound was. If he needed to, he could break the stitches again. A non-lethal method of taking him down if need be. “No,” the younger man winced before quickly offering, “I killed Dr. Petrov.” 

Makarov paused, shock running through him for a few seconds. He didn’t care much for Petrov, but the man had taken care of him his entire second life. He was the only family that he had and one of the only people in the world that Makarov knew meant him no harm. His mind connected the bullet wound at Roach’s thigh then. It must have been Petrov’s doing. With that thought in mind, he thought it was good that Petrov was dead. “I don’t care. Pick up the knife.” If Roach hadn’t killed him, Makarov would have.

Once he was sure Roach wasn’t going to run, he released his wrist and stepped back with a smile on his face. He could see the realization dawn on the younger man and he enjoyed the way that his face fell and he seemed to crumple in on himself. He was going to enjoy breaking him. 

There was a moment of pause before suddenly, to Makarov’s surprise, Roach was lurching forward. He knocked the gun in his hands to the side before landing a hard hit to his jaw. The gun dropped from his hand as he stumbled back and, despite the ache in his jaw, he found joy rushing through his system. He loved it when Roach tried to fight back. 

He turned, quickly delivering a kick to Roach’s face, knocking the younger man to his back from where he was grappling for the gun. Makarov was quick to kick the gun away and drop to straddle the man’s legs. He much preferred using his hands when it came to the younger man. There was a brief pause before Roach was swinging up at him. Makarov only barely managed to spot a glint of metal before it was plunging into his shoulder, stinging pain filling his system. 

He was quick to slam his fists down onto Roach’s chest, delighting in the crack that rang through the air and the resulting gasp from the younger man. He could assume that he’d broken his ribs. He reached up, grunting as he pulled the knife from his shoulder. He was a bit impressed with Roach’s determination, though a bit offended that his insect would resort to such a desperate move against him. 

He flipped the knife smoothly in his hands, pressing it against the younger man’s throat just hard enough to draw blood. He wanted to groan at the sight, his mind calling back to his earlier fantasies of cutting into the younger man's skin and painting his paleness with the bright red of his touch. “Insect,” He started with a grin, “Knives are so impersonal. It’s so much more intimate to use your hands.” He lunged for the younger man’s throat but was met with a hand slamming into his neck, forcing a choke from his throat as he was painfully turned to his back. 

Hands beat down viciously on his face, catching onto his nose and breaking it with a harsh crack. He could feel blood dripping down his face and, distantly, he wanted to moan out at the feeling. Roach looked practically feral on top of him and, despite the man clearly aiming for his death, he couldn’t help but find him irresistible in the moment. He couldn’t let his Insect have too much fun, though. Makarov was on a schedule and this couldn’t last as long as he might want it to. 

With that thought in mind, he darted a hand up, gripping tight to Roach’s hair and slamming his head down to meet his with a hard bang. His mind rang at the feeling, but he stayed focused, slamming his head up again to connect with the younger man’s nose. He tossed the man off of him and shakily rose to his feet, giving a bloody grin to Roach as he stepped over his prone form. 

He leaned down with a hum, digging his fingers into the younger man’s stab wound, feeling stitches and skin rip under his touch. He delighted in the younger man’s scream, but he wasn’t done. He let his other hand trail down Roach’s thigh before he dug his thumb into the fresh gunshot wound there. “Did Dr. Petrov do this, Insect?” He asked carefully, admiring the desperation, pain, and tears that decorated the younger man’s face, “It is a good thing you killed him then.” He curled his fingers, pressing harder into the younger man’s wounds as he growled out, “I am the only one allowed to hurt you.”

He removed his fingers a moment later, standing up tall to admire the tears that fell down the other’s face, he couldn’t help himself. He leaned down, brushing the tears from the other’s cheek in a move that was far too gentle for what people would expect of him, “You look so perfect when you cry, Insect.” 

To his delight, the younger man pushed himself to his knees, sobs wracking his body pitifully as he called, “Just fucking kill me! Kill me!” 

