#rose for a wippet

[jamiesfootball]

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In honor of whumptober have a hint of whump-

He adjusted the ice pack under his cheek, letting go for moment so he could crack his knuckles, get some warmth into his fingers. The bruising along his jawline throbbed with numbed heat as he gingerly laid his face back down against the ice pack. It was a good distraction from the pain in his abdominal muscles.

"Stomach bruising's the fucking worst, Ted," he informed the Ted Soldier. It stared back at him, arms raised in defense. Smarter than Jamie, that one.

Abdominal bruising really was the worst, though, especially when it hit deep tissue. Felt a bit like a stomach ache and made it hard to tell if he was hungry at all underneath it. Not that it'd matter. The rental house didn't have much in the way of food stuff anyways.

[sighonaraa]

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thank you my beloved em!!! another wippet from the second chapter of the ending where you finally find your way home:

“You passed out,” Sam said before Dani had a chance to offer another wildly implausible lie. “We’re taking you home so you can rest.” “Uh, correction,” said Jamie. “You were taking me home. Now I’m awake and I ain’t going nowhere with you.” He had moved past the fact of his passing out with remarkable speed. Sam filed that away for later and crossed his arms, attempting to project an image of authority. It was easier than he’d expected, considering Jamie was currently about ten years younger than him and donning a fairly ridiculous haircut, but it didn’t feel right. It fit wrong across the shoulders, like a coat he hadn’t grown into. “We were taking you home and we still are,” he said. “You live with us. You—it’s your home.” Jamie blinked. “I what.” “You live with us,” Dani repeated. He rocked onto the balls of his feet. “Or, your—your older self, he lives with us. Which means you do, too. By logic.” “By logic,” echoed Jamie, unimpressed. “We won’t force you to do anything,” Sam interjected. “I promise, Jamie, we won’t. But we would very much like it if you did come home with us.” There must have been an undercurrent of honesty to his tone, a tender genuinity, because Jamie went still and his expression—fractured, almost, a fragile breaking that split the shell over his face and revealed to Sam its soft interior. His stomach cramped. Here was his friend. Here was the ghost. And the ghost opened its mouth and said, “I s’pose I can do that.”

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

roses be upon ye 🌹🌺🌹🌼🌹

Thank you thank you :)

Here is a rough bit I’ve just written from the 5+1 of Higgins giving good advice and the one time he didn’t, tentatively titled Dear Leslie:

The match was a disaster. The team was no doubt devastated. And things seem to be going from bad to worse as Leslie approached the changing room to see Beard forcibly remove a swearing, unkempt man from the facility. Leslie watched the retreating figure with more than a little apprehension. The glimpse of sky blue told him the man was a City supporter, but how the man slipped past security, Leslie’s unsure.

“Fuck off you prick, let me finish things with my son. Boy needs to be reminded where the fuck he came from you Yankee fuck,” the man yelled as Beard dragged him out of sight.

Before Higgins had a chance to ponder what the stranger’s words meant, Ted rushed by him, looking like he had another bad fish pie. But Leslie knew better now, he knew it wasn’t food poisoning causing his friend to scurry away.

“Ted–”

“I’m good, go check on the team,” Ted called over to his shoulder and Leslie’s torn between his duty to the club and his duty to a friend.

The changing room was quiet. Too quiet. And if there was anything a father of five knew it was that silence was suspicious. The only thing worse than the eerie quiet was the choked sob that ripped through the space like a grenade. His shoes filled with lead as he took the final few steps into the room.

In the middle of the room, Jamie Tartt stood openly sobbing in Roy Kent’s arms. More than crying, he’s cracked open and the only thing holding him together is Roy Kent duct tape. Arms Leslie’s witnessed push the younger man plenty of times, now held him like a lifeline. Higgins could hardly believe this is the same Jamie Tartt who approached him for tickets two days earlier.

He’s just a dick. Every situation, he does exactly what a dick would do. Not much you can do with that.

Regret slammed into Higgins like a bus.

[antitheticallyargumentative]

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from any wip of your choosing they are all lovely <3

you are getting more of this infernal scene from the jamie study that took me three literal weeks to get through.

