#it's family support innit | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

saywhatjessie · 9 months

Text

Like V-J Day

Or the lads kiss each other to cover for Colin kissing Michael after West Ham and a new Richmond tradition is born. 5.9k [Ao3]

Never did Sam Obisanya think he’d be clutching and screaming with Jamie Tartt after scoring the winning goal in a premier league trophy match.

For several reasons, really. He’d always believed the team could do well and he’d believed he could do himself and his family proud in this sport he loved but after everything they’d gone through and with Jamie Tartt of all people…

He was having a little trouble trying to believe he wasn’t dreaming.

That feeling only increased when Jamie stopped screaming, his eyes on something past Sam’s shoulder and going wide with panic.

“Sam!” Jamie yelled. “Kiss me! Kiss me on the mouth!”

Sam blinked at him, unsure he’d heard right. “What!?”

Jamie shook his head, his eyes still wide, and moved his hands from Sams’s shoulders to his face. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

There wasn’t really time to think so Sam just said “Oh. Okay!” and Jamie leaned in and kissed him.

It was quick – nothing fancy. Jamie pulled away and patted Sam on the cheek. “Good lad.”

Sam just nodded, not sure how to respond to the situation. Was this another trick? Like winning an Oscar at the Espys?

Sam got distracted by Isaac and Bumbercatch colliding with him, dogpiling and screaming about his goal.

He wasn’t sure anyone else saw Jamie kiss Dani and then Jan Maas. Was this something they did now? Were they kissing each other?

Just in case, Sam pressed his lips to Moe’s temple and kissed Isaac on his nose. Isaac’s face scrunched up rather adorably but he was still screaming so Sam didn’t think he’d actually overstepped.

The rest of the team joined their huddle and with Coach Lasso’s victory dance, Sam's thoughts of kissing were quickly abandoned.

Until the following press conference.

It was a rare triple-coach event with both Sam and Jamie representing the players.

The reporters lobbed them easy questions about how excited they were for their win and how disappointing it was that Man City also won their match. But it was Marcus Adebayo, The Independent, who really brought the heat.

“Mr. Tartt, any comment on why you kissed three of your teammates on the pitch after the match?”

The coaches turned slowly to look at Jamie – Ted, surprised and delighted, Roy, surprised but trying very hard not to look it, and Beard, extremely unsurprised but pleased.

Jamie shrugged, his arms folded in front of him on the table, the picture of smugness. “Celebration, innit? We’d just won a really big match the season after we’d been promoted. ‘S like that old picture from America. After the war or summat.”

“‘V-J Day in Times Square’?”

“No, the kissin’ one,” Jamie told him. “Not sure what a VJ is but I don’t think you can do that in public.”

A couple people laughed. Sam heard Roy growl. He leaned forward to speak into his mic.

“We kiss people on the pitch after a victory all the time,” Sam said. “I don’t know why a victory this great would be different.”

“Well, you don’t often kiss each other,” Marcus offered.

“Well, never has a team been as close as this team has gotten,” Roy interjected, leaning toward his own mic. “We encourage our players to express themselves however they like. If kissing on the pitch is something they want to do after they play some good fucking football, we’ll fucking support them.” He grunted, slouching back a little. “It’s the Lasso way.”

“Aw, come on now, Coach,” Ted said, smiling softly at him. “It’s the Richmond way.”

Roy rolled his eyes but he offered a soft smile back. Sam beamed at them and Jamie’s smile was as bright as Trafalgar Square.

Jamie offered Roy a cheeky wink. “Nothing wrong with kissin’ the lads, yeah?”

“Oh fuck you,” Roy said back and everyone laughed.

They moved onto the next question.

On the way back to the dressing room, Sam hung back to walk with Jamie. “What was the kiss really about?”

Jamie grinned at him. “I’m supposed to be playing decoy, aren’t I? So I saw Colin kissin’ Michael on the pitch and I knew I had to distract everyone, yeah? Make it normal.” Jamie shrugged. “Knew Colin didn’t want to come out yet. Now he doesn’t have to.”

Sam melted a bit, taking a moment to appreciate the Jamie they have compared to the one they started with. He wrapped an arm around Jamie’s shoulders, clapping him on the arm. “Jamie, that is so sweet. I’m sure Colin will be so grateful.”

“Weren’t planning on telling him, to be honest.” Jamie frowned. “Don’t want to put him on the spot or whatever.”

“Jamie,” He shook him a bit and Jamie dropped his head, pleased. “That really is wonderful. But we should at least talk to the team. See who else might like to get in on it. The more teammates kissing, the more normal it gets.”

“Yeah, alright,” Jamie said, smiling up at him. “And I’m sorry for kind of ambushing you. Shoulda probably explained meself better first.”

“No, it was fine, I understand.” Sam told him, letting go of his shoulders as they entered the room, almost everyone else in the shower already. “And it was a nice kiss.”

“Oi, mate,” Jamie grinned. “You haven’t seen a good kiss yet.”

The transition through the off season and then back into pre-season training without Coach Lasso had everyone noticeably glum. They’d kept Coach Beard, and Nate had been promoted back to assistant coach again, but Roy as manager didn’t quite have the same charm as their American friend.

Not that Roy was bad. And not that he didn’t try.

He actually did a phenomenal job of bringing his own unique perspective of the game into coaching them on the pitch while keeping up with some of Coach Lasso’s open and compassionate policies. It was quite the environment.

An environment that spurred them to win their first game of the season for the first time since Sam started at Richmond.

Everyone was on the pitch screaming and celebrating when Jamie locked eyes with him. His eyes churned, a kind of slow illumination of feral joy, and he pointed at Sam, his grin a vicious challenge.

He stalked up to Sam, his grin growing more manic, and Sam ran to meet him, wanting to share in whatever primal joy Jamie was feeling.

Jamie, of course, gripped the back of Sam’s head and brought him into a leg melting kiss.

Oh yeah. Sam had forgotten about that.

They hadn’t yet gotten around to bringing anyone else on Jamie’s kissing scheme – except for Dani and Jan Maas, who were, themselves, kissing across the pitch – but Jamie had promised Sam he hadn’t seen a good kiss yet and well..

Wow . Yeah, okay. Sam understood why the ladies on Lust Conquers All let Jamie get away with so much now.

HIs knees actually buckled and he had to grip Jamie’s shoulders tightly to keep himself from going down. He felt Jamie smile against his mouth, laughing as they broke away. “Did I actually make you go weak in the knees?”

“Fuck off,” Sam laughed, still a little dizzy. “I wasn’t ready.”

“I warned you!”

“Not recently!”

Jamie laughed again, putting an arm around Sam’s waist to hold him up. He used his other arm to reach into the cluster of teammates celebrating next to them.

“Oi, Richard!” Jamie pulled at the Frenchman, dislodging him from the group. “Kiss me!”

Richard smirked and said something in French that was probably very dirty but Sam couldn’t understand it.

He pushed up against Jamie, his side brushing Sam as Jamie still hadn’t let him go, and pulled Jamie into a kiss without any hesitation.

He immediately shoved his tongue in Jamie’s mouth, which Sam could have told Jamie was to be expected. For all Sam knew, that might have been what he’d warned in French.

Jamie laughed as he shoved Richard away. “You prick.”

Richard just winked and moved to jump on Zorro as he passed.

“Wow,” Sam said, bringing his arm up around Jamie’s shoulders. Now they were doubly linked. “Did you tell him already? About the kissing thing?”

“Nah,” Jamie said, grinning as they walked toward the dressing room. “But he’s French, inhe? Knew he’d be up for it.”

Sam groaned. “I’d call you out for stereotyping but I also know Richard.”

Jamie laughed.

“Think Cockburn might be my next target,” Jamie mused, his lips pouting out in a thinking face. “He could probably loop in Winchester and Roberts.”

“I can talk to Moe and Babutende,” Sam offered. “I already sort of kissed Moe at the last game.”

“Yeah?” Jamie grinned. “Was it as magical as I imagine?”

Sam shrugged. “Kiss him yourself.”

Jamie winked. “You know I will.”

Watching Jamie cut a path through all their teammates over the following weeks erased any doubt Sam might have had that he was 100% serious about his role as a distraction.

He did end up kissing Cockburn, then Bumbercatch, then Zorro, and also Sam and Jan Maas and Dani every chance he could get. A couple of them cornered Sam later to ask him what Jamie was up to but were more than happy to play along once they knew it was for Colin. Meaning Sam himself had kissed Richard and Dani and Winchester and O’Brien and he even got to kiss Moe properly. Jamie was right: it really was magical.

They somehow got all the way to November before they actually had to talk about it. And, unfortunately, only because they’d hurt Colin’s feelings.

He approached Sam in the dressing room, the training after their win against Crystal Palace, when Sam had actually hopped up to wrap his legs around Jamie to kiss him at a better angle. Sam had a rotation of which teammates he’d kiss after a match but he definitely always made sure to kiss Jamie.

Sam and Colin weren’t the first two in the locker room but they were early enough to be among the first, and no one was really awake yet.

Colin was already in his training kit, looking sleepy and unobtrusive. He plopped down on the bench next to Sam’s cubby with a deep sigh.

Sam chuckled, hanging his shirt up and grabbing his own kit. “Fun night?”

“What? Nah.” Colin sighed again, reaching up to rub his forehead. “Not hungover. Just couldn’t sleep. Something botherin’ me.”

“Oh,” Sam answered, startled. He was always happy to help a teammate and friend with their problems, but Colin had never come to him before, “Would you… like to talk about it?”

“Yeah, actually.” Colin turned to look up at Sam, his wide brown eyes looking tired and sad. “Do you think Jamie’s avoiding me because I’m gay?”

“What?” Sam jerked, his head shaking in an automatic denial. “Colin, of course not. Has he been avoiding you? I thought you played FIFA with him yesterday.”

“We did! I did, he’s not I guess–” Colin huffed a breath, his brow furrowed in frustration. “‘Avoid’ might not be the best word. I just, you know, I feel left out. I feel like the team’s excluding me because I’m gay.”

Sam frowned. As far as he knew, Colin had been there for all team dinners, team movie nights, the casual FIFA with the boys. If Colin was being left out, Sam wasn’t seeing it. “Excluding you how?”

“You know…” Sam screwed up his face in question and Colin sighed. “With the kissing. The after win kissing you all do on the pitch. I know Jamie started it, and he’s kissed just about everyone – even Shannon! – but he hasn’t kissed me. Is he being weird about me being gay?”

Sam blinked and immediately had to suck his lips into his mouth to keep from laughing. Laughter would not unhurt Colin’s feelings.

They really should have seen this coming. Or, if nothing else, Jamie should have just kissed Colin. Not kissing him has singled him out the same way Colin being the only one to kiss a man would have.

“Colin, I promise you, Jamie isn’t avoiding kissing you because you’re gay.” Sam stopped and frowned. “Or, he might be, but not in the way you think.”

Colin frowned back, his shoulders slumping.

“No, hey, listen.” Sam reached forward and gripped Colin’s shoulders. “I promise, just let Jamie explain. Oh, Jamie! JAMIE!”

The locker room had been filling up while they’d been talking, the boys getting gradually livelier as their coffee kicked in. Jamie had just sauntered in, dressed in peak form in his floral track suit and orange tinted sunglasses.

He grinned over at Sam and Colin and trotted up to them. “Yeah, mate?”

“Tell Colin you haven’t been avoiding kissing him because he’s gay.”

“What?” Jamie jerked, pulling off his sunglasses so they could see his blue eyes wide in shock. “Mate, definitely not! I’ll kiss you now if you like, make everything square.”

Colin put his hand out as if to stop Jamie from kissing him. “No. No, don’t do that.”

Sam wasn’t quite as successful with stopping a laugh. He choked on it a bit. “Jamie, Colin has noticed that you’ve been kissing everyone else on the team and would like to know why you haven’t kissed him.”

Jamie frowned. “Oh. yeah, I guess that would look homophobic. You were probably right and we should have told him.”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” Sam agreed, clapping Jamie on the back.

“Sorry,” Colin said, his frown looking more perplexed now than unhappy so at least that was good. “How is Jamie kissing the whole team a good deed?”

“I’m playin’ decoy!” Jamie tells him with an undercurrent of pride you would have never seen from Jamie Tartt three years ago. “Distractin’ the press like so you and Michael can kiss after matches if you want.”

“Kiss Michael…” Colin started before his eyes widened in understanding. “Oh! After West Ham last season!”

“Yeah, mate,” Jamie said, bouncing a little on his feet. “Saw you snogging on the pitch so I quick kissed Sam and some of the other lads so at the conference, they asked me about that instead of what was happening with you.”

Colin looked at Jamie, awed and a little impressed. “I’d just thought no one had seen us. Thought I got lucky.”

Sam chuckled. “You’d have to be very lucky. There were thousands of people watching.”

Colin shrugged.

Jamie scoffed. “Nah, mate. It was me! And then Sam thought the rest of the team might want in on it, so we’ve been, like, creatin’ this culture of kissin’ the lads after a win. So if you ever wanted to do it again, you’d be sorted.”

Colin smiled. “That’s real sweet, boyo.” He punched Jamie in the arm. “But you still should have told me!”

“He was trying to be humble,” Sam told him, rolling his eyes.

“Well now that he knows–” Jamie grinned, stepping up on the bench and shouting. “Oi!”

Everyone was in the locker room by now, the stragglers still changing while everyone else chatted. They all looked up at Jamie.

“Oi! Tartt!” Roy yelled back. “Why aren’t you changed?”

“One minute, Coach.” Jamie grinned. He turned back to the team. “Everyone knows about the after-win kisses, yeah?”

Everyone muttered in affirmation, some of the boys elbowing each other cheekily.

“Well Colin knows now!”

“Was it a secret?” Zorro, asked, confused.

“It would have been hard for him not to notice,” Jan Maas added.

“Weren’t a secret, just didn’t want to make it a big deal,” Jamie answered. “But now it is. So I figured we should have, like, an open discussion of boundaries or whatever. Now that we all know what’s happening.”

More muttering of agreement but then Bumbercatch asked, “What was wrong with how we were doing it?”

“Nothing,” Jamie asked, over yet more muttering. “I fucking loved it. But I do want to make sure we’re all on the same page, yeah?”

Everyone started nodding, throwing in their agreement. The coaches were all hanging by the door of their office, passively observing, until Nate piped in, “That’s very mature, Jamie.”

Jamie scoffed. “Fuck right it is. I’m a legend at open communication.”

Nate visibly sighed. Sam smirked.

“I do want to thank you all for doing this, by the way,” Colin interjected. “I did like being able to kiss my fella after a game like that. I was worried I wouldn’t be allowed to do it again.”

“Well first of all,” Roy started, commanding the room. “It’s not a matter of ‘allowed’. We’re never gonna stop you from doing whatever the fuck you wanna do with whoever the fuck you wanna do it with.”

Colin smiled. “Thanks coach.”

Roy nodded. “On this team, we all have each other’s backs. And if that means snogging on the pitch so one of our own doesn’t have to hide, have at it.”

Jamie grinned. “Was there a second of all, Coach?”

Roy grunted, scowling at Jamie. Sam fought not to giggle.

“ Second of all,” Roy started. “Show of hands. Who’s in on this shit?”

Jamie’s hand was the first in the air, Dani and Sam’s coming up almost as quickly. Most of the rest of the starters raised their hands, as well as half of the reserves. Isaac’s hands were folded against his chest.

