Uh, so, I saw this kickass piece of fanart by @thwipped and whoops, innit:
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If caught and asked about it, Jamie couldn’t have explained why he did it.
Actually, no. Scratch that.
He could have explained, probably. He just wouldn’t have cared to.
---
The way it goes is this:
He’s been with Richmond for a couple of months and haven’t those been the longest fucking months of his life, because yeah, ‘course it’s fun being the best fucking player on the team, ‘course it’s fun hearing the fans chant his name, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo, and getting a bit of rest from his dad ain’t bad either, but Richmond is a shit club with a shit manager and the only fucking bright spot—
Well. That’s turned out to be shit too, hasn’t it.
At least Jamie’s killing it, at matches, at training, every fucking time he steps onto the pitch. No one can fucking touch him, dominating yeah, and today’s been a good day for it too, what with the photographer on the sidelines snapping picture after picture for some promo or other. Jamie didn’t pay too much attention to the details, just made sure they got him from his best angle (every angle’s his best angle), and that’s that, until a couple of days later when he walks past Hopkins’ (or Huggles’?) empty office and sees the photos spread out all across the desk.
And well. ‘Course he steps inside to have a look. Bound to be a bunch of him looking fit as fuck, right, and who doesn’t want to see that, and maybe he can grab one for Keeley, bet she’d love it.
There is a bunch of him looking fit as fuck, no surprise there. Difficult to choose the best one really, they’re all fucking brilliant (‘cause he’s fucking brilliant), and he’s deliberating between an action shot of him about to score one of the prettiest goals this sad fuck of a club ever saw and a shot of him afterwards, chin raised against he blue autumn sky like a hero out of a movie or something. Gorgerous, innit.
And then his eyes fall on a picture of Roy.
A picture of Roy fucking Kent. And. Like. It’s not even anything special, not like Roy’s actually doing anything in it, it's just a stray shot of him caught unawares with his shirt raised to wipe the seat of his forehead and he’s—
He’s. Uh.
Fuck. Jamie stares and he stares and he stares because for all that his old attraction to Roy didn’t survive five fucking minutes of actually being in the same room as the man, that’s just—
The shorts riding low on his hips. The dark hair trailing down and down, and the glistening drops of sweat on his forehead and Jamie can fucking smell him and that’s not sexy, is it, except it really fucking is, and those arms, and something unguarded and vulnerable and the real Roy Kent is a royal cunt but the Roy Kent in the picture—
He’s something else, isn’t he. He’s fucking fit. (Okay, the real Roy Kent is that, too, but it kind of fades in the face of him being an insufferable old twat and all that.)
Jamie grabs the picture. Doesn’t let himself think too much about it. Shoves it in his pocket and walks away, feeling it burn, burn, burn against his side.
---
When Jamie was twelve his mum gave him a poster of Roy Kent and Jamie was over the fucking moon. When Jamie was twenty-three he met Roy Kent and Roy Kent glared at him with unmitigated disgust and okay, fuck you too, mate. You’re not even that good anymore, and still you expect everyone to fall at your fucking feet, do your fucking bidding and make like you’re the fucking king, and fuck that, the king is dead, old man; long live the king.
Thing is, looking at the picture now it’s not that hard to forget about the real Roy Kent (nasty bastard) and remember the Roy Kent (fucking legend) that looked down on Jamie from his bedroom wall and whispered encouragements in the back of Jamie’s head and, a little later, featured frequently in fantasies of a different sort.
Picture in one hand, cock in the other, Jamie wanks to Roy for the first time since he came to Richmond (and if it’s not all just the memories of the man he once imagined, if it’s a little bit tinged with dark looks and growls and Roy snarling his name like it’s an insult… Well. That’s nobody’s business, that.)
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He keeps the photos in the bottom drawer in his bedroom and he doesn’t pull it out a lot, ‘cause there’s Keeley and she’s fucking fit and the sex is mindblowing and Jamie doesn’t need to gawk at pictures of sad old has-beens to get his rocks off.
Sometimes there’s a different sort of itch, though, and he scratches it. No big deal.
(He wonders sometimes, what the real Roy would say if he knew. Plays it out in his mind, all the different ways it might go. Cums as he imagines it.)