“I’d say fuck you.” Jamie spits it out without really thinking, cos he’d never say it to his dads face. The closest he ever got was don’t speak to me like that. Don’t speak to me like that. Don’t speak to me like that. It didn’t even feel that good, like he thought it were s’posed to. Felt fucking terrifying, really.

Ted doesn’t like swearing that much, Jamie doesn’t think, but he nods thoughtfully again and goes, “Makes sense. Anything else?”

A jolt of panic goes through him. Ted’s lookin’ down like he expects something, eyebrows raised all friendly and open-like, but Jamie can’t help but feel like he’s fucked it, somehow. Maybe by going with fuck you. Ted’s not one for vitriol, no, he'd rather say something sweet and then turn a blind eye. It might work for some people. It’s never worked for Jamie. “Yeah,” he fumbles, his breath hitching funny. His dad made him good at football, right? That’s something worth being grateful for. “I’d say… thank you.”

tyyyyy :)

[izzyspussy]

Those rose wippet posts are going around again but I don’t think I’ve seen you re-re-re-blog it so I thought I’d throw some preemptively your way. Just in case.

👉🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

[SUGGESTIVE...ISH]

"Hi," Jamie returns, all but floating forward into Keeley's space, into her grasp. "Roy said t'come see ya." "Yeah?" Keeley says. She brushes his dripping hair off his temples where it falls forward from his headband. He hums in pleasure, not a moan but not any other kind of noise either. "He takes good care of you, huh?" "Yeah," Jamie agrees, like their dynamic could ever really be encompassed so simply.

from take away the glass, currently 40k (can you beLIEVE) Sign up to be tagged when I post this or other Ted Lasso fic.

[jamiesfootball]

for your leisure chomping

"Right, this looks good. Now we're supposed to turn the bowl upside down enough to see if the meringue is set—"

Jamie tilts the bowl up above his head and gets a face-full of whipped eggs and sugar for his troubles.

Roy keeps the camera rolling.

“Was that sexy? Did I look sexy?” He checks with Roy for confirmation. At Roy’s withering stare, he refocuses his attention on the camera and his rabid fucking followers.

"Lovely viewers at home -- if you think that looked sexy, let me know in the comments."

[jamiesfootball]

🌹🌷🌹💐

By the time he'd gotten all three mugs steeping -- a white one with a spinning football graphic, a ridiculous pink one with a pair of disembodied legs in fishnets, and a gray one of decent quality that the interior decorator must have bought to go with the house -- Keeley and Jamie have settled at the kitchen island with the groceries spread out before them like a deck of cards.

He brought the mugs over. Keeley paused in her inspection of an iceberg lettuce as big as her head to smile and thank him.

She took the bland cup without looking. Jamie snatched the football mug from him before he could protest. Roy was left with the fishnets.

Something warm was beginning to steep in his chest.

[jamiesfootball]

under the cut for discussions about discussions about Amsterdam, just in case.

That awful morning was the morning Roy finally got to know Simon. Longest six hours of his life.

"Oh dear," Simon said by way of an apology. He grabbed another tissue. "You'll have to pardon me. I did my best to stay strong for Georgie until you boys got here, but--"

"It's fine," Roy reassured him. "I get it."

"Can I get you another cup of tea?"

Roy nodded. Simon toddled along. The noise from the television pattered softly, not nearly loud enough to drown out the sorrow from upstairs, but they didn't turn it up any higher. Mother and son deserved their privacy.

"Here you are, m'boy," Simon said when he returned with a fresh mug. With half his hair gone to the light, Roy was about as far from a boy you could be before people preemptively began offering you senior discounts. Hell, Simon and him could've gone to school together.

But the word was warm like the mug was warm. Sometimes people just needed the warmth.

"Thanks," he said. He drank his tea.

“She didn’t know,” Simon blurted out. “Didn’t know at all. Not the kind of call ones prepared for in the wee hours of the morning, that.” Then, like it was a scab he couldn't stop picking at, “Did Jamie think—?”

It was Jamie, was the thing. Jamie, who could be sensitive to the slight degree shift in mood, but who could take a direct statement and twist it into something awful and crooked like a scorpion’s tail. Jamie, who held his bruises close to his chest and never seemed to know when he should call for help. “Dunno,” Roy answered with a shrug. Couldn’t go back and fix it now, could they?