Sam watched Roy nod at him and Isaac nod back. He would leave that one alone. It wasn’t his business.

“What about you, Coach?” Jamie asked.

“What, me?” Roy snorted. “Fuck no, I can’t be kissing players.”

Jamie shrugged. “Don’t see why not. Same as a bum pat, innit? Besides: we need to kiss some people who aren’t teammates so Colin kissing Michael in’t suspicious.”

Roy’s eyebrows seem reluctantly swayed by Jamie’s logic but his frown didn’t move.

“I’m up for it,” Beard offered, his hand raised. “I’m always down to kiss beautiful men.”

Richard yelled something in French that sounded like agreement.

“I’m free for some smooching as well,” Will said, awkward but grinning. “I’m small so you can definitely pick me up and spin me around.”

Jamie scoffed. “‘Small’. You’re taller than me, man.”

Winchester leered at the kit man. “Been thinking about that, Will?”

Will went red and ducked his head but his lips were pulled into his mouth like he was trying not to smile.

“Anyone picks me up,” Bumbercatch added. “And I’ll kick your balls into your stomach.”

“Great boundary, Moe,” Sam told him. Moe nodded. “I myself have been fine with the level of kissing so far.”

“Bet you have,” muttered Jamie, and winked when Sam shot him a look.

Sam would try not to look at that too closely.

Colin raised his hand. “I saw Richard fully snog Jamie with tongue and everything so I’d like to ask for no tongue, please. I’ll also need to clear all this with Michael, obviously.”

“I have spoken with my girlfriends about this already,” Dani said. “They have both said that it’s wonderful. So I am free to kiss all my amigos!”

Sam smiled. Dani lived such a beautiful and loving existence.

“Jane’s good,” Beard says, waving his phone redundantly.

“It’s a no for me, oh rats,” Nate said, unconvincingly. Sam couldn’t imagine his girlfriend would have been bothered by, well, anything. But if Nate wanted an out that was fine.

“My girlfriend and I actually had a conversation about this exact situation,” Will offered, smiling dreamily.

“Will, you’re a freak and I love it,” Jamie told him, pointing at him approvingly. Will grinned up at him.

“I mean I’ve kind of had that conversation,” Colin said. “But it’s more of the hall pass thing. Like ‘which five people could I hook up with and it’s not cheating.’”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve done that,” Zorro said. “Rachel McAdams and Zendaya.”

Everyone nodded at that. “Solid choices,” Roberts added.

“But wait Colin saying that means…” Jamie grinned over at him. “Which ones of us are on your hall pass list?”

Colin went red. “No. Nope. Not doing that.”

“Well I am, obviously,” Jamie said, smirking.

“And probably Bumbercatch,” Isaac added, speaking up for the first time. His face was alight with teasing his best friend.

Bumbercatch puts a hand to his naked chest in humble thanks.

“I’m not doing this!” Colin said again, louder, his face impossibly redder.

“It’s not fair that you can only have five,” Dani said, sadly. “Since there are more than five of us.”

“I don’t want to sleep with all of you!”

“Oh, so you’re out on the kissing, then?” Sam asked, grinning.

Colin sighed, crossing his arms. “No.”

“Good lad.” Jamie winked at him.

Sam grinned, climbing up on the bench next to Jamie. "And can we all tell Colin that none of us feel weird kissing him because he's gay?"

Everyone talked over each other, rushing to comfort him.

"Don't know why it should matter," Jan Maas piped in, shrugging. "I'm not straight."

Sam jerked. “Oh.”

“Oui, nor me,” Richard added.

Sam frowned. “I thought you were just French.”

“Well I mean I’m not straight either,” Jamie said, raising his hand. “But you all kind of already guessed that, right?”

“Wait,” said Colin, eyes wide. “So I’m not the only gay one?”

“Well, I mean I still like girls so–” Jamie shrugged. “I didn’t wanna steal valor or summat.”

“That’s not what that means,” Beard sighed.

“Oh, yes!” Dani said “I also love men but do not only love men. So I did not know how to respond.”

“Right and like gender and sexuality are constructs, so why should I give in to the colonialist idea of labeling my sexuality,” Bumbercatch shrugged. “I have sucked dicks before, though.”

“Oh, yeah, same,” Jamie grinned, a dreamy look in his eye. “It’s fuckin’ great.”

Roy choked, quietly. Sam knew how he was feeling.

“Okay,” Colin said, looking as thunderstruck as Sam felt. “Show of hands. Who’s not straight?”

Colin raised his hand, obviously, and so did Jamie, Dani, Jan Maas, and Richard. Also Zorro, Bumbercatch, Winchester, Reynolds, Cockburn, Shannon, and O’Brien. And Will. And Beard.

Sam raised an eyebrow at Roy whose arms were conspicuously crossed. Roy grunted at him. “You little pricks don’t need to know my business.”

“Interesting reaction,” Beard noted.

Roy growled.

Still, all totalled up, it was most of the team.

Colin’s eyes were saucers. “Oh my God, I wish Trent were here. This is almost my Oprah fantasy.”

“Ooh, I’ll raise another hand in Trent’s honor.” Beard volunteered, lifting his other hand. “We actually had a Diamond Dogs discussion about this so I’ll let him know he was right.”

“Okay…” Sam said, shaking his head. “So wait: I’m the only straight guy who’s been kissing other men for months? It’s not just something we were all doing, secure in our heterosexuality?”

“I mean, it was still all friendly, yeah?” Jamie said. “I’m not trying to fuck all me teammates. The kisses were super platonic. I just wasn’t straight while I was doin’ em.”

General agreement goes up as people lower their hands.

“This is confusing,” Sam confessed.

“Ay, don’t worry about it,” Jamie elbowed him, grinning. “We’ll just keep on, right? Nothing to panic about.”

Sam wasn’t panicking about it, but it wouldn’t let him rest either.

The team kept on the same: they lost some matches, they won others. They always kissed. They’d even started kissing the ties sometimes, just because they all liked doing it so much.

Keeley had been annoyed they hadn’t spoken to her about it first but was actually having a marvelous time managing their statements about everything. And the fan reception had been indulgent to downright elated, fans going as far as tweeting pictures of them kissing their friends after matches.

No matter which way you looked at it, Jamie’s impulsive decision to kiss Sam was an overwhelming success.

Sam just struggled a bit to figure out what this meant for him .

He was straight. He was pretty positive he was straight.

But by this point, he had kissed everyone on the team and some coaches and he had notes.

Dani’s kisses were always sloppy and enthusiastic - Dani always smiling too much to maintain a proper kiss.

Richard would grip the back of his neck which was super nice but he always worked too hard with his lips.

Jan Maas was no nonsense, moving Sam where he wanted and capturing his mouth for just long enough to wind him up. And he would bring Sam in for a hug after so his tall body swallowed him.

Zorro would start with a hug – also large and safe feeling – before giving a polite kiss and a friendly clap on the shoulder.

Colin was way too timid to kiss the rest of them like he kissed Michael but he still gave the sweetest little pecks.

Bumbercatch had a way of growling into his mouth which was quite thrilling.

Winchester loved to be dipped.

Beard always put both hands on the side of his neck and pulled away from the kiss with a loud “MUAH!”

Sam always made sure to pick up Will and spin him around.

And Jamie was definitely the best kisser. But that went without saying.

Sam didn’t know what it meant that he had all of these opinions about kissing men. He knew he didn’t want to sleep with them – he didn’t feel the same spark, the same drive, the same fire that consumed him when he was pursuing Rebecca – but he did love them and he did like kissing them and apparently none of the rest of them were straight.

Which was fine! Sam wasn’t being homophobic!

His feelings were just a little complicated.

“It’s simple, right?” Jamie said as Sam spotted him in the weight room on one of their off days. “Men want to kiss you. You want to kiss them. What’s the problem?”

“There isn’t one, I suppose,” Sam answered reluctantly, his hands hovering next to Jamie’s face. “I just kind of feel like everyone’s waiting for me to have sudden gay realization or something. Like I’m a bisexual bomb counting down to detonation.”

“Have you thought about doing some gay shit? Just to see how you feel about it?” Jamie asked, a little breathlessly. “Now that all the lads are gay, I’m sure someone’ll give you a handy. Just so you can know for sure.”

Sam’s face screwed up. “I’m not entirely comfortable with using our teammates for sexual experimentation. I hope you understand.”

“Yeah, fair.” Jamie frowned, grunting slightly at the weight. “I do feel like you’d know by now. You’re around fit footballers all the time. You’re around me all the time. If you don’t want to fuck me , I don’t think you’re queer, mate.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Jamie, not every queer man wants to sleep with you.”

Jamie scoffed. “Yeah they do. They might not like me, but they do want to fuck me. Hate fucking is still fucking.”

Sam laughed. “I wish they could bottle your confidence, Jamie.”

“They bottle Lynx. It’s basically the same thing.” Jamie set the bar back on the stand and pulled himself to sitting, turning to grin at Sam. “Anyway, wish I could help you more. My bomb popped early.” He shrugged. “Fit footballers, like I said.”

Sam grinned, taking the plates off the bar to bring it to his own weight. “Like that poster of Roy in your room?”

Jamie groaned. “Why does everyone know about that?” He ran a hand down his face and sighed. “I will get him.”

“Get him?”

“Kiss him, like,” Jamie answered. “Been dreaming about it since I was a lad, haven’t I? Never had a chance like this.”

“You don’t have a chance now ,” Sam reminded him. “He’s not in on this.”

“We got Captain!” Jamie answered back. “We can get Coach.”

That was half true. They hadn’t ‘got’ Isaac. He was looped in on their kissing now, though.

Isaac was straight and, unlike Sam, refused to be kissed. Sam hadn’t gotten the whole story because apparently Isaac wasn’t talking but Sam knew enough about being black, being an athlete, and being in England to guess what the problem was. But it still felt weird to leave their captain out of something that had become such a sacred ritual for the team.

They had all found a compromise. After their win against Tottenham, Colin had kissed Isaac on the forehead in celebration. Isaac had looked so touched, so profoundly loved, that all of the rest of the team started doing it, too.

Sam kept kissing him on the nose. He really loved the face Isaac made when he did it. It was important to cherish your captain.

So, they’d kind of gotten Isaac.

“You can try and kiss the coach on the cheek,” Sam offered. “He might headbutt you, though.”

“Nah, he won’t.” Jamie told him, patting the bench and getting up to replace Sam behind the weights. “Not if I make a pretty enough goal.”

Sam was laying on the bench. He looked up to see Jamie’s smirk from below.

“I got it all worked out,” Jamie continued, hiking his shorts further up his thighs as Sam starts his presses. “We’ve just been kissing after matches, yeah? And Coach always runs off and leaves us to it. But if we’re in the middle of a game and I make a sexy goal – like proper beautiful, they’d write songs about it and shit – while we’re all celebratin’ I can trot right up to the sidelines and give him a proper snog.”

Sam grunted, holding the bar at his chest. “Kissing by ambush doesn’t sound very ethical, Jamie.”

Jamie snorts. “I’m not just gonna maul him. I bet I can get him to kiss me . All caught up in the moment like.”

Sam snorts back. “You’re mad.”

“I gotta try . Gotta make teenage Jamie proud.”

Sam shook his head, setting the bar back on the rest as he finished his set. “Bet you a hundred pounds.”

“Nah, fuck that. If I can get this done, I want a free meal at Ola’s.”

Sam blew out a breath, reaching out his hand to shake. “Done. And if I win – if he doesn’t kiss you by the end of the season – you’re bringing in the whole team and paying for everyone.”

“Definitely,” Jamie clasped his hand and shook it. “Because I’m not gonna lose. And now you’re gonna be financin’ mine and Roy’s first date.”

Sam held up his hands “If you say so. It’s already unlikely he’ll kiss you but date you?”

“Man, fuck off.” Jamie laughed, shoving him.

Sam laughed and shoved back.

“What are we laughing about,” Colin asked, smiling already.

“Hey, Colin, between us: you do want to fuck me, right?” Jamie asked. “Sam’s trying to tell me that not all queer lads want to fuck me but I know that’s wrong.”

“Well I can’t speak for everyone but me, yeah.” Colin shrugged as Jamie grinned and gestured at Sam like ‘see?’. “You are actually on my hall pass list.”

“See, I knew it!” Jamie huffed a breath like he was glad to have that settled. “We won’t be fucking, Colin, sorry to say. I’ve got bigger fish, you get it.”

“What, like Roy?” Colin grinned and Sam laughed at Jamie’s expression. “No offense taken. He’s a bit scary for me but certainly a big fish.”

“Right, fuck you both.” But Jamie still helped Sam finish his weights.

When it did happen, it happened almost exactly as Jamie said.

Jamie made an absolutely filthy goal. And it was a hat trick. And it won them the match.

And Sam had to watch as Jamie charged the sidelines and stopped directly in front of the manager, arms spread and head cocked. He couldn’t see Jamie’s face but he could see Roy’s. He saw how Roy rolled his eyes, his mouth set in that annoyed smile Sam had only ever seen him use when Jamie was being a prick. He reached one hand into Jamie’s hair, his fingers clutching at it, and the other moved up to cup his jaw as he moved in to kiss Jamie.

Sam swore, loudly and enthusiastically, as the rest of the team hooted and hollered, hats raining down on the pitch.

Jamie ran back on the pitch, cheeks high with color and hair an absolute tragedy. His grin was nothing short of euphoric.

“How’s teenage Jamie doing?” Sam asked him.

“He’s fuckin’ great!” Jamie told him. “Let’s finish this fucking match.”

They ran down the clock, playing very silly but very strong for the final twenty seconds of added time.

Jamie all but tackled Sam when the buzzer sounded, lifting him up by his collar and kissing him soundly. Sam laughed and gripped Jamie’s shoulder to steady himself as he kissed back.

“So Ola’s at 6 tomorrow, yeah?” Jamie asked him after he pulled away.

Sam laughed, shoving at his face.

Other players descended on them, yanking them to their feet and into kisses.

They were lucky this was a match at home so they could all pour into their dressing room and scream their heads off without having to worry about catching the bus home. Cries of Richmond Til We Die permeated the air, inside and still out in the stands.

When everything had calmed down and people were making plans for how to celebrate, Jan Maas called across the locker room. “So, Coach, do we need to get a hat trick for you to kiss us or is that just for Jamie?”

The surrounding players ‘Ooohed’ and laughed as Jamie went red, elated smile still spread.

“That was a special exception,” Roy told them, not quite masking his own smile. “Tartt was asking for it.”

Louder ‘ooh’s’ and a couple wolf whistles went up.

“No! Fuck off!” Roy yelled at them. “I’m not kissing any more players. Stay the fuck out of my business.”

He turned to Sam. “And I want those fried plantain things tomorrow, alright? Cheers.” And then he turned and walked into his office, closing the door behind him.

Sam turned to Jamie, flabbergasted. “Did you tell him already?”

“Maybe,” Jamie grinned, shrugging. “Had to try.”

“You are a miracle, Jamie Tartt.”

Jamie shoved at him as they continued changing.

They all agreed to meet at Colin’s for a boy’s night of beer and Fifa to celebrate their win. Sam walked out to the car park with Jamie, the two of them riding over in Zorro’s jeep.

Sam turned to Jamie as they reached the car, waiting for the rest of the team to join them.

“If you and Roy start dating seriously – which I would support you in, of course – would that mean we’d have to stop kissing after games?”

