#it was definitely roy i will be taking no questions | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

albatmobile · 2 months

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parent teacher conferences and other places to meet a pornstar

next: [2] coming soon: [3] [4] || ao3

𓅪 Rated: E | 4.5k includes: cam girl AU, teacher AU, masturbation, public sex, caught, fingering, voyeurism, come swallowing, facial, deep throating misunderstandings, confessions

𓅪 cam girl fem!reader x jason todd, eventual cam girl fem!reader x roy harper, eventual cam girl fem!reader x jason todd x roy harper

You hated people your age. Always quick to judge and even quicker to shun.

Kids, on the other hand? You could deal with them.

Kids couldn’t turn their noses up at you, they couldn’t gossip about you and they definitely couldn’t use Google. If they could, they’d find your not so clean history. You’ve never been fucking arrested- none of that shit. No, you needed to make up extra money to compensate for the low paycheck you take as a teacher during the day by becoming a camgirl at night.

It hasn’t been a problem at this school yet, but it always seems to pop up at the most inconvenient times. Eventually, a dad catches whiff of it, their wife gets jealous and you’re quietly let go. This is your third school in four years and you didn't really want there to be a fourth.

That’s why you dread running into parents who come to pick up their kids.

You catch this all-telling gaze of a redheaded man from across your classroom. He’s helping Lian with the cupcakes she’d brought in for her birthday today and you quickly adjust your glasses, hoping he won’t recognize you.

The hope is in vain.

Your smile is strained as he makes his way over to you with his little girl and leftover cupcakes in tow. His gate is too assured, his eyes too jovial. So, you do what you do best: ignore the parents.

You bend down to Lian’s level to help her remove the cupcake wrapper from the red cupcake her dad’s given her, “Did you have a good birthday in class today, Lian?” She nods excitedly, chomping into the dessert with gusto. “Do you have any fun plans for tonight?”

Your question is obviously for Lian, but it’s her dad who responds.

“Do you?”

You clear your throat, standing from your squat as you face the redheaded man. This isn’t the first time you’ve been hit on but it always throws you off guard when it happens.

You shut him down easily, “Grading Lian’s test from today. Isn’t that right?”

Her pigtails bounce up and down, “It was about the different types of clouds in the ‘mosphere.”

“Atmosphere,” you correct her with an amused smile.

Much to your chagrin, he continues on like you haven’t rejected him. “You look like someone I know of,” he trails off as if trying to place your face.

Mr. Harper- Roy, you correct yourself, looks to be in his mid-30’s. He has a decent amount of stubble, crows feet grace the corners of his verdant eyes and his hair looks like it used to be a brighter orange than the faded strawberry color it is now. He’s exactly the type of audience you cater to on your porn channel.

“A person you know of,” you repeat his words with an uninterested drawl. You wish the conversation would resolve itself or just fucking end. This beating around the bush shit isn’t for you. “Odd phrasing, but alright.” You need to change the subject and quick. “I’ll be seeing you at the open house next week, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it, babe.”

You barely contain your eyeroll as you correct him on your name. “It’s Miss,” you tell him your last name again sternly.

“You’re killing me, Miss,” he says your last name, obeying your correction.

“Tragic, I’m sure. Anyway,” you continue on unphased as you focus on saying goodbye to Lian.

He finally moves out of your classroom but lingers in the doorway, “Have you… Were you ever a librarian?”

Don’t reveal anything. Don’t reveal anything.

You calm your breathing. It’s too pointed of a question for him to not know the video that made you famous: a librarian who gets bent over any and every surface in the library.

“I’ll see you next week, Mr. Harper.” Is all you respond.

You’re fucked.

➸💋➸

The Sunday before the parent teacher conference, you’re scheduled to stream.

Most of your material is solo streams and uploads, which makes it easy for you to make content and stick to a schedule. The few production videos you’ve done required a lot of coordinating and planning in advance. It’s a total hassle. That’s why you like your streams. You’re able to wear what you want, use whatever toys you want and you get to pick the location.

The library closest to you is always deserted, especially so on the second floor where the old Fax Machines are stored. The second floor holds records, old newspapers and magazines as well as a smaller collection of nonfiction. Total snoozefest for some, but the perfect public filming spot for you.

The nonfiction section is a separate room from the rest of the second floor and is hidden behind the shelf of vintage magazines. You’ve filmed in here a few times before, but never streamed. This is why you’ve chosen to come in around two hours before they close to eliminate as many possible chances for someone to catch a peak.

You’re giddy as you wave to the librarian who always seems to be behind the counter as you make your way up to your favorite spot. You’re wearing a cotton, white wrap dress, no bra, red thong and heels. The light material shows off everything. Coupled with your signature glasses, you look irresistible.

There’s one desk inside the room, right in the middle that you quickly shove out of the doorway view. The heavy desk is the bane of your existence, especially in your fucking heels, but this way no one can see you unless they literally walk into the room. It’s not fool-proof, but it’s what you’re working with.

Always punctual, you start your stream right on time.

avid_reader began stream

Slowly, viewers trickle in as butterflies stir in your stomach. No matter how many times you stream, you always feel a rush of anxiety as soon as you click ‘Start.’

Private streams are a whole different ballgame.

Though you do offer it, you charge a steep price for private cams. So far, only your top fan has been able to meet that price more than once. The dude isn’t a creep, nor did he have any kinks you weren’t comfortable with, hell, the dude was pretty funny too. Out of all the fans to get you in private, you’re glad he’s the only reoccurring one.

From his requests, you can definitely tell he’s an ass man. You also know that he likes when you wear clothes like you are today: inconspicuous yet revealing. Though he’d never say no to your lingerie, he always preferred tight fitting, see-through tops and short skirts more so than babydolls and matching sets.

Before you get too into everything, you tease the camera you’ve set up on the desk with your nipples that poke through the fabric. You adjust your glasses that fall down the bridge of your nose as you do so, earning you your first tip of the night.

You like to wait for your top fan to join, or at least give him a chance to, but you don’t have to wait too long before his name pops up.

inmyarsenal: this is gona b gud

Though his typing is horrendous, it easily brings a smile to your face, something he notices and tips generously for.

It’s going to be a good night.

You reach your first goal and slowly draw your tits out of your dress out into the open. Your nipples are already perky as you grasp your hands around them and squeeze. Your nipples poke through your fingers as you jiggle your grip around your breasts

inmyarsenal: someone’s gonna walk in on you babe

You bite your lip, looking toward the empty doorway, “I’ve been lucky thus far.”

inmyarsenal: i want t walk in on u baby. sO good for me

He sends another tip, completing your next goal all on his own.

“Eager today, aren’t we?”

Your stomach flips, knowing what comes next. You shoot another worrying gaze toward the doorway before scooting the chair back a bit from the desk so the camera can see down to your knees as you spread them. Your red thong is on full display for your thousands of viewers.

You pull up on the fabric, leaving the thong to disappear into your pussy lips as you do. You tease a bit longer like this before finally pulling the fabric away and exposing yourself fully.

You spend a few minutes slowly rubbing your cunt until you feel wet enough for what comes next. You tease the egg vibrator against your entrance, noting how the tips come in what seems like every second now. Within a minute, you reach your next chat goal- this one allows the tippers in the chat to set the speed of your vibrator. The more they tip, the longer they get control over it.

You slip the egg inside of you with a breathy moan. You use the silicone string that hangs out to continue to make the vibrator bob in and out of your hole, moving the camera to offer an up-close view of it.

No one in the chat gets a chance to call dibs before your top fan swoops in with a tip big enough to control the remote for over 15 minutes. You both know that you won’t last that long with him on the controls.

He starts off strong tonight, easing you into it for only so long before he ups the ante. Your settings on the app allow your viewers to control the tempo with their own vibration patterns that they create, meaning every single sinful vibration is caused personally by him. It makes it that much better.

Today, however, it’s like he has a personal vendetta against you or something with he way he clearly wants you to leave the library with a squirt stain on your dress. Hell, he’d probably tip extra just for you to film your walk of shame, too, the fucking sadist.

“Fuck,” you can’t hold back your moans any longer, not caring how loud you’re being when it feels this good.

One hand teases your nipples and squeezes your tits while the other rubs desperately at your clit. Your legs are spread over each side of your chair at this point, though they’re not much support when they’re shaking this hard.

You’re about to come when you notice him out of the corner of your eyes.

“Shit!”

He’s not the ugliest person to orgasm to, that’s for sure. The man, however, is someone you fucking know.

ABORT! ABORT!

If anything, your top fan seems to pick up that someone’s walked in on you and uses the last few seconds of his control to push the vibrator to its limit. Your hips fly from the chair, arching as you orgasm with a pathetic whine.

You end your stream, shaking and panting, while your come-hazed mind struggles to address the Wayne ward in front of you.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” you rush, trying to regulate your breathing.

You’ve already covered yourself up with your dress, but your thong is around your ankles and there’s no nonchalant way to fix it. That, and the large wet stain that now adorns the lower half of your dress from the front and the back.

Luckily, as soon as you ended the stream, your vibrator ceased, though it still remains inside of you.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

You’re at a loss of what to say, what to do, let alone where to put your come-dripping hands as you stare wide-eyed at the gorgeous man in front of you.

Normally, you’d think it was a pick up line, but no, you have met before. Many times.

Your mother had been Bruce Wayne's elementary school teacher. Each year, you were invited with her to the annual Wayne Gala. Even after her passing years ago, the invitation still came, now addressed to you. Throughout the years of attending, you’ve met him a couple of times, but never much past the standard ‘how are you’ and never memorable enough to even remember his name.

This is a lot more than a ‘how are you.’

“I don’t really know how to answer that right now.”

Surprisingly, he snorts, “I can grab some towels from the bathroom for you.”

You just nod dumbly, half planning to escape the second he turns his back, half wanting to stick around and see how this all plays out.

While he’s gone, you pull off your thong and shove it in your bag along with the vibrator you pluck out.

Moments later, he returns with what seems like the entire roll of paper towels. He hands them to you, eyes never leaving your face before moving out to roam about in the room over.

You try to hurry up, wiping yourself down and packing up your shit at record speed. You walk into the other room sheepishly, paper towels still scrunched up in your hands as you meet his quirked brow and blank face.

"Thanks," you say, hoping he won't bring it up.

Luckily, he doesn’t.

“So,” he draws out the word. You’re honestly surprised he hasn’t left at this point. “You like nonfiction?”

You burst out laughing, something he appreciates with a small smirk as he turns over a title in his calloused hands. “I just like that it’s private up here,” you tell him your actual favorite genre before asking what’s been on your mind. “You’re Dick, right?” Out of all the Wayne ward’s names, this is the only one that springs to mind.

He huffs, putting the book back on the shelf, “Fuck no.”

“Sorry,” you hesitate. Should you just leave him alone and flee with whatever little dignity you have remaining?

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he sounds apologetic. “It’s Jason.”

That name does sound familiar.

“Jason,” you repeat out loud without meaning to, something he notes with a small smile.

“That’s the one,” he drawls with a deep, gravelly voice. Most normal people would respond with their own name, however you just sit there in your squirt covered dress as he flits into the nonfiction room you’d just been in. Oddly enough, he asks, “Can’t really recall your name either, if I'm being honest, kid.”

“‘M not a kid,” you mumble in embarrassment, holding your laptop case against your wet spot. You’re 25, for fuck’s sake.

“Probably a good thing considering what I just saw,” he jokes lightly, though his attention appears to be on the books in front of him. You can tell his gaze is slightly unfocused, though.

You tell him your name as you make to leave. “Maybe I’ll catch you around,” you say.

His emerald eyes finally lock onto yours again, “Maybe you will.”

➸💋➸

At the open house the next day, all the dads stare at you, while the moms resort to glaring at you.

It’s what you’re used to.

You’re hot as fuck, it’s why you do porn. It’s why men like Mr. Harper think you have a familiar face.

Speaking of, the man’s been well-behaved for the most part. Aside from his lingering emerald gaze, he remains in the back of the room with crossed arms as he leans back in Lian’s chair.

The button-up you’re wearing shows off your lofty cleavage and tucks nicely into your skintight pencil skirt. To someone like Roy, you assume you look like a walking wet dream. Your hair’s up in a bun and your signature glasses as your red heels clack along the laminate floors.

You go over your plans for the remaining half of the year as well as the project and letter the kids had created for the open house. It’s an hour-long event with time left for questions after, meaning you’re fucking drained by the time you’re ushering the last of the parents out the door. Surprisingly, Mr. Harper doesn’t linger, nor does he actually say anything to you. It’s entirely odd, but you’re not complaining.

You need a fucking drink.

You didn’t plan to go to a club. It’s totally not your scene. Somehow, tonight, it feels right.

It’s a seedy place, but the drinks are strong and cheap and it’s exactly what you need after a long day like this one. You’re still in your teaching attire as you settle into the practically empty bar. Monday nights and clubs don’t exactly mesh well, meaning it’s close to dead, but that’s fine with you. You’re just here for a few drinks, then maybe treating yourself to some Chinese food.

You let your hair down, shaking it out as the lanky bartender comes over to take your order.

There’s a man across the bar from you. His face is obstructed by a red hoodie as he asks the bartender for something. If you tilt your head just right, you're able to get a better look at the white tuft of hair hanging prominently in front of his eyes. It kind of reminds you of Jason…

It’s as if he feels your curious gaze on him because his sharp one flickers your way.

Green eyes meet your wide ones.

It is Jason.

Do you make the first move, or does-

Before you can finish your mental question, he raises a questioning brow your way as if asking for an invitation to come closer. You grant it, moving your purse over so he can sit.

“Hey,” you say as his hulking form sits down beside you.

“Not feeling nonfiction tonight?” he gestures down to the book you’d been reading before he approached.

"I-" you blush, hating how easily he has a hold over you.

Though you’d only planned to stay for a drink, you order another just to keep the conversation going. The two of you talk about everything and anything. The one topic the two of you keep coming back to is books and he doesn’t exactly let you off the hook for the library.

“Don’t think I’ll ever view that section the same way again,” he takes a coy sip of his whiskey.

“I really am sorry,” you apologize genuinely. “I didn’t know anyone even used that section and I-" You start to ramble, but he gently cuts you off.

“Trust me, I didn’t mind,” you watch as he downs the last of his drink and signs his tab. “You want to get out of here?”

You blush even harder. The liquor settling into your system warmly surely doesn’t help any, nor the heat behind his half-lidded eyes.

“I don’t know if I can wait that long,” you bite lightly at your lower lip.

“You do like public places, don’t you?”

You snort, covering your face in embarrassment, but he won’t allow it. He removes your hands from gentle, placing gentle kisses to each.

“I do,” you agree with a light smile.

“There’s an alley out that door,” he offers lowly.

It’s all he has to say to get you up and out of your seat, following behind his muscular form.

His thumb draws light circles against your hand as he holds open the door for you to leave through first. “Shit,” he says suddenly. “You left your purse.”

You look behind you and notice that, yes, your dumbass left it on the seat next to you. Without another word, he leaves you to grab it.

You still have your phone on you and use the camera app to check over your makeup and hair as you wait in the alley for him. You hear a random noise from the rooftops, but think little of it as the hooded man sneaks up behind you. His large hands caress you from behind as he pulls you backward against his strong chest.

“Can I touch you?” he asks lowly.

Your breath sputters, wanting nothing more, “Jason.”

His hands slip even lower on your torso, applying gentle pressure as he reaches your lower stomach. “What kind of panties are you wearing?” you can’t help but snort. He must’ve liked the red thong because you feel his dick stir to life when you mention much of the same. “Shit,” he groans when he shifts up your dress.

He runs his fingers along the fold of where your thighs meet your pussy as if to check if you’re telling him the truth.

You hear more clattering from above but can hardly focus on it when Jason turns you around to face him. It happens so fast that your mind’s still reeling from the action as he backs you against the brick wall of the club to finally slip a finger inside your thong.

“Fuck!” you buck against his calloused index finger as his body molds against yours.

His lips capture yours in an instant with an intensity that leaves you crying out with want. It’s muffled against his lips as he holds your hands above your head with only one hand while the other focuses on working through your already slick folds. He refuses to touch your clit, which leaves you mewling and struggling against his hold.

It feels so fucking good.

All of a sudden, there’s a loud ‘thump’ that forces Jason to startle slightly away from your gasping form.

“Ma’am.” Out of nowhere, a gruff voice startles the two of you. “Are you alright?”

Before you can respond, words are already out of Jason’s mouth. “Arsenal?” Jason asks, sounding entirely confused.

Your head untucks from Jason’s sweaty neck to see a random-ass dude in a costume staring at the two of you. Your mouth is wide as you take in the new form in front of you. Your eyes trickle lower on his red uniform to where it protrudes out around his crotch.

Apparently, Jason’s seen enough. His hand shifts slightly as he moves and you can’t stop the light breath it draws from you.

The costumed man visibly takes in the man’s face as if it’s familiar.

“I thought she was in trouble,” he trails off as he realizes that everything going on here is completely consensual.

They stare each other down for a few more seconds before Jason lulls you back in.

