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Jeff gets engaged the same week Jamie and Roy get together.
In a way, Jeff’s the whole reason they get together, because if fucking Goodman is getting married how hard can it be to tell Roy that Jamie’s into him? So he finally goes for it, and it turns out Roy likes him back—fair enough, it’s not like Roy’s blind—and they kiss and they fuck and make breakfast in the morning. It’s perfect.
It keeps on being perfect, day after day. When Roy smiles like that it feels like the warmth of a summer morning shining directly into your soul—except sexier—and Jamie feels sunshine and chirpy birds and choirs of chubby little angels every time they kiss. He suffers heroically through a whole conversation about ‘expectations’ and ‘boundaries’ and ‘workplace rules’, and once they’re done he can get back to the wonderful reality of simply being with Roy.
They wake up in bed together more often than not, and sometimes Roy wakes him up with a morning blowie—a morning blowjob from Roy Kent—and Jamie returns the favour in the shower, since he bought a thick bath mat for the exact purpose of kneeling on it. They watch nature documentaries on lazy evenings and do the shop together and take turns on who decides where to get takeout for Jamie’s cheat meal, and every day Jamie gets to touch Roy as much as he wants. He can walk across a room, put his lips on Roy’s throat, tug off Roy’s clothes and explore every inch of him.
He gets to hug Roy into his side and caress his face and tangle his fingers in Roy’s hair, and not even because they’re mid-shag but just because Roy’s there and Jamie wants to. It turns into sex most of the time anyway, because it’s Roy and he’s fucking gorgeous and Jamie wants him so much it aches; he’d live tangled in Roy’s sheets if he could. Except when he’s playing football, but it’s close.
They do the feelings bit and the fancy dinner dates and exchange secrets in bed late at night. They shag in Jamie’s car and on every surface of Roy’s fucking posh house and it feels like the sky’s the fucking limit—sometimes Jamie can’t believe there’s always going to be more of this, every day for as long as they want. That he wakes up, and he gets to have this.
Meanwhile, the world outside Roy’s bedroom goes on.
Jeff and Lottie send out wedding invitations—the wedding is in a Spanish castle, something Jamie would’ve found ridiculous back in the day but now it doesn’t even make the top ten poshest wedding venues he’s been to. It’s in late May, a lovely time of the year for a wedding but a shit time to get any days off if you’re a footballer, between the end of the season fixtures and the fact that they miraculously make it all the way to the Champions League quarter-finals.
O’Brien ends up squeezing the stag do in right after the last match of the season, so the whole week is a blur of post-season pub crawls and end-of-season parties, topped off by a trip to Barcelona for three days of beaches and burlesque clubs and kart races, plus something called ‘bubble football’ that’s ridiculous and well fun. Jamie sleeps maybe twelve hours through their entire stay, and as soon as they land back in Luton he gets a taxi straight to Roy’s house, lets himself in, and falls asleep over the duvet to nap with his clothes still on.
“Had fun, did you?”
Roy sounds amused and looks it too, raising one eyebrow as he watches Jamie stumble down the stairs. It’s evening, golden and rainy, and Jamie hasn’t eaten since breakfast. He’s starving, but food is a secondary priority to sitting on Roy’s lap on the armchair and tucking his face into the crook of Roy’s neck.
“Smell nice,” Jamie hums, pleased.
“You don’t. Need a shower,” Roy murmurs, but it doesn’t stop him from capturing Jamie’s chin with two fingers and tilting his face up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He kisses Jamie’s lips and the side of his face, the underside of his jaw.
“Hello.”
Jamie hums. It’s all so good—the light scrape of Roy’s beard against his neck, the wet flutter of Roy’s lips, the warm bulk of Roy’s body underneath him. Another kiss to the side of his neck and Jamie shivers, feels the shape of Roy’s answering smile against his skin.
It’s unfair, really, how easily Roy can get to him. It’s like he’s fourteen again and getting hard at a breeze of wind, except now it’s Roy that does it, his hands and his voice and that frown he gets when he’s thinking too much. Sometimes, he doesn’t even need a touch.
“You had fun?” Roy lowers his hands to Jamie’s hips, caresses the skin under his shirt. “Anything scandalous happened I shouldn’t know about? You got high, did you.”
“It’s the off-season,” Jamie says. “Was fun, yeah. Arlo bleached his hair—Winchester dared him.” Another kiss. Jamie tilts his head down and to the side so that they’re pressed cheek to cheek, his mouth to Roy’s ear. “Missed you, though.”
“It’s been four days.”
“Four days without getting my dick sucked, mate,” Jamie laments, and Roy snorts a laugh, hand cupping Jamie’s cheek. They’re so close that Jamie can see only half of Roy’s face, those wrinkles around his eyes that he wants to kiss, but he can tell that Roy is smirking, all pleased and self-satisfied.
Jamie’s fucking gone on this smug fucker, proper swooning, and Roy gets off on it. Lucky coincidence, because Jamie gets off on anything Roy does, so they’re winning all around. He sighs happily, stretching his arms above his head.
“Going to get washed up. Want to come watch me shower?” Jamie offers, and Roy laughs and starts pushing him off.
“Fuck no. I’m not getting up.”
“Oi, I’ll have you know people pay to see all this.” Jamie gestures down to—well, everything, then back to his face. He gives Roy a wink. “You’re missing out.”
Roy’s gaze catches. “Maybe,” he says, and his voice says one thing and his eyes something completely different.
“Leave the door open, yeah?” Roy’s voice calls out behind him, and Jamie flips him off without turning to look. The sound of Roy’s laugh follows him all the way upstairs.
Roy joins him upstairs when he’s unpacking, and they get caught up in a welcome-home snog that turns into a welcome-home fuck—not Jamie’s finest work, as he’s too tired to really get going, but it’s lovely anyway. He gets to lie there and mouth lazy kisses along Roy’s throat as Roy wanks them both off with a firm grip and a hot stream of filth right into Jamie’s ear.
