seen from Singapore
seen from India
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seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
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seen from Malaysia
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"“I had met Jeremy at the launch of the new Audi A4 Cabriolet in France. There was nothing about the car we agreed on, but Jeremy thought the bickering would be ideal for Top Gear. All I remember about that trip where I drove with Jeremy was that he bought some gargoyles from an antiques shop. Jeremy said, ‘Can you give me a hand to lift my gargoyles into the car?’ I thought, that’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever done on a car launch.”"
O!Je?
This clawed itself to the forefront when I was trying SO HARD to put together an omega!richard fic, my brain just wouldn't shut the hell up about reversing the roles. It's not much more than a couple three scenes and a lot of stream of consciousness ideas, but it still twists me up inside in a way that nothing else does, just because Jeremy is, well, the way he is. For some reason, any a/b/o CHM stuff comes to me as almost post-apocalyptic or with deep governmental involvement, shame, repression, control, etc. I had this idea that Jeremy had been hiding the fact he was an omega with the help of his best friend Gil, who'd been supplying him with suppressants, but then Gil dies and Jeremy doesn't have his own source and goes into heat for the first time in his life He slid down in his chair in despair, and immediately wished he hadn’t because it felt good. To sprawl, relax, let his legs fall open; feel the warm weight of whatever changes inside him pulsing with blood.
Richard was standing over him, his nearness pulling all that racing blood towards him, making Jeremy restless and short of breath, and he almost gave in, was just about to tell Richard to fuck off once again, but Richard spoke first.
“Why did you call me?” was corrected swiftly to, “Why not James? Wilman? Or Francie?”
“She hates me. Andy---” Jeremy put a hot hand over his aching eyes, guilt and regret as raw as anything else he was feeling. He’d been a threat to Andy this entire time, and Andy trusted him; they brought everyone into this together, and Jeremy could have ruined it.
“Andy would resent me, at best.”
“You didn’t think I would?”
“Do you?”
“No. I wouldn’t bet on Andy, either.”
Jeremy hugged himself, like he deserved any comfort. “I put you all at risk. This whole time. I thought---I was so stupid.”
Richard didn’t argue. “What about James?” he persisted.
He didn’t know it, but just by breathing, he answered, drawing in deep through his nose, holding, softly expelled. Another, then his mouth dropped to the pressure of his tongue, tasting---but he was thinking about it, that: he hadn’t not wanted to call James, it had been the same roiling sick in his throat of loneliness and fear of rejection, of, of just want. Of them, either or. Both. He missed them and needed them, but it was Richard he’d felt would know what to do.
Richard, who was standing there patiently, dark eyes hooded but his expression neutral.
Jeremy’d been right, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to be. Richard knew what to do. With him. And that’s what he wanted---help. Richard’s help. He wanted---well, he just wanted Richard.
“I don’t know what to do.” Turns out he's right, Richard knows what to do and not only that, he's been knowing what to do with James for a long time :)
“James, how do you know all this?”
“Because I’ve been taking them for years, Sarah gets them; she knows someone in Russia, and she travels there for dance.”
Richard finally comes into the room proper. Next to James, close; they don’t touch and they don’t have to. Richard put his hands in his pockets, harmless, but Jeremy sees it instantly when Richard settles: James turns into him, head down, waiting, and he can’t help it: Jeremy covers his mouth, his nose, because James shouldn’t be radiating that.
Good god, is that what he smells like?
Richard stood there, watching, then dropped his head too, bemused and embarrassed when Jeremy’s hand fell to reveal an unlatched jaw. James peeked a weak glare in Jeremy’s direction.
“I’m---” Jeremy started at the same time Hammond mumbled, “It’s---” and when they both stopped, bewildered, James sighed and said, “You’re both imbeciles,” before leaning across the bed, catching the back of Jeremy’s head and pulling him forward. Jeremy met him halfway just as he was planting his hands to catch himself, so he had no defence against James’ kiss. He just took it (and liked it, immediately), and, well, if James was trying to make him more eloquent, that was not how to do it.
“You hardly kiss me,” Richard complained.
“You bite.”
Aaah, I can't decide between Sick little Fox and You are, Perfect.
Both? Maybe? Thank you!