Instead of stopping, Jason’s fingers soon begin again and you resort to hiding your face against his neck as you allow it. He notices the man’s continued presence and smirks down at you, “Are you good with this?”

You nod, moaning loudly when he rewards you with another curl of his thick finger. You definitely aren’t used to doing this shit for free, let alone for a live audience, so you feel a bit shy. The shyness only lasts for so long before you suddenly grow bolder, throwing your head back erotically as Jason brushes against your g-spot.

Jason nips at your neck, leaving bites and bruises in his wake, but your half-lidded eyes are focused on the masked man in front of you. He’s yet to move, let alone breathe, it seems.

You can't deny that he’s ripped, nor that his muscular arms are doing things to you.

He’s hot.

“I don’t care if you touch yourself.” The words are out of your mouth before you can realize it.

It’s as if the floodgates have opened as the vigilante begins palming himself through his suit. His movements are erratic and sloppy, as if he’s never touched himself before, though you suppose he’s never run into a camgirl in an alley before, not that he even knows.

You don’t even have to try to put on a show, Jason’s really that fucking good. Every moan, every writhe of your body and every shaky word you beg are all real reactions to his skillful hand.

Jason’s hand picks up speed as you draw nearer. His lips catch deliciously against your own as he coaxes your tongue lewdly with his. “There we go,” you whimper, then cry out as his fingers squelch in and out of your slick cunt. “Just like that.” With Jason and the other man’s eyes attached to your pathetic form, you come, nearly crumbling to the ground as you do. Luckily, Jason’s strong arms catch you with a small laugh, “You alright?”

It’s your turn to laugh. “Fucking amazing,” you bite your lip, eyeing the obvious strain in his jeans, “Would you want me to-?”

“Fuck yeah,” he breathes out, pulling you in for a deep kiss. You tantalizingly pull your hair up, something you did in your infamous scene.

Both men watch with slackened jaws as you squat down and unzip his jeans. His clothed cock tents out from the opening of the zipper and you waste no time in sucking at the head through his boxers. Once the fabric is thoroughly soaked through, you pull him out to fully admire.

You bite playfully at your lip, staring Jason in the eyes as you spit on his bobbing cock before slowly taking his length down your throat. When you reach the hilt, you moan, feeling the vibrations of it settle across his skin, “Mm.”

“Shit,” he groans and his arms shoot out on the brick wall behind you as if to control himself from fucking into your mouth. “Done this before, babe?” he teases you, though his eyes are completely dark with lust.

“A time or two,” you jest back with an impish smile. Your glasses have completely ridden down to the tip of your nose at this point, something he notices and pushes back up with his thumb.

The action causes a loud groan from the vigilante beside Jason, “Fuck, man.”

He’s eagerly fisting his cock at this point, eyes never once leaving you.

“Want to taste her come?”

The moan the other man produces sounds pained, desperate, as he latches onto Jason’s calloused fingers coated with your slick.

You suck more eagerly, watching the whole interaction with fascination. You’ve never done something like this before, but you don’t think you’d mind doing it again.

“You taste so good,” the other man mumbles. You have no choice but to blush around Jason’s thick length, deepthroating him until tears spill from your eyes. “So good,” he mumbles again, completely lost in you.

You swap between teasing and deepthroating until you can tell he can’t take it any longer and attempt to finish him off with one of your signature moves.

“Fuck, I’m gonna-" Jason caresses the back of your head as he empties out into your mouth. He pulls out and splatters the remnants of his come across your lashes.

You blink heavily, turning to the other man as an invitation, “Not sucking your dick, but you can come on my tits.”

“Fair enough,” he mumbles, completely distracted as you pull your tits out of your bra.

Your tongue pokes out to taste Jason’s come on your face while your hands squeeze at your tits like you had on stream. Poor dude doesn’t last another 20 seconds before his hot come splatters across your chest with the rest of his load drizzling down into your bra like a claim.

Definitely have to wash that when you get home.

Both men help you stand, though the vigilante takes off soon after zipping his pants.

Jason sticks around to walk you to your car, sending you off with his phone number.

When you get home, you barely have time to reflect on what the fuck had gone down in the alley when your laptop chirps oddly. You set down your purse on your kitchen island as you traverse over to your desk. Upon opening it, you find your channel pulled up and see inmyarsenal has left you a $200 tip.

You shake your head quizzically, eyebrows furrowing as you search to see if it’s been a mistake, considering you haven’t streamed since the library. You go to refund it to him only to see the note he’s left with it:

inmyarsenal: have to stop coming by your streams. tAke this as compensation- no refunds :)

A/N: I've been waiiiiting to finishing this fic since last april!!! not super edited if i'm being honest

if you'd like to send me nice things in my ask box, it would make my day :,)

[next] || ao3 || pinned || my ko-fi / tip jar

#reader x roy harper #reader x jason todd x roy harper #jason todd x reader #reader x jason todd #dc x reader #x reader #my fic: parent teacher conferences and pornstars

189 notes · View notes

its-time-to-write · 11 months

Note

What about Jaime liking someone who works at/owns a flower shop so he keeps making excuses to come in and get flowers? Richmond is real confused about why he’s giving away so many bouquets all of the sudden

(Ps I love love love your work! I’ve got it so I get an alert whenever you post because of how much I love it!)

this one turned out SO CUTE I hope you like it!

wishing on every one

You know you’re fucked as soon as he walks through the door of your shop.

Then he tells you he’s looking for flowers for his mum who’s visiting him for the first time, and you know you’re extra fucked.

He’s absolutely gorgeous, especially in the soft light streaming through your flower shop windows, framed by the vibrant hues of the plants lining the shelves.

Then he says, “I’m Jamie,” peers at your name tag, and tells you that you have a lovely name. You’re blushing the entire time you lead him around the shop, answering each one of his questions as best you can without stuttering. He cracks jokes, picks out a nice bunch, and leaves you one flower for yourself on his way out.

And then, the next week, he comes back.

Jamie Tartt, AFC Richmond’s star footballer, comes back to your shop and flirts with you again.

Of course you know who he his, you knew the moment he stepped through the door. You live in Richmond after all, and you agree with the great Dani Rojas that here, football is life. It’s just hard to believe that your favorite footballer is back in your tiny little store and maybe sort of kinda definitely flirting with you.

You don’t let it get to your head (much). It’s Jamie Tartt, you’ve seen him on Lust Conquers All. To him, flirting is like breathing. You also don’t tell anyone, although you feel like you’re bursting inside. Your flat mate notes that you’re smiling more and that you always seem to be humming, and could you please maybe be careful when you’re skipping around because she just mopped the floor and doesn’t want you to slip.

But Jamie Tartt keeps coming back; first once a week, then twice, then about every other day. He follows you around as you help him choose flowers for all kinds of occasions, and then he’a gone again, leaving you to wonder which time will be the last.

—

At Nelson Road, things are in chaos.

Ok, maybe chaos is too strong a word. Things are… out of the ordinary.

Well, but things have been out of the ordinary ever since Ted Lasso showed up.

Things are… weird. Yeah, that’s a good word. They’re weird. And “they,” refers to Jamie.

It starts off simple enough. It's Sam’s birthday, so Jamie shows up with some flowers. He heard Sam say they were his favorites, so it makes sense that he’d bring them. No one notices anything.

The next week, he’s brought some for Ms. Welton.

“It’s for all the shit you do that we don’t know about,” he explains. “Didn’t want you to think we didn’t notice.”

Rebecca doesn’t comment on the double negative, just smiles and says, “Thank you, Jamie,” as Keeley sits forward on the couch in a slight state of shock. The Jamie she was with had never done something like that for her romantically, and here he is doing it platonically. Holy shit, he really has changed.

Rebecca also doesn’t take the flowers to mean something they don’t. She knows that the team looks to her with the same respect they would afford an older sister or even a mother (although she is not old enough). Strangely, she doesn’t mind. It makes her feel loved in a way she’s unused to, and the flowers from Jamie hang upside down on her wall so they can be immortalized.

Barely a week after that, he’s gotten some for Keeley. “It’s to make up for the ones I never got you,” he tells her. They’re all bright pink with fluffy petals. Keeley wraps her arms around Jamie with a squeal of delight. Roy grunts angrily, so Jamie pulls out a bunch of dark red and black flowers. “Didn’t leave you out, grandad,” he grins as Roy pretends to hate the bouquet. But even he isn’t cold-hearted enough to hate flowers.

Suddenly, people are getting flowers every other day. It’s become Jamie’s thing. Ted gets some sunflowers when he seems like he’s missing home a little extra. Will gets a bunch of sweet-smelling flowers that Jamie doesn’t know the name of, but he knows that purple one’s lavender because he remembers how you told him it reminded you of growing up. Dani gets a bundle of tulips and it almost makes him pass out from excitement, but luckily Isaac is there to catch him.

Dani is firmly seated on the bench in the locker room and Jan Maas has removed all tulips except one, and now Isaac has the chance to turn to Jamie and ask the question that’s on everyone’s mind.

“What gives, bruv?”

Those three words make Jamie turn bright red, but he shrugs it off with a laugh.

“What, can’t get me best mates flowers?”

“It is a little better than the PS5s,” Richard says. There’s a chorus of agreement, much to the surprise of Coach Beard.

Jamie thinks he’s in the clear and his face isn’t red anymore but then Dani says, “Jamie Tartt, why did you decide to give us flowers and not some other expensive gaming device?” and Jamie knows he’s completely and utterly fucked. He did not think this far. He has no excuse, no lie, so what comes out of his mouth is, “The flower shop girl’s fit,” and then the locker room completely descends into chaos.

The boys are firing questions at Jamie faster than he can even understand them, and Ted’s just laughing at the pure pandemonium. He remembers similar moments when coaching other football teams, American ones, and the good feeling that comes along with “boys being boys,” in the way the phrase was originally intended.

All pertinent information is successfully extracted from Jamie before the team heads home, except your name and which flower shop it is. Colin says that’s the most important bit, but Jamie refuses to tell them more than the fact that your laugh makes the sun shine brighter. Isaac nods thoughtfully and Roy shakes his head, but it’s with a fondness he reserves only for his team.

It could be any shop, really. There are conversations across the parking lot of the best way to figure out which one it is and Jamie’s getting nervous when he hears Ted’s voice call his name.

He turns, and Ted hurries over to where Jamie’s car is parked.

He carefully places a hand on Jamie’s shoulder (softly, unlike the crushing grip of his father) and looks Jamie straight in the eye.

“Jamie, life’s too short to beat around the bush. You like her. I think it would be best if you rose to the occasion and just asked her out. I be-leaf in you, son. You just gotta get clover it and do what you gotta do.”

Jamie doesn’t pick on the flower puns until about the third one. He’s laughing a little bit and Ted is too, all while regarding Jamie with a soft look that Jamie always wished his father would give him. Ted pulls Jamie in for a hug and says, “In all seriousness man, we’re rooting for you.”

Jamie gives him a look, which makes Ted hold up his hands in defense. “Alright, alright, I’m done,” he says. “For now.” Then he winks and headed to meet Coach Beard.

—

It’s the middle of the afternoon when the bell on your door jingles, and you look up from the register hoping to see Jamie.

Instead, you see a middle-aged man with a mustache smiling at you.

He says, “Howdy,” in a way that is so very American, that you can’t help but break into a wide smile.

“Hi!” you reply, “How can I help you?”

“My name’s Ted Lasso,” he says walking toward you. “I coach football here in Richmond.”

You’re still grinning. “I know who you are, Coach Lasso. I’m a big Richmond supporter. Have been since I was a kid.”

“Just Ted is fine,” says Just Ted. “I usually don’t like to introduce myself along with my job title because it makes me seem all uppity, but I thought it might make more sense if I did.”

You scrunch your nose in confusion so Ted says, “You were expecting to see Jamie today, is that right?”

You nod. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Jamie’s coach is in your flower shop and he knows that you like him and he’s probably going to tell you you can never see Jamie again because that’s the only logical reason he’s here, right? Maybe Jamie’s been skipping practice to be here with you and that all has to end now because football is life and you of all people should know that. Shit.

Ted must be able to see the panic on your face because he shakes his head and says, “Don’t worry darlin’, it ain’t anything bad. I’m only here to let you know that boy’s got it down bad for you.”

Wait, what?

“Oh,” you reply.

“Yeah, oh,” Ted chuckles. “Why’d you think he was here all the time?”

“I- I don’t know,” you say. “He flirts with everyone. I’m nothing extra special.”

Ted shakes his head again. “There’s where you’re wrong. You’re somethin’ extra special. Did you know I found you based on the way Jamie talked about you alone? He didn’t even give your name, but I’ve been in here once or twice myself and I must say, he was right when he said the sun shines a little brighter when you smile. I figured it had to be you the moment he said that.”

You’re smiling again. Jamie said that about you? To his coach?

Ted’s talking again. “Listen,” he says, a little more serious, “Jamie’s like a son to me. And sometimes dads need to give their sons a little push so they can get rid of their training wheels and just go for it, you know what I mean?”

You’re at a loss but Ted just grins. “I got here exactly three minutes before the boys take a break for lunch, which means that Jamie should be in here-” the bell at the door jingles “-right about now.”

“Coach?” Jamie asks, looking very adorable and very confused. “What’re you doing here?”

Ted shrugs. “Sometimes dads gotta take things into their own hands. Give you a little extra boost, as it were. Figured you’d be in here forever before you got the guts to make a move and by then Nelson Road would be completely overrun by flowers. Not that that’s a bad thing,” he says with a glance to you. “Anyway. I’ll be on my merry little way. Beard’s saving me a seat at our favorite lunch spot.”

Ted waves a two finger goodbye and pats Jamie on the shoulder as he heads out the door, bell ringing behind him.

“So,” you say, making your way around the counter over to Jamie.

“So…” he replies, looking down at you.

You take his hand. “Heard from a reliable source that you have a crush on me.”

Jamie grins. “Ain’t a crush babe, I’m a grown lad. Think it’s somethin’ a little more real.”

“Uh huh,” you say, smiling back at him. “Well it just so happens that I also have a crush on you as well as a thirty-minute lunch break that starts right about now…”

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt #ted lasso

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caapsiizzereads · 11 months

Text

I got your heart skippin' when I'm gone

Jamie Tartt x f!reader

Words: 2,3k

Warnings: language, author’s first attempt at writing🥴

A/n: yes, the title is, indeed, a Taylor reference.

A glass of champagne in your hand, you are standing in the company of Frank, your boss, and a few other of your colleagues, chatting about how good of a job they did at setting up today’s event. A bunch of compliments are also directed at you and Frank for all of the work you’ve done leading up to this. You know you’re great at your job, but moments like this really make you feel fucking good about yourself. At 26, you can proudly say that you are the Assistant Creative Director for one of the biggest jewelry brands in England. And today your company is celebrating the launch of their latest collection that you’ve been working really hard on. The past couple of months have been terribly busy, Frank and you practically living at work and surviving purely on caffeine. But now it’s finally over, and you can just relax, look pretty (“absolutely stunning,” actually, to quote Frank), and sip champagne, while people are singing you well-deserved praises.

The company’s event team really knew what they were doing too. Natalie, your friend from PR, had been very pumped for the night, rambling about all the famous people coming. You briefly went through the guest list, of course, but, honestly, you were more excited about the open bar. But if one of those guests just so happened to be lovely enough, you wouldn't mind indulging in some of that either.

An hour into the party, you were done with all the formalities, and you could switch from your neat glass of champagne to a drink more worthy of a Saturday night. You’re standing by the bar, looking at your phone, when you hear a question, seemingly directed at you.

“Can I get you a drink?” Looking at you, there’s a guy, around your age, dyed blonde hair, pretty face, really nice bone structure. His face looks familiar, but you just can’t remember why.

You give him an amused smile, “You know that they are free, right?”

“And how am I supposed to be chivalrous in these conditions?” he says theatrically.

“If buying a girl a drink is your definition of chivalrous, maybe you shouldn’t even try,” you say, your voice full of sarcasm, but still a smile on your face.

He chuckles lightly and smiles at you, “I’m Jamie.” Really pretty smile too.

“Y/n,” as a force of habit you offer him your hand to shake. The gesture seems to surprise him a little bit, but he goes with it anyway, shaking your hand lightly.

The two of you settle next to each other by the bar with an easygoing chatter. You’ve been talking for about 10 minutes, when Jamie says that he’s a football player, and it finally clicks for you.

“Oh my God.” You tilt your head down and cover your eyes with your hand in embarrassment. “You’re Jamie Tartt. You were in our campaign a few months ago. Fuck, I’m so sorry. My memory, like, resets once the campaign is done and it’s not my problem anymore.”

Jamie smiles almost shyly at your realization. “No, no, it’s fine! I’m sure you go through a lot of those, can’t remember everyone.” He definitely remembered you, though. Not that he’s gonna tell you that. And a part of him is even kinda relieved that you didn’t because–

“On second thought, I do remember you. You were, like, 40 fucking minutes late.” Yeah, that. You didn’t speak to him directly that day, but the look on your face was the most passive-aggressive thing he’d ever seen. Honestly, could give Roy a run for his money. Except that your version also looked kinda hot. But he still would rather not be at the receiving end of that glare ever again.