“Mate, never ,” Jamie told him, looking horrified that Sam had even suggested it. “Roy knows that the lads come first.”

“Good,” Sam said, releasing a sigh of relief bigger than he thought it would be. “I think I’m definitely still straight. But to have to stop kissing you would break my heart I think.”

“Aw, Sammy boy,” Jamie slung an arm around Sam’s shoulders, pulling his head down to press their foreheads together. “I told you, didn’t I? A good kiss can change your life.”

#Ted Lasso #oops I wrote a thing #Ted Lasso fic #AFC Richmond

124 notes · View notes

inkwolvesandcoffee · 3 months

Text

Siúil a Rún (Alfie Solomons x Irish Fem!Reader, Modern AU)

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Romance, Modern AU

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Irish Fem!Reader

Word count: 5.5K

Warnings: Allusions to past violence & trauma, talk of the IRA, mild swearing

Summary: On a day you're not feeling your best, fighting yet another hard battle with your greatest enemy, your mind, Alfie has a little surprise prepared for you. After all, all he wants is to see you smile.

And make a lasting promise to his Irish queen.

Author's Note: Gods above, it's finally here! At long last I had the energy and time to finish this piece, which is partially inspired by my recent moods. Ah dinnae ken what it is, but don't you worry about my head or how I'll fix it. Instead, enjoy this piece.

TH Masterlist

Tag list: @hecatemoon87 @potter-solomons @zablife @vir-tual @liliac-dreamer @dreamlandcreations @mollybegger-blog @babaohhhriley @hoodeddreams13 @rose-like-the-phoenix

Alfie's POV

I’m no fan of the Irish, who can’t even remember what they had for fucking breakfast. However, right, they can perfectly recall their great-great-however many times- grandfather’s best friend’s cousin’s name and the unjust treatment he got from Oliver Cromwell if not the Black and Tan if they have a particularly clear check in with reality.

Yet here I am.

Engaged to my Irish queen, come all the way from Belfast. Raised in a family that supports the IRA, a bunch of hooligans that’ll do well to be tossed in the lock and left to drown.

But not her.

No.

She cut ties to home the moment she set foot ashore in Liverpool and boarded the train to London. She ain’t English, doesn’t particularly like them. So fancy the shock me ticker got when it turned out she liked me.

Or I her, as she likes to remind me, bringing up the time I asked her to taste the Irish sourdough I made her. She’d just arrived in town, wandered into my bakery looking like a parched twig on a stormy day, and sat by the window with an awfully glum face. Curious about this darling little dove who flew in, I lumbered over to see what had her caught up in her phone and laptop. One look at the screens told the whole story behind the erratic fingers flying over the keyboard or tapping away.

A place to stay, to call home.

In a land that had oppressed hers for centuries, still sees her as an outsider.

In the very capital of the cyclops, king of northern giants.

Now I, yeah, saw an opportunity to earn a little extra cash on the side. Sure, Margate is about two hours outside London by train so I couldn’t charge the full price for the room I had left over.

I didn’t.

For when those dove eyes turned to me, haunted and scared to death, whether it be due to her circumstances or me as a man I still do not know nor want to, I hadn’t the guts to ask her for a single penny.

Only a sliver of trust.

Though my rings, my kingdom, are covered in blood, I fortunately pleased Yahweh enough to have her put her trust in me. It’s a fragile thing, built over various meals, starting with silent breakfasts which gradually have filled with drowsy small talk. Normally I loathe small talk because if someone wants to say something and wants me to understand, they should talk. Nonetheless, Y/N doesn’t have to. Her voice is like an angel’s song, pleasant to wake up with.

And to fall asleep to on the nights the insomnia hits hard again. You get that, living a life of violence. Yet, even gods can’t simply forget.

I can only hide my crimes, spin a pretty yarn for an excuse, and pretend.

Pretend I’m a good man.

For her.

If only because my midnight baking episodes have reduced since we met. Because I don’t, no, can’t do without those small hands leading me out of the kitchen and back up the stairs to what is now our bedroom. Pathetic, innit, how I also can’t live without those pretty fingers running through my beard until I can breathe normally. Close my eyes without ghosts creeping from the darkest shadows of my mind. To not feel the rage simmering beneath my skin.

For the first time in years, I can sleep again.

And if neither of us can find peace in slumber, we’ll slip into the old habit of having coffee or tea in the living room until the sun rises. No matter if we have an outing planned the next day or not.

It was on an outing like that, to Oxford, after a brief visit to that shithole called Birmingham, she first held my finger.

Two weeks later, when we popped by Hastings, she held my hand.

A month passed before she hugged me, in Cecil Court, during our first book and antiques shop hopping trip. I had bought her a vintage bound copy of one of her favourite books, Gods and Fighting Men by Lady Gregory.

However, it was in Camden, right outside me own bakery, on a bloody rotten autumn day, we first kissed. Cinnamon sugar and pumpkin spice, that’s what she tasted like.

My Irish queen.

Y/N will always claim it’s me who first confessed. Regardless of whether that’s true or not, in my opinion, right, and through genuine testimony, it was her wistful smile and timid ‘thank you’ as I served her a ham sandwich made with the sourdough I learned during one of my visits from a lovely old lady in Donegal and O’Neills ham which makes her the first to confess. Little did I know the brooding sadness around her could get much worse.

Since there are days she gets like this, reluctant to interact with the world. She’ll go out with Cyril, a barely mustered smile on her gentle face.

It does her good. Our big bugger takes me on walks that are manageable even when my leg’s bad and her on those long enough to let her mind wander and forget about the desire to stay home. Like yesterday, they are again sitting side by side on the shore.

Y/N wrapped in my coat and scarf.

Cyril at her side.

Watching the waves.

Funny, innit, how a man of many words absolutely can’t stand the silence of his own house. Tragic, too, because it means he can’t live with himself. Perhaps that’s why I always bury myself in work, the bakery.

Our bakery.

Look, Y/N was the one who insisted on helping out. I was ready to give her board and room for free, though I was also desperate for help since business had taken a hit. Too cold, manly, rough. In need of a woman’s touch.

It was only when she told me it ain’t right to accept the offer without repaying the debt she never had and called me mister Solomons I took her on.

Mostly because she’d call me Alfie right from the start, wouldn’t see me as her boss or landlord. I never was nor am a fan of formalities, polite behaviour or whatever the fuck you wanna call it. You only get to know a person and their intentions once you place them in an informal environment, lull them into a sense of safety. Or, in her case, a sense of friendship too.

After a few more moments of watching them from the balcony, I head back inside to busy myself in the kitchen. Now, normally, yeah, on my rare day off, I love to bake. Gets the mind off things since you only have to focus on what your hands are doing and you get the ingredients right. Alleviates some of the stress the bakery saddles me up with, but those involved with the business need discipline so I can’t take a break. Would leave it to the dogs. Regardless, Ollie, the bloody bastard I hired as an assistant branch manager, forbade me to come into work. It’s my fucking bakery! Yet, though I’m loath to admit it, I am thankful he did this particular day. Must’ve felt Y/N had been different these past days, always has been good at dealing with people and emotions despite his panicky disposition. Better than me.

At least leaves her with one person to understand her entirely whereas I still grasp at straws at times.

Godhood comes with its complications, but I’ll do my best for Y/N.

For Mrs Solomons.

It’s worth the tightening in my chest, the battle for air while the same concerns keep milling in my noggin like some damned ever-turning grinding stone. I ain’t afraid of anything.

Anything except this mood.

It’s like Yahweh has established the terrifying truth of what she might be like when me health finally wins the battle, granting me a vision of a future in which we’re separated. Or perhaps it is an alternate reality in which I don’t exist or we’ve even never met. This morning, as Y/N stood by the door, her vacant gaze saw right through me as I draped my scarf around her neck. I kept rambling, not nagging, no, rambling on about how she’d catch a cold if she didn’t dress warmly despite knowing she wasn’t paying attention. As I placed a kiss on her forehead she likely didn’t feel, the comforting sense of normalcy shattered, turned into dust along with the little bit of sanity I had established by acting like everything was fine. Thankfully she felt warm in my arms because we might as well have been spectres moving past each other. Then she sauntered out the door, slow and ghostly.

My beautiful Irish queen.

When this mood strikes her, it takes away her voice. She won’t talk, reluctant to participate in any sort of conversation. Although, I think she hopes her quietness proves enough of a hint to not want to be surrounded by any voices at all. Not even mine. Now, any other man, right, any other sod who’s too self-obsessed to understand his girl, would go mad. I, on the other hand, the very image of an understanding and wise man who cares about his girl, his wife, speak less if at all to accommodate her. Instead, in the fleeting moments she’s here, Y/N communicates via small gestures.

A tug on my sleeve when she wants attention.

A brush over my fingers, a silent request for guidance.

We don’t go out in London on days like this. We tried once and while everything went fine, all things considered, the thought something happens in the split second I don’t pay attention breaks my already damaged nerves. Trafalgar Square is tricky enough as is to navigate with the fucking awful traffic, but when she’s barely here and we don’t cross the street in time or our hands let go of each other…

Eyes squeezed shut, I breathe in deeply and exhale slowly to remedy the tightening in my chest. To burn the claws crushing my ribs to ashes and let them take the nauseating vision in my banged up nogging with them. Blown away on the briny wind outside, past the lonely beach.

Left to drown in the sea across the road.

Right in front of her, vanishing beneath the waves. Cyril will make sure she won’t notice, keeps an eye on her when I can’t.

Especially when I’m too caught up in my own head, engulfed by something very, very grim.

Eyes closed, I breathe in and exhale deeply as I repeat the thought like the verses in the Torah, embedding it further and further into my entire tainted being with each repetition. Only when my breathing has evened out and me ticker beats at regular intervals do I carry on.

I quit drinking after we met. Y/N needed a safe home and with an old drunk brute you ain’t going to find that. So I poured the rum, beer, and wine down the drain the very same evening and a drop hasn’t entered my house since. The day she first put her suitcase across the threshold, I’d been sober for a week.

We’re now a year further.

For all the bloody good he does me by banning me from my own business, Ollie makes for a fine lifestyle coach. I’ll admit that if it hadn’t been for him, his incessant texts and the brave efforts to pluck a glass from my hands, I might have lost her. Fuck, she might have hated me.

Or we might never have even met.

The house now finally knows silence.

No violent words.

No drunk ravings going nowhere and anywhere.

True, genuine, silence.

I put the kettle on and pull the sourdough from the bread box. Bought it on our last trip abroad, to Amsterdam. It’s one of the things in this house which makes it ours because I used to plonk bread in a zipper bag and toss it on the counter. Not anymore. It goes in the box.

The mixed fruit blend I used for the dough we recently bought at Borough Market. Y/N was staring at it with a tender look on her face.

“Those special, love?” I hugged her from behind, my head on her shoulder. That morning, she had washed her hair and granted me the intense honour of brushing it. A smile grew on her lips in tandem with mine as I worked the brush through her strands. Nonetheless, while I was flattered and delighted beyond imagination, for being thus allowed in her space is a rare gift every man should know how to appreciate properly, she was amused with my attitude. But it’s alright. I don’t mind her laughing at me.

Eyes closed, I drank in her presence. The sounds of the food stalls and crowd faded into a background hum, each sense overtaken by her frame in my arms and the scent of Argan oil and Shea butter in my nose. In that single moment, I didn’t have to think, to scheme. Just be.

With her, I can just be.

And I like that, makes me love her all the more.

Y/N regularly gives me an earful, but there are times when I truly listen and not only enjoy the sound of her voice. So when she gave me a piece of her story, I immediately snapped out of my reverie. “Nan used a blend of these when making brack.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a type of bread with sultanas and raisins. Officially, that is. But she added currants and other dried fruits when we had it and it wasn’t Samhain.”

“Tell me about the tradition. What does bread ‘ave to do with it?”

“We’d put items in the brack. A pea, a stick, a piece of cloth, a small coin, a ring, and a bean. Each of these items had a special meaning, applicable to the person who got them.”

“Which were?”

Occasionally, right, I enjoy teasing her because I adore the way her frown naturally flows into a bright smile as her distrust melts away. However, the calculating coldness in her stare even gave me the chills. Terrible, it was, and I don’t say that lightly. “Alfie, where’s this coming from? I thought you hated the Irish.”

I thought you hated me.

She didn’t say it, but the words were there, precariously dancing on the tip of her tongue. The shopkeeper gave me a warning look, ready to beat me with her cane if I didn’t watch my mouth.

“It’s your culture, innit, love?’’ I said, quick to placate both women lest we had more than a simple situation on our hands. Moreover, dangerous as it normally is, curiosity genuinely got the better of me. There’s little I know of her previous life so I am overjoyed when my Irish queen, obviously unintentionally, indulges me like this. ‘‘I know the past hurts you, but this clearly means a lot to you. Your Nan’s obviously important to you too.”

“She practically raised me. Didn’t want me involved in politics, give me a normal life. Well, for as far as that’s possible when…” she froze in my embrace, paler than a ghost at midnight in Highgate. Bit by bit, I could feel her fade in the chaos she had kept firmly under lock and key. We’re rather alike in that, keeping the mess in our fucked up noggins hidden until we choose to open up.

Or come across a trigger.

I scanned the surroundings for hers. Men conversing as they’re hauling boxes. Tourists and locals squeezing together as they navigate the narrow spaces between the stalls, leaving no room to breathe without doing so down someone’s neck. The sizzling of oil on a hot surface.

Like a lit fuse.

“When…” She flinched when one of the other shopkeepers dropped a couple of crates.

I remember how my heart dropped into my stomach as her knees gave way. Her nails dug into my skin as I gently coaxed her to the ground, though she relaxed her grip a bit as a vague inkling of recognition made her realise it was me holding her. “Y/N? Y/N, can you hear me? It’s Alfie, your boyfriend. You’re in London. Safe. There ain’t no guns ‘ere. Just a couple crates. Just crates. That’s all.”

I glared at the bastard who reduced my queen to a shivering husk of herself, breathing way too fast as the current of grim things swooped her along. Once he noticed I was looking at him, he quickly scurried to the back. After cursing him under my breath, I held her tight against my chest, cradled her lovely head and the funny mind in it as I gently rocked back and forth like me mum used to do when I was a child. “No guns. No bullets. No fighting. Just us, dove.”

For a few moments we sat like that on the cold paving stones. The shopkeeper fetched Y/N a glass of water which she managed to make her drink. Perhaps it’s only because the subconscious ego of my Irish queen saw her Nan in the woman. Do not misunderstand, right, I was grateful for her kindness. Nonetheless, what Y/N needed was space, fresh air. So I picked her up and carried her bridal-style to the central seating area. One day, I hope to carry her the same way across the threshold of our home.

Colour began to return to her face the longer we sat on a bench removed from everyone in a quieter area of the market. With each passing minute, I saw the demons causing those awful vacant eyes and suffocating her with every breath leave her body. The best I could do was wait and do my damn best to not let my own fear and impatience get the better of me. After all, I was not a god at that moment.

Only a man praying for the better.

A man overjoyed when an angel gave her back her voice.

“My brothers were killed in shootings.” Slowly, Y/N sought my gaze. She blinked a few times like she woke up a second ago and did not really know whether she was still dreaming or awake. “Cillian was shot in March. Seàn the month after. They rather died than be tried by law.”

It was easier to phrase it as such than tell the truth.

They killed themselves.

Died for the ideal that had left her with a broken family. Although, perhaps it’s better to say she never had a family to begin with.