Makarov had to laugh at his desperation. He adored hearing the other man beg, though he would have liked to hear it better in a different context, he would take this for the moment. “Oh, not a chance, dear.”

He grabbed tight to Roach’s hair then, yanking him forward and practically dragging him behind him. He could feel the other struggling and he could hear his screaming, but he paid no mind to it, his focus completely on the glinting of metal ahead of him. He dropped the younger man to the ground next to the blade, the other so lost in the pain that Makarov had forced on him that he didn’t even react as Makarov kneeled next to him, pulling him up to rest against his chest as he captured his wrist in his hands. 

Makarov gave himself a moment to nuzzle briefly into the other’s hair, placing a quick kiss on his head before picking up the knife and beginning to carefully cut into the other's wrist. Roach didn’t make a sound, but he did struggle, forcing Makarov to grab him tight to prevent himself from cutting too deep. Eventually, he was able to dig into the wound with his knife, pulling out a small black tracker. He gave a hum, “There we are.” He tossed the knife away before letting Roach’s body fall back to the ground. 

He stood up, dusting himself off and giving an amused laugh as the younger man began to crawl away from him. He was quick to give another kick to the younger man’s side, knocking him to his back as he chided, “Now, now, that's not the way that we’re going.” He dropped into a squat next to the younger man, admiring his bloody and bruised visage. “Are you going to behave for me?”

Fire still burned behind Roach’s eyes and there wasn’t even a moment before the younger man was spitting a glob of blood at his feet and biting out, “Fuck you!”

Makarov stood back up, amusement still burning through him as he nodded at the younger man. He understood better now what it would take to finally break the younger man. He wouldn’t be as easy as he’d assumed to turn over to his side. He wasn’t going to give up though, one way or another he would have the younger man. “You are very stubborn, you know? It seems it will take more than I suspected to clip your wings.” He brought his foot up to press against the wound on the younger man’s thigh, pressing harshly there before bringing his foot down to hover over the other man’s knee threateningly. He wouldn’t follow through, but he needed the younger man to know that he could. “Perhaps,” he pressed harder, nearly groaning at the little gasp the other man gave, “Perhaps a broken leg would do it?”

Makarov held his foot there for a moment, delighting in the way that the younger man’s face scrunched up, trying to prepare for the pain. Finally, after a moment he moved his foot away and dropped into a crouch. “No, I am too kind for that.” He reached out, grabbing the other man’s chin harshly, tugging him closer. He was tempted for a moment to just crash their mouths together and have a taste of the blood that decorated the other man’s lips. “You will learn, Insect. I am a very,” he carefully let his hand stroke down the other man’s neck before purring out, “very forgiving man.” 

Roach yanked away from him, beginning to crawl away again, much to Makarov’s amusement. He rose back to his feet, walking slowly behind the younger man for several moments. This sight of the other man helpless, on his hands and knees for him, made his body feel entirely too warm. Delight running through his system. He would have this again, perhaps in a more intimate way. 

He dropped to his knees behind the younger man at the thought, wrapping his arms around his chest and hauling him backward so that they were pressed tight to one another. He let his hands stroke lovingly along the other’s neck and chest. When Roach began to struggle against him, he simply shoved his hand under the other’s shirt, dipping his fingers into the warmth of his stab wound once again. He cooed against the other’s ear at the pained noises that left his throat, nuzzling into his neck as he dipped his other hand under the waistband of the other’s pants to shove his fingers into the wound at his thigh as well. “I am going to help you sleep,” He muttered into his hair, his voice calm, “You’ll travel easier that way and it will help satiate me until you are able to wake up. Then I’ll finish giving you your punishment.” He was delighted at the idea, burying his face into Roach’s neck further with a grin. He pressed a kiss to the man’s skin, he could already see the way that he would carve the younger man up. The way that he would cut into his skin and commit the sight of red lines on plush thighs into his memory.