“I’m sorry! I underestimated the traffic,” he says awkwardly. And to think that this has been going well…

You take a sip of your drink, giving him an unimpressed look.

“I’m not getting invited again, am I?”

“Well, you are on my naughty list, but I wouldn't write you off that fast. You attract a nice audience of sports fans and sportsmen fans.” Jamie can swear you have just checked him out. “And you have a nice neck, you know, makes the necklaces look good. But that’s just my professional opinion.”

You said it in the most nonchalant way, but you might have just become the first person to make Jamie Tartt flustered. He decides to push his luck some more.

“And your personal opinion?”

“That you were 40 fucking minutes late,” you deadpan.

No luck, then.

“So,” Jamie perks up again at your attempt to keep the conversation going, “did you have a match earlier today? Or is it tomorrow?”

“Yeah, it was today.”

“How was it?”

A smug smile appears on his face, “We won, 3-1.”

“Well,” you raise your glass, “cheers to that.”

Jamie clinks his glass to yours, “Cheers.” You both take a sip of your drinks.

“So you’re not into football then?” Jamie asks, once you put down your glasses.

“Nope,” with a dramatic ‘p’. “Don’t take it personally. I’m not really into any sports,” you say blithely.

The conversation keeps flowing easily between you two. 30 minutes later, you are pretty sure that you are taking this man home with you tonight. Jamie seems genuine, in a cute kind of way, (mostly unintentionally) funny, attractive, obviously, and there’s something about him that you just know that he would be such a good time. 40 minutes later, you even consider letting him stay for breakfast. 45 minutes later, however, you start feeling a slight headache, but fuck if you will let it ruin your night, so you decide to just ignore it and hope it will take a hint and go away.

No such luck. The universe must truly hate you, because about an hour and a half into your conversation with Jamie you feel like someone is kicking your skull from the inside. You’ve tried to ignore it to the best of your ability, but this party suddenly isn’t any fun anymore. Fuck. Your. Life. You are aware that Jamie is saying something, his voice being a steady background noise, but you don’t have a clue what he just said because all you can focus on is a throbbing pain in your head. That’s when you know that you should just give up and go home.

Jamie notices your attention slipping away and your smile faltering as he speaks. Then you look away for a moment before looking back at him with a smile, saying that it was nice talking to him and wishing him a good night. You get up from your seat and start walking away before he can even process what has just happened.

You’re putting on your coat when you see Jamie quickly walking up to you with a concerned expression on his face. “Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

You don’t let him finish, “No, no, no! You’re good.” Jamie keeps looking at you with an obvious question on his face. “It’s just–,” you gesture at your head with a circling motion, “my head is fucking killing me. So I'm gonna go home, take some Ibuprofen and pray it goes away.”

Jamie’s face changes from concern to understanding. You think that this is it, so you turn to leave, but then he speaks up again. “I can give you a ride?” It was more of a question than a statement.

“No, it’s fine. Really. I’ll just get an uber.”

“It really is no problem. Come on,” he’s looking at you expectantly.

You think on it for a moment and give him an evaluating look. “I’m not inviting you in.”

“Oh. No! I didn’t mean it like that! I was really just–”

“Relax. I was just making sure you don’t have any false hopes.”

“Nope, no false hopes here.”

“Good,” you nod at him.

You walk to his car and Jamie opens the door for you. He sees you smiling at him approvingly.

“What?”

“See, now you’re being chivalrous,” you say playfully before getting in the car. Jamie closes the door after you and gives himself a moment to blush in privacy. After starting the car, he turns the volume on the radio all the way down and opens a window a little bit for you. You lean back in your seat and give him a small smile, “Thanks.”

Your talk on the way home consists mostly of you giving Jamie the directions and his attempts on small talk.

“Do you get them a lot?”

“No, not really. Only when it’s the least convenient apparently.”

“Maybe it’s because you–“

“If you’re about to say that it’s because I don't drink enough water, I'm jumping out of this car at full speed.”

Jamie’s mouth opens, closes, and opens again. “Actually, I was going to say…” he pauses again.

You raise your eyebrows at him, prompting him to go on.

“I was going to say… that it’s probably because of your hard work schedule, yeah. You know, having to deal with people being 40 minutes late and everything.” He throws a glance at you, checking if he’s managed to save the situation.

That makes you chuckle, despite the pain it causes. “You know what, I think you might be right.”

Soon, you’re parked by your building. “Thanks for the ride. It was really nice to meet you,” you say, before opening the car’s door.

“Yeah, you too,” he smiles at you.

Jamie spends another minute parked by your building. It’s only after you disappear from his view that he realizes that he hasn’t even gotten your number. He sighs and bumps his head against the steering wheel.

Meanwhile, you’re just glad to finally get your hands on some painkillers and flop on the couch, waiting for your head to stop throbbing. But an hour later, when you feel like a person again, your mind goes back to Jamie. You really liked him, huh. Hypothetically, you can look up the paperwork for the campaign he did, and his contact information should be there. Realistically, you should probably just let it go.

On Monday everything goes back to normal. After the workload that you had to deal with before the launch, the lack of a hundred points on your to-do list and constant burning deadlines almost feels like a vacation. And judging by the laid-back atmosphere at the office, you’re not the only one who feels this way.

You go out for lunch with Natalie, and after she’s done catching you up on all the fresh gossip, she can’t help but ask about your chat with Jamie Tartt. You tell her that’s exactly what it was, just a chat at the party.

She looks at you like she knows something you don’t. “That’s interesting. Because Keeley Jones, you know, from KBPR, called me earlier today to ask for your number.”

You give her a look that says “is this supposed to mean anything to me?”

Natalie dramatically rolls her eyes like it couldn’t be more obvious, “KBPR represents Jamie Tartt!”

Now it’s your turn to roll your eyes.

“Excuse me, have you seen yourself in that dress? I totally would ask for your number too.”

You smirk at her, “You have my number.”

“And now so does Keeley Jones. All I’m saying is, if you’re not interested, let him down easily. ‘Cause I'm totally planning on using him for more campaigns. Have you seen those hands?! They were meant to put rings on them. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you–”

You start cackling before she can even finish.

It’s just after 6pm and you’re getting in your car when your phone rings, you don’t recognize the number.

“Hello?”

“Hi! (Y/n) (Y/l/n)?”

“That’s me.”

“Hi! It’s Keeley Jones, from KBPR. Natalie gave me your number.”

“Right, she mentioned. How can I help you?”

“It’s more of a social call, actually. Jamie asked me to ask for your number. You know, Jamie Tartt, the footballer? He said you met at the brand party the other night.”

You smile to yourself, “Yeah, no, I remember him.”

“I was just gonna check if it’s okay with you?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Thanks for asking me first, though.”

“Of course!”

Keeley then congratulates you on your launch, and you tell her that she should totally come to the next one.

Not even an hour later, another call, another unknown number.

“Yes?”

“Hi. It’s Jamie. Tartt. We met–”

“I know. Did you ask Keeley to ask Natalie for my number?” you ask teasingly.

“Maybe…? The alternative was to wait for you outside your building, but that would be creepy.”

“Yeah, better not do that.“

“Right. Uh, how’s your head?”

You chuckle at the question, “It’s fine.”

“Good, that’s good.”

“Mhm,” an amused smile is growing on your face.

“So… I was gonna ask, do you want to, I mean, if you’re not busy, maybe we could go out for dinner?” You can easily tell that he’s nervous, it’s quite cute actually.

“Alright,” the easiest yes you have ever said.

“Yeah?” Jamie wants to smack himself in the face for how hopeful that came out.

You chuckle again, “Yeah.”

“Cool. Uh, are you free tomorrow?”

“I can do tomorrow.”

“Fucking mint. I will pick you up? At seven?” You can hear the excitmenet in his voice.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he grins.

“See you tomorrow then,” and if you’re smiling then there’s no witnesses and no one will prove anything.

“Yeah, see you,” and if he’s grinning like an idiot then it’s no one’s business.

“Oh, and Jamie?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t be fucking late.”

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt imagine #ted lasso fic

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buckychristwrites · 11 months

Text

Could This Be | Chap. Eleven | j.t.

Pairing: Jamie Tartt x F!Reader

Summary: One minute, you're single and working for AFC Richmond as the team's medic. The next minute, you're in a fake relationship with the team's handsome striker who you know next to nothing about.

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: Discussions of Previous Emotional & Physical Domestic Violence. Cussing. Fake Dating

A/N: And that's a wrap! Thank you so much for reading! I hope you all enjoy!!! Also YES i changed Beard's wedding to fit my needs SUE ME

Masterlist | Could This Be Masterlist | Main Blog

The only thing you could hear was Keeley’s sobs as she leaned on your shoulder.

“Keeley, please!” You whispered, trying hard not to laugh through your own tears. “You’re being so loud!”

“I just love weddin’s so much,” She choked out as she tried to wipe her face without smearing her makeup.

The backdrop of the wedding was stunning, in the beautiful garden of a Scottish castle with the sunset painting the world from behind. Standing between Jamie and Keeley, you found yourself choking up during their hand written vows. Although, the sentimentality of it wore off after the eighth page of Beard’s. And that was only the halfway mark.

With the ceremony over, and the bride and groom off to take a quick set of pictures, everyone was filing inside to get to the reception.

Hand in hand, you walked through the grass with Jamie, as Keeley was linked to Roy on the other side.

“Can we have a wedding here?” Keeley asked Roy, looking at him with a pout in her lip. His expression didn’t falter.

“No.”

Her lip poked out further.

“Why not?”

“Fuckin’ stupid to have a weddin’ outside in England. The risk of rain is too high,” He explained, in a logical way that made a lot of sense. Keeley considered this, although she still had the pout on her face.

“Where would you get married?” She asked, turning to you. You were taken aback by the question, the heat filling your cheeks and burning them from the inside out. Although you refused to look at him, you felt Jamie give your hand a squeeze.

“I don’t think I’d want a big wedding,” You admitted. “I’d be fine with the courthouse.”

“Really?” The shock in her voice was evident, her staring at you like you had said you’d like to get married in the mouth of a shark. She looked to Jamie. “What about you?”

His gaze fell to the grass, shaking his head before pointing at you with his free hand. “Whatever the lady says.”

It had been an awkward morning.

The hotel room that had been booked for you was the same hotel room that was booked for Jamie, as it was assumed that you two would’ve done that anyway. And, obviously, that meant that the room only had one bed. It was a regal room, decorated as if it were plucked out of Buckingham Palace and placed inside this castle for you to stay in. After a hearty debate on what to do. as there was no couch in the room that could properly accommodate a person, the two of you decided to just share the bed. Jamie on the left side, you on the right side. The two of you mumbled good night to each other before switching off the lights and turning to face the opposite walls. Which was fine and dandy.

Until you woke up pressed into Jamie’s bare chest, his arms wrapped around you. You had no recollection of moving, having definitely been on your own side when you went to bed the night prior. Was he shirtless when he went to bed? He must’ve been. It was like waking up from a dream to another one, your face against his skin and his chest rising and falling against yours. And for a long time, you allowed yourself to stay like that. It wasn’t scary. It wasn’t weird. It felt normal. Like you had been waking up this way for years and years.

It made you think of when you and him slept together. When he spent the night and left the following morning. He had woken up before you, and was out of bed by the time you awoke. Had this happened then, too?

Your eyes had snapped shut when he shifted, and for a brief moment, he seemed just as content as you. Then, suddenly, he was out of the bed so fast that you almost rolled off the mattress in stunned confusion. The exchange was brilliantly painful, as he apologised and rushed to the bathroom while you got yourself together and dressed before fleeing the room entirely.

The incident had completely shattered the groove the two of you had. Ever since, you had no idea how to act, and neither did he. All morning, you two stumbled around each other, as if you hadn’t been kissing and holding each other in public for about a month at this point. Maybe it was the fact that it was a moment in private, a thoughtless act in a place where there was no fear or rationale to fight through. Just two fake yet somehow real lovers, entwined.

“I can’t see you settlin’ for a courthouse,” Roy said, eyes narrowed at Jamie. “Jamie Tartt’s weddin’? In a fuckin’ courthouse?”

Jamie shrugged before saying, “I don’t think anything I do with her is settling.”

The butterflies in your stomach made you nauseous.

The interior of the castle was decorated so beautifully for the wedding. Fresh flowers were everywhere, filling the room with a lovely scent. Candles were everywhere, a stunning flicker against the setting sun that was shining through the windows. Against the wall were rows and rows of tables, filled to the brim with food. Your mouth began to water. The morning had been so hectic that you had forgotten to eat.

“I will die if I don’t get food soon,” You mumbled to Jamie as the two of you followed Keely and Roy to the assigned table.

“I think we have to wait,” Jamie responded, looking around. No one else even approached the buffet tables. It made your heart want to cry.

Jamie pulled out the chair for you at the table, allowing you to sit before taking the seat to your right. In the middle of the table were appetisers, a feature you weren’t expecting. Both Jamie and yourself immediately reached forward to grab a random assortment.

“Do you think we’re supposed to eat yet?” Keeley asked, looking around nervously to see if others were eating off the plates on their tables.

“I don’t fucking care,” You said before shoving a mini sandwich into your mouth.

“Oh fine,” She said, reaching for the plate of what looked like stuffed mushrooms. Jamie, at the same time, also reached for one.

“It’s got a weird smell to it,” Keeley remarked as she examined it.

“You could still like it,” You pointed out to her. “Maybe plug your nose before you eat it.” She stared at the stuffed mushroom sceptically before popping the whole thing in her mouth. Instantly, she shut her eyes.

“Oh, it’s fucking wonderful,” She exhaled. “You have to try one.”

Your fingers were on the cusp of grabbing one when Jamie grabbed your hand.

“Oi. Those have lobster in them.”

“Does it?” Keeley asked loudly before grabbing another one to examine it. Slowly lowering your arm back down to the table, Jamie still had a soft grasp on your wrist.

“Oh my god, it does!” She exclaimed, leaning forward. “I almost killed ya. I’m so sorry.”

Jamie rose from his seat, leaning towards you before saying, “I’m running to the toilet.” As he walked away, you watched him until he disappeared down a hallway.

“I’m so glad you two found each other,” Keeley said, and it was then that you noticed she had moved into his seat when you weren’t paying attention. As you turned your head towards her, your gaze lingered on the hallway he disappeared down for another moment before jumping back to her.

“I spent months during our relationship wishing he would look at me the way he looks at you.”

You smiled down at your lap.

“It’s not real,” You said without thinking. “None of it is real.” Keeley looked surprised at your sentiment briefly. She leaned forward, placing her hand over yours.

“Of course it’s real, babe,” She said softly. “Anyone can see how much he loves you, and how much you love him. And you should hear how he talks about ya when you’re not around.”

This made you look up. Opening your mouth to speak, you were interrupted by the music getting louder. It was time for the bride and groom to make their entrance. Just before they made their entrance, Jamie rushed in with his head down. Keeley spotted him just in time to switch back to her own seat.

You leaned towards Roy. “Aren’t you supposed to be up there too?”

“Fuck no. I hate this shit, and told Beard I wouldn’t do it.”

The room erupted in applause as Coach Beard and Jane made their entrance, dancing down the pathway in the middle of the room towards the table set just for them. It took you a second to realise that everyone around you had stood up, and you quickly shot out of your seat to join them. You heard a laugh from behind you, and you had to resist the urge to shoot Jamie a dirty look.

An announcement was made that the buffet was now open, and before you knew it, you were rushing over to join the line.

The options felt endless and chaotic, which, in fairness, really encapsulated Beard and Jane’s entire relationship quite nicely. There was pizza, pasta, chicken tenders, burgers, fries, a salad bar. If you thought of any sort of American cuisine, it was probably somewhere on that table.

“What’re ya grabbin’?” Jamie asked, leaning over your shoulder as you used a pair of tongs to pick up some fries.

“Probably everything,” You admitted, your stomach picking that exact moment to let out a loud rumble. As you set a few chicken tenders on the plate, Jamie reached over and grabbed a fry off your dish, plopping it in his mouth as yours fell agape.

“That was mine!” You whined. “Get your own!”

“Why would I do that when you’re doin’ it for me?” He asked, grabbing a tender from your dish and taking a bite. It was hard to feel genuinely offended when he was smiling at you the way he was.

“I’m gonna starve to death because of you,” You said, feigning the offence as best as you could. “Then you’ll feel really bad, won’t you?”

His laugh could be heard over the music, a symphony filling your ears that drowned out every other sound.

“Fine,” He said, putting some fries on his own plate. “I won’t deprive ya anymore, darlin’.”

“Thank fuck,” Roy said from behind him. “If I had to keep watchin’ this, I’d have to throw up on the bride.” A crinkle formed between your eyebrows.

“I don’t think you’d have to throw up right on the bride,” You pointed out. He shook his head.

“I would,” He declared. “You two would force me to.”