“And the man who I was meant to marry to get our family higher up the ranks, Patrick McHugh, a man I loathed, was ready to shoot me when the Gardaí had us cornered during a car bomb attack. We were meant to go on a date, so he told me, but… we stopped in the street. Alfie, he- he-’’ I put my arm around her shoulders, pulled her against me, and rested my head on hers. She didn’t owe me an explanation for her behaviour, but before I could tell her it was alright to stop, she continued. “He took me hostage. Was ready to burn me alive with him.”

“Y/N, you don’t have to-”

“Rory turned on him. His second in command, the only person he trusted. I pulled Patrick’s gun in the same moment I freed myself from his grip. Shot him in the head. In cold blood.” She bit her lip to fight the ugly sob which made her shoulders heave. “I have blood on my hands, don’t you see? Rory didn’t make it either. Stayed behind after he negotiated safe passage for me. Later I heard he saved me because he loved me. Had been crushing on me for years. Never said a word, Alfie. Never.” The fight with self-control lost, Y/N’s voice cracked with the tears yet unshed. “And now he’s gone. Everyone’s gone.”

‘‘No, not everyone. I’m ‘ere and I ain’t going anywhere. You and I, yeah, we’re gonna build something fucking biblical. A ‘ome, right, in Margate. You and I. And it’s gonna be safe. No violence. I’ll even get rid of me gun if that makes you feel better.”

“No, keep it. Still, thank you.”

I pulled a tissue from my pocket to clean up her mascara, which had stained her cheeks with little black rivulets. “If there’s anything I can do to make you feel safer, you tell me, yeah? If need be, I’ll build a fucking wall that’ll put Daedalus to shame. With me own ‘ands. Anything.”

“Thank you. I think I should repay that kindness with a clean shirt.’’ She sighed as she surveyed the damage done to my clothes. ‘‘Sorry for the stains. I know you got it fresh out of the closet.”

“Nah, it’s just a shirt. No worries. But, knowing you and your bloody adorable stubbornness, you won’t let this go. So, instead of beating yourself up over nothing because you got nothing to be sorry for, yeah, can you tell me more about the bar- barm- the… thing. Bread.”

“Barmbrack. Brack, for short.”

“Barmbrack,” I repeated. “Brack. Gonna try and remember. The items in it. You said they have special meaning.”

“Right. The… pea, a stick, a piece of cloth, a small coin, a ring, and… something else.”

“A bean.”

“Yes, a bean. A future without money. Anyway, so, now, the pea meant the person would not marry that year. The stick meant they would have an unhappy marriage or continually be in disputes. Now, the cloth or rag no one wanted to find because it meant bad luck, though it was also regarded as an omen of poverty. In contrast, and perhaps very bloody obvious, the coin meant good fortune or riches were coming for the person. If you got the ring, you’d be wed within the year.”

Say what you will of the Irish, but they are bloody creative.

We went back to the stall, got a full bag of dried fruit and went on our merry way. Y/N fortunately hasn’t noticed I’ve used some of the contents for a little surprise. For once her adorable drowsy noggin in the morning comes in handy, when she’s too sleepy to notice nor doesn’t check the bag’s contents before she puts a little in her yoghurt.

The kettle goes off. The steam creates a thin layer of condensation on the tiles and warms my face when I pour the water in a mug. There’s nothing like a cup of char regardless of the time of day.

I wager they’ll be home in fifteen minutes. Until they are, I sit on the chaise longue in the living room. It’s a gorgeous thing, a real beauty we found while antique shopping in London. I had my doubts about the red velvet, but Y/N convinced me to get it regardless because “it fits the house’s aesthetic” whatever the fuck that means. It’s a sturdy piece of furniture, definitely worth every penny.

We tested it thoroughly.

Multiple times.

Nipping the gingerbread tea we bought yesterday at M&S, when I barely managed to prevent Y/N from buying three boxes on top of the three boxes of Christmas spice tea already in our basket, I watch my family. A low chuckle tickles in my throat, proud and amused. Who’d ever thought I, Alfie Solomons, the Divine King of Camden, would stop wandering, settle down, become a family man? Tommy, the self-proclaimed head of the Shelby family though they’re all bad people, would have a bubble if he heard that.

I ain’t like him. I’d marry my wife, the lovely and downright bloody gorgeous goddess currently down on the beach, the one and only true Mrs Solomons, out of love. A love based on loyalty, right, and not out of convenience or business. No whoring when she ain’t about, no secrets, no dirty business.

No more blood on my rings.

We’d raise our children together, perhaps spoil them rotten. Y/N would chastise me for it, I already know, but I want the best for my girls. Maybe two or three, though I’m not opposed to having a son, yeah, but he’d have to be born before my princesses so he can protect them when their good old man can’t. Hopefully, one of them would like to take over the bakery, keep the business in the family.

I might have to be on my best behaviour, be more of a father rather than a boss if I don’t want to have her tell me over dinner one night “Papa, I’m not taking over. None of us wants to, least of all Seraphina. She’s more one for painting.”

Yes, they’d be artisans in their own right. But if one of my girls wants to paint, no way she’d learn it from Arthur Shelby, who’s head is like a broken vase what is glued together badly. Nah, I wager she’d be clever enough to teach herself. All of them would be talented like their mother.

The sound of the front door opening resonates in the hallway, followed by Cyril’s happy padding, merrily trodding past me on his way to his bed in front of the hearth. We never should’ve gotten him that pillow, has made him lazy.

But how could I tell her no?

Not that she’d have listened anyway. Y/N would’ve used her own card at the till. However, being a proper gentleman, right, and maybe because I wanted to gain extra what they call ‘brownie points’, which is a stupid phrase in and of itself, a show of being too incapable to use one’s speech properly, I paid.

Y/N follows the happy bugger, head hung low and eyes cast towards the ground. Headphones in her ears.

It’s one of those days.

I step in front of her when she makes for the living room. For a moment, she stays still, like a ghost puzzled by why it can’t move forward. Nevertheless, our eyes meet for a second when my hands touch her shoulders.

“No need to wear a coat inside, is there, darling?” I doubt she hears me, my voice drowned out with the rest of the world.

Perhaps, no, no perhaps.

I am sometimes too loud for her as well.

Although she always tries to play it off afterwards, me intestines tie themselves into a pretty tight and suffocating bow tie when it happens. When the world gets to her.

When I, the real me, The Mad Baker of Camden, get to her.

From the corner of my eye, I’ve seen her flinch when disciplining my staff or stiffen when removing rude customers. I especially hate those who bother her, how they make her freeze in their presence and how she’ll avoid my touch afterwards. Breathing is an art in and of it-bloody-self when I watch her from a distance, headphones blasting music as she sits bowed over a cup of coffee which will grow cold.

Yet, when she’s ready for contact again, those earbuds leave her ears. I don’t fucking care what my men say at this point, but I rush over as fast as I can what with my me fucking leg. I can bear that pain, incomparable to what I unwillingly inflict on her or its effect on me.

Her fingers only take my palm, mapped out from a distance, if she sees no violent lines in it. Some days it trembles, those days when her breath is shivery and I feel tears roll down the good, to her trustworthy, lines as she presses them to her cheek.

Although she doesn’t know it, then again my clever little dove likely does, I’m proud of her for trying to go without headphones nowadays. Recently, it’s only one she’ll keep in, in the ear opposite of the side I’m on. Left if I’m on her right, right if I'm on her left. On really good days, those splendid days which make you wonder whether Yahweh wants to give back to humanity, she’ll go without completely. Fortunately, most of the time this doesn’t result in situations like Borough Market.

Nevertheless, today is a day she needs them.

While Y/N moves to the living room, I head to the kitchen to finish setting up the little surprise I prepared for her. By the looks of things, she needs it. It’s hypocritical, innit, that I’m doing this despite hating when it’s done to me? Still, a good man, a proper man, yeah, a proper fucking gentleman, a bloody king, will try his damned best to surprise the woman he loves whenever and however he can.

Because she deserves it.

These acts of love.

If only because words have a tendency to fail.

As mine do.

A lot.

Tray in hand, I make for the living room. Exactly as I envisioned, Y/N has curled up on the sofa, headphones in while she’s doing that funny yarn thing her Nan taught her. She’s good at it, has made me a very nice scarf and beanie for Hanukkah last year.

Recently, after our little getaway to the Scottish Highlands, where they speak some form of English she fortunately seemed to understand, worse than the Irish except for her, she made a blanket with a deer’s head. Got inspired by our surroundings, she said. I think it’s the show she watched on her phone every night or in the car.

I put the tray on the coffee table and sit down next to her, a little distance between us. “Hard day, dove?”

“Yeah.” She glances from the slices of sweet soda bread to the glass of whiskey and then to me, her fingers expertly holding up the yarn wrapped around them. “That for me?”

I nod, trying to contain the excitement ignited by hearing her voice. One decibel too loud and I’ll lose her again. Gotta play me cards right, so I speak as evenly as I can without showing her the precarious edge I’m balancing on. “‘Cause you look awful homesick.”

“Thank you, mhuirnin.”

For a few moments I watch her nibble on a slice, vacant gaze cast towards the cold hearth. “We can go on a trip to-’’

“No.”

“Y/N, we don’t have to go to the place your people live. We can go to, fuck, I don’t know, the Republic. It’s safe there, innit? Cork? Enjoy the sea. Waterford? Dublin for an urban-’’

“Alfie, I said no.”

“It’ll do you good.”

“I left Ireland for a reason.” Finally she meets my gaze and me ticker almost sinks through the floor once those pretty eyes shimmering with tears meet mine. “The whole fucking island. Don’t make me return.”

“Alright. We’ll go somewhere else.” I open my arms in invitation. Fortunately, it seems she’s in the mood for contact with me. Face buried in my sweater, her small fist clutching some of the fabric, I wrap her up on my arms. “Or nowhere. We can stay ‘ere.”

As an answer I’m given muffled mumbling, worse than me own.

“What was that?”

“Hotel night.”

“Where?”

“Don’t know. London?”

“We already know the town well. What about the Lake District, hm? Nice and quiet. Lots of green. We can rent a cottage or a nice B&B. Cyril would like it too, right, lots of places to explore. Makes for nice walks, yeah.”

As in agreement, Cyril lets out an excited though low bark, sensitive to what she gets like when her mood’s as it is now.

“See?” I say, pulling her a bit closer. “‘E likes the idea.”

In acknowledgement of our shared sentiments, she hums.

“We’ll figure it out later. For now, ‘ave another slice, drink some whiskey, crochet. But lean on me, eh? Lean on Papa Solomons.”

She grabs another piece of bread and starts nibbling on it, occasionally nipping on her glass.

For a while we sit in silence as she crochets and I simply watch her eat, occasionally shutting my eyes to drink in the moment.

Until my plan comes to fruition.

Feigning innocence, I lift an eyebrow when Y/N pulls a difficult face and spits something into her hand.

She once told me that according to Celtic philosophy, all things come in three.

Third slice of bread.

A ring, of course not the one I mean to present to her properly.

Her head snaps up at me, so fast I’m both glad and impressed she hasn’t broken a vertebrae.

“Yeah, this ain’t a joke.” I kiss her forehead. “Within the year.”

On a better day.

#Alfie Solomons #Alfie Solomons imagine #Alfie Solomons x Reader #Peaky Blinders #Peaky Blinder imagine

39 notes · View notes

imwriting0verhere · 3 months

Text

Love Again

Chapter 3

Sam's POV

The silence between Y/N and me was uncertain territory. Never in our lives had we spent more than a few days without talking, or any other form of communication whatsoever. But my anger for the girl still seethes inside me. How could she make this situation about her, and make me the bad guy? It’s not my fault she reacted so poorly to me having a girlfriend. Am I not allowed anymore to be happy and live my life the way I want?

I huff to myself and make my way upstairs to pack.

Knowing how bored I’m going to get, I ring Dean and put him on speaker as soon as he picks up

“Alreet Sam?” he asks joyfully.

“Aye, how are things going over there?” I ask curiously. Dean and his fiancé Reagan had finally adopted a puppy just after the Christmas days, after debating for almost a year whether to get a pet or not.

A cute little labradoodle pup named Maple was now part of their family and let’s just say toilet training and raising that little rascal has been more challenging and exhausting than anticipated.

“She’s wracking havoc, as usual, but knowing that in about an hour she will be exhausted and come searching for cuddles makes everything worth it I guess” Dean laughs down the phone. Being very well used to the dog’s energy by now.

After a few minutes of laughing and taking the piss out of each other as usual, Dean wants to know what I’m up to

“I’m packing mate, going down to London remember?” I’m trying to be as vague as possible, not wanting to go into detail again.

After my fight with Y/N, even my mates had sided with her, trying to make me understand why I should’ve reacted better and not snap at her like that. I didn’t need another lecture from Dean.

“You’re still going then?”

“Yes, Deano, am still going” I tell him in a sterner voice. I throw some shirts and jumpers into my small suitcase. I run my hand through my hair and sigh. Dean has known me since we were young boys, he knows me better than most people. Taking the hint to not further upset me he asks “Howd’ya feel about meeting her family. Yer nervous at all?”

I’m going down to London for about a week to wrap up some last-minute things with my label, before going on tour. And to meet Amber’s parents. We met through her brother a few months ago, but meeting her parents after such a short time is still a big deal and I’m anxious. What will they say about their daughter dating a person like me, someone that’s in the public eye and has their every step viewed and criticized. What if it is too soon to take such a big step in our short time together?

“I divn’t kna, like. I’m excited to see Amber again, and a guess one Sunday dinner with her family ain’t gan hurt me” I shrug to myself as I let Dean in on my thoughts.

“Have you talked to her about it? Maybe you should wait a bit longer with that aye?”

“Amber recons I’ll be fine. Her brother will be there too and a mean I’ve known Zack for a while now too. So I won’t feel too out of place like.”

“Reet, if you say so”

“Dean, come on, it’s not like I’m gan marry her next week!” I say with my voice raised. I know my friends mean well, but knowing that they all think I mistreated Y/N and are now starting to second guess my relationship with Amber is not the kind of support I thought I’d get from me best mates.

“A know that Sam, it’s still a bit odd though, innit! And you won’t be here to see off Y/N before her big tour. Is that really where you want to leave things?”

I zip my suitcase shut and take a seat on my bed.

“Look Dean, I wish we would’ve left things differently but am not gan just run back and apologize for something I ain’t got any control over. She’s got to sort oot her jealousy or whatever it is and then we can talk.”

I hear him sigh and wait for a response. I know he doesn’t like this predicament. He’s known and been friends with Y/N basically as long as I have. Always feeling very “big brother” protective of her. But I’m glad he’s still hearing my side of the story and not turning his back on me. That’s why I’m not surprised to hear his next words

“Alreet. Just please don’t let this get any worse between you two! I hate seeing yous like that!”

I let out a small noise of acknowledgement and get ready to end our call

“Safe travels, shoot us a text once you’re in London”

“Aye, I’ll talk to you tomorrow” and with that the line goes dead. With my phone in one hand, I pick up the small suitcase with the other and make my way downstairs, where I leave my luggage in the hallway before making my way onto the sofa for a quiet night in.

Y/N's POV

It’s my last night in Newcastle for the next few months. I’m flying to Amsterdam tomorrow to meet my bandmates as well as our crew and the team for the first gig of our tour. Heidi, Chloe and I are currently on our way to the Low Lights to meet our friends for another legendary night together.