Jamie’s sleepy and turned on at once, and his mind runs idly with it. He finds himself fantasising about falling asleep—what it’d be like if he just closed his eyes, let Roy do whatever he wanted with his body. If he woke up tomorrow raw and well-fucked, gasping around Roy’s hard cock, Roy’s teeth nipping at his shoulder.
Jamie comes right then, shuddering as he watches through hooded eyes the filthy mess of it. His come dripping over Roy’s fingers and down to his wrists, Roy’s cock hard and flushed, Roy’s hand still working at it. Roy doesn’t let go, stroking their cocks together until he’s wrung the last of Jamie’s orgasm out of him, still going. Roy’s hand is slick with Jamie’s come, warm and implacable, working his wrist as the pleasure edges into discomfort. Jamie shifts his hips at the sensation, not quite pulling away but thinking about it.
“That’s—Roy,” he gasps. “Roy fuck that’s—so much.” Jamie’s breath catches. Roy’s grip is so tight around his softening cock, and it feels raw and sensitive. Too-hot, like a friction burn. “So much.”
Roy loosens his fingers, but he doesn’t let go. He flicks his wrist and slows down his pace, runs the blunt edge of a thumbnail down the length of Jamie’s shaft. “Do you want me to stop?” The thumb presses against the head of Jamie’s cock, rubbing up over the slit. Teasing.
“Jamie. Do you want me to stop?”
A groan rises up in his throat. It takes effort to speak. “It just—it hurts,” Jamie whines, and Roy’s cock—jumps.
There’s no way Jamie could’ve missed it, not like this, both their dicks flush together in Roy’s grip. Roy’s leaking at the tip, adding to the mess of his hand, hard and twitching. It looks so big against Jamie’s spent cock, heavy and swollen at the head.
“It’s too much, Roy. It’s so—”
But he doesn’t say stop. Roy gives it another stroke and Jamie squirms. He angles his head to get a look at Roy’s face: his eyes are dark and his face is streaked pink, mouth slack and wet.
“Kiss me,” Jamie breathes and Roy angles his face and licks into Jamie’s mouth, timing his tongue to the movements of his hand, smothering Jamie’s whimpers with his lips.
“You’re doing so well.” Roy’s breath grazes Jamie’s mouth, their foreheads pressed together. “It hurts, but you’re letting me, yeah? Doing so well for me. That’s so good.”
Fuck. Jamie’s head spins against the pillow, and he closes his eyes, sinking into the sensations. The friction on his overstimulated cock, the feeling of Roy’s words against his lips, the heat spreading through his belly at Roy’s words.
“You’re so good, you’re doing so well,” Roy is saying, and Jamie moans because it’s too much, but he’s starting to get hard again, and Roy’s lips close over his earlobe, pinching down until it stings—Jamie’s cock twitches and then Roy comes in a sticky hot spurt, exhaling roughly into Jamie’s neck, and he comes and comes and doesn’t let go until he’s completely spent.
Jamie’s dick feels sensitive and raw, like when he was fourteen and wanking twelve times a day. He’s hazy and sex-drunk and not quite half-hard yet, and he wonders if Roy’s going to get him off again, keep at it until Jamie’s gasping and trembling with sharp uncomfortable pleasure.
Instead, Roy pulls away and wipes his filthy hand over Jamie’s stomach—fucking rude, but Jamie’s not the one with the overgrown body hair, after all. At least Roy cleans him up right away, pressing a kiss to Jamie’s forehead as he does.
“Get back here,” Jamie commands, shifting around on the bed until he’s got Roy right where he wants him, tucked against Jamie’s side like a pillow to curl up against.
“Was that alright?” Roy asks after a while, and Jamie blinks away a yawn. He’s about to fall asleep, and it’s nice to be here, in Roy’s bed, breathing in the smell of Roy’s skin.
“It was…” Jamie doesn’t know the right words. Intense, maybe. Bit surprising. “You liked that,” he hears himself say, sounding like he just realised. But he should have known, should he? Roy loves to make him squirm.
“You liked that a lot,” Jamie says, feeling—pleased. Light. “You did, yeah? Was that—you said it were good, innit?”
Roy breathes, slow and steady. “Yes.”
“Yes what, you twat.”
Roy snorts a laugh. “Yes I liked it,” he says, like he’s doing Jamie a favour by spelling it out. Jamie’s happy to hear it, to be fair. Glad he made it good for Roy. “We can talk about it if you want. Some other time.”
“Sound,” Jamie says, or maybe he’s just thought it. He yawns. “T’morrow, okay?”
Jamie wakes up slowly, brain thick with sleep. He spends five minutes blinking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror before remembering he came in here to brush his teeth, and that sets the tone for the rest of the morning—slow-paced and lazy.
Roy’s at Nelson Road, still caught up in post-season reviews—wrangling meetings and checking in with the physios and discussing scouting reports in Higgins’s office, all shit Roy says he hates but absolutely refuses to delegate, the filthy liar. Jamie takes his time in the shower and makes himself a big breakfast, fried eggs and coffee and jam on toast with more butter than he’d usually indulge in.
He eats slowly, enjoying the luxury of having absolutely nothing to do. Then he ends up back in bed, lying on his side as he scrolls through the pictures on his phone from the last couple of days, sharing his favourites in the trip’s group chat along with everyone else’s. He forwards a couple dozen to Mummy and picks the best ones to upload to Insta, both the public account and the locked one that’s just for friends. He’s about to snoop around among the fan accounts—so Jamie likes to look himself up; so what?—when Sam texts him to ask if he wants to go play padel later.
?????? Jamie sends, because he’s never played padel in his life and he’s pretty sure Sam hasn’t either, but Sam’s reply clears it right up.
Simi & her friend are going. they booked a court for this afternoon and need an extra pair. you’ve met Carmen right?