“Plenty of other places to vomit, I think,” Jamie added.

“And yet, it would be right on the bride. And after, I’d tell her it was because of the both of you.”

Once back at the table, you dug into your food without much conversation. You mainly spent the time looking around. For the most part, the wedding was smaller than you had imagined it to be. It was just the team, Jane’s family, and then a random assortment of people who they both knew.

The maid of honour rose from her seat, clearing her throat before bringing her mouth to the microphone.

“Here we go,” Jamie muttered, continuing to eat.

“Is it bad that I hate these speeches?” You whispered to him. “Like I’m here for the bride and groom… why do I care about what some other random person has to say about it?”

“It’s like, I don’t need their full story of how they know the couple, ‘cos I don’t care ‘bout them at all. They ain’t who I’m here for,” He mumbled in agreement.

“And then they’re trying so hard to say something thought provoking and profound…”

“Okay, sweetheart, you’re not the next Hemingway or some shit.”

“Exactly! I won’t be using your speech in my instagram captions anytime soon.”

Roy grunted from across the table and the both of you stopped talking. You continued to eat your food and didn’t listen to the speech that was given. The applause of the small crowd alerted you to the end, and you kindly set down your plate and joined in.

“Your turn?” Jamie asked, gesturing his fork towards Roy. To the surprise of both of you, Roy shook his head.

“No speech from me,” He said simply. Jamie and you exchanged a look before turning back to him.

“Not entering with everyone else is one thing,” You said, face scrunched in annoyance and confusion towards your friend. “But not doing the best man's speech? Roy, please.” But he simply shook his head, in lieu of words, before nodding behind you as the sound of the doors clicking open echoed through the hall. Everyone in the room turned in their seats, curious by the new entrance being made.

“Sorry I’m late.” The familiarity of the voice made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Your head snapped in Roy’s direction, who, in rare form, was smiling.

You turned back towards the door in time to see the former AFC Richmond Coach, Ted Lasso himself enter the room.

“Airport lost my luggage. Had to find a store that could get me a tux faster than lickity split.”

Coach Beard shrieked.

Half of the room was flying out of their seats, Jamie and Keeley included.

The entire AFC Richmond team surrounded Ted, loud cheers and shouts coming from their direction. He was laughing, giving each member a hand shake or- most commonly- a big hug. The excitement was contagious, the smile never waning from your face. Though you knew Ted as well, you stayed in your seat and watched the purifying scene in front of you. There would be chances to say hello later.

“You big fucking softie,” You said to Roy, turning back to face him. “You arranged this for them, didn’t you?”

“I would arrange anything to get out of givin’ a speech.” Despite what he said, the smile tugging at his lips gave the answer you were looking for.

Jamie was the last to hug Ted before the team all excitedly went back to their seats. As Jamie sat down, you noted him wiping tears from his eyes. Coach Beard was standing, but he never left the spot next to his new bride. Ted cleared his throat before turning back to his friend.

“Wrote a little somethin’ on the plane,” He continued, taking out a couple of pieces of paper out of his jacket pocket and unfolding them. “There are many perfect pairs in our world’s history. Peanut butter and jelly. McCartney and Lennon. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. And, at least in my world, these two have joined those ranks.” he looked around at the crowd wistfully. Everyone was on the edge of their seats, waiting to hear what he was going to say. “What a powerful love we’ve all gotten to witness, and now see come together.” He smiled, shaking his head. “It’s the kind of love we all wish we had.”

Subconsciously, you looked over at Jamie, only to find he was already looking at you.

“When I met our friend Coach Beard here, he was a lost vessel of a man, tryin’ to find his place in a broken society. Watchin’ his transformation into the loving, quiet, passionate man he is today is a privilege, and so is calling him my best friend.” Tears were streaming down Coach Beard’s face in bucketfuls. Ted gave another small head shake. If you looked close enough, you could see the tears forming in his eyes, as well. “He found Jane exactly when he was meant to, when he was ready to.”

Jamie took your hand in his, giving it a tight squeeze.

“I know that these two will be making each other happy for the rest of their lives. Playing chess without a board. Being silly and loud and weird in a way only they understand. And I hope we can all agree when I say I can’t wait to be there to see it.”

Your heart in your chest was thumping a million times a minute as you looked at Jamie, electricity shooting down your spine. His attention was back on Ted, eyes and cheeks wet.

“To end this out, I have a quote from one of the best romantic dramas to grace this Earth.” Ted took a deep breath before continuing. “‘I don't want to sound foolish, but remember love is what brought you here. And if you've trusted love this far, don't panic now. Trust it all the way.’” Ted gave a smile. “Congratulations to my friends, Beard and Jane.” A waiter walked up with a glass of champagne, handing it to him. “Thanks, bud.” He raised the glass in the air. “To a lifetime of being weird together.”

Everyone began cheering and applauding as they raised their glasses to Beard and Jane. Beard basically jumped over the table and ran into the arms of his friend. Seeing them together again made tears spring into your eyes.

“Fuck you, Roy,” You said as you dabbed at your eyes with a napkin.

“The fuck did I do?”

“If you had given the speech, I wouldn’t be crying right now.” He grunted.

“Actually, you should’ve heard what he had prepared before asking Ted,” Keeley said, shaking her head. “‘Bout bawled my eyes out.”

“Yeah,” Roy added. “You should be thankin’ me.”

“I’ll stick with telling you to fuck yourself.”

Ted returned the microphone to the DJ before making his way over. Roy stood and gave him a hug, the both of them giving the other a loving clap on the back. He leaned down and hugged Keeley, mumbling a greeting into her ear that you couldn’t hear over the start of the first dance.

“And here’s my favourite medic,” Ted said excitedly as he leaned down to hug you.

“My favourite former AFC Richmond coach,” You said as you hugged him back. He kissed your cheek before letting you go, a glowing smile on his face.

“I heard you’re finally making my man here settle down,” He said, clapping a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. A warmth filled your cheeks as you glanced at Jamie, the realisation hitting you that his hand was still holding yours.

“I think it’s him settling me down, honestly,” You told him. Ted chuckled.

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d hear about the old Jamie,” He said, shaking his head before turning towards the footballer. “I’m still so proud of the man you’ve become.”

Jamie’s eyes were welling up again as he looked up at his former coach.

“Couldn’t have gotten here without ya, Coach.” Ted shook his head.

“You were always destined for better. Can’t give me all the credit,” He said simply, giving Jamie’s shoulder one last squeeze and wandering off. When Jamie turned to face the table again, his hand was against his chest, and it stayed there for a long time before dropping down to his lap once more.

Once the first dance ended, the music switched to another slow song, the dance floor filling up with couples sharing a dance.

“Wanna dance with me?” Jamie asked, raising his eyebrows at you as he stood from his seat. You smiled, not speaking as you stood up with him.

Finding an empty corner on the dance floor, Jamie turned and took a step closer to you. Your lungs forced a deep exhale before you draped your arms over his shoulders, his hands on your hips as you and him began to sway to the music.

“Sorry ‘bout this mornin’,” He said sheepishly as he took a look around. “Just caught me off guard, is all.”

“It’s fine. Caught me off guard too,” You admitted. Nodding his head, he turned back to face you. The light was hitting his eyes in just the right way, adding a twinkle as he stared directly into yours.

“Dunno why it felt so weird,” He said, a furrow forming in his eyebrow. “Like, we’ve actually slept together, and yet wakin’ up like that tossed us, d’ya know what I mean?” You nodded, not saying anything for a while. You knew exactly why it felt weird. The dynamic was largely different before that night spent together. Feelings hadn’t been put on the table yet. There was one thing he was wrong about though.

“It rocked me,” You said in a distant tone as you stared off into the dancing crowd. “Us sleeping together.” A beat passed. “In more ways than one, I should say.” He laughed at your joke, despite continuing to look confused.

“How?”

Your eyes trailed back to look into his.

“It made this real,” You said, biting your cheek tersely before going on. “And it made me afraid… so afraid. That’s why… That’s why I said what I said before the last match.”

You were very aware in this moment of his hands on your hips, and his eyes searching your face.

“What are ya afraid of?” He asked, as if the question had been lingering in his mind for too long. You swallowed down the lump in your throat.

“That you’ll see right through me,” You said quietly. “And that’ll cause you to leave, eventually.” He leaned in slightly closer.

“Do ya wanna hear a secret?”

Confused, you nodded.

“I already see right through you,” He said so quietly that no one could overhear. “And that’s what’s been makin’ me stay.”

It felt like your brain was short circuiting. All you could do was stare at him, trying and failing to process what he said. The music stopped and the bride was getting ready to throw the bouquet, not that you noticed. Keeley ran over to grab your hand and drag you away from Jamie, who was smiling softly as you were pulled away. The two of you joined the group of women already lined up to fight for the bundle of flowers, and their supposed chance at marriage.

“Get ready!” Keeley said in a voice that suggested that she would spill blood in order to catch this bouquet. Taking a slight step away from her, you turned to the front just as the bride threw the bouquet. Without moving a muscle, in true romantic comedy fashion, the bouquet landed easily into your hands. If it hadn’t been so easy, maybe you wouldn’t have been so surprised. But Keeley still yelled out in excitement for you.

“YES BABE!” She shrieked, throwing your hand up in the air and spinning around towards Jamie. “Tartt! You’re next!”

Jamie’s face was beet red as he was being congratulated by the members of the team, who had all gathered to watch the bouquet toss. They grabbed him and shook his shoulders, or smacked his back playfully. His eyes landed on you, his smile wide, as your brain went right back to stalling out.

You stared at the flowers in your hand. It felt like something had just changed in your head. Something clicked. You took a look around, trying to see if anyone else was also feeling this way. But no. Why would they? It was just you. When your eyes found the flowers once more, you let out a staggered breath. A drip of sweat was running down your spine. When did it get so hot in here?

As the men gathered to do whatever Coach’s equivalent to the garter toss was, as Jane insisted that there would be no taking pieces of clothing off her body and throwing it into a crowd of men, you snuck out of the dance hall and made your way outside. Your lungs felt like you were stuck in a building on fire, desperate for oxygen.

The back garden felt like a maze as you walked along the pathways, surrounded by shrubbery and flowers. A set of steps lead down to more of the same. The whole area was well lit with lanterns, which you were grateful for.

A second set of steps lead to a field of grass, which ended with a large lake. In the middle was an island that had a giant tree, almost like a fairytale. Slipping out of your shoes and leaving them on the steps, you walked through the grass and towards the water. The grass felt amazing against your feet paired with the cool breeze kissing your skin. The flowers were still in your hands, held against your chest as if you were walking down the aisle yourself.

Overwhelmed was an understatement.

He found Jane exactly when he was meant to, when he was ready to.

‘I don't want to sound foolish, but remember love is what brought you here. And if you've trusted love this far, don't panic now. Trust it all the way.’

Was that why it happened the way it did? Was that why that one summer evening, at a house party in Keeley’s backyard, you were catapulted into the whirlwind fake romance that you didn’t ask for? Because you were ready to move on from the arsehole who broke you in more ways than one? You certainly didn’t feel ready at that time.

But you were now.

It hit you like a tsunami making contact with land.

It couldn’t wait another minute. There was no sense. A perfectly good man, who was kind, loving, and not a hurtful bone in his body was right there, waiting for you to decide that you were willing to put aside your hurt and pain to be with him. It felt so senseless. There was never going to be a perfect time. A time where you were perfectly mentally healthy and over your trauma. He knew of the ghosts of your past and the damage you had been dealt, and still loved you anyway.

Maybe you didn’t have to be completely over the mountain in order to let him in. Maybe that was the point. He wasn’t waiting for you at the peak. He wanted to help you get there.

“Oi! You alright?”

When you turned, Jamie was making his way through the grass towards you. Tangling from his hands were the shoes you had just taken off. “Not goin’ for a swim, are ya?”

You shook your head, breathing out a shaky laugh.

“Too cold for swimming, I think,” You replied. He stopped.

“What’s wrong?”

You swallowed hard.

“I’m ready.”

The moon shined off his face, so you could just make out the confusion filling his expression.

“To leave?” He asked. “We just got here-”

“No, Jamie,” You said firmly, taking a small step forward. His arms seemed to fall closer to his sides as he waited. You took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

Realisation fell over him, his eyebrows raising to his hairline as his mouth formed into an O shape. He took a step forward, appearing as if it was involuntary.

“What changed?” He set your shoes down onto the grass.

You glanced down at the flowers before looking back at him.

“Nothing.” Pause. “Everything.”

Carefully, he began to walk towards you, as if your mind would be changed by his speed. With every step, your heart beat faster, almost taking off out of your chest by the time he stopped directly in front of you.

“You better mean it, if you say it,” He said in a low voice, slightly quaking. “Don’t do me any favours-”

“I mean it,” You interrupted, shaking your head. “It wasn’t the wedding. Or me feeling lonely or some other dumb shit. It was me being tired of wasting time pretending like this isn’t real. Like I’m not stupid in love with you.” A tear fell down your cheek in a way that was annoying, but you kept going anyway. “I’m sorry for taking so long. I’m so sorry.”

His lips were crashing into yours before you had the chance to realise he was even leaning in. The bouquet fell to the ground. His left hand was holding your face tightly, as if he feared you would pull away, his right arm tight around your waist. While you had one hand tangled in his hair, the other had the collar of his shirt wrapped in a fist.

“I love ya,” He mumbled against your lips as he continued to kiss you.

“Say it again.”

He pulled away from you, giving you a look before bringing a kiss to your forehead.

“I love ya.”

A kiss to your temple.

“I love ya.”

A kiss to your other temple.

“I love ya.”

A kiss to your cheek.

“I love ya.”

A kiss to your other cheek.

“I love ya.”

A kiss to your nose.

He leaned in close to your face, his breath hot against your cheeks

“I love ya.”

Then he was kissing you again. The wind blew passed, but you already had a shiver shooting up your spine, making it hard to feel the cold in the air. He ran his hands up and down your arms, from the tops of your shoulders to the ends of your fingertips.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

He shrugged off his jacket, and was throwing it over your shoulders before the kiss had even ended.

“Fuckin’ freezin’, you are. Why didn’t you say somethin’?” He asked before pulling away. Laughing as he adjusted the jacket on you, he leaned back to admire how it looked. You shrugged, looking brightly at him.

“I didn’t notice,” You admitted. Because you hadn’t noticed. You were too wrapped up in his warmth.

“Alright, goofy, let’s go back inside.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close as he lead you back towards the garden.

“Only if you dance with me again,” You told him, bumping your hip into yours.

He looked over at you, smile full and eyes wide, before saying, “For you, love, we can do whatever you want.”

And for the first time in your life, you knew without a doubt that as long as he was by your side, you would never have a want or beg for anything again.

TAGS

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#jamie tartt #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #tedlassosource #ted lasso fanfiction

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lunar-years · 1 year

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Okay. Let's talk Jamie and Roy getting beers and being idiots.

I know we are all still processing that whirlwind of a finale. I'm understanding that a lot of people hate the Roy & Jamie scene because it is 1) backslide-y (true) 2) they treat Keeley like a prize to be won (true) and 3) it's OOC (I actually disagree with this one, but I can understand why it's complicated). I want to start off by saying I completely see where this opinion is coming from and I respect everyone who just hates the scene because it shows normally kind characters being very unkind to each other etc. This is less me arguing against that as it is me trying to articulate (at great length, sorry) why it not only worked for me, but I genuinely liked it.

I like to think I strike a balance between loving everything the show has done and hating overwhelmingly on a show I claim to enjoy, but sure, you could definitely argue that I'm just giving my favorite characters the benefit of the doubt, or making excuses for them, because they're my favorite characters. I'll admit I'm historically very forgiving of all the main characters' many fuck-ups on Ted Lasso, but that's because I think the show works best when it emphasizes how kindness, forgiveness, friendship and love can still operate between imperfect, flawed people. I like seeing them make realistic mistakes much more than I like everyone handling everything perfectly, I'll bite.

So, back to Jamie and Roy. I enjoyed their finale plot because despite them making a world of mistakes, the regression felt very, very human. I don't agree at all with the take that this somehow erased all the progress they've made this season or the friendship the show has lovingly crafted between them. In fact, I think this actively reiterated it! (Note: I am operating with my ot3 goggles on at all times, so I'm going to write this with that at least partially in mind, but I think the gist of it works even if you ignore the bits that get a little shippy.)

For both Jamie and Roy, Keeley and their love for her is a major beacon guiding them. I think that is the crisp, clear thing in both of their heads this episode: Keeley is the love of my life. And they both believe that wholeheartedly, and they both want to be with her. (and it's goofy to pretend this came out of nowhere for Jamie/since when is Jamie still in love with her/etc. because he literally told her and us this last season and nothing that has happened since has indicated otherwise, btw.) But there's also something else now, which is their relationship with each other, battling with their Keeley thoughts. It's like, in Roy's head, for instance, I imagine there are two wolves: on the one hand he loves Keeley, and wants to be with her, and plans to win back her heart. On the other hand, there's his love and care for Jamie Tartt, which is much less defined and inarticulate and maybe still a little repressed, but just as overpowering. His love for Keeley feels so simple and clear in comparison, while his love for Jamie is something complicated and unsure, and in this episode, he's leaning hard into the first to avoid unpacking the second.