He thinks maybe Keeley would like the picture too. Not ‘cause she’d like Roy, she’s got way better taste than that, and she’s fun and she likes a bit of fun and if there’s one thing Roy Kent ain’t, it’s fun, innit. But he’s fit and all, and Keeley’s got eyes.
He imagines it, sometimes, the two of them getting off together over the picture. If Roy – the real Roy – wasn’t such a miserable old prick, he’d suggest it to her maybe. But Roy is such a miserable old prick, and the whole thing is way too complicated to explain, so he doesn’t.
Then Keeley dumps him and the dream was only ever that.
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They send him back to City. Jamie doesn’t understand. One moment he’s sharing a bottle of tequila with Dani Rojas and taking up the Richmond chant and Jamie’s not wrong and for the first time he wonders if maybe there could be something for him here, and the next he’s woken up by his agent and that same evening he’s back in Manchester like he never left, only the stale air in the house he bought with his fifth paycheck tells him he did, and the numb sense of loss as he steps through the door tells him he did.
It’s months before he gets everything from London shipped and sorted. Busy getting up to speed with everything at the club and all. It’s good to be back, really, a proper team, a proper coach, all that. Dad starts getting in touch again, sure, but it is what it is.
So yeah, it’s months before he gets all his stuff unpacked and months before his fingers brush over something familiar and he stands there staring down on the picture or Roy and it’s odd because it seems like only yesterday he first saw it and it seems a lifetime ago.
A rush of lust – Pavlovian, right, Keeley? – but a rush of something else too, rusted barb wire tugging at his guts, sharp and sickening.
He looks at it for a long time and then he puts it away and this time he doesn’t take it out again. That’s over and done with.
(Only, he doesn’t throw it away either. Just lets it sit in a neglected drawer, ignored but never let go, like all the other things that must never be.)
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(There’ll be a time, some years later, boxes packed and moved and unpacked and an old photo slipping to the floor and
what the fuck is this?
and
what’s that, babe? oh my god, you look hot! fucking hell! jamie, where did you even get this?
and
when did you get this? i’m still playing here
and
uh, well, you remember that photo shoot they did for the promo just a couple of months after i joined richmond?
and a raised eyebrow and
yeah?
and a shrug and cheeky grin and
yeah, well, picked it up for darts practise, didn’t I
and Roy snorts but he’s smiling too and
figures you’d be shit at darts
and
what are you on about, man, i’m aces at darts… ooh, because there’s no holes in it you mean, yeah, no, you’re right, you’re right, i’m shit at darts, fucking terrible
and they’re both smiling now and Keeley is too and Roy notes how it’s clearly been handled a lot and what were you doing with it really and the glint in his eyes says he knows but Jamie tells him – tells them – anyway, in great, great detail.)
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Phon’s touch was a familiar one, a safe one, despite still making her heart race, making her wonder sometimes, in secret, how she deserved this man, his support and love as big as an ocean, forever steady and strong.
Mae still remembered the first time he’d taken her hand, even if she’d lost count of their touches after that. As kids he’d seen her getting bullied by some children and he’d jumped between them, already smaller than her back then, fierce and without a fear. And afterwards, after the fight she’d watched with wide eyes and her troubled heart on her sleeve, he’d offered his hand with a smile and a promise. Little had she known back then, where life would lead them, what they’d become to each other. But she’d known already, that he’d get stuck to her soul, no matter where their paths would lead them.
Since then, Phon had taken her hand often. At first innocently, casually but each time a wonder to Mae, a glimmering hope. It became the daily part of her life, something to look forward to, something that changed, slowly, to a different one, a yearning one. Mae didn’t try to set her hopes up but then it came, the day Phon held on, held her hand with a new, with a different purpose, his smile lopsided and his fingers trembling.
And Mae realised: she wasn’t alone in this.
Phon became her partner, her equal, her support and her love, by her side whether she was strong or weak, whether she cried or laughed. His touch was a grounding one, the butterflies in her chest forever rising.
Ter’s touch was a surprise. A long awaited one. And Mae hadn’t even realised it.
There was something very hesitant to it, unsure if he was allowed and it reminded Mae of herself, back at her beginning with Phon. To not know if one was welcome and to stop, even if only for a second, before reaching out.