Jamie’s met some of Simi’s friends at Sam’s last birthday party; he’s pretty sure Carmen was the one who spent twenty minutes discussing politics with an increasingly drunker Bumbercatch. Bit intense, very passionate. He can picture her working up to a nice serve.
u know idk how to play right?
yes. I cant either. we can learn together!
Well, why not. They make plans to meet at half past three; the court Simi’s friend booked is in Hyde Park, just a few stops away on the District line from Roy’s, and Jamie decides to head out and stop for a bit of shopping and a bite to eat beforehand.
He sees Sam before he actually gets to meet him in the flesh—there’s a cool shot of him in an ad for Loewe at Harrods, modelling a cardigan and a calfskin bag. Jamie grins at the sight and snaps a photo that’s going straight to his stories. not as fit as the real thing @samobisanya he posts, and it takes about twenty seconds for the reactions to flood in.
He ends up buying a shoulder bag for Mummy, and one of those plain cotton shirts Roy fucking loves that cost as much as a discounted pair of trainers. Not black, because Jamie’s been trying to broaden Roy’s sartorial horizons—instead, he goes with deep navy blue for days Roy is feeling bold. While he’s in the queue, he texts Roy to remind him that they’re going on a date tonight, and sends him the restaurant’s address.
it’s not a fucking reminder if I didn’t know we were going, innit
fine its a SURPRISE then
Surprise!! dress nice. 19:30
whatever. xx
Jamie looks at that xx and feels stupidly happy, standing there with his phone in hand until the woman behind him nudges him because he’s stopping the queue. Fair enough.
He spends the rest of the afternoon trying to nail a drop shot—chiquita, Simi calls it, but that just makes Jamie think of the bananas. Jamie gets hit by padel balls on the face plenty and generally embarrasses himself, but it’s dead fun and also he looks hot doing it, which never hurts. He watches the way Sam looks at Simi, so obviously smitten and plain fucking adorable, and wonders if he’s half as bad when Roy’s around. Probably yes.
His date with Roy is at a new Greek restaurant that opened back in March; Declan’s brother-in-law is a food critic or something—a sommelier, maybe—and Jamie’s been hearing Dec rave about the place since they opened. He made a reservation weeks ago so they could get a private dining room, something he’s extremely glad for as soon as Roy walks in, looking—like that—and all the blood rushes immediately from Jamie’s head down to his dick.
“Romantic,” Roy says dryly. Jamie wags a finger at him.
“Oi, I just said you make me feel dizzy, that’s some Pride and Prejudice shit. Plenty romantic.”
He looks Roy up and down—tight jeans that hint obscenely at his cock, and a dress shirt Jamie bought for him last month, deep burgundy silk that Roy’s wearing open at the collar—open down to the third button, even, which is fucking unfair and delicious. Jamie wants to lick his throat.
“It’s fucking hot when you wear stuff I got you.”
It slips from his mouth without his brain getting a say in it. Jamie’s face feels hot, but Roy’s cheekbones are streaked pink too, and it’s fucking delicious to watch.
“Fucking stop looking at me like that if you want to actually have dinner,” Roy hisses. Jamie watches him sit down, and doesn’t stop looking at him like that. He licks his lips and winks at Roy.
“Make me.”
Roy kicks him under the table, swift and hard.
“You got my shin, you fucking dick,” Jamie moans. He kicks Roy right back. “Alright, truce. That’s exactly why I got us a dining room, you know. So we could play footsie under the table and no one’d care.”
Roy throws back his head and laughs. Jamie wants to crawl across the table and drop to sit in his lap. He wants to straddle Roy’s legs with his thighs and mould himself to Roy’s chest and that fucking gorgeous shirt, and stay like that for hours.
After the waiter comes with their food and closes the door behind him, Jamie does just that. Not the crawling across the table bit, or the plastering himself to Roy’s like an affectionate tick, but he drags his chair next to Roy’s so that they can sit with their thighs pressed together, and brings over his plate and glasses and everything else.
“Better,” Jamie says, satisfied. “C’mon, give us a bite.” He crosses his arms over his chest and stares expectantly up at Roy.
It takes a few seconds for Roy to get it. “You’ve got your own fork,” he grumbles, even as he cuts a bite of his kleftiko and holds out the fork to Jamie’s mouth.
“Oh, that’s fucking lush. Try mine now.”
Jamie takes great pleasure feeding Roy bites of buttered prawns and his moussaka, loving the way he’d roll his eyes but look unspeakably fond all the while. Besides, this is a date. They’re going to do date shit. He watches Roy’s fingers curl around his cutlery and wonders if Roy’d ever wear rings, if Jamie got them for him. Or a necklace. Something he’d never take off. He wonders if Roy would ever want to get a tattoo.
“You know, I think Isaac’s gonna be the next one,” Jamie says idly over dessert. “Next one of the lads to get engaged, I mean. The whole time we was away he was all, Jade this and Jade that and ‘Bruv I planned the perfect holiday’. He’s taking her to Santorini for their anniversary.”
“No fucking way Isaac’s next. They’ve been dating for what, a year? That man takes some time to make decisions, and good for him.” Roy nods sharply, sounding vaguely admiring. Then he launches into a story about a bloke he’d known at Sunderland who got engaged to a model he’d met only three months before. “Mind you, I think they’re still together, up in Birmingham with four kids. I remember fuck all about the wedding though, we were all pissed. Especially the bride.”
That turns into a story about wild weddings Roy’s been to—dozens, apparently—which turns into Roy asking what they all did on Jeff’s stag weekend, and nodding approvingly when Jamie says there were no strippers.
“Never a good idea, that. Always ends with somebody kicked out of the club, or getting high and having to pay for damages, or maybe the stag runs off with the best man’s sister—don’t fucking ask.”