You love living here so much. You felt like such an outsider in the beginning, being very conscious of your American accent. But everybody in this little town made you feel very at home very quickly and having incredible friends and a community around you really makes it feel like you belong here.

Walking down the hill towards the pub, the three of us already hear the chatter from the guests that are standing outside for a quick smoke. Walking passed with a quick wave and friendly hello’s, we walk past the bar, greeting the staff that’s working tonight, and make our way into one of the bigger rooms in the back. It’s been specifically reserved for my farewell tonight. Sure, all of us are regulars at this point, but a party like this deserves some privacy from all the regular patrons. And I want to be able to see and chat with all of my friends before leaving them for a while.

“Look who just walked in” I hear Joe shout before I even see him. He comes walking towards me with the biggest smile on his face, pint in hand.

“Hi Joe” I smile at him and open my arms for his impending hug. Joe isn’t that much younger than Sam and the other lads, but with his young boyish charm he has always been my partner in crime and one of my favorite people.

His girlfriend Holly comes running towards us with an equally big smile on her face

“Hey Y/N/N” she greets me with a tight hug as well. She had instantly become a part of us girls. Her and Heidi only being a couple of years younger than Chloe and I. It was perfect and always a good riot when the four of us got together.

More of my friends come to greet us and we quickly fall into comfortable chats around the room. I take of my coat and throw it down onto one of the benches before I ask Chloe and Heidi what they want to drink.

Making my way to the bar I order two pints of Inch’s Cider and one Guinness for Heidi. While I wait, Reagan stops next to me to order another pint for herself and Dean.

“So how d’you feel pet? Excited to be the big Rockstar you were always meant to be and start this tour?”

“Reaa” I laugh a bit embarrassed, hiding my face in her shoulder. Dean and Reagan got together when they were still in school. I only ever knew them together, so when Dean became somewhat of a big brother to me, she immediately became my big sister.

“Come on” she shakes her shoulder with a laugh and I lift my head off of it

“It’s what you’ve been working for the past four years. You bloody deserve it!”

“Thanks love” I smile at her. “I’m actually really excited. Me and the girls still can’t quite believe that it’s happening. It’s mad” Reagan and I pick up our drinks and make our way back to the group. I sit down next to Chloe who’s chatting to Holly and Liv. I set the cider down in front of us and face Reagan and Tom who sat down opposite me.

“I cannot wait for your Newcastle show, pet. It’ll be so incredible to see you play here at home” Tom says enthusiastically. I thank him and toast my glass to his. It still going to be months until that show, but it’s definitely one of the gigs I’m looking forward to the most. Getting to play in Newcastle, to all of my friends here is such an incredible privilege.

“It’s going to be wild. Half of that crowd will be people I actually know” I laugh “That’s not going to be nerve-racking”

The two laugh at that “You’re playing entire arenas all over Europe, I think you’ll be fine with a few Geordies in the room like”

We chat for a bit longer, enjoying our drinks and the atmosphere around us. Believe it or not, I tend to be quite a bit of a socially awkward introvert when it comes to bigger crowds, unless I’m standing on a stage. Yes, I am aware of the irony. But being in a room with all my friends like this has never felt weird or awkward. They all make me feel at ease and I can fully be myself.

I look around the room and only then does it hit me, one of those, if not the most important person that usually always calms me isn’t here tonight. Sam. I know we are not on the best terms at the moment, but I thought he’d at least be here, on my last night.

Before I can dwell on the fact I’m interrupted by a shout of my name

“Y/N, come ‘ere a minute” I try to find the source of that voice and my eyes land on Jack. He’s talking to another guy while waving me over. As I get closer I can hear the two talk and I instantly recognize the other voice. That deep and soft timbre, the accent. Before I even join them, I have the biggest smile on my face.

Jack must’ve seen I was getting close as he turns to me and throws his arm around my shoulder before happily announcing “Look who’s come to see you off”

My eyes stray from him over to the other person I had yet to greet. As soon as I had joined them he had stopped talking and is now looking at me with his soft blue eyes

“Hi John” I look up at him with the biggest grin.

“Hello Y/N” he replies before pulling me into a warm embrace. We linger like that for a moment before pulling away

“You actually came! I was afraid you big international Rockstar might be off busy somewhere in the world. But you’re here just for little ol’ me” I pull my most innocent smile and look up at him again. Seeing the mischief in his eyes already, I know a response isn’t far behind

“Actually a just popped in to see Jack and have a pint”

My grin brightens and I take his arm to lead him towards our table. He’s greeting friends along the way until I make him sit down next to me on the bench.

I hadn’t seen Johnny in months. He was another lad from Newcastle whom I had met early on through Sam. Johnny, Sam, Jack, Heidi; they all knew each other through the music scene here in the Northeast. Some of them had started playing at Surfcafe, others while playing Buskers nights in the local pubs. Johnny had his own band to play and tour the world with for a few years now. But only recently had he decided to be less of a part in that Band, and start fresh with his buddy Lou to focus more on his own creative ideas.

“I’m so happy to see you B” we clink both of our glasses together and take a sip each.

“I wouldn’t miss this, pet. You going away for so long is a big deal” he nudges my shoulder and smiles down at me. Even though Johnny has the wackiest sense of humor and wildest personality, he still manages to be one of the sweetest most generous people I have ever met. And I’m so grateful for him and his words. Although they leave a bad taste in my mouth

“Not everybody seems to think so” I tell him quietly, almost not wanting him to hear. I don’t want to ruin the mood or my last night here, but instantly my thoughts go back to Sam.

“Hm, what d’you mean?” he leans his head on his hand and turns his full attention to me. I look away and into the room filled with my friends, all here for me. All, except for one.

“Uhm” I say hesitantly “Sam isn’t here tonight”

“What? Why isn’t he here?” Johnny is completely taken aback by my news. It being very unusual that you don’t find Sam and I together, especially here in the Low Lights.

“Yeah, he uhm, he’s in London” I look over to Johnny to see his reaction “We had a fight, a couple weeks ago and, haven’t really spoken since then” I admit. I can see Johnny’s eyes cloud over with confusion before they clear again and he speaks up

“But he does know you’re going to be gone for months, aye?”

“Well yes, but I guess his new girlfriend was more important” I give him a sad smile before taking a long drink of my pint.

“Y/N/N” sympathy clear in his voice as I lean into his shoulder. The arm he has just put around my waist squeezing me gently into his side.

“I’m so sorry pet! I can’t believe him”

As if she can feel my mood shift, Chloe walks back into the room with two new glasses of Cider for us and sets them down on the table in front of me. “Here you go, hun. Thought you could do with a refill” she sits back down next to me.

“You alright?” she asks concerned

“Yeah” I tell her as I sit back up straight and take one of the glasses she has just brought over

“Just feeling a bit emotional about leaving you lot. I don’t know how you’ll handle things without me” I feel Johnny squeeze my arm in understanding before I wink at Chloe

“I think we’ll be alright here babe” she cackles before taking a drink.

The three of us fall into an easy conversation. My head feels light and my heart is full thanks to all these wonderful people in the room. I am so ready for what’s to come. I just wish there wasn’t this nagging feeling in the back of my mind, that I was missing something.

#sam fender fanfic #sam fender imagines #sam fender fanfiction #sam fender x reader #sam fender #johnny bond #bondy #love again

23 notes · View notes

decolonize-the-left · 1 year

Note

I’m not a registered democrat, I have campaigned for a progressive before, but I’m gonna be real with you. If democrats are “pro-Democracy” and republicans are the “fascists” than why the fuck do the democrats not have debates this year but do have superdelegates? But the repubs don’t have superdelegates and do have debates (even when RFK Jr and Marianne Williamson are both doing better in the polls against Biden then any of the republicans other than DeSantis are doing against trump)? You can make the case he’s an incumbent but half the democrats want someone new. I can’t be the only one who sees this nonsense

fascism(n.)

fas·cism ˈfa-ˌshi-zəm

a political philosophy, movement, or regime (such as that of the Fascisti) that

exalts nation and often race above the individual and that stands for a centralized autocratic government headed by a dictatorial leader

severe economic and social regimentation

and forcible suppression of opposition

I can't post more than 10 links on a post anymore so I can't provide sources proving that the USA has met all-if not most- of these check marks. But it has. And it has for a long time, before Trump and before Obama. Regardless of party.

Because fascism is fascism. Just like democracy is democracy regardless of which party you align with. Why would which fascist party you like matter? Its fascism.

Like when was the last time any of us Genuinely had a say in anything? We're just now coming out of centuries of genocide, slavery, and systematic abuses against minorities. We all just got human rights within the last generation and not even all of them. And we had to fight tooth and nail, lose family for the ones we do have.

And that's not even talking about how long it took us to get our right to vote and it's still actively & shamelessly suppressed every election.

And we're slipping backwards? Already?

Does our "democracy" think the people suddenly lost interest in the rights and protections our previous generations fought for? Funny that while also adding more laws to make protesting illegal and more funding and protections to police. Did you know Biden labeled people protesting specifically against fascism as terrorists part of a terror group (antifa)?

Why?

Who does it benefit to strip us of rights?

Why do it when that's Not what we want?

What could They want for us?

Why are they censoring protests critiquing capitalism?

Do you want people deciding which rights you should have For you when they think you shouldn't have less?

Is the way this country is functioning right now a healthy democracy?

This is something that someone just made in contrast to the above images I'm sure. I can't find any indication online this is a genuine list.

But it does make a very strong point about the political leanings of the US political climate. And it's certainly not leaning towards any of these things. Always seems to be justifying attacking them or not supporting them instead...which goes back to the scapegoats checkpoint.

The first thing Nazis did was blame minorities for the state of the country. As soon as they had enough support, they started rounding us up.

Kinda like how Mexicans are stealing jobs, Black people steal cuz they don't work, queers are perverting our youth and welfare queens are stealing from taxpayers.

And what are the Dems doing about this rhetoric?

Pushing you right every chance. Like using the pied piper strategy for their nationwide campaigning. Like having superdelegates and not letting progressives participate.... But yeah Republicans will.

At least they listen, right? At least they're honest.

Makes that step right seem way easier than you thought before. Funny, innit?

Democrats are truly personifying the ratchet effect but not just by allowing republicans to pass awful policy while doing Nothing in return. They're also doing nothing at best while the right recruits more and more people (and helping at worst).

I think there are a lot of people in our government who are there for good reason and with good intentions and are "pro-democracy."

I think very few of them are aware enough of the bigger picture to realize they're cogs in a well oiled fascist machine.

That is to say only fascists work in fascist governments.

They're all fash. Not just repubs. Not just Dems.

The only people I have any hope for are progressives and leftists willing to throw a wrench in it.

I'd happily vote for Marianne or Bernie or Andrew Yang if it meant giving fascists a run for their money.

Nothing would scare them more than the people having spare money and time to organize. And we'd have that with higher wages or ubi or universal healthcare.

Voting for a socialist is the best way to beat a fascist. Socialists fundamentally believe everyone deserves rights. There is no greater challenger to fascism than that.

It's why Democrats refuse to push Bernie and Marianne and Andrew Yang. It's why candidates like them with campaigns focused on social programs and increasing life quality are reduced to clowns and radicals nobody should take seriously.

It's all propaganda. All of it.

As long as we still have the ability to vote we should be voting for people like them.

Who cares if they aren't perfect, you know? We're living in the setup stages of another genocide.

Who cares if we lose when we lose either fucking way at this point. Biden is the fucking president and he can't stop what Desantis is doing???? Won't challenge it???

We need someone who will. And WE, together, need to stop settling and putting up with less when we can have So Much More.

Anyone telling you to vote for Biden is a psyop for fascists and I stand by that.

Voting for parties like green party or independents or whatever is not "fascism" because it's splitting the vote. I don't care what Democrats and liberals tell you. It's just you exercising your right to vote for a representative that represents you. Which is what a healthy democracy is supposed function like.

If they call you a fascist/psyop/Russian/bot it's time to start really analyzing what principles and beliefs Democrats stand for in 2023. Do they want you to vote with their beliefs and principles or have they shaped their nationalism to align with their political party which they want you to support without question?

And if they start pressuring you because "the fascists" will win without a unified vote on a democratic candidate then it's time to start considering more aggressive approaches to fascism if we are ONLY ever one election away from it.

If we are One vote away then voting isn't enough to keep it away anyway. And this "warning" coming from the same party year after year that's ALSO promised to "address (voter sticking point) after we win the votes we need" for decades in a row now.

They didn't. In fact we don't have Roe v Wade over it. We're losing human rights over it.

And now Democrats are the Only ones who can stop fascists, huh?

#asked #answered #damn I kinda went off huh #politics #voting #electoral politics #leftist #anarchist #us politics #us elections #Democrats #liberals #vote #capitalism #biden

126 notes · View notes

oceanautumn · 10 months

Text

When he joins his high school's sailing team, second-year student Tommy Innit goes in a little afraid, but hopeful. To be honest, he doesn't think that much will happen this year- even if he loves the sport, it's not exactly a fast paced, exciting, stream-worthy sort of thing. All he really wants is to win a few races, take home at least one award, and get some funny or cool stories. What he doesn't expect at all, however, is that he'll gain a new family along the way.

Over the course of a semester, Tommy forms a close bond with Wilbur, the junior driving him to practice, Techno, his partner in the boat, and Phil, the hard-working coach who has dedicated himself to bringing out the team’s full potential. With the help of the three of them and his best friends, Tubbo and Ranboo, Tommy navigates the complex web of relationships that exists in the L’Manberg sailing team, riding the highs and lows of competitive sailing as he gets pulled into the middle of a bitter, years-old rivalry between Wilbur and one of the team’s captains. As the seasons shift, he makes discoveries about himself and his friends that will shake the foundation of their relationships, burn down some old bridges, and make some new ones in the process.

---

come check out the fic i wrote for @mcytblraufest !!! two months of blood sweat and tears have finally produced the first fic i’ve finished in three years. this fic wouldn’t be possible without the help from my amazing team - my beta @silksong-when and artists @comfymoth and @mykaeba :)))) thanks so much to you guys for your support <3

#dream smp #dsmp #dsmp fanfiction #sleepy bois inc #mcytblr aufest summer 2023

40 notes · View notes

theknightmarket · 1 year

Text

"What can I say? I'm a badass.”

In which Yancy and a new prisoner find each other behind locked doors.

TW: swearing, angst, crime, childhood trauma, drug mentions

Pages: 26 - Words: 10,500

[Requests: OPEN]

Yancy had only ever been in solitary a handful of times. Six to be exact, but the most recent had landed him in hot water with the Warden, so security was bumped up to the max in Happy Trails Penitentiary. They reached a new record with two police dogs and ten guards on patrol at any one time – which, to many other prisons, didn’t seem much, but it was a big deal for this lot. Hell, it had been a while since they had gotten any new prisoners, save for that infamous pair who actually wanted to leave, and they had succeeded. Or people assumed they did because nobody ever heard from them again after their second night. There was a rumor that one managed to escape through the sewer system, while the other just plain disappeared, though neither was ever proven, and the gossip trailed off into the change in routine or exercise equipment.

While most prisoners forgot about the pair, Yancy never quite did. There was always something in the back of his mind that reminded him of them, to the point that it got kinda weird. He would hear a helicopter overhead and think of them, and then the kid shuffling down the hallway definitely said their name, and that glowing box they brought in with them was sitting in the Warden’s office as if he had never taken it out. It was getting on his nerves, and, when he swaggered into the mess hall on a bright, sunny morning, it all got too much.