Couldn't fix anything lately.

[jamiesfootball]

Blue rose pastries! (Not tentacle monsters.)

These are so mesmerizing. Have a snippet!

“Sam looks like he can handle things on the fly because he trains so much, but he doesn’t do well with surprises. If something unexpected happens, he freezes up. If I’ve gotta move the ball on the fly, it’s going to Dani. He likes a little spontaneity.” Roy made another note- “Put Sam in more situations.”

[jamiesfootball]

���🌹🌹🌹

Here's a snippet from a project I started before season three aired. Not sure if I'll get back to it but I might:

First time Colin met Jamie was as a starter in the U18s during a Wales v England match. Colin played first string the whole season. Football was something that came easy to him. While he wasn't likely to be the next Gareth Bale or Chris Gunter, and he was shorter than most of his teammates by a head, he was scrappier, hungrier, angrier than anyone else he knew - on the field or off. The coaches were always on him to take it easy or he'd tear something, but it was lip service at best. They kept him on because he was a force of nature: block, cross, shoot, it didn't matter. He couldn't be pigeonholed. He was inconspicuous and could slide pass the bigger players before they realized where the ball had gone; he was a threat. So Colin had walked into that match with England full of teenage vigor, thinking he was hot shit. Then at the 57' mark England took an injury, and Jamie Tartt took the stage. In the next thirty-three minutes, he'd also take Colin's self-esteem and a fucking hat trick. Nothing in his young life had prepared him for the look of intensity on the other boy's eyes as he stampeded down the field like the fucking Tasmanian Devil. He blew past Ellis and Bowen like a tap dancer, and when Colin came to tango, he was helplessly tangled in a series of checks maneuvered like a game of chess. He tripped on his feet. Got up quick with rage in his blood only to get nutmegged, the ball slipping cleanly between his unsteady legs, before Tartt took his first breakaway of the evening. The remainder of the match seared into his brain like a bloodbath. A chip shot in injury time sealed the fucking deal, the ball breezing overt the goalie's fingertips to bury into the net. Colin couldn't even blame his short legs for not keeping up. Him and Tartt were the same height. It was a lesson Colin had put other players through but never learned for himself: that you were only as good as your world was wide. The next time they met Jamie was fresh on loan from Man City. Colin called it: the guy didn't remember him at all.

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

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For your next delight!

Thank you, friend! So because I also suffer from can’t-shut-up-itis, I would like to share some of my epiphany in the shower last night.

I’ve mentioned before about having a WIP about Rebecca and her relationships that stemmed from the line that came to me while on vacation back in September:

No one tells you how devastating it is to lose your father while he’s still alive.

But then, upon discussions with you and also your ask after publishing apologies from my tongue, but never yours about the plethora of Bad Dads (or could be Bad Dads) in the TL universe I thought I could rework the other fic into that. And who else is having a bad time at Rebecca’s father’s funeral? You guessed it: Jamie.

So here is a snippet of what I wrote last night:

One look at Jamie’s face told Rebecca she wasn’t the only one in need of some alone time.

“It’s okay,” Rebecca said, voice softening. “You can stay.”

Jamie looked unsure and lost, eyes tracking between Rebecca and the exit slightly behind her.

“I want you to stay,” Rebecca added, surprising even herself. “Sit. Please.”

Jamie dropped immediately back to the floor, legs crossed. So the rumours were true then. The new and improved Jamie Tartt was as well trained as the English Foxhounds her Uncle Alastair took hunting.

“I’m sorry,” Jamie offers, clearing his throat, his voice sounded as if he had been crying. “About your Dad. Uh, it must be difficult. I can’t imagine.”

There was an incident in the changing room.

Higgins’ words after the Manchester City loss hit Rebecca then.

“James Tartt was in the locker room. There was a confrontation with Jamie.”

“What did Jamie do this time?”

Rebecca was embarrassed now at her reaction.

This will also fill my need because I can’t believe there was exactly zero follow up in regards to Jamie and his Dad other than Jamie not having spoken to him since Wembley.

[sighonaraa]

Legit anything with Jamie pls and thanks 🌹🌹

SORRY TO EVERYONE i am currently on my football kiddos agenda so. that is what y'all are getting. SORRY.