“I mean, Winchester gave Isaac a lap dance, does that count? He had on a feather boa,” Jamie says. “And a ball gag.”
“A ball gag.”
“Yes, one of those…you know. Ball things. Like in porn.”
“A ball gag,” Roy says, again. He looks down at the table, his forgotten dessert, his hand curled around the spoon. “What about you?”
The air in the room feels different, ticker. Jamie’s mouth tastes like honey and pistachios; he licks his lips.
“What ‘bout me?”
“Do anything fun?”
“Nobody got me doing lap dances.” Fucking shame, that—Jamie would’ve been aces at it. Better than Winchester, at any rate. “Uh, got spanked a lot, though.”
Roy’s head snaps up. His eyes are dark, a hungry stare that makes Jamie’s mouth go dry.
“Like… Jeff’s brother, he pegged this note to my back, that said—”
“I get it.”
Of course Roy does. It was just a joke, same as dozens of other parties Jamie’s been at. He’s done it himself more times than he can remember, a cheeky SPANK ME! in permanent marker on the back of a mate who fell asleep in the sun, a note pinned to the shirt of a stag left tied to a post for the time of a round or two. Just a laugh.
“You know how it is. Bit of spanking, bit of groping—reckon I got out lightly, yeah? Arlo got handcuffed and had to drink a whole pint without hands and then he had to take a slash...” He’s blabbing. Jamie’s trousers feel a little tight at the way Roy’s looking at him. “You’re… Roy, are you jealous?”
“Jealous of Goodman’s fucking brother? Fuck off.”
“You look like your brain broke.”
Roy doesn’t deny it. “I’m not fucking jealous. But let’s go home, this is fucking torture.”
Whatever image Roy’s got in his mind right now must be really doing it for him. Jamie flashes a satisfied grin, bumps their knees together.
“I’ve not finished my dessert yet, though.”
“Hurry the fuck up, then.”
Just for that, Jamie takes his time licking off every spoonful, grinning at Roy’s flushed face. Roy slumps back in his seat and taps at his watch, making a whole show of looking impatient like he’s not fucking enjoying the view. Jamie scrapes another spoonful and brings it gently up to Roy’s mouth.
“C’mon, open up. Taste it.”
That makes Roy laugh. “You fucking tease,” he says, and the gorgeous smile on his face makes wrinkles pop around his eyes. Jamie leans in and smacks a soft kiss on Roy’s lips, laps the honey away with the tip of his tongue.
“You had a bit of summat,” Jamie says, innocently. “Want another one? You’re looking hungry, babe.”
He wriggles his brows in Roy’s direction, laughs as Roy’s fingers pinch at his thigh under the table. Roy’s mouth tastes sweet like this. Jamie can’t get enough of him.
“So you want to spank me, right?”
Jamie scuttles in closer, puts his lips to the back of Roy’s neck. They’re lying on their sides, Jamie’s thigh thrown over Roy’s hip, slowly grinding against Roy’s arse. There’s no rush. He’s pleasantly half-hard, fingers trailing circles over Roy’s chest hair.
“‘Cos I brought up spanking it earlier, and you looked like… you know.”
“Like what?”
Fucking Roy, making him say things. “Like you wanted to eat me with that fucking spoon.” Jamie punctuates his words with a thrust of his hips. Roy doesn’t say anything. “I mean it, you know, I’m up for it. Done it before, have I?”
“Right, with Jeff’s brother.”
“Fuck off,” Jamie snorts. “Like, with girlfriends and shit. One nighters. I’ve got a great bum, don’t I? People notice.”
Roy hums in agreement and twists around in Jamie’s arms so that they’re chest to chest, all tangled legs and mingling breaths. Roy’s hands immediately go to Jamie’s arse, which he’d been counting on. Give him a nice grope.
“And did you like it?”
Jamie’s cock fucking twitches. He can’t help it, when Roy talks like this—when Roy does anything, really; just looking at him makes Jamie melt. He’s so easy for this man.
“I like everything with you.”
Jamie means it, he really does. But Roy’s hands fall away and he gives a small sigh that makes Jamie feel like he gave the wrong answer on a game show, and there goes his chance to get the fucking prize. He kicks Roy’s legs with a bare foot.
“What’s your fucking problem? You wanna do shit, I wanna do shit. Can’t we just—”
“You don’t want to ‘do shit’, you want to ‘do shit’ with me,” Roy says, like there’s any fucking difference. Jamie rolls away from Roy’s touch and onto his back, staring at the ceiling in the almost darkness. He’s mostly hard and getting more confused by the second.
“Roy, love, you aren’t making any sense, yeah? Use your words.”
If there was more light, Jamie’s sure Roy would make a show of rolling his eyes, a whole dramatic performance. As it is, he has to settle for a huff.
“I don’t want to spank you,” Roy says, making no sense whatsoever. “Don’t want to just spank you. I want to…”
“Yes?” Jamie asks after a few seconds. He nudges Roy’s hip. “Mate, I’m fucking dying here. My balls are about to explode.”
“I want to make you cry.”
The silence is so thick that Jamie can hear his heart beating, pumping all the blood that’s rushing down to his dick. Oh, he thinks, and he doesn’t know what to say, and then Roy rolls around until he’s lying splayed over Jamie’s body, pinning him down. They’re nose to nose, Roy’s cock hard against thigh, Jamie’s wrists firmly caught in Roy’s grip. Oh.
“Want to fuck you up, Jamie. Leave bruises, make you fucking cry, wanna hit you until you sob. Choke you. I want to fuck you dry.” Every new word is a jolt of arousal curling in Jamie’s guts. “I want you to beg me to stop and I’ll keep going. I want to slap you in the face and leave a mark. I want to make you hurt.”
Roy’s hurting him now already, fingers curled tighter and tighter around Jamie’s wrists. He punctuates every word with dirty grinds of his hard cock into Jamie’s hips, hot and leaking—that’s how much Roy wants to make him hurt. Jamie’s breath catches in his lungs.