Makarov removed his hands and roughly shoved Roach to the ground, turning him to his back as he went. He watched the other man for a moment, admiring the glassy look in the other's eyes. He let his hands stroke lovingly along the bruises still present on the other’s neck before he took hold of him harshly, pressing down on him with something hot burning through his veins. 

Roach didn’t even struggle, he just took it, his eyes going blank as he stared up at the sky, losing strength and consciousness for every second that Makarov held him there. Makarov delighted in the sight. He delighted in the knowledge that he would, finally, finally, have the younger man all to himself. No more schemes. No more trackers. No more John Price. Just him and whatever he wanted to do to the other. 

He heard the gunshot first before the harsh pain splattered at his neck, knocking him to his back away from Roach. He hardly registered anything as he choked on the feeling of blood piling up in his throat. He moved to his hands and knees, one of his hands pressing against the wound to stop the bleeding as he spit blood onto the ground. He could register voices behind him. 

There were people talking to Roach. He didn’t have to be in his right mind to know who they were. He rolled over then, pushing himself back against his hands as he looked up, his heart stuttering harshly in his chest at the sight of Captain Price approaching him, Roach and Ghost following close behind. He wanted to snarl at the sight, wanted to rip something up and tear the Captain and Ghost apart with his bare hands. 

He could let that show though, so instead, he gave a laugh and a bloody grin, “Captain Price, I should have expected nothing less.” He still didn’t intend to die today. He knew these men in front of him, he knew their type. They wouldn’t sacrifice one of their own for the sake of killing him. 

“This is the end for you Makarov,” Price pulled a sidearm from his belt, “You’re going to die by my hand.” Makarov didn’t have to be a genius to hear the implied “again” in the man’s words. So it was true then, Roach had told the man about their first life. 

Makarov gave another laugh, pushing himself up further as he leered at the younger man. He could hear Roach mutter, “Kill him.” 

“Yes,” Makarov agreed, “Kill me, Captain. I’ll ring in the new world with Sergeant Sanderson.” 

“Kill him,” Roach called louder. Makarov wanted to laugh at his desperation, but he knew it was too late for the younger man to convince his teammates otherwise. 

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Makarov admired the look of confusion on the Captain’s face, he relished in the concern that was clearly pulsing doubt into his system. 

Roach stepped forward with a growl, “He’s talking bullshit again! Kill him!” 

Makarov had to laugh at that, “Your bug seems ready to die.”

He was surprised when a foot slammed into his face, knocking him back to the ground with a harsh grunt and a sickening crack. Makarov couldn’t help but groan at the feeling of pain as Ghost growled out, “You don’t fucking call him that.” 

“Roach, what the fuck is he talking about?” Captain Price asked again, Makarov delighted in his desperation.

“It doesn’t matter,” Roach sounded hysterical, “Just kill him! Please!”

“If I die, he dies,” Makarov taunted the men, his body racked with laughter again. He brought his wrist up with a grin, the metal of his band shining in the sunlight, “Check him, Captain.”

Ghost was quick to grab at Roach’s wrist, tugging it up so that everyone could see the matching metal band that was welded around his skin. “What the fuck is that,” Price growled.

“Poison,” Makarov sneered with delight. Despite everything, he still had control, “Kill me, he dies.”

“Fuck,” Price shouted out.

“Just kill him,” Roach begged the men, tears rising in his eyes, “He’s bluffing, he has to be bluffing.”

“I’m not taking any chances,” Price began pacing, “I’m not taking the chance of you dying Roach.”

“Please,” Roach’s eyes looked wide and he appeared positively desperate. Makarov delighted in it. He loved to see the younger man in such a pathetic state. 

“Listen,” Price offered, his voice dropped into something soft, the sound of it making something violent claw at Makarov’s chest, “We’ll take him with us, as soon as that thing comes off of your wrist, we’ll end this.”