Yancy made his way over to his usual table, upon which Bam-Bam, Tiny and Sparkless McGee were sprinkled around the plastic benches. Somebody’s meal tray was in the centre, but it was quickly tugged away to make room for him to sit down.

“Mornin’, Yance,” another prisoner called out, but the guy wasn’t in the mood to respond more than a nod in their vague direction. The others immediately picked up on it – living in the same buildings for ten years would do that to you – and pounced to comfort him. Yancy appreciated his friends, he really did, but it wasn’t what he needed now.

There were questions as to his health, the condition of his cell, whether his mood was soured by the bright light. All of these were wrong, but it wasn’t until Sparkles stepped up to the plate that he opened up.

“Visitation day, innit?” Like a sledgehammer to a glass window, Yancy broke the second the ‘v’ came out of his mouth. He wasn’t crying, though! He’d learned that it got him nowhere quick. But he couldn’t help the way his lips shivered, and water pooled in his eyes. That didn’t mean anything, it was just allergies in the barren, completely clear of debris, prison.

“You wanna talk ‘bout it?” And then Yancy started bawling.

“I-I just dunno what I did wrong,” he whispered, trying and failing to keep it together.

The group each chimed in with their ideas, “Maybe they got intimidated by you.” - “Maybe they never got out.” - “Maybe they’re still running from the cops!” but none of them helped him. Yancy loved his clique, they were the closest thing to family he had in the bricks, but he hadn’t told them what really happened to the runaways. None of them even knew they made it past the sewer grate. He wasn’t sure what stopped him from telling them, but something did, and it wasn’t anything he could overcome with some false ideas or promises to visit. They might’ve thought he was crazy, waiting for someone they’d never seen to arrive at the phone, but it was nice they supported him regardless.

“Ay, ay, whatever it is,” Sparkles slapped a hand onto Yancy’s back, a confusing but strangely effective way of calming him down, “ya did nothing wrong. If they don’ wanna see ya, then it’s their loss.”

Yancy nodded to himself slowly, then again with more vigor. Sparkles was right; he had a good life on the inside, just not good enough to keep someone new with him. Who cared? Not him, that’s for sure, and he would rest easy knowing that he had everything he needed right there.

The topic shifted onto something else, and the visitation day was forgotten easily. While, from time to time, Yancy still thought about the escapees, they were generally shoved to the back of his mind, and he focused, instead, on the echo of the bell throughout the prison. After breakfast was an hour of exercise so the inhabitants moved in a messy clump to the backdoor.

In the midst of prisoners and guards, Yancy felt a tap on one of his shoulders. He had never been good at his left and right, but, when he looked in the direction of that tap, nothing was there. Then, a poke on his… other shoulder, but nobody was there either. His eyebrows tightened and he bristled; he didn’t like being tricked, and there he was, looking like an idiot who didn’t know his left and rights. Never mind the fact that he didn’t, somebody was making fun of him, and he was going to give them a piece of his mind.

Yet, however mad he might have been getting, it all disappeared at the sight of Sparkles dashing off through the backdoors, a mischievous grin plastered on his face in a look towards Yancy. A smile appeared on his own face as he chased after his friend, grabbing Tiny’s elbow on the way. A chase Sparkles wanted, and a chase he would get. The two followed in between elbows and batons, avoided the edges of tables, and maneuvered more than a few stationary prisoners. Despite the heightened security, the guards couldn’t care less about their little game; if it kept them out of trouble, who were they to stop it?

So, for the majority of the exercise block, Yancy, Sparkless McGee, Tiny, and whomever they could bring along with them, played a raucous game of tag. Yancy would clamber over dumbbells to get at Bam-Bam, Bam-Bam would sprint through the long-jump sand to catch Tiny, and so on and so forth. He was pretty sure even an officer jumped in to help out Sparkles when he was chasing after another inmate.

Skidding to a stop at the chain-link fence, Yancy looked around. This was the life, huh? Nobody angry, nobody sad, nobody telling him to do stuff that he didn’t wanna do. Sure, he couldn’t leave the walls of the prison, but he had never wanted to. There was nothing that the outside could give him that he didn’t already have within Happy Trails, and, with his hands firm on his hips, he thought that it would provide less. Could you imagine Yancy with a 9-5 job, buying groceries every three days, and picking the kids up after school? He couldn’t, and he didn’t care to try.

He could do without the enraged yelling of the Warden from the backdoors, though.

In quick succession, everyone turned to look at the approaching man, who stampeded against the dirt path like a bull. An ominous hush fell over the yard, but nobody moved a muscle to break it. Instead, they watched intently as the Warden stomped directly to Yancy.

Now, in public, Mr. Murder-Slaughter might not have looked all that intimidating. He was on the shorter side, balding but well-groomed, and easily imagined with a kind smile. However, if you were to meet the guy inside Happy Trails Penitentiary, you would know he could be the meanest son-of-a-bitch you’d ever encounter. He commanded the prison with an iron fist and used them effectively to scare the inmates into submission. He was only made worse by how quickly he could switch from caring to, as his name would imply, murderous. It was a wonder how he hadn’t been incarcerated himself yet.

The prisoners counted their lucky stars when he passed by them and wished all the best for Yancy when the Warden’s glare landed on him.

“Boy, do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Yancy snapped out of his paralyzing fear to lower his eyebrows slightly; he didn’t have any idea, and he wasn’t being given a lot to go off of. So, after risking a glance over his shoulder to Sparkles, he shrugged and replied, “Nuh-no, Warden.”

That response only seemed to push his buttons further, leading to him grasping Yancy’s shoulders as if he would run away if he didn’t hold him there. He was pretty sure he’d be leaving marks in the dirt when he moved again.

“Well, then, lemme show ya—” The Warden pulled the boy ahead of him and shoved him in the direction of the cafeteria again. It was hard for Yancy to hide his disappointment, he always had been terrible at covering up emotion, but it didn’t take much for the other inmates to worry for him, before they were cut off by a yell of, “—and get back to your regularly scheduled exercise!”

That sent them into a frenzy, people grasping for handles and throwing each other into the air to seem like they were working out. Yancy didn’t take notice of any of it, too worried about what he was being brought to the Warden’s office for. While he had never spent too long in a school setting, likening it to the principal’s office was the best he could do, and he didn’t like either scenario.

“Go on, sit,” Mr. Murder-Slaughter ordered, faking serenity in the face of pure wrath. He landed himself in his own chair, pulled it close to the desk and held his fingertips together overtop the mat. Altogether, he was scary.

Yancy gulped as he followed suit in the seat opposite.

“Why d’ya think you’re here, boy?” The stinging kindness was cracking by the second, especially with the venom unleashed at the end.

Yancy spluttered for a second. He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong recently, but it was anyone’s guess as to what would set the Warden off if he’d had a bad day. Weakly, he muttered, “I dunno.”

“Well, I’ll let ya what ya did!” he exploded, slamming a fist onto the wood of the desk. There was an audible crack as one of the legs dented the stones underneath, and, for the first time in a while, Yancy found himself actually fearing the Warden. It brought up some all-too-familiar experiences, memories that he’d rather keep buried.

His eyes looked down, his hands clasped together, his lips quivered. He didn’t like this at all, but he couldn’t just leave. That’d get him in even bigger trouble.

The Warden either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because he continued just as strict as he was before, “Not only did you let two high-class prisoners escape, but you also helped them!” He shot up from his seat, the back of it slamming against the wall and shaking the furniture. Bringing a hand to his forehead, he sighed, “We needed them to stay here, but you just had to get them out. Do you want that, too?”

“No, Warden—”

“Do you want to leave, too, huh? ‘Cause we can make that happen, just say the word.”

Yancy was on the verge of shaking, and he could feel the tremors starting to make their way through his spine. He kept his cool, though, bit his lip, and shook his head. “No, Warden, I don’t wanna leave.”

This seemed to calm him down, as his voice dropped to an acceptable volume. Still, he leaned in close over the desk and stared intently into Yancy’s eyes. Really, it was creepy, but he didn’t know what else to do than to stare right back. If he was trying to tell if he was lying, or he just liked putting his inmates on edge, Yancy would never find out; the Warden withdrew as if nothing had happened, and he collapsed again into his chair.

“Look, kid, I get it.” He didn’t believe him. “You see a fresh face, here, and they actually wanna get out so ya help them, ‘cause they’re interesting and new. But that can’t happen no more, or we’ll lose our budget and we’ll, eh, we’ll have to let some of ya go.”

The suggestive look on the Warden’s face scared Yancy. His eyes widened involuntarily, and he, regrettably, started to think once more about life on the outside. What a horrible fate! He’d sooner get transferred than be integrated back into normal society.

“So,” he coughed, “we’re gonna have to give you a punishment. Nothing too serious, but it won’t be fun for ya.”

Yancy understood that he did a bad thing and he needed to have some repercussions for his actions. Personally, he would’ve considered being abandoned by those people he helped to get out punishment enough, but the Warden didn’t need to know about that; if they ever did come, he didn’t want them to get re-arrested just for his spite.

“Now, we’ve had some time to think over a suitable punishment for ya, and we’re all pretty certain this will work out perfectly. It’s light, but you better learn your lesson from it.”

Hey, he would’ve assumed the worst had it not been for his comforting tone, but it seemed like Yancy was getting off relatively scot-free.

“Two weeks in solitary!”

Damn it.

Not ten minutes later, Yancy was stuffed in a barren cell, cold as the grave and the smell of one, too. If he looked hard enough, he would probably interrupt the funeral service for plenty of insects and vermin, but he did little more than take a deep breath, regret it, and flop down on the makeshift slab of a bed. The concrete provided no comfort, and minimal streams of light that trickled in from the small window just teased him. Was it a mistake to help those two escape? Was it worth it?

Any thoughts of doubt were wiped as he recalled the hopeful look on one of their faces and the warm, glow-y feeling that filled up his stomach. Yancy didn’t have many opportunities to do good in the penitentiary, but the times that he made the better choice were ones he cherished.

He focused on those memories for a while, trying to keep out the silence and ignoring the steady fall of the sun and rise of the moon. It wasn’t like he could do anything else to keep busy; solitary wasn’t a physical punishment, but it worked wonders because it was mental. Everything was boring after just a few minutes, and the people who came out the other side were more forgiving, more docile than the ones who had gone in. It acted like a factory machine that pressed inmates into the same shape, just for them to be dumped into an incinerator at the end of it all.

Not Yancy, though – he prided himself on being one of the only prisoners to get out just the same as ever. That’s why he was able to go in six times without cracking. Overtime, he just built up a tolerance to it, like a disease or the chef’s bad cooking. Never once did his happy-go-lucky aura dim.

As the times before this had gone, Yancy was humming to himself by the first half hour. It wasn’t like anyone could tell him to shut it – it was solitary, after all, he was alone – and the quiet was the hardest thing to get along with in the cells. It was some little tune he had heard over the guard’s radio, sweet and slow and easy. He hadn’t much time to practice, but he thought he was pretty good so far. Instruments had been banned after one of the kids smashed a guitar over an officer’s head, and thus whistling lessons had been introduced, and were quickly discontinued when they realized the prisoners were terrible at it. He hadn’t heard anyone whistle for months since then, meaning he was his personal jukebox for the time being.

“You’re actually pretty good.”

Yancy nearly screamed.

He scrambled like a cat doused in water to the other side of his cell, falling off the concrete slab and pressing himself next to the tiny desk. He wasn’t alone, after all, but that thought played second to the panicked thoughts that rushed through his mind unnoticed and unpicked upon. Breaths came in and out of his lungs at much the same speed, until he coughed and stood tall. It was instinct, and he felt stupid enough to sit back down when he fully realized he was trying to size up against the brick wall.

Finally catching his breath, Yancy asked shakily, “Wh- who’re youse?”

Figuring that this guy would be your only company in this dingy cell, you gladly gave him your name. He repeated it in an accent you weren’t overly familiar with.

“Who are you?” you asked in turn when silence had settled once more.

His tone was overly defensive. “Who wants ta know?”

You looked with a confused glare at the brick wall his voice was coming from. He looked back.

“Yancy,” he eventually answered.

Immediately, a wave of realization overcame you; as you were being transported to Happy Trails Penitentiary, your drivers had been holding a very spirited conversation about this one lad. Hyperactive, the ringleader of these prisoners, but pure in a weird sort of way. He knew how to fight, sure, but show him an R-rated movie and you’d want to shove your hands over his ears at the first curse word. There wasn’t much more information than that, but it was enough to get the gist of what the guy was like. The only thing that interested you more was the mention of his name and his place of origin – Yancy, either from Ohio or Brooklyn, and the stark combination was apparently possible given who they were talking about. Now that you were actually hearing it, although it was muffled slightly by the walls, you understood.

“You don’t say…” You chuckled to yourself, unheard by Yancy.

You left the introductions at that. You weren’t sure how you’d pass the time yet, so you focused on your surroundings. It wasn’t much, but you’d seen worse solitaries before. Briefly, you wondered if this could even be considered solitary confinement, considering that it wasn’t, y’know, solitary, but you learned a long time ago to never look a gift horse in the mouth, so you brushed off the thought and kept looking around. The slab you currently sat on was no different to the floor, down to the conspicuous stains splashed around the place. It was a vast change to the weirdly welcoming exterior of the prison.

With how quickly you had succumbed to the quiet, you almost flinched when Yancy began to speak again. It was notably more collected than before, but not aggressive. “So, what’re youse in for?”

Your head tilted involuntarily at his choice of words, but you answered him nonetheless, “Well, I’ve committed arson, assault and property damage, but I got done in for trespassing on this old guy’s farm.”

The laughter came quick and hard, like a tidal wave crashing over a beach, and it almost made you forget that you were in prison at all. Yancy’s voice was sweet, and it extended to the chortled that weaved through the cracks in the brick. You soon joined him with a few chuckles of your own, and, when you had both calmed down, finished with, “What can I say? I’m a badass.”

That got another giggle out of him, but he went silent for the next seconds. What you couldn’t see was Yancy rearranging himself to sit comfortably back on his slab, back against the wall between you and his legs crossed in front of him. It was better than the ground, and he was filled with a strange sense of comradery; he’d never had someone else with him in solitary, so it was a nice change of pace to have someone new to talk to.

“What about you?” you asked, mindlessly gazing out of the window.

“I killed my mum.”

Despite you not being that much better, the sound you made was somewhere between a gasp and a sigh, coming out as a strangled ‘euf’. Most prisoners you’d come across were guarded about that kind of stuff, especially if it was someone they were related to, but you supposed it was different around here. You’d have to get used to that if you were planning to stay your sentence this time.

Your eyebrows furrowed and your lips momentarily parted. “Did she deserve it?”

Again, silence flooded back in. Someone lifted the trap, let water pool around your legs, and then Yancy slammed it shut as he replied, “Nah, but it had ta’ be done.”

You could accept that, and he wasn’t going to talk more about it, so you had no other choice. Besides, it wasn’t your place to comment on the morality of his actions, especially when you had no idea why it ‘had ta’ be done’.

Yancy didn’t seem affected by his admission, though, and he continued to speak. “Been here most of my life, so it didn’t really matter that I got caught so fast.”

“How’d you get by?”

“Ah, well, I had my friends, ‘course. They really helped me out in the tighter spots, y’know? Like, when Sparkles landed here and helped me fight off these thugs. Only eighteen, too, so we kinda stuck together after that.”