“Fucking hell, Roy,” he breathes, barely there. Roy’s hands don’t let go.
“Good or bad?”
“I don’t… fuck.”
He can’t put it into words. Maybe this is what being struck by lighting feels like—the heat in Roy’s voice is overwhelming; Jamie can’t believe he made Roy sound like that. Hungry and raw. He’d do anything to hear those sounds from Roy again. He’d let Roy do anything he wants to him.
“I can take whatever you throw my way. You know that.”
“It’s not a competition,” Roy says, again—what’s this, the fourth time? Fifth? They’re going in circles here. “It’s not about how much you can take, you twat. It’s about—”
“Yeah, yeah, but still. Just letting you know.”
Jamie winks up at him, head thrown back, sprawled on the sofa with his thighs wide. He squeezes his cock through two layers of clothes, relishing the dangerous heat of Roy’s gaze. He could get high on this.
Jamie’s sexy as fuck; he’s had loads of sex with dozens of people, heard years’ worth of dressing room chatter about the wildest fucking shit you could imagine. He understands what Roy’s about. Fucking hell, he should’ve guessed.
It’s not something Jamie would seek out by himself, but he’s an accommodating lad—he likes to offer a good time, especially if it involves orgasms. He’s played with blindfolds a few times, and still has a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs somewhere. He fucking loved Keeley calling him a good boy. Jamie likes it when his partners are happy, and if Roy’s happy hurting him, then—well, Jamie gets hard just looking at Roy’s hands sometimes. Pain doesn’t get him off but Roy’s attention does, and he wants nothing more than to bask in it.
“I can take it,” Jamie repeats. “Anything you want.”
“Jamie…”
“Roy,” Jamie says in the same tone. “Babe. I ain’t exactly delicate, yeah? Whatever pervert kinky shit you’re into, you’re not gonna scare me off.”
That makes it hotter, actually—the idea that there’s shit Roy likes that he doesn’t get to do often, and Jamie can give it to him. He stands up and gets all up in Roy’s face, baring all his teeth. “Do you worst.”
Roy slaps him.
It’s a hell of a hit. Jamie’s head turns at the impact, the side of his face burning in pain, but Jamie’s spotted Roy in the gym and knows how much he lifts, and this is not even close to full strength. Jamie’s ear is not even ringing. He can take this—what was Roy even worried about?
Jamie’s cheek is hot under his fingertips. “Yeah, ‘kay.” He exhales. “Had much worse, you know? This is…”
His heart is thumping in his throat. Roy is looking at him the same way he does when Jamie is naked and sweaty, or when he’s blinking up at him with a face full of come. “Fuck, this is really doing it for you, innit? Shit, Roy.”
Roy is really, really fucking into this. Jamie licks his dry lips. He likes pain about as much as the majority of people—he’s used to it, as an athlete, but he’d much rather not—but if a bit of pain gets Roy to look at him like this, then Jamie’s on board. Totally on board.
“You can do that again if you want… you can—whatever is that you’re into, fucking go for it. Roy, come on.”
Roy’s into slapping him in the face again, apparently, and then he wants to suck Jamie’s dick about it. He’s enthusiastic, diving into it like he wants to swallow Jamie’s brains through his cock, scraping his beard along the inside of Jamie’s thighs to rub the skin red. He pulls back his lips once or twice, a hint of blunt teeth that makes Jamie squirm, and his hands are rougher than Jamie’s used to, more careless.
Jamie looks down between his legs and his chest feels tight at the sight, because Roy is so eager for it. Because that’s Roy Kent sucking Jamie’s cock like he’s feasting on it—it’s been a couple of months but that still does it for Jamie, so fucking what? Jamie’s so close. Roy looks so good like this, mouth red and stretched and wet.
Jamie is about to come when Roy pulls back, resting his cheek on Jamie’s thigh. Roy’s hand is on Jamie’s dick, thumbing at the head, stroking the back of his fingers up and down the wet shaft. Idly and unhurried, like Jamie’s body is something for Roy to toy with—and then the hand slides up and behind, gripping firmly at Jamie’s sac, squeezing down on his balls. Squeezing harder, tighter. It hurts.
Jamie whimpers. His whole body shudders; nothing pleasant about this, just pain. Roy doesn’t stop—he’s fucking loving this, Jamie can see it, licking lazily at Jamie’s flagging erection, digging the edge of a nail into the slit. The hand that’s gripping Jamie’s balls slips off, stroking the inside of his thigh. Pinching the soft skin there, hard.
“Fuck,” Jamie yelps and Roy makes an encouraging noise. “Fuck, Roy, this’s fucking—it hurts, Roy, fucking hell—”
He doesn’t say stop, though. Roy lays both hands flat on Jamie’s thighs and licks up the shaft again, eyes flicking up to meet Jamie’s gaze. Bends his neck and opens his mouth wide. Roy swallows around Jamie’s cock and sucks until his cheeks go hollow—pure, uncomplicated pleasure washes over him. The warm suction of Roy’s mouth feels so precious after the sting of Roy’s pinches, the casual way he just fucking squeezed Jamie’s balls like it was nothing.
This time, when Jamie warns that he’s about to come, Roy sits back on his heels and lands an open-hand slap on Jamie’s cock.
Jamie groans, maybe. He hasn’t got much air in his lungs. He squirms and he whimpers, calls out Roy’s name in a whisper—Roy’s panting, sitting up on his knees on the cushions, painfully hard.
“Can I touch you? Roy, can you—”
His hand reaches out and Roy goes with it, lets Jamie tug him atop him and wrap Roy in his arms. Their mouths meet in a kiss and Jamie’s half expecting Roy to bite him, or something, but it’s just… It’s nice.
“Can I get you off?” Jamie whispers in Roy’s ear. “I want to.”
“In a minute.”