Jamie’s brow furrows, as if he’s thinking through the merits of a post-footie treat that’s not a scone. If his expression is any indication, it’s a grave consideration. “D’you promise?” he asks, at length. He gnaws on his thumb a little, and then tugs it from his mouth, like he doesn’t want to be caught. “Yes,” Roy says. “Pinky fucking promise.” “Even…even if I don’t make all the goals?” Jamie says. His voice is pitched, high and tremulous. “I get a sweet even if I don’t make all the goals?”

jamie............. JAMIE!!!!

[jamiesfootball]

🌹🌹🌹 please tear through them like chips. We will send more!

You are so freaking nice to me. Here's a snippet from the the 5+1 jamie falling asleep pavlovian fic:

Then from the front of the bus, in a voice that wasn’t trying to be quiet, Jan Maas said, "Well this is awkward."

The blood rushed to his face, humiliation settling thick in his throat as his eyes prickled. Beside him he felt Roy stiffen like a brick, a sensation so clear that Jamie didn't need check to see the expression of murder on his face.

"Jan," Isaac snapped, his voice booming and captain-ly. "What the fuck?"

"What are we supposed to do, pretend otherwise? That was shit." Louder, he added, "That was shit, Jamie!"

"Oh my God,” said Moe. Jamie couldn't agree more.

"Read the room, man," Cockburn added, sounding hoarse for some reason.

“I’m going to kill him,” Roy hissed under his breath, and even though Jamie knew, he knew it couldn't possibly be aimed at him this time--he hadn't done anything, he'd barely fought back--the words set something scrambling in his chest, making him flinch hard against the window like a wounded animal trying to break free.

There was a shuffling from the seat in front of him. A soft voice asked, "Amigo?"

[jamiesfootball]

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Thank you! Here's a glimpse from the 5+1 jamie falling asleep pavlovian fic-

Roy considered it part of the innate Muppet-ness of Jamie Tartt that he couldn't just sit like a normal person. No, he had to spend review days sprawled out like a starfish sat in a chair. Even on the bench or on the coach, he had to fold himself up and hug his knees--which was fucking irritating in its own right, because even a decade ago Roy wasn't that casually limber. Hell, half the time he was told to sit still, he just sat on the fucking floor like a stuffed toy someone left on the ground.

And that's exactly what he looked like, curled up snug under Jan's arm with his feet on the seat and his knees up against his chest. His face was slack and young as he drooled on the other man's arm. He had his arms crossed over his chest, one hand curled into the slack of Jan's jacket like a blanket.

In the other hand was a fucking tulip.

[jamiesfootball]

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Roy Kent was on his telly.

Jamie barked out a hoarse laugh, which echoed against the bare walls of the rental house.

"Look, Ted," he bitterly told the toy soldier. The words tasted like ashes in his mouth, "Your favorite player’s on the telly."

It didn't feel real, reality bending around the weight of it. Roy Kent was on the telly. Roy Kent was never on the telly. Sure, there were match highlights, disappointing replays where the pundits would all sit round in the room and talk delicately about how great he was 'back in the day', but he couldn't remember the last time Kent had been trotted out for a presser. He was a bitter, old angry dinosaur; he hated interviews, and if you let him talk long enough, so would ever reporter in the room.

Yet there he was. On the telly. Same as he'd been when Jamie was coming up. And he was wearing a suit. And a tie. And he was holding note cards.

The world seemed to shrink.

Dread fisted in his stomach.

Numbly Jamie turned the volume up. The icepack slipped forgotten against his arm as he pushed himself up on his elbow.

[jamiesfootball]

i am here to make you write!! 🌹🌹🌹

It would be unfair to judge Colin on the basis of Jamie’s hair-based warning signs, but to Roy's untrained eye Colin's hair looked like shit.

Flatter than usual, without that coif… thing in the front. Roy had never needed to do it himself -- his hair stood up whether he wanted it to or not -- but he was fairly sure from years of locker room exposure that all it required was putting some goo in your hand and fluffing it up.

Which meant that at some point this morning, before meeting with his PR coordinator and his boss to talk about the closest thing he'd ever had to a scandal, Colin had looked at a pot of goo and decided it was too much work to be had.

Probably not a good sign, that.