“No,” Roach choked out, “No, no, if we bring him with us they won’t let you kill him! He’ll go to jail.” Makarov laughed again. This was that delightful moment when Roach realized that everything that he’d done meant nothing. Makarov was still here and he would leave here alive. All because of him. 

“Listen, I’m not arguing about this, Roach. You’re more important.”

“He’s right, Bug, why don’t you just sit down okay? We can wait for the medics to get here. You can watch him get taken away.”

Makarov watched Roach carefully, he saw the moment that a sense of odd calmness washed over his body. He knew that calmness, he’d felt it before. He knew what it meant for himself and he had no choice but to tilt his head back, something odd creeping up his throat. At least, if he was going to die again, it would be by the younger man’s hands. At least the younger man would be joining him in their next life. He’d have another chance to win him over there. “Okay,” he heard Roach mutter to Ghost.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Alright,” Ghost’s voice was soft, Makarov lifted his head to watch the other man begin to slowly guide Roach. He turned away from him slightly, “C’mon, Bug.”

A short moment passed before Roach reached forward, snatching the gun from Ghost’s waist and turning toward him quickly. His Insect was a good shot. Makarov knew he would hit home. There was a bang and, with only a single jolt of pain through his body, Makarov found himself back in that all-consuming darkness. Awake but not awake. Asleep but not asleep. Just waiting. Waiting for the universe to give him another chance. 

#something in the orange #vladimir makarov #makarov x roach #gary roach sanderson

[femmefatalevibe]

(writer anon!) I really like to write fiction, but I'm also interested in writing nonfiction to broaden my skills, if this helps.

Hi love! I'm not a professional fiction writer/author, but my first mentor was one (high school English teacher), so I'll share some of the fiction writing tips I still remember (hopefully correctly lol) that I didn't mention in my original, general writing post:

Tips For Writing Fiction:

Study your subject and the primary motivations, desires, insecurities, and fatal flaws that would plague the characters within the chosen setting/plot. Consider your narrative's culture and structure its "norms." How do your characters navigate these settings – conform, rebel, lead, follow? Structure your plot points around dilemmas, successes, and tensions that the reader would expect to occur within the plot you've set up.

Develop characters that you illustrate how they are a "product of their environment." Allow readers to get inside the characters' minds. Ideally, each character struggles with their own "moral dilemma" that they contemplate or attempt to work through over the course of the story. Build tension through plot points that provide contrast between characters with different "moral" scripts to undercover something deeper about each character and the fabric of their "society."

Embrace the "ugliness" inside of each character's mind – the deep or unprovoked thoughts that others relate to, but outside of a literary context, wouldn't dare to say out loud. Use show, not tell to display their flaws, triumphs, and other natural ebbs/flows that come with existing.

Have a plan for writing, but let the work finish itself, depending on how the characters develop themselves

Use descriptions, not observations to set the stage. Evoke and show provoked emotions, not describe the characters' feelings directly

Tips For Non-Fiction Writing:

Dive deep into a subject of interest, and consider its history, trends, and innovations. What conclusions or new perspectives can you articulate from this information?

Develop a multi-layered "thesis" to organize your ideas and clarify your POV. How do these interpretations help us come to unique and a deeper understanding of previous studies, research, anecdotes, and developments within this field of interest?

Begin your story on an unexpected or controversial note. Consider using a personal story or historical "fun fact" to draw the reader into the piece. Introducing your story with a personal story, question, or seemingly deviant question can easily hook your audience.

Give them a chance to ponder your new insights or thought-provoking ideas while reading your story. Use personal stories and research study findings to give authority to your story. Extract the main takeaways from these anecdotes, and use them to offer questions about the situations, dilemmas, or overall subject matter to your audience.

Be clear about your structure and how you organize your points. Ensure there's a logical flow between paragraphs, grafs, and sections (or chapters).

Don't forget to evoke emotion through your language and word choice. Allow your humanity to come through, use clever, relevant, humor. Make the audience feel like they're entering an educational fantasy land where the "storylines" envelop your mind as much as they do the page.