This time, when Roy slips back down between Jamie’s legs it’s to finish him off, mouthing hungrily at Jamie’s cock, swallowing deep around him while he pinches Jamie’s thighs. It’s a lot, the contrast. Loving whispers and painful touches. It’s not Jamie’s thing, but Roy’s eyes are so black and hungry and Jamie is so fucking turned on—he shouts as he comes, shivering all over. Jamie’s head falls back against the armrest and he closes his eyes, moaning Roy’s name in the dark.
The thing about the off-season is that Jamie has no real reason to leave the house. He’s probably going to get called up to play for England in the Nations League in a couple of weeks; after that, he’s taking Mummy to Croatia for a few days. He needs to talk to his agent, fly out to Germany for a sponsorship thing, and maybe get a haircut while he’s at it—nothing urgent, three or four days at the most.
He’s left with a slew of empty days stretching in front of him, nowhere to be and no schedule to follow, and so many invitations from dozens of people that Jamie could spend the whole break hiding out in Roy’s bedroom and everyone would assume just he fucked off on holiday with somebody else. Lucky him, as hiding out at Roy’s for the whole break is exactly what Jamie wants to do.
“I ain’t usually like this,” he reassures, like Roy’s not hard for him being a clingy fuck, but Jamie’s got dignity. “Won’t last. It’s just—this is all new, yeah?”
Usually, Jamie likes to have a social life beyond the person he’s fucking. He’s got things to do and places to see, and he likes to take every chance to go back home and catch up. But this is Roy, who Jamie’s wanted for so long that it feels like forever—now that he’s got him, Jamie can’t get enough of him.
Brilliantly, Roy seems like he can’t get enough of Jamie either. Turns out that fucking Roy is not that much different from being coached by Roy: he’s bossy as fuck, he likes to make Jamie work for it until he can’t feel his fucking legs and, usually, the results are worth it.
“But seriously, how aren’t you worn out?”
It’s nine in the evening, though now that Roy’s on break too, it’s like the passage of time doesn’t matter. They’ve fucked three times today already, and now Roy is getting handsy again—just playing with him, like. Groping a bit. Slapping the back of Jamie’s thigh, digging his finger into Jamie’s hips.
“Thought old people needed more rest.” Jamie makes his eyes big and innocent. “A nap or summat, yeah?”
Roy pinches him, hard. He’s been doing that more and more lately, bits of their usual roughhousing escalating into something newer, and Jamie’s found himself looking back and wondering if this was always a sex thing for Roy. If he ever got off on Jamie’s occasional winces of pain after a long training day, when he pushed himself past his limits just because Roy said so.
Jamie hisses under Roy’s touch, shifts eager to sit up on Roy’s lap. “You drive me fucking mental.” He kisses up Roy’s neck, under his ear. Tastes the skin there and sighs. He fucking loves how much Roy wants him.
They’ve been shagging a lot, because that’s what the off-season is for, and because Roy’s a surprisingly horny old man and what’s Jamie supposed to do, turn him down? Most times, it’s lovely in just the usual way—two fit people sharing good orgasms, soft laughter and Roy’s teasing voice in his ear.
Sometimes, though, Roy wants to fucking wreck him. It’s easy to go with it, pulled along by the intensity of Roy’s magnetic gaze, the raw desire etched on his features. Lie back and let Roy’s hands take him apart, bask in the bright hot flame of Roy’s desire. Let him take everything, whatever he wants.
One day, Roy tells Jamie he's going to hit him. He just says it, no questions asked, and brings out a selection of paddles and makes Jamie choose the one that’s going to hurt him. Jamie’s dick is so hard it could cut glass; he feels his pulse all the way into his fucking throat.
Keeley has a paddle in her toy box, too; it was the first Jamie’d seen outside of parties here and there, but she’d said she liked being on the receiving end and Jamie hadn’t been keen on trying it like that. Roy’s got at least three of them, maybe more, and knows how to use them. His arms are just as strong as they look when Jamie runs his tongue and mouth over Roy’s biceps, and he puts all of that time in the gym to good use.
The first hit makes Jamie cry out. By the third, there are tears in his eyes. Then he’s fucking crying, big wet sobs that get Roy off like someone popped the cork on a champagne bottle, and he’s grinning as he laps the tears off Jamie’s face, happy and mean. Their kisses taste like salt, and Jamie can’t even sit down the next morning, squirming with every sting of pain on his sore arse. Jamie gets Roy to massage cream into the reddened skin, since he’s looking way too fucking pleased with himself, and that night he sleeps draped on top of Roy in bed.
That’s kind of a trend—after Roy’s rough with him, he likes to hover, oddly solicitous, and Jamie’s not above taking shameless advantage. If Roy really wants to attend to his every need, then good for him—Jamie’s got plenty of those. He sends Roy running round the house to get him freshly squeezed orange juice or Jamie’s favourite pillow that he left in the bedroom, and Roy tells him to fuck off but he still does it, and always tilts down his chin to accept a kiss.
One day, Roy has to go in at Nelson Road even though he’s on break—some scouting report to look at, a new kid too hot to be ignored. It doesn’t take long and he comes back in a very good mood, sauntering past the front door and into the kitchen. He walks straight up to where Jamie’s standing by the fridge, and slaps him in the face.
The thing is, Roy’s not even angry. He’s just—Jamie was right there, and Roy wanted to slap him, so he did. It was… maybe Jamie’s beginning to understand why people get their wires crossed and start finding shit like this hot.
Jamie knows already that he’s going to be well and truly fucked next season, after a summer spent associating Roy’s narrow-eyed focused look with the promise of filthy sex. And Roy’s laugh—well. He might get a chub the first time he catches sight of Roy after a goal, happy and grinning as he punches the air.
Jamie’s been thinking about next season a lot, for good or bad. They’re going to smash it.
“Would you wear a necklace, if I got you one?”