You unknowingly shuffled forward on your bed, easily enticed by Yancy’s stories with nothing else to do in the cell. His voice was pleasant to listen to, you’d admit that, and the childish joy that painted it was a lifeline in the bleakness.

“He’s the guy with the jangly stuff, right?”

“Yeah! Sparkles McGee‘s his full name. I dunno if he’s Irish or not, he don’t have an accent, but he can be as intimidating as one when someone gets on his bad side.”

There was a menagerie of characters in Happy Trails, meaning that the ones who stood out were either widely outrageous or completely normal; Sparkles was one of the former, and you had remembered hearing clinking from the hallway you were being tugged down before a brunet man emerged from around the corner. You were surprised that he was allowed to keep the things on him, but you weren’t one to waste a perfect opportunity when the guard was yelling at him to slow down.

No point in dwelling on that, now, and you prompted Yancy, “Who else are you close with?”

“There’s Jimmy the Pickle, and Shithole Hank – Bam-Bam, and Tiny, and, yeah, Sparkles McGee…” Technically, Yancy could a majority of the prisoners, and even some guards. He’d been in there long enough to have made a rag-tag family for himself, gotten close to the people living out life-sentences and wished the shorter ones on their merry way.

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot of sway in this place,” you commented, not mischievous but more surprised that the officers let him get so much power.

“Well, I wouldn’t call it sway, but… yeah, I guess I do.”

And then you asked the dreaded question. It had been on your mind since you’d first heard him whistling, but you kept it under wraps for the sake of conversation. Now, with a lull and suitable point, you couldn’t help but ask, “So, how’d you end up in solitary?”

The water level rose to the point that it felt like you were drowning, your mind fuzzing over with concern when Yancy dropped into utter stillness. Hell, you might’ve thought he’d keeled over dead with how quiet he was being, but you heard him rise off of his slab and walk around his cell. He was searching for an answer to your question, not that you could see, that wouldn’t bring him to tears. Without his group to help him through it, he didn’t want to break down, and in front of a newbie, no less.

Regret fogging your thoughts, you jumped to say, “Y-ya don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

The pacing stopped and those chains that held up his bed clinked against the wall. “Nah, it’s fine—” You feared he was lying, and, by the crack in his voice, you were probably correct, “—I, uh, helped some people escape, and the Warden found out ‘bout it, chucked me in here and probl’y threw away the key.” He tried to joke about it, to bring back the light atmosphere, but it didn’t work. The corners of your mouth deepened, and you instinctively pushed your back against the wall, as if being closer would give him some kind of comfort.

Yancy only felt the frigid embrace of the stone, though. The happiness leaked out of his voice, leaving only the numbed, plain words to give you context. “It was these two newbies, got caught trynna hijack a helicopter after stealing some box. Never found out what it was all about, but I took it from the Warden’s office and helped ‘em get out through the sewer.” He could feel the tears building up in his throat. “They said they’d visit me, but they haven’t yet.” Bringing his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms around them to keep it tight, he tried to block out the sting in his chest from the first visitation day that had rolled around. When he had woken up bright and early, made himself all neat for them to come through the doors, but, well, he remembered how it went.

“Damn,” was all that you muttered. You weren’t equipped to deal with this kind of situation, especially since all that you were able to offer were kind words and a soft tone. “I’m sorry, kid.”

“Hey, ain’t that just life, though?” he muttered. Trying to convince himself of that fact was harder than saying it but pretending like he truly believed it was easiest. Ignoring the problem came second, so Yancy whispered something about getting a good night’s rest and rolled onto his side on his slab. It wasn’t comfortable, and he quickly began to miss the comforting stiffness of his cot.

You, however, would remain awake for the next hour or so, contemplating how you had gotten to this point. You wouldn’t call it rock-bottom, but it was definitely deeper than you were comfortable with. The agency you worked for gave you five strikes in the slammer before they left you to rot, and this was lucky number six for you. Spite tapped at your mind; those suits in upper management hadn’t seen a hard day’s work in their life, and they had the gall to blame you for your imprisonment after a job they ordered you do! Grinding your teeth together, you imagined their faces, prime and ready for a beating, when you got out – in ten to twelve years.

They should have been hoping you’d mellow out over time. Not likely, given your history, but it was their fault for keeping you there.

Although vastly unsupported by the prison’s psychologist, you and Yancy both fell asleep with troubled thoughts.

Unsurprisingly, you woke up with an aching back and growling stomach. Getting processed early in the day was a bad move, since it meant you’d miss both of the meals offered in the prison. You regretted getting caught at all, but fate could have been a bit kinder with the times. It was a good thing, then, that only half an hour or so after you’d regained thought, a tray of bland-looking food was shoved underneath your door. The metal slat closed behind it, leaving you the mismatched leftovers of the other prisoners’ breakfast.

The apple had rolled onto the stained floor and the dent containing what might have been porridge did not have any utensils. The milk looked alright, though, so you juggled it into your hands and leaned back on the wall. It reminded you of those movies you’d watched as a kid, the middle-school ones that you’d only ever seen a carton of milk in. You would have laughed at your first encounter being in a prison, but you were interrupted by Yancy.

“Morning.” He sounded almost unsure, as if he were afraid of getting nothing but silence back. Momentarily, he was proven correct when you were stunned by the ineffectual bout of morning voice the guy had. All of your limbs ceased movement, your eyes went wide, and you had to take a second to come to your senses. Suddenly, you were thankful for the wall separating the two of you.

Coughing lightly, you called back, “Morning to you, too.”

A grimace overcame your mouth when you realized that the carton was now completely dry, and you threw it to a corner of your cell. It landed with a muted thump into a pit of mold growing there. Your grimace deepened.

“How’d you sleep?” you asked. You assumed not great, but the silence was worse than an awkward conversation.

Yancy grunted, barely audible through the bricks, and then spoke, “’Bout as good as I do normally in here.”

“You’ve been in solitary before?”

“Ya sound surprised.” The small chuckle was appreciated, and you found yourself smiling alongside him.

“Yeah, I guess,” you responded, “you just give off this golden-retriever persona.”

Yancy was almost shocked. He hadn’t thought about how he came off to strangers, but that was mainly because he hadn’t interacted with one for years. Well, except…

He shook his head, manually removing the thoughts from his brain like cleaning out a junk drawer. “Is that a compliment?” It didn’t work, and, although he continued the conversation, his mind was far from it.

“I don’t know, I haven’t been here long enough to gauge the people here. Hence, asking you about your friends.”

That made sense, and you could have moved onto a different topic entirely, but Yancy kept being dragged back to the escapees. Despite only having known of you for a day, he liked talking to you. It kept his mind off of being in solitary, and he wanted to get one more thing off of his chest to rest his weary heart.

“D’ya wanna leave?”

It came out faster and clumsily blunter than he would’ve wanted, but it got the point across. If you said that you did, then he could just cut all contact and go quiet; he didn’t want to get attached to someone he was going to lose, though the worry that he already had definitely tapped at the edge of his mind.

You leaned back against the wall, further into the bricks as if you were able to phase through them with enough focus. You remained in the cell, where Yancy was still waiting for an answer. Did you want to leave? Well, of course, you did, there wasn’t anything better here than there was on the outside, and escaping wasn’t that hard of a feat given the shamefully low security.

But, then again, was there anything waiting for you back home? Prison meant keeping you trapped in one place, but the agency you worked for already did that. You were stuck in this city until they signed sixty forms to send you somewhere else, upon which you’d commit a crime, probably get arrested again, and then shoved in another cell again! It was a worse loss for them than it was for you, and, here, you had been having some nice conversation. Nice enough to stay for a little while, anyway, and, who knows, maybe you’ll be convinced to wait out your sentence for once.

Sighing, somewhat relieved that you had made the decision to stay, you replied, “Nah.”

And if you were relieved, Yancy was ecstatic. He resisted getting up and doing some kind of frenzied tap-dance out of excitement, and, instead, stayed rooted to his slab. He didn’t know exactly why he was so happy, but he was, and he was fine with that. He would deal with those unknown feelings later, when he had Sparkles and Bam-Bam and Tiny to help him through. Maybe you’d join them, and he could introduce you to everyone and—

He was getting ahead of himself. In the confines in his room, it didn’t matter that he blushed a deep crimson or that he had to bite his lip to keep his grin from spreading any further. He busied himself with scrambling to the floor and dragging his finger along the soot-covered bricks.

“You alright there, Yancy?”

You received no answer, save for the scraping and tapping that had made you curious in the first place. You watched where the sounds were coming from until they focused on one place in particular. Tap, tap, tap. They slowly became more forceful, a few seconds worth of securing one point on a brick, and then the thing was punched out altogether. The chipped rectangle tumbled into the wall opposite, revealing a tanned hand in its place.

It waved.

A laugh broke out of you, to the point where you nearly fell off your bed altogether. “How’d you figure that out?” you asked, in awe of the guy.

“One of the first times I was in here, I brought contraband with me, so I needed a place ta’ keep it while they did searches,” Yancy answered, “Nobody was ever in youse’s cell, so I shoved all my stuff in there.”

“Smart.”

He practically started glowing at that compliment, as if a switch had been flipped in his head. His smile slightly dipped, though, when he saw your abandoned tray on the ground in front of the hole.

“Ya not eating?”

You shrugged. “Not too into stuff that can’t decide whether it’s a solid or liquid. Plus, I’m not gonna use my hands to eat gruel.”

“Oh, the guards do that to newbies – somein’ like hazing, but it ain’t good for youse’s health.”

“So, frat hazing?”

Your comment went unanswered as Yancy slid back on his stomach to prop himself upright. It was only a couple seconds before another object came rolling through the gap. It bumped against the wall, knocking off some dust, but looked fine, otherwise. You picked it up.

“You sure?” you questioned tentatively, inspecting the rose-red apple.

“Youse gots to eat something, right?”

This time, it was you who blushed as deep as a sea trench. You weren’t sure whether it was his nature, or you were a special case, or you were just the only option, but Yancy was being nice to you. Genuinely sweet, and it was a weird experience for you. You barely knew anything about him, held one conversation with him, and yet you thought he was the best part of this prison. It wasn’t a high bar, but it was something, and you could feel yourself growing more and more fond of him as the seconds ticked on.

But that didn’t mean you would go without clarification.

Now resting on the floor, which didn’t feel as bad as you had presumed, you guided your tray into Yancy’s cell. There was a pleasant gasp exchanged for it, while you pointed out, “We just met.”

Another more confused noise was sent your way.

“Why are you being so nice to me? Talking to me, telling me about you, all that stuff. Why?”

Yancy knew this could go one of two ways; he could lie and say that he just liked your attitude, maybe that he didn’t want this awkward silence between you – or he could tell you the truth. The cold, hard, honest truth.

His shoulders dropped and the lights in his eyes dimmed as he realized that his fears were not mistaken.

“Guess I just got attached.”

You stopped short of responding for the better half of the next minute. While that may have seemed infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things, it mattered to you, and it mattered to Yancy. You were given some time to consider the facts, apply the idea to his actions, while Yancy got scared. His fears surrounded him in the cold cell, and he wondered if he had blown his chances barely a day into knowing you. He tried to assure himself that it wouldn’t matter if you went completely silent, but both that and the bigger part of him knew that was a lie.

Going quiet when given a fact was a bad habit of yours, something that the prison boy would have to get used to if you were to stay talking. It happened a lot and normally didn’t mean anything bad at all, so he was able to breathe a sigh of relief when you answered back, “That makes sense.”

This time, Yancy was only confused. “Whad’ya mean?”

“Well—” you shuffled back against the wall again. You noticed it was a very cramped room, “—you told me about those people you helped escape. You must’ve cared about them if you risked getting solitary for them, and they haven’t come back. That’s gotta be rough on you.”

You weren’t a therapist by any means, but you’d sat in a psychology lecture back when you were in college. That, and it was pretty obvious what was going on.

“Yancy, you have abandonment issues.”

His head hit the bricks. His one visit with the prison’s psychologist had told him that much, but he’d never taken it to heart. Everyone had something wrong with them! His was just… more intense than other people’s. Or, he used to think that, but getting so attached to someone he had just met made it only more clear to him.

Not hearing a response, and unable to hear the thoughts slowly settling in Yancy’s mind, you prompted, “We can talk about it, if you want?”

“Yeah- yeah, I’d like that.”

The hours passed slowly, but they were full to the brim of venting, comforting and a few jokes sprinkled in here and there. It was a period of no holds barred, and everything was let out like opening a dam. The water swept up whatever was there already, the preconceived notions, the awkwardness, the discontentment – and it left behind warmth. Arguments were avoided and topic were reassessed. By the end of the second day in solitary, Yancy could confidently say that a lot of his issues were worked thoroughly. He would only phrase it like that because that was what you likened it to: if you don’t work dough, the bread that comes out will be floppy and weak, but if you knead it all equally, it’ll be able to hold its shape on its own.

He liked that analogy, he liked most of what you said, but a particularly touchy subject came up while you both talked over your dinner.

Yancy was almost knocked off of his feet when the words left your mouth, and he had to take a second to centre himself. After all, he wasn’t feeling overly emotional, and this certain thing only came out when he was overwhelmed. Whether it was anger or sadness, he was exclusive to the bad times.

“We don’t have to talk about him right now, but parents are normally behind a lot of issues,” you offered, facing the hole in the wall. Your tray of food had been discarded when you realized you still didn’t have any utensils. Of course, Yancy was kind enough to trade with you again, leaving you with three apple cores in the corner of your room.

He hadn’t taken a bite of anything.

“So, it’s normal, then?” His vision was downcast, a stark change in tone showing hope and doubt.

You shrugged slightly. “Normally doesn’t end with murder, but yeah.”

Yancy sighed, breathed in, and continued to exchange breaths until he felt he was ready. When he had fully quietened, he whispered just barely loud enough to hear, “I’m ready.”

“Then start from the beginning.”

Yancy’s upbringing could be described, as many others could, as rough. The only problem with that would be it wouldn’t do it justice on its own. Add in depressing, dramatic and downright traumatic, and you would get a better picture. To CPS, this was not what they saw; an employee once ended up at their front door, and what they saw was something entirely different. Baked cookies cooling on the table, washed clothes hanging on the line outside and smiling faces everywhere you looked. It was a front designed perfectly for that person to not report anything but joy back to the top.

But on days when visits were not scheduled, it was a nightmare. Yancy was born an only child, but to scrape up extra cash, his parents gathered a gaggle of children to babysit on weekdays. Tom was his favorite, Jane was adorable, and a pair of twins who lived a block down were trouble. It was all fine, except none of them got more attention than a pleading smile from Yancy’s mother, and a venomous, snide look from the man of the house.

His father hated kids. God knows why he had one of his own in the first place, and not even he knew why he stuck around. They would have been better off without him, Yancy would have been better off without him. He wouldn’t have been spending his early mornings biking down alleyways and trading bricks for cash. It was no secret that Yancy’s father was the town’s dealer, half of them were too scared to report him and the other half were his clients. The time he should have been spending learning the Pythagoras theorem or what a noun was, he was busy evading the cops’ daily routes and dishing out little, transparent baggies. His grammar never got better, that’s for sure, and, on one sunny Thursday afternoon, he ended up a couple streets away from Brooklyn.

And when he returned home with a new accent and interesting dialect, home-life went from a nightmare to pure hell.