So Roy starts off strong. He sees Jamie with Keeley in the hallway and he doesn't flip out!! Instead, he approaches Jamie calmly, and invites him out for beers. Think about how different this is from his reaction to Jamie's love confession to Keeley in season 2. This is Roy's growth in action, and it's a resounding sign of just how important Jamie is to Roy now. Even when he is feeling jealous of the woman he loves potentially leaving him behind for a man he loves (a completely natural reaction, let's be so real, if not a "good" one), he also knows that for as much as he wants to be with Keeley, he doesn't want to lose his friendship with Jamie.

As for Jamie, I know some people took his reaction and subsequent response to Nate's question as like, shock at the realization that he and Roy are actually friends now, which I agree is something that had to have come earlier in the timeline (what was Mom City if not that) and would seem very out of place at this point. What I saw it as instead was Jamie's brain more just. sort of short-circuiting? Because: holy shit isn't this the best day ever? First Keeley agreed to go to Brazil with me and now Roy is asking me on a date for beers? this is so sound. This invite is out of place behavior from Roy even within the parameters of their friendship, because they still have a match to win and Roy has banned Jamie from beers as part of his training and despite them being close now I find it hard to believe that Roy often comes up to him right there in dressing room to ask him to grab a beer with no pretense.

Therefore, they're already walking into that bar in completely different head-spaces. Jamie isn't planning to discuss Keeley, and for Roy that is his major intention behind the evening. Jamie is nervous and downing his beer, and Roy is internally panicking, I'm imagining, over when and how to bring Keeley up. I think Roy is thinking: Well, I don't intend to stop pursuing Keeley, I genuinely don't want Jamie's feelings to be hurt when I get back together with her (and yes, it is a huge presumption for him to assume Keeley's going to eventually take him back. But I think it's also an understandable one), so I've got to tell Jamie I care about him, and that I'm going to keep going after Keeley, and he needs to be okay with that so that this won't get in the way of our friendship, which I also desperately need and am unwilling to give up. In his mind, Jamie is of course going to accept all of this, because Roy and Keeley are soulmates, which Jamie will clearly recognize deep down because it is so obvious and right and anyway, Jamie always does what Roy tells him to do (again, this is all misguided thinking. But we can see how Roy's anxious little brain that's bad at processing feelings and holding space for emotions could get himself here, can't we?).

So again, we start off strong with Roy saying he's proud of Jamie and them both thanking one another. But then Roy's blurting out nonsense about how Jamie just needs to pull himself out of the running and just let Roy be with Keeley. Which is obviously not on. And Jamie responds, simply, with No. I'd argue this is also a huge step for Jamie. Jamie really doesn't tell Roy no anymore, he doesn't tell anyone no. Jamie has spent so much of his time since coming back to Richmond working to be the person everyone around him wants and expects him to be. This is him fighting for something he wants for once, doing what is best for him. It was a fabulous progression to see. In the moment, boy does it work Roy up, because why is Jamie not agreeing with me, Jamie always agrees with me? but obviously at this point, Jamie is in the right. His relationship with Keeley was no less meaningful than Roy's just because Roy says it was, Roy doesn't have any claim on her, and there's no real reason Jamie should not try and shoot his shot with Keeley if Roy is going to do the same.

Here's where things start to spiral. Established flaws we know about Roy: he's competitive. He's bad at voicing his feelings productively. And he is territorial about the people he loves, a category that safely includes both Jamie and Keeley at this point in time, for better and sometimes worse. Yes, his next actions are grossly possessive over Keeley, yes Roy has made a lot of effort over the past year to do and be better than that, to break free of that cycle. But look, it's not a linear process. He's going to still mess up, and he does here. In fact he's downright mean, weaponizing Keeley against Jamie and throwing having sex with Keeley a month ago into Jamie's face, bragging about it, boasting. Same old cycle, same old patterns of ego-driven, prideful mistakes.

Which promptly prompts Jamie to also fuck up by bringing up the leak. It's a concentrated response intended to get a suitable rise out of Roy, because Roy has really, genuinely hurt him here, and Jamie knows bringing up that video is the one thing that will hurt Roy just as much in turn. It's not the right thing to do, obviously, but again, it's such a human thing to do. Hurt the person who's hurt you right back, even if you're hurting someone else (Keeley) by extension. Mind you, Jamie came here expecting a hangout (/date) with Roy over a rare beer, and instead he got Roy being a complete asshole and lecturing nonsense at him out of seemingly nowhere. He reacts to this change-up, well, not greatly. There is something so messy and emotionally complicated happening here and it hinges on how very much Jamie and Roy care about each other, not negates it.

Keeley, queen that she is, rejects them both out of hand and kicks them out not the curb immediately because they're both being complete idiots, acting like they're so gracious in giving her the honor and privilege of choosing between them. Not to mention they've clearly got something going on between them they haven't worked through and that sure as shit isn't her problem, is it? Keeley (presumably, and I wish we had seen this) calls them out their shit and tosses them right back out the door.

Which leaves Jamie and Roy to lament how they've let their egos get away from them, they've been idiots (which they acknowledge immediately) and decide that now they should go for kebabs, presumably to actually hangout this time, not to interrupt themselves with inflated talk about who "deserves" Keeley more. They both screwed up, they acknowledge it, and all they can do is try again tomorrow, and in the meantime, go on that kebab date.

I guess....I can just see where both of them are coming from? it's not mature behavior, obviously, it's maybe not what we would have liked to have seen from them in the finale episode of the show. But it was regression that I didn't feel impeded their overall progress. Roy in particular was being a complete dick about it, but that's why the very next morning he's finally knocking on the Diamond Dogs' door. And honestly, that conversation was heartbreaking. When Roy admitted he'd expected, after a year of putting in the work, to be a whole new person...god. This is a man who still completely hates himself, to the point where he can't quite grasp that he can be better where he's at now, that he doesn't have to transform magically into someone new in order to do right by himself and others. And so he has to consciously determine, once again, to do better, be better.

The message is: change isn't linear, you're going to fuck-up, and fall back into old patterns. What matters is trying every day to do better together, and be better for one another, than you were the day before. That is the meeting point all three sides of the royjamiekeeley triangle were heading towards by the end of the episode.

So yes, it was rushed, because no one gets much screen time in a finale (and the overarching issue with this season anyway is god awful pacing. The last three episodes could've easily been the second half of the season, while the first half of the season was stretched out and largely extraneous). And yes, I would've liked a more thoughtful follow-up conversation between Roy and Keeley or all three of them. My biggest issue was that we didn't get to hear Keeley's voice hardly at all. I would at the very least have liked to have seen her setting them straight at her kitchen table, because turning both of them down signifies very important growth in her, too, and I would've liked exploring that more explicitly. So it wasn't perfect. But I still liked it, I really did.

#ted lasso #ted lasso meta #ted lasso spoilers #roy kent #jamie tartt #royjamie #royjamiekeeley

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double-hoe-seven · 8 months

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Belated Birthday Present

Summary: After missing Jamie's birthday, you begin to make it up to him. Pairing: Jamie Tartt x Reader Word Count: 1,100 Warnings: Smut, m receiving oral, blowjob, slightly blink and you miss it subby Jamie.

A/N: It has been far too long since I've written smut and I did it on 4 hours of sleep. Definitely not me compensating for missing Jamie Tartt's birthday yesterday. This man just deserves a nice blowjob.

1:47 AM. That's what time your phone said it was when it automatically adjusted the time zone while you waited by the carousel for your luggage. You were supposed to be home yesterday morning, but a technical issue delayed your flight by a day, making you miss your boyfriend's birthday. After grabbing your suitcase, you head out to the pickup area where an Uber was waiting for you. The ride to your home was long and quiet as you fought yourself to stay awake. When the driver finally pulled up to your curb, it surprised you to see the lights on. After thanking the driver, you walked inside to find Jamie lounging on the couch in his sweats. "Hey babe, welcome home," Jamie says with a tired smile. "Jamie, what're you still doing up?" You question, locking the front door behind you and taking a seat beside him. "I wanted to make sure you got in alright." He yawns, planting a quick, gentle kiss to your lips.

Jamie held you against his side for a few minutes, giving you both time to enjoy each other's proximity again after five days apart. "I'm so sorry I missed your birthday, Jamie." You apologize with a slight frown. "It's not your fault. I know you would've been here if you could." He hums. "Your boss is a fucking twat, though, for making you travel so much." He jokingly adds. "Trust me, everyone knows Billy's a dick." You agree with a chuckle. "Have you heard back from any of the places you applied to?" He asks. "A couple." You tell him. "That last place I interviewed with ended up wanting me to relocate to fucking Birmingham." "I thought they had an office here," Jamie says. "They do but they lied about which location they were hiring for." You explain with an eye roll. "What dicks." Jamie scoffs. "I certainly know how to pick 'em." You joke. "That's alright, babe. Even if you pick shit bosses, you still picked me and I think I'm pretty great." He boasts jokingly. "You are pretty great." You say genuinely. "You're fucking amazing, Jamie." "I'm just trying to be the best me I can be," Jamie says with a soft, almost bashful smile. You just smile and snuggle into his side, taking in the smell of his body wash and letting it relax you.

"So, what happened to my super secret, super special birthday surprise you were so excited about?" He teases with a grin. "I was gonna take us out of town for the weekend to this romantic little Airbnb I found." You answer. "It was this very cute little place with a hot tub and it's right next to a little pond, too. I thought it'd be a nice, brief escape from the chaos." "God, that does sound nice," Jamie admits. "Roy's been on my fucking ass for weeks." "You did ask the man to train you." You remind him. "Yeah, I know, and now I'm paying the price." He jokingly grumps. "Poor baby." You mockingly coo. "I know!" He pouts. "Let me make you feel better." You hum, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, then another to his jawline. Jamie lets out a couple of softer hums as you kiss down the column of his neck. "I also got you a few things I know you've had your eyes on." You hum vaguely as you trail kisses down his chest.

When your lips reached the waistband of his pants, you looked up at him with a smile. "Do you want your birthday gifts first or my very sincere apology for missing your birthday?" You ask him. "Apology." He says immediately. Instead of making a joke about how quickly he answered, you pull his sweatpants down until his member was free of the cloth constraints. He audibly gulped when he saw you lick your palm before wrapping your hand around his base. "I'm so sorry I couldn't make it back home to celebrate your birthday with you, Jamie." "I might be able t-to forgive you," Jamie says with a slightly shuddered breath as you kiss the crown of his member, licking up the bead of pre-cum already forming. "Fuck, I missed you," Jamie moans as you slowly take his tip into your mouth. "I missed you too, love." You hum after pulling off of his length, using your spit as lubricant to stroke him.

This time when you leaned forward and took his length back into your mouth, you took as much of him as you could. "Jesus Christ." Jamie hisses when he hits the back of your throat. His moans get louder the more you find your rhythm, resting a hand on his thigh as you lavish his length with attention, teasing the vein that ran along the underside with your tongue. His moans fill the living room of your home, echoing off the walls of the space as his head falls back in abject bliss. When he starts getting close, he tangles the fingers of one hand in your hair while his other hand grabs the arm of the couch in a vice-like grip to keep himself up when he feels his knees almost buckle. As his breathing becomes more ragged, you double your efforts to push him over the edge, bobbing your head just a tad faster and reaching up to massage his balls. The moan that follows comes from deep in his chest as he spills his release down your throat.

When his orgasm subsides and you've swallowed every last drop, you carefully pull off of him, looking up at him through your lashes as you lick him clean. "Apology fucking accepted." He jokes with a breathless chuckle, offering his hand to help you back up after tucking himself back into his sweatpants. "I love you, babe," Jamie says sweetly, pulling you into a quick, gentle kiss before the two of you head to your bedroom. "I love you too, Jamie." You hum happily. While he pulls the covers back, you change into your pajamas, grabbing a couple of gift bags from the back of the closet. "Here are your birthday gifts by the way." You tell him with a sheepish smile. "What's in the pink and white one?" He asks, doing a poor job of masking his lust as simple curiosity. "Something I picked out for this weekend with you in mind." You answer vaguely, a teasing smile on your face as you crawl into bed with him. You set the gift bags in his lap and smile, pecking his cheek. "Happy belated birthday, my love." You hum as you watch him impatiently tear into the pink bag first, completely ignoring the other one.

Dedicated to the people who have yet to give up on me: @bdffkierenwalker @anarchistbeauty

#Jamie Tartt #Jamie Tartt x Reader #Jamie Tartt Smut #Ted Lasso #I am my own target audience

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whiteboi-inferiority · 2 months

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Some of you been trying to get in touch lately. That's cool.

If you're just swinging by to say hi and thanks, then what follows doesn't apply to you.

You want me to talk to you though? Some hints and tips (and very common mistakes to avoid) that will increase your chances of an actual conversation or two and from there, who knows.

The best way is to have a blog with some original content. Pics of you, stories, captions, whatever. I'm looking for commitment and authenticity, some skin in the game, some evidence of actual fucking effort. In your message don't just fawn. I don't need that. Be brief, be articulate, be confident in what you like and what you bring to the table and be clear on why you want a place with me, specifically, over any generic black guy or Dom. Job interview etiquette applies and know I get 4 or 5 'candidates' a day. Respect the fact I am a busy guy with a life away from here, several real life submissives, and several more long distance things going on. My girls, gurls and bois are all different, all exquisite, and they all interest me in different ways. It's on you to show me what i'm missing and why I'm going to make time for you. Be a muse, be amusing. Wow me.

So!

If you have an empty blog, don't bother. I'm not interested in lurkers.

If your blog is just reposts of the usual stuff I've seen 100 times before, don't bother.

If you're just going to start contact with 'hey...', don't bother. I'm not interested.

If you're just looking for someone, anyone, to Dom you for the 2 minutes it takes for you to jerk off, don't bother. I'm not a jack off service.

If your blog is full of explicit hard core porn, don't bother - your account will be deactivated soon and you'll probably be disappeared before we start chatting away from here anyway. You don't represent a good ROI of my time. Of the 4 or 5 of you that make contact today, 2 of you will be gone tomorrow, and at least 1 more within the month.

Unless your wife/gf/mom/daughter is hot, living near me and interested in hooking up, I don't care that you wish you could see them suck a cock like a Blacked girl right in front of you. If I can't see it, smell it, hear it, taste it or feel it - if its not actually going to happen on my cock - I don't care.

Outright headcanon fantasists and part-timers who 'don't need to dress up because they can imagine it so well...', hard pass. If I tell you to feminise yourself, take a pic in a certain pose, jerk off a certain way or make a post about something it isn't a question of whether you feel you need to to sustain your little fantasy. It's a question of whether you're going to pay the price of submission to talk to me. If you can't or won't follow simple instruction, then I have no interest in you.

Those of you who confuse sissy with trans, hard pass. Trans women are women. You are not a woman just because you fantasise about being sexually submissive and effeminate around a black man. You're a sissy, a toy, a whiteboi fuckdoll. That's all. If you can't or don't accept that, don't bother.

FLR, ABDL, Gooners: kittens I adore seeing you relinquish your masculinity and pride to roll around in your own shame and filth. But to be clear: these kinks are your weaknesses, not my interests. I cater to you because my mission is to enable every single last one of you whiteboi fucks to become codependent emasculated bottom-feeders of one kind or another, willingly, done by yourselves to yourselves, stripped of the convenient deniability of coercion. I'm fixing to cook and push good quality junk so you can fuck yourselves up, not share the needle. Definitely not looking to change your fucking diapers.

If you clearly haven't read this pinned note, don't bother.

Stay sticky, losers

#loser humiliation #pathetic loser #bnwo #bnwo propaganda #pussy free whiteboy #beta faggot #whiteboi feminization #white beta #beta sissy #prejac #gooning #gooner

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tofuingho · 1 year

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What if Dani's melting problem is less about being an unstable clone and more about the aging up process that she went through?

Obviously, if they can figure out how to reverse the process, she'll be fine. And they know just the right guy for messing with time!

But now they've got a baby with superpowers and nowhere to keep her. She obviously wouldn't be safe at Danny's house, the Manson's would flip their wigs and send Sam off to boarding school, and Tucker's parents would definitely ask a LOT of questions. Vlad's obviously a no-no since he's the one that made this mess in the first place!

I think either:

1) Jazz takes Dani with her to University. Maybe she pretends that Dani is her bio-baby or maybe she tells people it's her little sister. I think Jazz is smart enough to get some scholarships, but the Fentons also seem to be fairly well off, so she could probably support herself and a toddler with a part-time job. (Can be Jazz/Jason or Jazz/Dick; maybe go avant garde Jazz/Roy or Jazz/Starfire)

2) Danny, Sam, and Tucker use their skills to find someone to take care of Dani. At first, they wanted to drop her off with Superman, but then they find out about how he treated Conner (pre- or post-makeup.) and just don't feel comfortable leaving her with someone who's shown bias against clones. Then they thought about Batman, but the "No Metas" rule and how dangerous Gotham is made them decide against him. (I couldn't pick who they'd leave her with. Probably Wonder Woman or the Flash. Maybe they give up and decide to figure out a way to keep her. It'd make a good 5+1 fic)

To include:

*Several people mistake Dani as their/a friend's illegitimate child.