She’d only asked for his touch because she’d been so lonely. Because she missed Phon and felt lost in this cruel world, her only companion a man who never smiled. But when he’d lied down next to her, his back touching hers, his heat seeping into the mattress and her skin, she’d felt weirdly at home. A fragile home maybe, a temporary one, but it was the rock in the storm she’d been searching for. And so she reached our further, she reached out further and with a purpose, just to reassure herself, just to settle down.
They were partners but they were not equals and still ... still! Mae watched Ter smile for the first time, after all the scolding she’d done, after all the conditions she’d uttered. And he stayed. He stayed and came back each time, taking whatever she had to say, however honest and brutal she had to be. But she couldn’t stay silent, couldn’t just hope this time. Mae was reaching out and Ter didn’t even flinch anymore, just let her take and take and take ...
Ter’s touch was a surprisingly soft one, his fingers curling around Mae’s hesitant but with a purpose, a question, a promise. And as Mae’s fingers tightened around his, her mind in a fuzzy maze, she felt at peace.
“P’Mae ...”
Her name, softly spoken by wondering lips, felt like honey to her soul and with a shuddering breath, Mae held on, determined to never let go.
There was a new love in Ter’s touch and Mae was eager to lose count once more.
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also, sewis, royalty bc I need
“Here let me.”
Fingers catch Sebastian’s wrist and Lewis takes the bandage from him, stepping in close to wrap it around and around Sebastian’s ribs. He smells of dirt and blood and sweat. He smells of war. He smells of death. Lewis is also warm and solid and right there, legs bumping into Sebastian’s knees, hair tickling his nose as he bends to try to get the wrapping just right.
I love you, Sebastian thinks. Please don’t fight anymore, he doesn’t say. What do I have to do for you to make it home, to come back to me, tomorrow, when the fighting is done, he doesn’t say.
“Michael,” he says because some things are more important than the two of them. Lewis steps back, hands heavy and soft on Seb’s stomach. His face is half caked with muck. He mustn’t have stopped to wash before coming to find Sebastian.
“The King is fine. Still a little shaken up but he’s with Mika now.” Lewis grins, his tooth gap almost shocking amongst the war on his face. Sebastian reaches up and presses a thumb into one of his dimples. “Driving Mika insane with his pampering and fussing.”
Sebastian laughs, not because it’s all that funny but because the terror that lodged itself in his throat when he saw Mika go down across the field and Michael yell, Corinna’s face pale and stricken behind her helmet, has finally broken free. Lewis watches him for a moment before intertwining his fingers with Seb’s.
“I’ll take first watch tonight. You should get some rest.”
send me a pairing and an au prompt and i’ll write a three sentence (ish) fic about it
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WIP Wednesday, I guess (hey, I haven’t gone to sleep yet)
This bit, springing off of my tags from this post, shout outs to @purplelea, punched me in the face while I was trying to take a nap or at least think about the two fics I’m actually seriously working on, so I guess you’re going in the rotation.
“Besides, he’s already rejected me,” Joshua says.
Shiki and Beat turn toward him. “What, for real, yo?” Beat asks. Joshua nods.
“He never mentioned it to us,” Shiki says, frowning. “Just that you offered him your job again. Without the guns this time.”
Joshua frowns. “Yeah, and? He turned me down.” When this only makes them look more confused, he goes on. “Clearly if he were interested, he’d have said yes. I’d name him my eventual successor, we stay in the UG together and visit you guys, and then eventually when he was ready to be Composer I’d take over the Producer role, and we'd rule the city together. Obviously.”
“Or maybe he just ain’t interested in the job,” Beat says. Joshua looks at him like he just suggested the moon doesn’t exist. “What? Jus’ sayin’, he didn’t say anything 'bout that, yo.”
“It was implied.”
“In other words, you didn’t confess, and Cowards Club continues,” Shiki says. Beat nods. Joshua groans.
“Like it matters? Even if he didn’t turn me down,” Joshua says, clearly humoring them, “he’s obviously way more into you two than me. One of you should go for it.”
“Uh, no? How’s it obvious?” Beat asks. “‘Cuz I heard ‘im when you showed up, Priss. He wasn't that happy to see me, yo.”
Joshua looks at Shiki. “Neku broke back through a hole in reality to save Beat and punched the power overload right out of Minamimoto. There was glowing. Sparkles. I have seen every ill-conceived dramatic romantic gesture anyone’s ever committed in this city, and it topped all of them.”
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