Jamie nudges Roy’s thigh with the tip of his foot to get him to look up from his book. He’s wearing his shirt unbuttoned again—distracting, but it’s giving Jamie ideas.
“A gold chain, a thick one. It’d look good.”
Roy’s eyebrows go up. “Are you a stylist now?”
“Could be. I’m a style icon, you know.” Jamie’s not at risk of making it into Tatler’s Best Dressed list anytime soon, but he’s still got plenty of labels calling his agent for sponsorships and inviting him to London Fashion Week. More importantly, he knows what makes Roy look even sexier.
“You should let me pick your clothes sometimes. I’ll make you look hot. Nothing too exciting, I know you’re a bit boring, babe—” Jamie pushes past Roy’s grumbled denials— “But jewel tones would go with your look, though. Gold. Patterns on a black base. And you should let me get you a coat for match days for next season. Bet you’ll get some kind of UEFA prize for best-dressed gaffer or summat.”
“Lucky me.”
Jamie straightens up, intrigued. Stares at Roy through narrowed eyes. “That ain’t a no, though.”
“I love you.”
“Thanks,” Jamie says. Then it registers. “I mean, I know. I mean—”
Roy looks like he’s about to laugh in his face. It’s not like it’s the first time Roy said it but—now? It’s not Jamie’s fault that he wasn’t expecting it. “I mean, was it just ‘cos I want to dress you up? I tell you that you’re fit all the time.”
Roy is laughing for real now, the fucker. Jamie’s foot nudges him again, a proper kick this time, and Roy lets the book fall closed on his lap to grab Jamie’s ankle with both hands. He keeps it there, thumbs rubbing over Jamie’s shin.
“If you really want,” Roy says. “Yes, alright.”
“What, really?”
“If you don’t fucking overdo it, I’ve seen how you dress. But… yeah. Why not.”
Roy’s looking a bit pink around the edges. Jamie frowns, suspicious. “Is this because I let you smack me around? Do you think you have to—pay me back, or whatever?”
“What? No. Fuck off.”
“Cos it’s not a kink for me, mate, I just thought—”
“It’s not that,” Roy huffs. He’s properly pink now, all prickly, like an embarrassed hedgehog. “I know what your kinks are, Tartt.”
“Do you,” Jamie says, intrigued, before he remembers they’re getting sidetracked. “Nevermind that. Spill.”
He bumps the heel of his foot over Roy’s thigh, relishing the contact with the solid muscle. Roy’s hand tightens around his leg.
“I like how you look at me.”
Jamie blinks. “That’s it?”
“Yeah,” Roy says far too simply. “You wanna have fun buying me a coat, I’ll wear it.” He frowns. “‘s long as it’s not fucking atrocious. But I like how…”
He trails off, but Jamie gets it. I like how you look at me. That’s how Jamie feels when he’s helpless on his back, and Roy’s taking him apart. His spine ripples with a pleasant shiver.
“Babe,” Jamie coos. “You know, I’d think you look hot even if you wore, like, a rubbish bag. I’d want to rip it off you.” He stretches his other leg over Roy’s lap. “Now, about those kinks you say I have…”
Roy lets Jamie buy him a wrist chain—a fancy one, to get around that metal allergy—and three shirts that look just as good on him as Jamie knew they would, and he even suffers through a tailor fitting. Jamie’s very proud of him and tells him so. Roy flips him off—fucking figures—but he’s laughing the whole time.
Since they’re out shopping already, Roy says, maybe he should get Jamie something too. He’s got a look on his face that Jamie recognises.
“Is it a sex thing?”
“No,” Roy says. “Could be. Maybe.”
“Oh?” Jamie asks, but the shop attendant comes back and they both get distracted until much later.
Roy brings it up again in bed a couple days later, before going to sleep. Scratches Jamie’s scalp lightly with his nails, and tells Jamie that maybe he could get something specific to wear, if he wants. A special shirt or a belt or whatever, a way to let Roy know when Jamie’s up for it without talking about it. Like a signal, for those days when it’s fine to get back home and rough him up.
“Fuck,” Jamie says, with feeling. He’ll never get enough of the way Roy talks about this shit, so calm and relaxed. Making idle chat about taking Jamie apart. But he’s got a better idea.
“Not a belt, that’s proper stupid. An earring, maybe. And I can wear that when I’m not up for it.”
Jamie watches it land. That’s what Roy said, but flipped around—as if Roy pushing him around was the norm, telling Roy he can do it all the time. Roy sucks in a breath like he’s been punched, and Jamie knows that if he pressed his thigh between Roy’s legs he’d find him hard.
He’s working out where Roy’s buttons are, how to push them. That’s pretty fucking hot, too.
“I’m not into, like, the pain. That’s—it’s fine, right? You still like it?”
Jamie’s not fishing for compliments, not exactly. But he’s always been a hard worker, and dedicated—he hadn’t been the most innately talented lad on his academy team but now, a decade later, he’s the one with the biggest career. So what if Roy is a sexy pervert, and there’s probably hundreds of kinky freaks out there who’d get off on welts and bruises and stay hard the whole time whilst getting their dicks slapped—none of them is as fit as Jamie, he’s pretty sure. And not as fun, too. Nobody else can make Roy smile like he does, that bright gorgeous grin that transforms his whole face.
Anyway, point is, Jamie has a competitive streak and thrives on performance reviews. He rolls to his side, drags his tongue over Roy’s collarbone. Presses a kiss there. “Oi. Game strategy. How am I doing?”
Roy pushes Jamie’s hair off his forehead, caresses the side of Jamie’s face with the back of his hand. “I told you it’s not a competition.”
“I’m a Premier League footballer.” Jamie’s tone goes from incredulous to worried. “Wait, you remember that, right? Or is your memory going, because—hey.”