*Superboy has the same problem, but hasn't started melting yet. The JL/YJL finds out that Superboy has an impending melt issue due to meeting Dani. (Yes, they have to de-age Superboy too.)

*Dani hates one member of the JL and goes feral kitten on them whenever they're in the vicinity.

#danny phantom #dp x dc #dc x dp #dp x dc prompt #danny fenton #the justice league #dani fenton #dani gets to be a baby #superboy gets to be a baby #it took me way too long to type this up coherently

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suddencolds · 4 months

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The Worst Timing | [4/?]

happy friday, everyone! here is part 4 (5.3k words) as a little pre-valentines-day installment :) [part 1] is here! this chapter was a pain to edit; i think i deleted + rewrote about a fifth of it in the revision process

anyways, i promised this chapter would be the wedding, so... please enjoy the wedding

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!

Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anything—much less the flu—ruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)

—

It’s a hectic morning.

Yves wakes up with the sinking realization that the medicine he took yesterday has worn off entirely. That is to say, he wakes up with the kind of unshakeable exhaustion he only feels when he’s coming down with something bad. His head is throbbing—sharp, cutting pain lances through his skull as soon as he finds it in himself to get out of bed.

All of that is inconsequential. He takes two pills from the cold/flu medicine blister pack with a generous few sips of water, brushes his teeth, washes his face in the sink with water cold enough to jolt him awake, and heads out.

He finds Aimee early, to ask her if she needs any help with anything. Then he makes himself available to the relatives that need him. There’s a last minute printing issue with the seating cards, so he goes through all of them again, finds the ones that are misprinted, talks extensively with the hotel’s front desk to explain what selection he needs to get reprinted and why, gets redirected towards the hotel’s business center, and finally gets them reprinted properly in one of the storerooms in the back. He lines the cards up and cuts them manually with a paper cutter he finds in one of the conference rooms on the first floor.

Then he takes a shuttle to the wedding venue to help set out all the seating cards according to a seating plan Genevieve texts him, but it’s windy enough outside that he has to find a way to weigh them all down. The venue has card holder stands, thankfully, but he doesn’t figure that out until he spends a good fifteen minutes asking around for them.

Then he waits twenty minutes in the cold for the shuttle back—the shuttles are thankfully in operation, but they’re running infrequently enough at this hour to be a slight inconvenience. By the time he gets on the shuttle, he’s shivering hard, even in his jacket, and his hands are almost numb from the cold.

The temperature certainly doesn’t help with the pressure in his sinuses, or with the sore throat that he’s had for a few days now. Perhaps it’s a blessing that the shuttle is near-empty save for him, because no one is there to question it when he ducks into his elbow with every loud, wrenching sneeze, or the coughing fit that almost inevitably follows.

When he gets back, he finds a sewing kit for Roy’s sister, Solaine—they don’t sell them at the convenience store downstairs, but he finds some in one of the tourist shops on the opposite end of the first floor of the hotel—for some last minute fixes to the way it’s hemmed. He delivers some safety pins from Victoire to one of his aunts, picks up breakfast pastries from the café across the street for his parents.

He takes a quick, hot shower, hot enough that the entire bathroom steams up because of it, and hopes that no one can hear the way every sneeze sounds so terribly, unnecessarily loud, even in the presence of his rapidly depleting voice. He rehearses his speech from memory and then rehearses it again, thinking through his notes on the pauses and the reflections. He irons his suit out, for good measure.

If he stops and lingers too long, it becomes quickly evident just how exhausted he is, just how unwell he feels when there’s nothing strictly keeping him on his feet. So instead, he makes himself useful where he can, busies himself with whatever he finds, if only because it’s the best distraction he can think of—if only because it’s the one distraction he has the luxury to take.

—

Lunch is a quick affair—he’s not especially hungry, and there will be more than enough food at the reception, so he grabs two pastries from downstairs, a coffee with two shots of espresso, and heads back up. Sitting down and eating them in the hotel room is somehow worse than running errands—like this, he can’t chalk his exhaustion up to his hectic morning, can’t attribute the heavy, shivery feeling that’s been following him all day the cold weather outside.

Three more hours until the wedding. Anticipation always feels the worst, like this, when it’s nearly inseparable from worry—just a tangle of emotions in his chest.

He exhales.

Vincent is off—somewhere. Getting lunch, maybe, or getting ready for the wedding somewhere else. Yves has exchanged maybe all of twenty words with him this morning—do you know if our room has a sewing kit? Or, I’m going to stop by the café downstairs. Do you want me to get you anything?

Truthfully, Yves isn’t feeling much better today. His nose is running a little less now, thanks to the cold medicine, but the headache that he’s had all morning hasn’t gotten any less persistent. Even with his suit jacket on, he still can’t quite manage to get warm. He’s sneezing a little less, but each sneeze catches him off guard, harsh and sudden and embarrassingly loud.

But Vincent—who is, on average, unusually perceptive—hasn’t said anything about any of it. Yves tries not to think too hard about it. The less Vincent is worried about him, the better. Maybe he’s just preoccupied with other things.

He finishes his pastries at the small coffee table in the living room, downs half of his coffee, and then leans back in his chair and shuts his eyes.

His head hurts. He feels dizzy, even though he’s sitting perfectly still—as if the ground beneath him isn’t quite as steady as it should be—a strange feeling of vertigo. Surely if he sits here for just awhile longer, that feeling will go away.

He doesn’t fall asleep, exactly, but it’s a close thing. The discomfort doesn’t let up, either—no amount of massaging his temples seems to make the headache any better, and no amount of shuteye seems to do anything to lessen the exhaustion he feels. Maybe if he takes a nap he’ll wake up feeling passably fine. But he thinks it’s just as likely that he’ll get woken up early—by a phone call, or a text, or a knock on the door—to be told that he’s needed somewhere, and that alone is enough of a deterrent to keep him from properly falling asleep.

From somewhere at the edge of consciousness, he hears footsteps out in the hallway.

Someone’s here, then. He should let them in. But before he can bring himself to stand up and head over to the door, he hears the sound of the room card being inserted into its slot, hears the click of the door as it unlocks.

Someone—Vincent—shuts the door quietly behind him. When he spots Yves, he looks a little surprised.

“I didn’t think I’d find you here,” he says.

Yves blinks. His face feels unusually hot. “I got lunch,” he says, clearing his throat. “Well, I fidished it, but if I’d known you’d be getting back, I would’ve gotten somethidg for you.”

“I’m surprised you made it back,” Vincent says, leaving his shoes in a neat line at the door. “Are you done putting out all the fires now?” Yves laughs, though it turns into a cough. “For the foreseeable future, yes. Sorry i— hhH!” He twists over his shoulder, away from Vincent, to cover the sneeze in a manner that does not come at the expense of his suit jacket. “hHh-! iiDDzschh-IEW! snf-! Sorry I’ve barely been around this mornidg.”

Vincent is his own person—Yves has no doubt that he’s entirely self-sufficient when it comes to travel—but still, Yves is the only person Vincent really knows here. He’s not sure he can claim he’d be good company in his current state, but he feels like maybe he ought to be around more often—to translate, or to serve as the conversational buffer, or something else.

“It’s no problem,” Vincent says, frowning. “You were busy.”

“Still. If we were actually datidg, I think this would make me a slightly terrible boyfriend.”

“If we were actually dating, I would understand that you have important things in your life to attend to,” Vincent says.

Yves laughs. “Like cutting sixty sheets of paper into even rectangles?”

“Is that what you were out doing all morning?”

“Among other things.”

“Then yes,” Vincent says. He stops just short of the coffee table where Yves is sitting. “Are you finally off of paper-cutting duty?”

“God, I hope so. Weddings are always so hectic, even if you’re only peripherally idvolved. It’s like everyone’s worried about things going wrong beforehand, but then when you finally get to them, they always go fine.”

“Have you been to a lot of weddings in your life?”

Yves considers this. “Cobpared to the average person? Probably.”

“Then you should listen to your own advice,” Vincent tells him.

“What?”

“It’s going to be fine.”

Yves blinks. If Vincent can tell that he is nervous after a three minute conversation with him, then Yves must really not be doing a good job at hiding it.

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” he says. He really is tired. Maybe another cup of coffee, or two, will help—he can hardly think of anything more mortifying than nodding off halfway through the vows. “I don’t think I’ll forgive mbyself if it doesn’t.”

—

It’s a near-perfect wedding.

The weather is as temperate as it gets at this time of year. It’s sunny out, and brisk enough that no one feels stuffy in their suit jackets and their summer dresses.

The wedding venue is like something out of a storybook—the white stone paths, arcing around a circular fountain, the water a clear, searing blue; the rows and rows of flowers that crowd around it. Flowers—roses, peonies, tulips, gardenias—line the walkways, strung up over arches in crisscrossing rows of sprawling green leaves.

When Aimee and Genevieve walk down the aisle, Leon grins; Victoire turns away to wipe at her eyes. When they say their vows, Yves feels a tightness in his chest, a fierce sort of pride. He knew, of course, that this moment would make him emotional.

But nothing compares to seeing them here, right here, smiling. Aimee’s hair is half up, half down, held in place with a half moon clip that winks white under the sunshine. Genevieve is wearing a long white dress—her hair is braided into a crown, threaded with flowers, a translucent lace veil settling over her shoulders. The afternoon sunlight trickles over them, gleaming. And Yves—

Yves has always believed in love.

Perhaps it’s overly idealistic—he’s certainly been told as much before—but he believes in it still. He believed in it even before he started dating Erika, and he believed in it after they broke up, too. It’s not so much the idea that people can be soulmates, more the idea that people can spend thirty or fifty or seventy years together and not tire of each other, the idea that the little mundanities of life might be made special in the presence of someone whose existence sublimates them endlessly into interest. The idea that two people who may not ever fully understand each other might try, ceaselessly, to get close.

He remembers: hearing about Genevieve, over text and over call; at first peripherally, but then frequently. He regrets, sometimes, that he wasn’t there more for the both of them, that he could only help from an ocean away with celebrations and holidays and special events, that he still doesn’t know Genevieve as well as he’d like to.

But a part of him thinks, now, that maybe it was a privilege, too, watching from afar. Hearing about the dates secondhand, from Aimee, all of it filtered through her own excitement—hearing Aimee talk about everything that left an impression on her. It would have been different, of course, if he had really been there. But in a way, it is a little fitting that his first impression of Genevieve—his first mental portrait of her—was by someone who was already already half in love with her.

And he remembers: Aimee, unusually quiet one night over Facetime, sitting cross legged in the living room of their new apartment. The world, dark outside through the living room windows, even though for him it was only mid afternoon. The way she’d smiled, wistful, staring off into the distance at some point he couldn’t see. I think I might marry her, she had said.

She had said it like she was certain. He finds himself going back to that moment, to her certainty. He’s always wondered—how had she known? How had she been so sure of it, even then?

But the way Genevieve takes Aimee’s hands, during the vow—the way her hands tremble slightly with it, the particular carefulness with which she handles the ring—all of it makes him think that he’s been right to believe in this, in them, in love. After all, what more convincing proof is there than this?

—

All in all, it is nearly perfect.

Nearly, save for how unwell he feels, how self conscious he is about not making it expressly known. Yves shivers through the entire ceremony, occasionally lifting the collar of his suit jacket to muffle a harsh, wrenching sneeze into the fabric. He’ll get it dry cleaned later. Beside him, Vincent looks to him, his head tilted in question—and, after Yves smiles apologetically at him—says nothing.

He makes it through, as a combination of everything—the adrenaline, the cold medicine, the four espressos he’d had this morning and the energy drink he’d downed right before the ceremony to keep himself awake.

He doesn’t have a thermometer, doesn’t know what kind of temperature he’s running, but he has a hunch that it’s higher than it should be. It’s freezing outside—cold enough that he can’t keep himself from shivering, even when he tries—but no one else seems to be as cold as he is. He can only hope, now, that no one else notices him ducking into his jacket, periodically, to catch another sneeze, or wiping his nose on the back of his hand to keep it from openly running.

The world looks fever-bright, fuzzy around some edges but unusually sharp around others. He’s awake, but in the sort of uncomfortable, all-consuming way where it feels like he’s too nervous to get any sleep at all.

He feels only half-present during the cocktail hour, while Aimee and Genevieve take their pictures. He thinks he should make himself useful somehow—help with positioning props for photos or with setting up the proper lighting or whatever else—or, at the very least, converse with the relatives that he hasn’t had much of a chance to catch up with yet.

Instead, he sits, half hunched over at one of the side tables, and tries not to shiver too visibly. His head hurts with the sort of sharp, incessant pain that makes it near-impossible to focus on anything else.

“Are you okay?” Vincent asks him.

Yves looks over to him. Vincent looks concerned—his eyebrows are furrowed, his mouth set into a frown—and Yves—

Yves considers it, for a moment: telling Vincent the truth. That it’s taking everything in him to appear even remotely presentable. That a part of him is nervous that he’ll crash before he gives his speech. That he might have overestimated his own ability to get through four more hours of this, outside in the cold.

“Of course,” he says instead, with the best smile he can muster, because what else is there to say?

He doesn’t end up having any drinks, even though he’s usually a fan of cocktails. Leon offers him one, and when Yves shakes his head, shrugs and heads off to find someone else, which Yves thinks is probably the best. He’s a little too out of it to keep tabs on where all the others are—there are enough people that it’d be hard to spot everyone in the first place, but like this, it feels impossible.

And Vincent is… surprisingly, absent, for much of it. Yves considers texting him a couple times, just to see where he might be, but then decides against it. If Vincent has found something fun to do, then Yves definitely isn’t going to keep him from doing it.

Except, a small part of him says, he’d explicitly told Vincent not to worry about him. It doesn’t have to be your problem, he’d said, and Vincent had stared back at him, blankly, except was his expression really blank, then? Hadn’t he seemed a little hurt? After all of this is over, Yves really ought to apologize to him for all of the trouble—for making this whole wedding a lot more stressful than it should’ve been.

Vincent had known, after all, that he was nervous just this morning, even though Yves hadn’t wanted for it to show. And perhaps Vincent has always been perceptive, but Yves likes to think he isn’t always so obvious. Vincent is here to enjoy his vacation in France, first and foremost. Yves doesn’t want anything—not the fever he feels brewing, not the nervousness he feels regarding the wedding—to get in the way of that.

But right now, Vincent is nowhere to be found, so he tables the apology for later. For now, he just has to get through the entirety of the wedding. He spends a good part of the hour in the same seat, blowing his nose into cocktail napkins, wishing he had packed something warmer that would fit the dress code.

He makes polite conversation with whoever stops by, and tries—and fails—to ignore the fact that it feels like his head is going to split. Maybe he should’ve picked up some aspirin at the convenience store, too, though it’s not like he has the time to go back and get it now. And, anyways, as painful as it is, it’s really just a headache. How bad could it be?

—

At six, he finds his seat for dinner. A couple minutes later, Vincent takes a seat next to him. Yves turns to speak to him, only, he has to turn away to muffle a throat-scraping fit of coughs into his elbow.

The coughing fit lasts longer than he anticipates. When he looks up at last, Vincent is already in conversation with the person next to him, who Yves recognizes to be one of Genevieve’s friends—perhaps one of the ones he ate dinner with the night before, though Yves can’t be sure. Yves hunts down another cocktail napkin to blow his nose into—it’s starting to run worse now that the sun is starting to set.

When it comes time to give his toast, he’s afraid, for a moment, that he might forget what to say. That he might trip up mid-speech, despite all of the practice. That his current affliction might make itself clearly, embarrassingly apparent right when everyone’s attention is focused on him.

But the speech goes well. He gives his speech in French. His voice is noticeably off, but he hasn’t lost it entirely, and if he has to resort to clearing his throat as quietly as he can in between sentences, it’s a small sacrifice. Aimee giggles at the anecdote he tells about her in grad school, texting him about meeting Genevieve for the first time at a networking event. He throws in a couple inside jokes—references to things he’s heard his extended family laugh about during their yearly summer reunions, things that he can tie back into the wedding that he hopes might land well with this audience—and then he tells everyone about a surprise party he worked with Genevieve to plan, last summer, for Aimee’s birthday: how she’d stayed up late to make sure everything was carefully accounted for. How he’d known, then, from how seriously she was taking it, by how well she seemed to know Aimee already, that she would be the one.

The jokes seem to land, for the way everyone—buoyed from the adrenaline of the wedding and in part thanks to the cocktails, he’s sure—laughs, and by the end, Genevieve is beaming, and Aimee breaks tradition to run up to him and give him a tight hug. After that, he asks everyone to raise their glasses in a toast—“To Aimee and Genevieve,” he says, “what a joy it is to see the team you’ve been rooting for win,” and the room erupts into clamor—into applause and cheer and the resounding clinking of glasses.