Wow did I need this, i haven't looked at these wips in fivever. Life might actually let me have some time to write here soon >.> thank you <3
SLF is the chapter I'm honestly most excited to write :] Richard takes James camping in the Lake District :) :) :) Obviously this is after they're fucking, after the rules James puts on Richard, which Richard cannot possibly follow, and he's in such a whirlwind he flees to his favourite place in the world, only he doesn't get very far before he turns around and asks James to come with him. I reallllllllllllly want to write them flying there (there used to be a strip nearby) but I'm afraid I know even less about that than I do about cars but we'll see :P
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Top Gear (UK) RPF Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Jeremy Clarkson/James May, Richard Hammond/James May Characters: James May, Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond, Mindy Hammond Additional Tags: Infidelity, depictions of non-epileptic seizures, Panic Attacks, Hurt/Comfort, Excessive Drinking, Recreational Drug Use, Tourette's Syndrome, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Clarkson-appropriate slurs and vulgarities, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Internalized Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, BDSM overtones, Kissing, Mutual Masturbation, circa March/April 2005 Series: Part 2 of Fast Things Change Summary:
It’s just rained and smells wonderful outside and the clouds are huge and low so there’s no sun, only that dispersed glow that makes the grass especially verdant, and it’s quiet except for James’ repetitive sick-cat wheeze, for him dragging his feet. Jeremy’s not even remotely offended when James yanks his wrist away and falls against the trailer, slides down it, huddles there and freaks out. Since Jeremy researched it a bit, he’s less worried James might actually die, so he stands quietly, times it with his watch. The gasping, quivering, hand flailing, grunts and not-words, even laughter again—it’s all over in less than five minutes, not even time for Jeremy to finish a cigarette.
He imagines he feels it, what’s happening to James, somehow, like there’s a string attached to his soul and it’s being tugged on, slowly extracted from him via the top of his head. Like the edges of reality are undefined but everything else is in high-def and bloody hell are James’ pupils huge when he finally looks up at Jeremy, and that’s when Jeremy learns the difference between the seizure thing and a panic attack.
A postcard from France By James May12 August 2006 • 00:01 am
An epic road trip provides the opportunity to get to grips with a new car - and travelling companion, writes James May
Dearest Readers,
I write from la Belle France, where I have now been for four whole days. The weather has been glorious for three of them, but very bad on the evening of the one on which we decided to camp for the night. C'est la vie - though normally only in the Lake District.
In case you weren't reading three weeks ago, I am here for a month to make a six-part series for BBC2 on the subject of French wine. I know nothing about French wine, or indeed any other type of wine, but that's the whole point. I am accompanied by Oz "woody finish" Clarke, the idea being that his immense and largely inaccessible knowledge of the subject will be filtered through my own ignorance and general peevishness until it is in a form palatable to normal folk who simply want a half-decent bottle of grog to knock back with the rosbif.
To that end, I bought a 17-year-old Jaguar XJ-S V12 convertible, partly in the hope that it would do the decent old-Jag thing and leave me stranded in Kent, where I could just have a nice pint instead. Sadly, no. It has so far brought us all the way to Bordeaux. This is in part the fault of Knowles-Wilkins Engineering, purveyor of subtly refettled XJ-S and Series III Jaguars, which worked continuously on the car from the day I bought it to the evening of the day before I left.
So on this trip I have two friendships to cultivate. One with my new car, the other with Oz "nectarine high notes" himself. And there is no better way to bond with a car or another chap than on a proper, epic road trip.
It has been a while since I drove an XJ-S. Much of it is as glorious as it ever was: the silken swelling that comes only with a full-bodied and robust petrol V12, the challenging complexity of the underbonnet arrangement, the satisfying vintage of its green LED trip computer and the lingering woody finish on the dashboard.
In other ways, it serves to remind us how far cars - and convertibles in particular - have come since this one was conceived. The vogue for the so-called coupe-cabriolet, a type of car with a solid folding roof now espoused by Daihatsu, Ford, Mazda, Mercedes, Mitsubishi, Peugeot, Renault, Vauxhall, Volkswagen et al, may cause us to forget that there was a time, not so long ago, when the folded fabric roof of a large GT drophead would sit on top of the boot like the aftermath of the R101 airship disaster; or that the owner was expected to step outside and shroud the wreckage with an ill-fitting cloth cover attached by means of 1,001 hooks and poppers, so that the collapsed mechanism could be disguised as a 1970s sofa instead. I infer from the near-pristine condition of the "hood bag", which takes up much valuable space in the boot, that the previous owner couldn't really be bothered. And neither, it transpires, can I.
But the Jag is still a great car. Hopeless on the autoroute it may be - the wind wails in the gaps around the hood, the fuel consumption is atrocious and it has the torsional rigidity of a piano accordion - but top-down on a winding D-road, it has greatly endeared itself to me.
I wish I could say the same about Oz, who has attempted to educate me in "the vocabulary of wine" by shoving a variety of organic items - nettles, cinnamon sticks, garlic, cow poo, cashew nuts, apples, oranges, vinegar - under my nose and demanding that I "learn" their smells. This in itself wouldn't be so bad, but these things are now in the passenger footwell of my newly recarpeted XJ-S, which he treats like the skip round the back of the Ready Steady Cook studio. Vive la différence is all very well, but he is filling my new car with rotting fruit, spoiling the mature and musty nose of the interior. I wouldn't mind if I got a drink occasionally, but since I'm always driving I can only really commend to you the 2006 Badoit mineral water. Sparkling.
So - he gets to drink a 1988 Château Baron Bomburst at £75 a bottle, and I get to drive a 17-year-old Jaguar. Still, it could be worse. It could be the other way round.
More in a week or so.
Bon nuit,
James