He could remember that day like it was yesterday, as clear in his mind as the last shower he took. Shame it wasn’t as warm, or as comforting or homely. It was the complete opposite, in fact, because that was the day that everything twisted.

Freshly sixteen at the time, Yancy wandered through the overgrown grass, followed the stone path like the back of his hand. The rocks were cracked in two from being picked up and thrown, and dirt was visible around each piece. The front door creaked when he pushed against it, not even fully closer, and paint chips rained down on his shoes. It wasn’t a nice house, but it was one of the bigger ones that could fit as many people as they wanted it to. He couldn’t say it was in good condition, though.

Jane was quick to race up to him the second he stepped inside. He was flooded with cold, but her little smile sure made up for it. She was so excited to show him her schoolwork. The crayon drawing surely a picture for the fridge – he wondered how she ended up here.

There was some yelling from upstairs, but he ignored it in favor of heading to the kitchen. He knew his father would be in there, counting bills or sorting out pills. He had been such a scumbag, doing the same thing no matter who was around.

Keeping as quiet as possible, Yancy tried to be subtle in opening the cupboard. A cough from his left. It hadn’t worked, and even though he was sure the man despised every breath he took, he liked keeping tabs on the people around him.

“Did everything go well today?”

Really, he should’ve just said yes, and left it at that. He should’ve been in and out of the room like a flash. He should’ve been quiet.

But he was tired of being quiet. This guy that lived in the same house as him had no power over him. He had his bike, he could leave whenever he wanted, and his mother? Those times together, when it was just the two of them, were times he would treasure until the end of his life, but they were too few and too far between. His father shadowed every little interaction, as if a single word misplaced would mean the gallows. The one important thing that his father taught him was that consequences only mattered if you had a plan to get far.

So, he opened his mouth and replied, “Nah, dad, and I’d think youse’d know that.”

A strange accent, especially coming from someone you barely conversed with, should not have been that hard-hitting, but it set something off in the man. The bag of whatever-the-hell drug he was pushing now slammed to the table and bootsteps replaced the distant hum of a faulty boiler.

“What’d you say to me, boy?”

Yancy wasn’t a tall 16-year-old, but he made up for it with confidence, real or not. He broadened his shoulders and stuck out his chin.

“Youse heard me.”

“Youse? Where’d that come from?”

His tone was annoyingly plain, his words not worth staining with anything but deadpan. Yancy wasn’t worth it, apparently, and it only worked to fuel his anger.

“Don’t talk like that,” he ordered, “We’re from Ohio.”

In a fit of something more than rage, Yancy pushed against his chest and sent himself stumbling backwards. “Youse is from Ohio! We ain’t a family!”

“Don’t raise your voice to me.”

This would have been a good time to calm down, but he was on a roll with no sign of stopping. “I’ll do whatever I want! You don’t got nothin’ over me.”

Yancy twisted on his heel, ready to storm out to his bike and never come back into that hellhole, but a rough hand on his shoulder rooted his feet into the ground.

“Look,” he huffed, “I didn’t send you to school for you to end up speaking like this—”

If Yancy’s blood wasn’t boiling by now, then that surely did it. “Youse didn’t send me to school at all!” he yelled, tears billowing into his eyes, “I ain’t been to school in years, and youse’d know if you paid any goddamn attention to your kid, but youse don’t, so I ain’t gonna pay any attention to youse.”

The man’s tone shifted from enraged to a chilling calmness. He spoke as if he were explaining the alphabet to a child, “And why do you think I don’t pay any attention to you?”

He spluttered for an answer, eventually landing on a shaky, “Th-this ain’t a therapy session, youse just don’t like me.”

Now, he seemed almost shocked, and Yancy was almost going to punch him in the gut. “And why would you think I didn’t like you?”

“’Cause you—” His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. He was trying to find an answer to this question, but even though it had years of evidence building up, nothing concrete came to mind, “— ‘cause you don’t! Don’t try to trick me, I know what you’re doing!”

“See,” a smile broke out onto his face, “there you go, back to normal.”

And, with that cheerful proclamation, he began to stalk back to his seat, where mismatched pills and baggies lay. Yancy felt his own feet move before he had the conscious thought to.

“Not back to normal!” he shouted back, a painful voice crack diminishing his confidence.

It was then that his mother peaked her head through the doorway, toting a frowning Tom behind her. Her clothes were torn in places, and a subtle, red splatter marred the bottom of her skirt. Yancy would have been concerned about this new feature if his mind weren’t clouded by anger towards the guy who made it happen.

Nevertheless, she asked meekly, “Is everything alright in here?”

His father was fast to answer, “Yes, everything is fine.”

Yancy wasn’t having it and, instead, jumped to cover up, “No, it’s not, dad—”

Like a sibling reprimanding the tattletale, the fully-grown man rolled his eyes and hissed, “Oh, be quiet for once in your life, Yancy.”

The lady was on the verge of saying his name, just a small word to get him to calm down, but he saw right through her and snapped, “Back off, woman.”

“Hey, don’t talk to her like that!”

In the corner of his eye, Yancy saw Tom slowly creep back to the staircase. His mother was too shocked to stop him, and his father, oh, his father tilted his head to look back to his only son. The careless smirk he once sported dropped into a vile scowl.

“So, you’re the man of the house, now, eh?” he mocked.

His skin turned cold, and shivers threatened to move him like an earthquake. Still, he replied, “Damn right I am, youse ain’t good enough.”

“Don’t speak to your father like that,” came another reprimand. Thinking back on it, he wasn’t sure if it was his dad or mum, but he was sure that it happened, and it pissed him off.

“Youse ain’t—”

Two hands secured tightly on his shoulders held him in place. Any thoughts of running or even taking a step back were banished from his mind. Out of fear of inability, he wasn’t sure, but he was forced to listen as his father ordered, “Either you stop that dumbass dialect of yours, or you can get out.”

His face got so close that he could see the wrinkles and off-set tan lines that ran laps around his eyes. The malicious glint the brown contained, the worst-kept secret of his family. His father was the devil himself, and he was sure that if he wanted to do anything to help them, he’d have to figure out what God did to get him out of heaven.

“So, what’s it gonna be, huh, son?”

Just six hours later, Yancy got out alright – it just wasn’t in the way his father had expected.

Blood on his hands, dripping a candy-trail for the four other children towards the police van, Yancy was barely conscious of him sitting down inside. He didn’t notice the revving of the engine, the moving of the scenery, the pat-down, the induction, any of it. It all passed in a blur, but he knew one thing for sure.

He didn’t want to be free – ever again.

You sat wide-eyed against the wall. You had expected a simple fight, teenage rebellion, and a bad attitude to the law. Yancy’s story was not that, in fact, but it, surprisingly, made more sense. Yancy was kind and generous and he understood the value of good relationships. That normally only happened after something bad.

And that was definitely something bad.

A sigh escaped your lungs as you processed the new information. It didn’t hurt any pre-conceived notions, it added to the ones you had been working on, actually. The whole abandonment thing, the protective golden retriever persona, it all made sense even with this new development.

A few moments after his final words, you nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Now that everything had settled, you were fine with it. It wasn’t surprising, considering where you were – the solitary wing of a penitentiary – and you actually commended Yancy for getting busted for something he believed in. It was a lot better than you; you were just doing your job for some capitalist pig.

Yancy was more shocked than you were. You had accepted this side of him faster than anyone had before. Maybe that was just your personality – or maybe you were in denial. Right now, though, he didn’t care, and that was a great feeling.

“So, do you want to start with the kids?” you asked, stretching out your back after so long lost in his story.

Confusion struck him faster than his consciousness could keep up with. Why would you want to talk about them? Then, of course, he remembered why he had told you about his whole deal in the first place, and a blush crept like a snake up his neck.

He laughed awkwardly, “Yeah.” And he was more than happy to talk about his little group of troublemakers.

Speaking of which, his current group of troublemakers had been rioting outside of the warden’s office for the past two days. They still adhered to their schedule, going to their cells before lights out and eating when told to, but you best believe that every other minute was spent blocking Mr. Murder-Slaughter’s door. That was, in total, an hour and six minutes per day, but that was enough to get on his nerves.

Coming back to the prison after a night out with his family, he was both amazed and annoyed to find Yancy’s clique sitting with make-shift signs, blocking his way back to his room. He pinched the bridge of his nose, heaved the largest huff he could muster and gathered all of the officers in the penitentiary.

When everyone was all in one place, he called out, “Does anyone know what is going on with our prisoners?”

Nobody answered for a second, but soon, a young newbie was shoved into the pit in front of the Warden.

“W-well, they’re protesting… sir.”

“Protesting what?”

“That guy, their friend, they don’t like that he’s in solitary.”

He had expected them to be mad, but he didn’t think it’d get to this point – but, that begged the question, why were they still there!?

“And why is no one doing anything about it?”

More silence, until the first guy took it upon himself to just be the spokesperson in general. Lightly, he coughed into his hand and answered, “They’re not doing anything wrong. They have a right to be there.”

The Warden looked dumbly at the kid. He was barely over 20, it was a wonder as to how he landed this job, but he had, and he also had the unfortunate job of breaking any news to the boss there. Murder-Slaughter pitied him.

“You’re guards, for Christ’s sake, you have weapons!”

“Y-yeah, but it’s… it’s illegal, sir.” He was getting more confidence the more they talked, and he was even beginning to be backed up by his colleagues. A few prisoners looked around the corner and went to tell Yancy’s group of the events.

“Who cares?”

“The law, and we do, too, sir.”

He spluttered, spit out some half-assed remark about their power – the kid retaliated with morality, he hissed another order, he battled it back, and this whole circle went on for another ten minutes before the Warden had reached his limit.

“I don’t care what you do, just get them away from my door!”

He stormed away, to who knows where because his office was inaccessible, but that left the officers with all the power to do whatever they wanted.

And, surprisingly, that fully aligned with the rules, because rhythmic steps broke through the faint chatter of solitary. A distant drip of water had the newbie grimacing, but he made his way down the hallway, nonetheless, swinging a chain of keys all the while. It was only when he came to an occupied cell did he stop.

“Hey?” he called out awkwardly.

Equally as awkward, Yancy yelled back, “Hey…?”

“Your friends have, um, mutinied, I guess?”

If you were able to see each other, you and Yancy would have shared a confused but entertained look.

“So?” Yancy asked.

“You’re free to leave.”

The metal door swung into the brick wall, luckily covering up the hole, and prompting the prisoner to stand up. His back cracked from how long he had spent on the floor, and, although this clearly meant he was able to go back to the comfort of his own cell, it was overshadowed by a guilty, sad feeling. Had he gotten used to the confinement? It’d barely been a week, and he hadn’t succumbed to it that easily before, so it was unlikely. Then, it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, he had gotten used to you. The person who got him through a lot of his problems and comforted him, even though they had seen little more than a tattooed hand. His cell mate.

A near attempt to call out to you was shut down by a pair of cold, calculated cuffs snapping against his wrists. He had nearly forgotten this was a prison, and he was considered dangerous. Your reaction had made that strange reality to him.

Back through the rooms, back through the corridors, back through, back, back, back – further away from you. He began to feel guilty, disappointed; he missed you already, and he noticed that his attachment issues hadn’t been solved just quite yet. He frowned.

His cell wasn’t as comforting as when he had left it. The bed was comfortable, it flattened under his weight, and yet, the material was mocking him. He drew his legs to his chest and stared at the wall across from him. It was concrete. It was sturdy and complete.

His eyes and heart fell.

It took Yancy a week to feel better. His friends, when he had approached them that evening for dinner, were welcoming and helpful. They cheered and talked and joked just as they had before he had gone into solitary. Sparkles threw mashed potatoes at Tiny, Bam-Bam fought back with churned milk – but nothing was the same for Yancy. It didn’t bring him the same joy to see his friends as it had before. He couldn’t resist the thought that something was missing, and he knew exactly what that something was. He was almost ashamed to admit that he missed you after barely a day of talking to you, but he reminded himself of what you’d said to him. He didn’t have to be ashamed, so he wasn’t. It was his decision.

That didn’t stop him from missing you in the first place, though.

And all throughout the next seven days, going through the schedule, he thought about what he’d show to you when you got out. Maybe the exercise equipment, or the food that you’d actually get utensils with, or his cell! You’d probably appreciate a good place to sleep for a while, you weren’t exactly likely to get much sleep on a concrete slab.

With those ideas in mind, he started to get excited for your release. Sitting on the table with his friends, he glanced around. They had been given the general idea of who you were, but your physical appearance was something he couldn’t pinpoint, and he kept some of the topics of conversation close to the chest. He’d blush furiously when they talked about it, and even more so when it turned into teasing. Stuff about his getting a crush, like a schoolboy, made him grow redder and redder, to the point he wasn’t sure if his blood was on the inside or out.

All of that was nothing compared to when you emerged, handcuffed, and dressed in the prison garb, from the solitary wing.

He might’ve passed out had he not been sitting on the table, but he couldn’t help his eyes swimming along your figure. He had expected gorgeousness but Jesus… Now, for completely new reasons, his feet moved quicker than his brain, and Yancy gripped your hand – rough, calloused, amazing – and tugged you into any random hallway. Lucky for him, the guards seemed to understand what was happening and didn’t follow.

He found it difficult to communicate his feelings at first. His mouth widened and shut, his eyes squinted and then dilated again. He was confused and shocked and excited all at once.

Finally, he sighed and whispered, “Hey.”

You smiled back. “Hey.”

He was so giddy, like a kid on Christmas morning. He had half the mind to pick you up and twirl you around – it was such an unfamiliar feeling that he actually got as far as securing his hands on your waist before he realized what he was doing. However, they stayed planted when you wrapped your own around his back.

“Hey, Yancy,” you muttered.

He was freaking out. He hadn’t learned what to do in this kind of situation, let alone talking face to face with you! If you could even call what you were doing ‘talking’, it was like you were doing tap dance around acting normally. Did he hate it or love it, he had no clue, but he knew that it was happening.

And, at that rate, only one thing could stop it.

Yancy had always been bad with relationships, dating and any kind of personal rapport, so you can only imagine how bad he is with kissing.

Fireworks overloaded his mind, clearing out fog and replacing it with bright lights and flashing bulbs and his own heartbeat in his ears. Your lips felt exactly how they looked, tasted like the apple you had probably just eaten for dinner. He wondered, briefly, if they had given you utensils this time, but it was overcome by you pushing further into his lips. Your hands darted against his spine, and he squeezed his own out of instinct.

The air you breathed mingled in one space when you leaned back just an inch. It was far enough that you could speak, but you weren’t given the chance to as Yancy connected your lips once more. After spending practically all of his life without this kind of thing, there was no way in hell that he would let you go so easily.

“Yancy, chill out,” you chuckled, securing him further away. It wasn’t even a full ten inches, but it worked to get him to pay attention to you.

“Sorry,” he whispered, slowly edging forward, “youse just too sweet.”

Your smile widened.

“Well, you’re gonna have to wait a bit, you’ve gotta introduce me to your friends, first.”

A determined look fell over Yancy’s face, a curtain drawing to a close the romantic gestures, and bringing you by the hand towards his table.

Now, looking out over Happy Trails Penitentiary, you were certain that, fuck those suits, you never wanted to be free.

#iswm yancy #yancy the prisoner #yancy #markiplier egos #a heist with markiplier #writing #markiplier #markiplier egos x reader #yancy x reader #trauma #x reader #fanficiton #the knight market #no editing #we die like real men #fanfiction #one shots

55 notes · View notes