#wippets

[jamiesfootball]

Blue rose pastries! (Not tentacle monsters.)

These are so mesmerizing. Have a snippet!

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

[suguwu]

remember how i said i’m feeling some type of way about vamp childe? it’s getting worse.

[elective-affinities]

found on Pinterest 

[jamiesfootball]

🌹🌹🌹🌹

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

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

[jamiesfootball]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[jamiesfootball]

🌹

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

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

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

In the other hand was a fucking tulip.

[jamiesfootball]

🌹

Roy Kent was on his telly.

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

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

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

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

The world seemed to shrink.

Dread fisted in his stomach.

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

[jamiesfootball]

i am here to make you write!! 🌹🌹🌹

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

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

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

Probably not a good sign, that.