Hope this helps! x

#writing advice #writing #fiction writing #nonfiction #character development #essay writing #storytelling #femme fatale #dark femininity #dark feminine energy #writeblr #creative writing #tips and tricks #personal growth #language skills #life lessons #career advice #career tips #femmefatalevibe

[experthiese]

WHAT MADE YOU PICK UP THE CURRENT MUSE/S YOU HAVE?

Much like how I started writing my others: I was talking with some friends on discord, expressed an interest in possibly-maybe-perhaps writing him, and was encouraged to do so. That aside, I've been a fan of Lupin III for years, and find Lupin himself to be a fascinating character. It helps that there's a lot of backlog to draw from, each part and movie with its own spin on his Core Characteristics, and as it's constantly retconning and contradicting itself, there's no pressure to be "canon compliant" and up to date on every tiny bit of lore ever introduced.

Do you follow TWCFM? Do you follow Lupin Zero? Do you gloss over it like the main parts do? Do you have your own, headcanon-based idea of how the group all came together?

There's a lot of freedom there. I like that :)

IS THERE ANYTHING YOU DON'T LIKE TO WRITE?

I struggle with one-liners, at least if we actually intend on continuing the interaction. My replies only tend to grow over time, and I need at least a couple sentences to get all of my dialogue out (Lupin likes to yap).

IS THERE ANYTHING YOU REALLY ENJOY WRITING?

Developing relationships is sooooooo fun. Literally nothing like it.

I love love LOVE working with my partners to decide how we're going to take our barbie dolls from their initial vibe to whatever dynamic we've got planned. Sometimes things go even further than we were expecting! Sometimes a whole new direction comes hurtling out of left field and we find a way to work with that. It works with everyone, too-- crossovers, canons, OCs, AUs, even duplicates.

HOW DO YOU COME UP WITH HEADCANONS?

Depends. The big ones are usually because I was rewatching something and found a Fun Little Detail I can expand on and flesh out. Things like the Lupin Empire, for example -- if his father was so clearly en route to building it, why is it absent from Lupin III's life? Outside of two Part 1 references, he's never even mentioned it, much less played any significant role in its development or function. Why is that?

I mean, realistically it's because Lupin Zero was made in 2022 and the show debuted in 1971, and they weren't planning a canon for 51 years into the future. Of course there's going to be inconsistencies.

But in-universe, from the perspective of Lupin III being an individual that exists within his setting... What could explain this? How can I take this inconsistency and use it to add some dimension and depth to his world?

That's usually how it happens, anyway. Other times I just get brain blasts, thoughts beamed into my head direct from god themselves, and I type them up in three sentences or less and press post.

DO YOU WRITE IN SILENCE OR PLAY MUSIC?

Music all the way! I have a Lupin playlist I listen to a lot of the time.

DO YOU PLAN YOUR REPLIES OR WING THEM?

I usually plan out Lupin's vague response, how he's feeling and what options he's likely to weigh up before actually deciding what direction to take my writing. Specific descriptions and things like dialogue are all improvised in the moment, and only really revisited if I'm not feeling the vibe or need to reshuffle the reply about.

Dialogue is always written first.

DO YOU ENJOY SHIPPING?

Yes, and having a muse like Lupin makes shipping pretty important. Sex and romance are a big part of his character and behaviours, and so it follows that ships are likely going to come as a result of that. He's quite the Casanova!

However, platonic shipping is also incredibly fun to explore. Rivals, enemies, "friends of the family", actual friends, coworkers, etc. etc. etc. are all things I'm happy to develop and write more of. I encourage people to come to me with dynamic ideas if they've got something specific in mind.

#▸ out of character

[theunrealinsomniac]

As you know, I'm not familiar with your NaruSaku kid OCs. Character and design-wise, how do you imagine them being different from the more famous fankids, Shinachiku, Hanami, and Arashi?

In fairness D, I don't think anyone other than me is actually familiar with my NS kids lol, but I gather your meaning lol.