Then someone he recognizes as one of Genevieve’s closest friends stands to give her toast, and for the first time today, Yves lets himself relax in his seat. Only, it isn’t really relaxing—after all of the caffeine, he feels simultaneously exhausted and strangely, artificially alert, in a way that feels a little wrong.

The rest of the wedding should be smooth sailing, he thinks. The ceremony is over. His speech was fine. He just needs to stay through dinner and the cake cutting, and then he can ride the shuttle back with everyone else, and then—

—And then he’ll be back at his hotel room, where he can apologize to Vincent for perhaps being the very reason why this vacation hasn’t been as stress-free as it should’ve been, considering that it’s likely one of the few reprieves he and Vincent are supposed to get until busy season winds down.

He blinks, rubs a hand over his face, sniffling. He really does feel dizzy.

It’s usually like this. Yves thinks he should probably be wiser by now. If there’s anything he’s learned from past experiences—attending that end-of-semester crew meeting with the flu, or getting through the second half of finals week his senior year of university with a high fever—it’s that half a week of ignoring all of his symptoms is going to catch up to him eventually.

Usually he’s better at defining what constitutes eventually.

He feels a familiar prickle in his nose—the kind that he knows once he gives in to will plague him for the rest of the hour. The cold medicine must be wearing off. Better to do this elsewhere—anywhere instead of here, on the courtyard, where everyone is eating dinner.

“I’ll be right back,” he says to Vincent. Then, without waiting for a response, he rises from his seat and heads off in the direction of the nearest restroom. There’s one in the main building, past the catering stations, the ballroom, the indoor bar.

“Hey, Yves,” someone—his sister—says, when he’s halfway to the building.

He stops walking. “What’s up?”

“You nailed that speech,” she says.

“In no small part thadks to you,” Yves says, forcing himself to turn and face her with a smile. “I’m glad we cut it down. And by we I mean, mostly you.”

“You were a hit,” Victoire says. “And it was funny. I liked the anecdotes you picked. I don’t think people would’ve minded if it were longer.”

“Three mbidutes was the perfect length. Ady longer and people would’ve started losidg idterest— hHh-!” Yves thinks, a little frustratedly, that he always has the most inconvenient timing. “Excuse mbe, I— HHehh!” He lifts his arm to his face, twisting away. “hHhEH’iiDZSSchh’iiEW!”

When he turns back around to face her, Victoire is staring at him with the sort of calculating look that Yves is sure is not a good thing.

“You’re still sick?” she asks.

He blinks at her. “A little,” he says. “I’ll get some sleep todight.”

She nods. “Does Vincent know?”

The question startles him into laughing, which he immediately regrets, for the way it makes him cough. “That I’mb sick?” he asks. “Yeah, I’d assume so. We share a room.”

“Assume? So you haven’t talked to him about it?”

“Whether or ndot I have a cold is not the mbost enthralling conversation topic,” Yves says.

“But you’re dating,” she says, as if that explains everything.

It explains nothing. “Yes, glad you ndoticed.”

“I just mean that — I mean, he got breakfast with us the other day, which you weren’t there for, and then we had the rehearsal dinner, which he wasn’t invited to. And during the cocktail hour, you were sitting alone.”

“I’mb not sure where you’re goidg with this,” Yves says, if only because he doesn’t want to be having this conversation right now. “But if you’re wondering whether—” He veers away again, pressing his arm to his face. “hh… Hehh-! hhHH’GKTT-SHHiiew!Ugh, sorry… Hh… HEHh’IIDZZSCHh-yyEEew! snf-! If you’re wondering whether we got into a fight, or sobething, then the answer is no.”

“It’s not that.” Victoire hesitates, for a moment, as if she’s still thinking about what to say. She probably is. She’s always been deliberate with her words. “It kind of seems like—well, like you’re doing that thing you always do.”

“What thidg I always do?”

“You know.” She looks at him, her expression carefully, deceptively neutral. “Avoiding the people who care about you when something’s wrong.”

“I have ndo idea what you’re talking about.” Yves glances wistfully over to the bathroom. “I do really ndeed to pee, you know.”

He half expects her to press, but she just sighs. “Okay,” she says. “Don’t let me keep you.”

It’s a convenient out, and he takes it. The walk over is thankfully not too long—the bathroom turns out to be located just a couple hallways down from the entrance, but it’s hidden enough that it’s a little hard to find. For now, that’s a good thing.

He imagines the wedding party might move inside shortly after dinner, but as it stands, the building is mercifully empty. The restroom on the first floor is nicer than expected—warm lighting, floor to ceiling mirrors, polished white sinks on a black granite countertop. He braces himself against the countertop, suppressing another shiver.

His nose is running slightly. He reaches over and grabs a couple paper towels from the dispenser, just to be safe.

It’s not a moment too early. It’s only moments after that he’s pitching forwards into the paper towels with a harsh—

“HhH’iiDZSSCHh-IIEW!”

The sound echoes off the tiled walls. Yves finds himself coughing, afterwards. The medicine must really be wearing off, then, for the way his nose is starting to run incessantly—for the way the discomfort prickles at his skin, suggesting a fever. It’s a good thing there’s no one here to see him like this.

“hHEHh’iIZssCHH-iiEW! snf-! hHEh… HDDt’TSSCHH-iEEW!” The sneezes are harsher than usual, too, and forceful enough to snap him forward at the waist. He stays hunched over for a moment, steadying himself with the side of the countertop, and tries, somewhat unsuccessfully, to catch his breath.

The bathroom feels frigidly cold. He shivers, reaches up with trembling hands to try to button up his suit. His nose is starting to tickle again. It feels like he might be here forever, like one wrong breath might be enough to—

“hhH…. hHEH…. hhHEH’DJJJSHH’iiEEW!” The paper towels in his hand must be drenched now, but before he can get a chance to replace them, his breath catches again. “hhEH’GKTT-SHhhEw!” It’s immediately clear, from the subsequent twinge in his nose, that he’s not done. For a moment, he wonders if the sneezes will ever let up—if he’ll be stuck in the bathroom all evening, trying to keep his illness under wraps.

Before he can entertain the thought properly, he finds himself jerking forward again, his eyes snapping shut—

“Hehh… hEHh’IIZSCHH-YYEEW! hHihhH’-iiTsSHHH-YYEW!”

He blows his nose, as gently as he can, but the paper towel is rougher against his skin. When he looks up afterwards, blinking tears out of his vision, his nose looks noticeably red.

It takes all the resolve in him to not just slump against the wall.

His next breath comes in wrong, and he finds himself coughing—harsh, grating coughs which seem to go on and on, leaving him feeling distinctly lightheaded.

He can’t stay here. He needs to make it back to dinner, where the others are waiting for him. He has to get back before Vincent starts wondering where he’s gone.

Yves squeezes his eyes shut. If he’s being honest with himself, he feels awful. Nothing he does seems to do anything to assuage the chill that’s settled persistently over him, the uncomfortable, shivery feeling that makes him want to curl up somewhere warm, sleep the next day and a half away.

Would it be so bad for him to stay here for just a little longer? To send a text to Vincent to let him know he’ll be back in twenty? It’s not the most comfortable of places, but it would be the easiest to explain if someone ends up finding him here. Anywhere else might suggest that he has a big enough problem to deliberately hide away instead of properly enjoying the festivities, like he should be doing, which is not the impression he wants to give off at all.

He tries to think of a convincing enough excuse, but nothing he can think of takes precedence over a wedding dinner, of all things. It should be fine if he goes back now, but any longer might be pushing things.

And, anyways, he feels guilty for even considering it. The others are waiting for him. He has to show up, and at the very least, be courteous where he has to, make pleasant conversation when he can. He has to make sure Aimee and Genevieve are having fun, and that Leon and Victoire are doing fine, and that nothing needs to get done logistically, and that Vincent is not there alone, surrounded by strangers speaking a language he’s just started to learn.

His head is pounding. He tosses the paper towels into the bin, leans his weight against the countertop, squeezes his eyes shut. The exhaustion from the past few days of on-and-off sleep must be catching up with him. His head is pounding.

He can do this. More aptly put, it’s not a question of whether he can. He has to do this.

He splashes his face with cold water, washes his hands in the sink, dries his face with another generous handful of paper towels, and heads towards the door. He feels almost too tired to stand, but that’s only a temporary concern. It won’t be a problem once he gets back to his seat.

Everyone is waiting for him, he tells himself. Soon, they might be asking where he’s gone. He needs to show them that he’s there—present and attentive and engaged, just like he promised everyone he’d be. No one expects any less of him, after all.

It’s with that in mind that he presses forward. He makes it down a couple hallways before he finds himself having to lean against the wall to catch his balance, shutting his eyes against the sudden wave of disorientation. He inhales, slowly. Exhales.

Fuck. Perhaps he’s dizzier than he’d expected.

“Yves?” He freezes. Vincent is not supposed to be here. Vincent can’t see him right now, not in this state. He forces himself to smile. “What’s up?”

“You disappeared,” Vincent says. “I wanted to make sure…”

His voice shutters, sounding distant and close by all at once. “...that everything was okay.”

“It is,” Yves says. “I was just about to head back.” “We can head back together,” Vincent says. It’s not that long of a walk—just a couple minutes, at most, to the exit Vincent presumably came in from, and then back down the stone path that leads to the courtyard.

“You didn’t have to come find me. I’m really fine.” Yves shifts his weight off from the wall. Takes a couple steps halting towards the exit, which is a mistake.

It all registers simultaneously: the darkness encroaching upon the edges of his vision, the surge of panic in his chest. The world, suddenly angled wrongly, tilts towards him. He thinks he is definitely going to owe Vincent an apology.

[ Part 5 ]

#sneeze fic #snz fic #sneeze kink #snz kink #snzfic #spoilers for this chapter ahead:#(do not read these tags if you have not read the chapter yet)#(one more line so that this doesn't show up unless you click read more)#i... am sorry. i know the ending to this chapter is probably going to be controversial (glances at the poll i made awhile back)#but i really wanted to write it 😭#(you are free to yell at me for this decision)#i almost lost my nerve and let this sit in my drafts forever because the wedding was incredibly difficult to write but #i finished editing it today after drinking something very caffeinated #yvverse #my fic

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babytarttdoodoo · 9 months

Note

Jamie’s afraid of making a big deal out of being hurt after everything that happened in season 1 - he doesn’t want everyone to think he’s being a prick again. But then one day either in season 2 or 3 he actually is genuinely hurt badly (the reason is up to you) but doesn’t tell anyone and shows up to practice anyway. It’s bad enough that he collapses on the field and that’s when everyone finds out.

I could have made this so much easier on myself and literally just written the conversation at the end. As it is, I started hating this about a third of the way through.

I hope that's just hyper-criticism of my own work and that this is still an enjoyable request fill.

---

It wasn’t like he’d done it on purpose.

A lack of sleep, a dark hallway, and a half-forgotten set of steps had all converged into a little tumble in the middle of the night. That was all.

A bruised side. A knock on the head. No big deal.

That’s what Jamie had told himself as he’d inspected the damage in the mirror. He would be fine. He could put his kit on at home and wear a beanie to cover up the dark smudge of skin at his temple.

No one would notice. No one needed to know. It would be fine. Hardly the first time he’d pushed through an injury to stay in the game, was it?

He didn’t need to miss training. He didn’t need to turn up at Nelson Road and tell Ted he couldn’t play. Just the thought of trying to do so sent a thrill of unease through Jamie that he wasn’t keen to examine too closely.

So he took some ibuprofen, slowly and stiffly got changed into his Richmond gear, and called a taxi to get himself to the training ground late enough that no one had time to question his appearance.

(Driving was out of the question. He could admit that.)

Roy all but sneered at him when he stumbled in - that wasn’t anything to write home about, though. He caught a few looks from the others and had to wave Dani off on their way out to the pitch but, otherwise, Jamie was able to keep his head down and not draw attention to himself.

Drills were awful. Just stretching out his legs had him biting his tongue against making any pained sounds. When they started lunging, the hot-sick pain in his side necessitated swallowing down bile.

Sprints weren’t the worst, though Isaac definitely noticed he wasn’t starting from a crouch as he normally would. Then Nate had them doing a coordination exercise, hopping sideways and throwing balls between each other.

Lifting his arms was bad enough. Then each hop jolted Jamie’s whole body and made his head throb.

He managed, somehow, but Jamie wasn’t sure how much more he could take. He was being slow and clumsy. He was being useless. Fuck.

Panting, sweating, and trying not to throw up, he hovered at the back of the group and prayed no one called him out. No such luck.

“You alright, mate?” Colin had sidled over while Ted called out their scrimmage teams. He was speaking quietly, which Jamie appreciated, but frowned at him with an unusual level of seriousness. Shit.

“Course I am.” Jamie forced himself to straighten up and smile. It felt wrong on his face. Too many teeth. “Just got a stitch. Didn’t drink enough.”

Colin looked doubtful, like he was about to question him further, but Jamie pushed forward to accept his yellow vest from Beard and positioned himself as far away from the Welshman as he could.

He was careful to stay in the formation they were practising, though. No sense in fucking up training for everyone more than he already had.

Roy hollered “WHISTLE!” from the side of the pitch and everyone lurched into action. Running around wasn’t so bad and Jamie soon lost himself in the game, following the movement of the ball and players with a preternatural instinct, ignoring any pain as the inconvenient distraction it was.

The few times the ball came his way, he took control of it as if by second nature, barely having to tell his feet what to do as he passed to Dani, then to Sam ten minutes later.

He was being a good teammate. He was playing like he was supposed to. And then he heard someone shout his name.

Jamie didn't need to look around to know that the ball would be sailing through the air towards him. He didn't need to deliberate about what to do. He would catch the ball on his chest and send it to Sam again before Richard could make it close enough to tackle. It was the only option to get it in the net.

He didn't need to think about it. He just did it.

And his sore, battered ribs only crossed his mind when he jumped up and twisted mid-air.

The yelp of pain was completely involuntary and Jamie would have been horrendously embarrassed by it if he hadn’t immediately crumpled into a heap on the pitch.

Something had grinded in his torso. It fucking hurt. It felt wrong.

He distantly registered the sound of an actual whistle over the rushing white noise in his ears as he lay gasping on the damp grass. A hand grasped his arm and Jamie realised Richard had skidded to his knees beside him, ball forgotten.

“Jamie? What’s wrong?” More hands were on him, trying to turn him over, but the slight pull sent another wave of sick pain through his side and he keened, curling up further to stave off the harm. “Merde, get the medics.”

“Colin’s already gone.” That was Isaac, a lot closer than he’d been less than five minutes ago, defending the box on the other end of the pitch. “He’ll need a stretcher if we can’t move him ourselves.”

“Fuck.” The notion of needing to be carried out of training brought Jamie back to himself. “I don’t need… Fuck it. I’m fine.”

“No, you are not.” Sam was standing over him as well, Jamie realised as he tried to force himself up to his knees at least. Most of the team were looming around, actually, and Ted broke through their little huddle right as a spike in pain brought up the vomit Jamie had been desperately holding back all morning.

“Hoo boy.” An American accent could really cut through the crowd, apparently, since Jamie had no problem hearing that low exclamation over twenty or so sounds of disgust.

Someone stopped him from pitching forward into his own sick and Jamie finally, limply, accepted help back upright onto his own shaky legs. Ted’s hands were one of the several pairs supporting him and Jamie could feel the humiliation and shame rising up in his gut like another bout of nausea.

“Sorry, coach,” he mumbled, even as he let Isaac put a secure arm around his waist. Sam tried to prop up his other side but Jamie shied away with an apologetic shake of the head. “Ribs. Don’t- Can’t lift me arm right now.”

He silently begged the younger player to understand, to not take it as yet another personal slight. Because Sam Obisanya was a much better person than Jamie would ever be, he only took a firm hold of Jamie’s elbow instead, face belying nothing but concern.

“Okay, folks, let’s give him some room.” Ted shooed gently at everyone not currently vital to keeping Jamie vertical. “You fellas got a good hold of him? We can get a stretcher out here, tout sweet.”

“Don’t want a fucking stretcher. I can walk.” Jamie bit out, choosing not to acknowledge how heavily he was still leaning on Isaac and Sam.

“Well, son, I’m not all too keen on taking your word for that right now.”

Ted’s tone didn’t change at all from the pleasant, practical way he’d just addressed the others. He didn’t raise his voice even a little. Jamie still felt the admonishment like a physical blow and hung his head with a wince.

“We’ve got him,” Sam spoke up. “Treatment room, right?”

They made an awkward threesome, hobbling off the pitch behind Ted and down the tunnel. Colin jogged out to meet them with a medic in tow and (surprise, surprise) Roy peeled off from the other coaches to join the entourage hustling Jamie towards the now-not-haunted medical suite.