Okay, let's be clear first and foremost cos I have run into this problem before and I don't want anyone to misunderstand me when I say something in a moment.

I have no ill will against Shinachiku, Hanami and/or Arashi. I've just been here a long time and the NS kids I came up with have been knocking around my noodle for a lot longer than Shinachiku has ever even existed. I have my own, I'm not dropping them for anyone or anything. I'm also not co-opting them and merging my characters with them either. I patently refuse.

It's rude you know?

Cool? Cool.

As for differences beyond the obvious, there's four of my kids, they look different slightly, well you'll have to tell me, I don't know too much about them outside of the bits and pieces I've gleaned from other fic and art.

I strongly suspect the biggest difference is less to do with the kids and more to do with the differences between my Naruto and the Naruto we typically see in stuff about Shina et al.

We are made who we are by the people who raise us, no matter how much we may fight against it as adults, we are the people who came out of our parents/guardians parenting. For good or ill, we are all reactions to our parents, so if my Naruto is different to everyone who writes Naruto for Shina etc ... well I'll have different kids.

I very much get a bumbling sitcom dad/fourth child vibe from Shina and his siblings' dad. And that's fine, it's a perfectly fun and popular take on how Naruto would be as an adult and parent.

I just ... disagree.

I think this comes slightly from two key differences between me and the majority of fanfic writers still knocking around in the NaruSaku sphere.

I'm a man.

I'm a father.

So I have a distinctly unique perspective on fatherhood to most of the people writing Naruto as a dad for NaruSaku. Not a better one to be clear, just a different one.

And because of this, any particular differences between Shina, Hanami and Arashi with my four kids, Sachi, Ichika, Yuuto and Akihiko ... would be kinda like comparing apples and oranges to be honest.

So what I'm going to do instead is just describe the four of them as just them. And you'll have to tell me if that's like Shina etc or not like them.

I do actually have a post where I detail my kids a bit but I was a bit lackadaisical on physical descriptions. So this post will focus on that and I will link the other post with more of their personalities here.

Now, let's start with the appearance of the eldest Uzumaki child.

Sachi Uzumaki

Sachi is our eldest, she's got pink hair a couple shades darker than her mum, eyes just a little lighter blue than her dad and her face is mostly a perfect mix of both her parents, except for the grin. She's got her dad's grin and mouth. Her hair has been all sorts of length but as she settles into teens and active ninja duty, it is cut just a little longer than Sakura's was for most of the story.

When she hits her full height she stands at 5 foot 7, has a generally toned physique like most ninja and kunoichi do with one key exception. Sachi Uzumaki's arms are jacked. Girls got guns and knows how to use them lol. Think an Olympic swimmer for reference but not quite as bulky.

As for clothes, she typically dresses for action, she's what we who grew up in the 90s and early 00s would call a tomboy. There's a general mixing of colours, Sachi is very comfortable being the centre of attention and her clothing reflects this. While she's never gone out wearing full orange or anything like her dad, she has been known to walk around wearing some of Naruto's old jackets.

She does love a good pair of combat boots, the laces normally being fluorescent colours. Sachi's go to look from about the age of fourteen was an oversized top of some primary colour, normally blue, light grey trousers like the ninja uniform and sometimes Naruto's old jacket, sometimes a black leather jacket with the Uzumaki and Haruno symbol, which Naruto and Sakura made once they got married and merged their clans, yes I like this idea too, I'm sure it's also all over the other fankids lol, she wears her headband over her forehead to keep her hair out of her face and because she won't shy away from headbutting people with it.

Ichika Uzumaki

Ichika, Ichi to the family, is Naruto and Sakura's second daughter, sometimes their second or third child depending on the story.

She typically keeps her blonde hair long, think Kushina's lengths for the most part, but the style changes from braids to long flowing locks depending on her mood. She has the same shape and shade of green eyes as Sakura and like all of her siblings, Naruto's grin and mouth. But aside from her mouth it's all Haruno all the way down, you could see Ichika from a mile away and pick her out as basically a blonde Haruno.

She's very lithe to contrast her more muscular sister, if Sachi has a swimmer's body, Ichika has a gymnast's. She's also a few inches shorter than her sister and when all four of the kids are adults, she's the shortest of the bunch at 5 foot 3.

In yet another contrast to her big sister, Ichika is decidedly more traditionally feminine in her attire, favouring pinks and baby blues in her clothing. She's also more inclined to dresses and skirts. She loves summer because it's an excuse to wear sundresses and she loves a good sundress.

It does contrast to what she wears when on mission or training, she favours more form-fitting and close clothing in that scenario and her go to ninja gear is basically the typical uniform but with leggings and turtleneck under her eventual Chunin and Jonin vests. She wears her headband like a belt buckle.

Yuuto Uzumaki

Yuuto, Yuu to the family, is their first son, normally their third child, sometimes second.

He's a dead ringer for child!Naruto. If it weren't for his hair being less spiky and more flowing, think Minato basically, and his eyes being a couple shades lighter green than Sakura's you wouldn't be able to pick out which was five year old Naruto and five year old Yuuto. It's uncanny.

That is until he hits puberty, and his hair gets longer and his face more angular and it's like looking at Minato Namikaze's face on Hokage Mountain come to life. He styles his hair differently but if Sachi is a blend of Uzumaki and Haruno and Ichika is a Haruno ... Yuuto is a Namikaze. At least in the face. Body wise he's basically the same as Naruto, muscular in an agile way with a bit more bulk than his dad and standing at a full 6 foot, the same height as his dad. I don't care if he's actually 5 foot 10 in canon, it's my world now lol.

Yuuto wears as much black as he can as well. It's actually somewhat comical to see the flash of colour at the top of him, blond hair and a dark red headband over his forehead, and then just all black. Black dress shirt open at the second button and untucked, black jeans and black boots. If it didn't suit him so well, he'd get made fun of viciously by his siblings.

He forgoes the Chunin and Jonin uniform unless he's directly ordered to or it's a formal occasion and in fairness to the boy ... it does look weird on him.

Honestly, he looks a bit like a stylish super saiyan lol.

Akihiko Uzumaki

And last but not least, Akihiko. Aki or Koko to his family, I will let you guess who calls him what, but let's just say only Sachi gets away with calling him one of them.

Anyway, Akihiko has dark pink hair, which almost darkens to a very, very light red when he hits early adulthood. He keeps it shorter than the rest of his family, not buzzcut short or anything but no longer than the bottom of his ears. It's still a mess of hair though, no sign of mousse or hair gel lol. As an older man he even grows a beard.

He's the child who most resembles Sakura facially, including the forehead. But his eyes are a glorious merge of blue and green. Honestly they're quite astounding to look at. And of course he has Naruto's mouth and that damn grin.

He's a bit shorter than his brother and father, coming in at 5 foot 11 when he stands up straight and 5 foot 10 when he slouches, which is often. And he is very lanky, he's the least muscular of his family and that actually makes him look taller than he is because of how willowy he is.

Clothing wise, I dunno how to really put it, he dresses normally? Akihiko basically dresses to blend in, he doesn't stand out and he'd really rather you didn't look at him too long. Lots of earth tones and dulled colours. His headband is the brightest thing, and he ties it around his upper left arm on a flash of pink cloth.

And that's basically it for now. I hope this was worth the wait and let me just remind everyone that my takes on Naruto and his kids are just that, mine.

I have nothing but respect for people who use Shinachiku, Hanami and Arashi as their NS kids, but maybe now you've learned a bit about mine ... you'll see why I'm so attached to them. And I hope you look forward to reading the future stories I have about my Uzumaki family.

Ta ra!

#ask theunrealinsomniac #long post #narusaku #naruto uzumaki #sakura haruno #uzumaki family #oc kids #naruto oc #i just love them okay