Settled uncomfortably on the edge of the reclining bed, with a hovering audience whose eyes he couldn’t meet if he tried, Jamie numbly answered the medic’s questions about his pain level and location. He allowed her to gently remove his hat and examine the bruise underneath, went through the concussion tests without complaint, and was even honest about when he’d last eaten or drank anything.

When she pulled up his shirt, there was more than one sympathetic wince around the room. A quick look down confirmed that the bruise, though still quite small, had deepened in colour since he’d last poked at it and his skin looked oddly swollen around the area.

Even the barest methodical prodding with careful fingers made Jamie flinch and hiss through his teeth. The medic (Jennifer, Jamie vaguely recalled) hummed thoughtfully.

“Two are definitely broken. You’ll need to stay off the pitch for a few weeks, at least.”

The prognosis tightened Jamie’s throat like a hand was clamped around his neck.

“Weeks? Nah, fuck that,” he choked out. “I were playing fine until I took the chest ball. I can still score.”

“Are you actually thick?” Roy demanded, loud and angry as per usual. There was something wild in his expression as he stepped closer to the bed. “How fucking stupid do you have to be to try and play with broken fucking ribs.”

“Fuck off, you won’t even coach me,” Jamie snarled at him, all attempts at mending bridges forgotten in the wake of pain and frustration. “Don’t act like it matters if I play hurt or not. I’ve done it plenty times before.”

“Alright, alright!” Ted cut in between them before Roy could retort with whatever words had conjured up that twisted, outraged look on his face. Nothing good, Jamie was sure.

“Roy, why don’t you take five, okay? In fact, let’s clear the room. Y’all got things to do, I’ll stick with Jamie while the good doc here gets him set up with what he needs.”

Even with Ted partially blocking his view, Jamie could see Roy was about to argue. Surprisingly, it was Isaac’s hand on his shoulder that seemed to take the wind out of his sails.

“Fuck! Fine!” He shrugged the hand off and pointed damningly at Jamie’s face. “But you’re not putting a toe out on the grass until I say so, you bloody fuckwit.”

With that, Roy stormed out of the room, sending the door bouncing off the wall with the force of his exit. Jamie’s teammates followed much more sedately, all with looks back over their shoulders and quiet murmurs Jamie couldn’t discern.

“Here.” He jumped slightly when maybe-Jennifer reappeared at his side with a bundle of items. “Drink this and take two paracetamol. Hold the ice pack to your side for twenty minutes. If the swelling hasn’t gone down, I’ll send you home with a few extras, okay?”

“Thank you kindly, doc,” Ted answered for him. “I’ll make sure he stays put for a bit.”

“Not a doctor,” she corrected mildly but gave Ted a smile and nod. “I’ll need you to sign an incident report and there’s some insurance paperwork to go through. I’ll go get the ball rolling on that and check in later.”

Jamie didn’t really like the way they were talking around him, rather than to him. He liked the idea of being alone with Ted after having caused a scene and an extra load of work for him even less. Still, he couldn’t think of any reason for the medic to stay and just watched her walk away, gently closing the door in her wake.

“You should probably do as she says,” Ted said softly after a moment of quiet, indicating the bottle of water and packet of tablets. “Doesn’t strike me as the ‘take it or leave it’ kind of advice. Rarely is, from those of the medical persuasion, even if they don’t have a fancy title.”

Moving like he was underwater, braced for the other shoe to drop, Jamie silently went through the motions of taking the painkillers. He tried not to move in any way that would agitate his injury but his hands were still shaking by the time he reached for the ice pack.

“Oh, here, let me…” Ted stepped in closer, his own hands outstretched, and Jamie flinched violently. The sudden jolt caused his abused ribs to make themselves known all over again and a small shout fell from his mouth unbidden.

“Alright, okay, no touching, got that memo, loud and clear,” Ted rambled on while Jamie waited for his vision to clear from the haze of pain. When it did, he noticed his coach frozen in place, hands still hovering in midair and significantly less threatening than moments before.

“Sorry,” he croaked, embarrassment and discomfort robbing his voice. “Didn’t mean… I’m sorry.”

“Now, hey, no. That one’s on me.” Ted glanced around and pulled up a chair to sit near Jamie’s knees. “How’s about you get that ice where it needs to be and you and I have a little heart-to-heart, that sound okay?”

Jamie nodded and gingerly wrapped the frozen pouch in the towel provided before applying it to his side. The relief was almost immediate and he felt his shoulders relax from the tense position he hadn’t even registered amongst everything else.

Ted clearly noticed too, since he smiled up at Jamie. There was still a furrow between his eyebrows, though.

“Ain’t it great when stuff helps the way it’s supposed to?” he started and Jamie tried not to let the dread of what was coming show on his face. “You know, when you’re sure that, in theory, something should do you good but you’re not quite bought into the reality yet? It’s a damn good feeling when the bet pays off.

“Course, sometimes it goes the other way. The thing that’s supposed to help you doesn’t do anything at all. Or, hell, it just makes everything worse…”

“I’m sorry,” Jamie blurted out again in a panic. “I weren’t trying to do that. I swear, I know I’m not supposed to mess up training or nothing. I… I…”

“Whoa, whoa, Jamie!” Ted’s smile had dropped clean off his face. “I think we’ve got some wires all muddled up here, somewhere. I’m not fishing for an apology. Matter of fact, I’m kind of wriggling on the end of the hook, myself.”

Jamie really, honestly tried to wrap his head around that one. He failed. “What?”

“I’m sorry, Jamie,” Ted told him firmly. “We all knew something wasn’t right with you out there today and let you play on through anyway. That’s no bueno. If you can’t rely on your coach to help you out when you need it, well, then, that’s not a sign of a very good coach, is it?”

Jamie stared at him, dumbfounded. “But… I didn’t tell you I were hurt.”

“There is that,” Ted agreed easily, nodding and settling back in his chair. “And I’d sure like to hear how you got knocked around so good in the whole twelve hours you were out of our sight. Any particular reason you didn’t share that with the class this morning?”

“I…” The hand that wasn’t holding the ice pack to Jamie’s ribs started picking at the disposable paper sheet on the bed. “I fell. Down the stairs at me house. Last night. I. It didn’t hurt too bad, I thought.”

Ted hummed. “Well, you see? Accident like that, it ain’t anybody’s fault. And you felt okay after?”

The excuse hung there so temptingly that Jamie was almost inclined to think they were back to mind games. He could tell Ted that he’d been sore, but fine, up until he got out on the pitch. But that would be just another lie, wouldn’t it? And all lying had done for him today was drag more and more people into his shit.

So, instead of agreeing like he so desperately wanted to do, he shook his head slowly.

“No, no I weren’t okay.” He swallowed and looked down at his shoes, dangling just shy of the floor. “Couldn’t even drive myself in, could I? But I thought being here and acting normal was better than… better than saying I couldn’t train today. More important.”

“Oh. Now, that’s another thing to chalk up in the ‘no bueno’ category, I’m sorry to say.” Ted’s voice had softened again but Jamie couldn’t bring himself to look up. “Jamie, if you’re hurting, ever, practice or no, I’d really rather you say so. Nothing’s more important than that.”

“Team is,” Jamie objected quietly. “Being here is. I don’t got anywhere to get sent back to now, do I?”

That sullen admission hung in the air. Jamie heard Ted suck in a breath.

“Okay. Alright. Could you do me a favour and try to lift that handsome as all heck face of yours up, just a smidge? I’m getting the feeling eye contact is going to be real important here.”

With very few options of avoidance available to him, Jamie forced himself to meet Ted’s gaze. His expression bore a startling resemblance to Roy’s wild-eyed reaction before, which did nothing to set Jamie’s mind at ease.

“Jamie, when you turned up to practice last season and said you weren’t going to train, I assumed you were mad because I benched you. That sound about right?”

The player nodded, ready for the familiar prickle of shame that clawed through his chest at the memory.

“So you weren’t actually hurt? Or did I get that wrong?”

Jamie shook his head this time, then clarified: “Were being a prick.”

“Alright, that’s fine. Water under the bridge.” Ted scrubbed a hand over his face, looking relieved for some bizarre reason. “Can we agree, though, that there’s a difference between someone pretending to be hurt, for whatever reason, and someone actually being badly injured? That a middle ground we can settle on?”

“Yeah…” Jamie agreed cautiously.

“Outstanding.” Ted took a deep breath. “So, let’s just take a little hop, skip and jump from there to how things might’ve played out a little differently today than they did last year?”

“Oh.” Jamie blinked a few times, processing. Slotting that bit of logic into the missing gaps of the day. “You’re not angry at me for missing training?”

Ted’s face broke back into a genuine, if tired, smile. “No, sir, I am not angry at you for that. Or for any other reason, while we’re on the subject. I am… mighty disappointed that you didn’t feel like you could come to me, or even call when you took your little tumble. But I think maybe we can both agree to do a little better next time, how about that?”

He held out his hand for a shake - his left, in deference to Jamie’s occupied right. That small concession alone was enough for Jamie to wordlessly grasp Ted’s palm with his own in a firm hold.

“Alright. I’ll try.”

“I know, Jamie,” Ted assured him. “That’s all any of us can do.”

#someone tell me why this is 3k words #jamie tartt #ted lasso #my fic #afc richmond #fic prompts #roy kent

190 notes · View notes

eeveebitches · 8 months

Text

balcony. || Roman Roy

Pairing: Roman Roy x F!Reader

Summary: You're Roman's sad assistant, Roman is your comforting boss. There's something unspoken, too.

Word count: 1.685

The harsh autumn wind bites at the skin exposed by your party dress, leaving goosebumps in its wake. It's times like these where you curse yourself for your 'the jacket ruins the outfit' mentality. Sure, the moment you wanna go home you can step into a cozy Uber. But this jacket-less lifestyle doesn't support emotional breakdowns on balconies.

You're not sure why you feel the way you do. Maybe it's just life-- too much and too little, constant scratching and clawing just to get out of bed. Or maybe it's this dress, and the fact it just doesn't look as good on you as it used to look. Maybe it's the fact that you're lonely, no matter how much time you spend with others.

"Are you thinking of killing yourself? Because that's, like, lame." Your head turns for some reason, as if it isn't immediately clear to you that it's Roman. "Only a little bit," you weakly chuckle out, turning back to look at the view. Small lights blinking from high to low, desperate to shine through the darkness.

Roman wordlessly walks to stand next to you, although he turns his back to the view. He leans on the old, marble railing, hands tucked in his pockets for only a moment before he pulls them out again.

He's clearly nervous. Emotions aren't on the forefront for him, and the dysfunction of his upbringing definitely hasn't made him capable of handling yours any time, either. But his hands clasp and unclasp, his eyes blink rapidly, and with a single sentence he dives into the deep end.

"So are you, uh, okay?"

Your breathing stills at the question. Suddenly the cold air blows into your eyes, and now suddenly it's making you tear up. Damn the cold air for making you look weak. "Yeah, I just... I don't know," you mumble out, carelessly wiping your eyes, any make-up you had on now smudged. From the corner of your sight you can see Roman's eyes widen. His head starts darting around, like he's searching for something in the air, as he hesitates in his next actions.

He takes a single step. A small one, for sure, but the step is to get closer to you. One leg over the other, and now his arm is touching yours. "D'you wanna... talk?" You shrug, still mindlessly staring out in front of you as Roman struggles to think of ways he can show he does care about your feelings, even if he wouldn't outwardly admit it.

"Wanna be my therapist?" You laugh bitterly as you say it, to which Roman cracks an uneasy smile. "Sounds like a fun time, maybe even a little hot. Doctor, patient, stuck in a room for way too long," he tells you, carrying a nonchalant grin.

As always, he makes you laugh. "And a therapy couch to have crazy monkey sex on. I'm into it." Roman's grin grows at that, teeth peeking out as he finally turns to look into the night as well. "Soooo, what, is the party so bad you're considering suicide?" You roll your eyes at him with a light smile, which he happily reciprocates. "You're on the right fuckin' path, though, since their wine tastes like the aftermath of a grape juice enema," he groans out, eyes squeezed shut in faux annoyance.

With each smile you give him, he feels more secure. Like his feet are properly tied onto the ground, instead of floating out into the empty cold of space. "I'm just sad is all, Romes. Not about the shit wine, though, I haven't even had any tonight."

"Seriously? I thought that guy from the app company sent you a drink. He wanted to get into your panties bad, you do know that, right?" He tries not to come over as jealous, since this is your moment of vulnerability, but you can tell he is by the way he runs a shaky hand through his hair. All you do is shrug in response. "Didn't accept it."

He cackles, which makes you smile. "You stone-cold bitch. Poor guy's gonna jerk himself off as he cries, and you show no mercy?"

Another shrug from you, and another laugh from him. His laughter dies down quickly when he sees the change in your expression. There's a quiet somberness to it. The kind that brought him back to his childhood, uniforms and broken mirrors.

He hates that somberness on you.

"Seriously, what's up? You're all quiet and fuckin' depressed, it's giving me the heebie jeebies." Your head doesn't turn to Roman as you prepare to speak. You keep your eyes on the twinkling lights of the buildings far away from you. Twinkles of humans who are just as awake, and possibly just as solemn as you are. "It's these parties. They just kinda highlight my loneliness, it's... it's just a bit much tonight," you sigh out, head not moving an inch.

You don't bother looking at Roman's face. It's most definitely a melancholic one, eyes round and glassy with his eyebrows slightly knotted. "You have me," he mumbles out, and despite his weak attempt at making it sound humorous, you both know it fell flat. He's too desperate for you to acknowledge that for it to be funny.

"I know I do."

A silence falls between the two of you as you both stare out. Roman's arm is still flush against yours, a lick of heat that's so miniscule yet so warming to you.

He's thinking of something, anything, to say to you. Something that'll comfort you like you always comfort him. But how can he copy the eye contact you make across a room, or the hug you always give him where you squeeze his shoulders extra tight? Nothing he could say could ever carry the nurture your perfume carries for him.

"You don't have to say anything, Romes, just... be here with me?"

Roman stills. His hands stop fiddling, and his eyes stop darting around, searching for an anchor point to help him stay ashore. He lets out a heavy sigh, before grabbing your hand and tugging you with him. "C'mon," he mumbles, not daring to look at your expression, "let's go home."

There's something far too domestic about how he texts his driver with one hand while the other one holds onto yours. Like you're not his underpaid assistant, or his closest friend, but instead his partner. Your mind floods with images of his apartment flooded with your things, and Sundays together in bed.

The two of you weave through the crowd. Roman speaks for the both of you every time someone tries to speak to either of you, probably to ask why you're leaving so early. He simply throws a 'fuck off' their way as he continues leading you to the exit.

The taxi is somehow already standing there. "Let's ditch this shitty granny orgy," he chuckles out. He's clearly just as nervous as you are about the implication of whatever is happening now, but he doesn't hesitate in sitting snugly against you in the car. You let your head fall onto his shoulder. A heavy sigh escapes you, the kind that felt like it had been in your lungs for years.

"Just so you know, I didn't do groceries." You huff out a small laugh. "I told you to start doing them though," you mumble against his shoulder. His head falls to lean against yours, digging his nose into your hair. "I know, I'm just really fucking stubborn, like, all the time," he mumbles back.

This makes you laugh a little harder. He laughs too, content in your proximity to him. It felt right, sharing body heat. The car stops, and as the two of you step out Roman grabs your hand again. He doesn't let go, not even when unlocking his door.

Your hands disconnect to let Roman remove and hang up his jacket. He scurries to his bedroom, leaving you to take in his apartment. You've been in it plenty of times, but never like this. Never in a way that made it feel like home.

Roman returns, already changed into a sweater and loose pants. He hands you some clothes, as well, head nudging you towards his bedroom. "It's all oversized, because my pecs are fucking huge and stretch my clothes out," he jokes, flexing his muscles as if he can't hear his blood flow in his ears.

With a sheepish grin you head to his bedroom and change. You try not to dwell on how constant Roman's scent now is, or how you're pretty sure he uses the same fabric softener as you. Instead, you call out his name, thoughtlessly throwing yourself into his bed.

He bites back a quip, and silently enters the bed to lay next to you. It's like there's no air in the room as you lay your head on his stomach, your arms carefully wrapping around his waist. Gently, he strokes your hair, other hand swung over you, keeping you as close as you can be.

Roman's body stiffens at the first sniffles. Your tears roll down your cheeks, but you don't let out any sobs. He pulls you up, and tightly wraps his arms around you. Only when your head is buried in Roman's shoulders, you let out a strangled cry. You convulse in Roman's hold, shivering despite the warmth he's giving you.

"Hey, it's okay, I'm here," he whispers as he keeps his hold on you strong, lightly rocking from side to side. There's a lump in his throat as he listens to you gently weeping. You, out of all people, shouldn't ever have to feel this way.

As you quiet down, only letting out the occasional hiccup, Roman lightly pulls you to look at him. He cradles your face with his hands, shakily wiping your wet cheeks with his thumbs as he tries to think of anything to say.

"If you need a salary raise, let me know."

A hoarse laugh escapes your throat. You smile through your tears, and Roman smiles back.

"I think I'd like that."

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