He twitches, twists to grab Roy’s hand that just jabbed him between the ribs. If Roy finds out he’s ticklish on that side, Jamie’s fucked. His fingers squeeze around Roy’s hand, and Roy squeezes back.
“Right. Footballer, everything’s a competition,” Roy says. Fucking hypocrite. “Who’re you up against?”
“Dunno. Hook-ups. Exes. Your sexual fantasies. You should tell me ‘bout all of those, by the way—fantasies, not exes. Want to know what gets you off.”
Roy’s hand stills over his face. He traces the shape of Jamie’s lips with his thumb, leans in as if for a kiss. “You get me off,” Roy whispers right against Jamie’s mouth—should be scathing hot, but he mostly sounds sweet. “Is that what you want to hear? You’re bloody good at it.”
Warmth blooms in Jamie’s chest like a flower. “Ta. I work hard.”
Roy rolls his eyes down at him, but he’s grinning, and it feels like walking into the sun. Jamie hums and settles in so that he’s more comfortable, stretching out his legs. He’s sore.
Earlier, Roy fucked him open on his fingers in Jamie’s big fancy bathtub, nothing but water and pressure to ease the way. He helped Jamie out of the tub, wrapped him in a soft towel and kissed his mouth, and then he shoved Jamie down on the bed and fucked him slow and dry. It brought tears to Jamie’s eyes, but he’s never going to forget the sound of Roy’s voice muttering rough praise in his ear—how good he felt around Roy’s cock, how gorgeous he looked as he lay there and took it. Jamie’s going to wank to the memory for months.
“But if it was a competition,” Jamie says because no fucking way he’s letting this go. “I’d win, right? You like it even if—” Then he gets a good look at Roy’s face, and he’s hit with a wave of delight. “Oh. Wait, that makes it better for you, does it. That I’m not into it?”
“Tartt,” Roy sighs, but they’ve been working on communication and that, so Jamie waits unfazed Roy to say whatever is floating through his dark stormy mind. He busies himself drawing shapes into Roy’s shoulder, circles that turn into number nines, a whole chain of them down Roy’s arm. Roy exhales.
“It makes it better, yeah. That you don’t like it and still do it, for me—that’s…”
“Hot?”
“Feels fucking great,” Roy says. “While it’s happening. Sometimes it feels like shit after, though.”
Jamie blinks, confused. Then he gets it. “Oh.” He snaps his fingers. “Post-nut clarity.”
Roy gives him a look. Jamie shrugs as innocently as he can, lying there naked with come drying over his thighs. “What? That’s just what it’s called. O’Brien says that—”
“Jesus fuck, let’s not talk about him.”
“It’s when you’re about to get off and then—”
“I know what it means, please don’t make me think about O’Brien shagging, thank you.” Roy’s voice is loud, as if the noise’s going to drown out whatever he’s picturing. “And yeah…” Roy’s staring at the ceiling, not meeting Jamie’s eyes. “Feels a little fucked, after. Knowing that you—” His mouth twists like he’s tasting something bitter. “Endured.”
“Aw.” Jamie didn’t mean to say it; it just slips out. “First of all…” He props himself up on his elbow to press a kiss to Roy’s mouth. “Reward for honesty.”
He touches the tip of his tongue to his teeth as he says it, the prick grin he brings out on the pitch when he’s angling to get fouled. It’s a distraction; Roy can grab at it if he wants, shove Jamie off and roll them over and pin him down by his hips, call him a little shit and nip at his mouth and forget all about honesty. But Roy just watches him, all calm and waiting, and Jamie feels so stupidly fucking fond.
“Roy. Look. I fucking love it, yeah?” Jamie says. “The part where it hurts, that’s your thing, not mine, whatever—but itʼs all… you’re so passionate. I fucking love I get to see you like—I want to do everything with you.” Then he remembers what else Roy said. “Fucking great, am I?”
“Sometimes,” Roy says, like he’s not quite sure but he’s open to being persuaded.
“I can be great all the time. Watch me”
“I’m always watching you.” Roy’s voice is raw, frightfully open. “Leave me no other choice, do you?”
“Yep.” He touches Roy’s cheek. “Hey, d’you want to go somewhere for the weekend? Lisbon, maybe. Sicily. Somewhere sunny.”
Jamie likes the idea as soon as he’s said it. His mind is already adrift thinking about food and beaches and architectural wonders, holding Roy’s hand under the Mediterranean sun, but Roy isn’t done.
“Jamie, listen. If it’s ever—”
“I know.”
“Whenever—”
“I know, mate.”
“You say stop, I stop.” Roy says, all in a rush, like he absolutely needs Jamie to be reassured. Or maybe he’s reassuring himself, like he thinks there’s anything Roy could do to him that Jamie doesn’t want.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jamie says. “I mean, unless…”
“Unless,” Roy agrees. The word dangles right there, in the air, and Jamie’s cock stirs. He thinks about what Roy said he wants to do, Jamie begging him to stop, and Roy won’t—that’s proper kinky, that. He should’ve known Roy would be like this. He burrows his head into Roy’s chest, nuzzles his face against a patch of hair he likes.
“There’s something I like, though. Like, I think it’s really fucking hot.”
It’s a lazy, precious moment. Jamie makes himself comfortable splayed into Roy’s body, Roy’s hand brushing up his side, relishing in Roy’s inquisitive murmur.
“I think I like it when you slap me in the face,” Jamie says, slowly. It’s happened maybe half a dozen times since that first time, and it’s—just thinking about it makes him feel like his head’s still spinning. Not in a bad way.
“It don’t hurt much—I mean, it does but not for long. Just stings a bit. And…” Jamie swallows, searching for the right words. “Think it’s hot that you could—just get home in a rotten mood, and take it out on me if you feel like it. Means I’m yours.”
Roy’s hand still. Jamie looks up and finds him staring, slack-mouthed and awed, like he just had a brilliant prostate orgasm. That look—Jamie’d do anything for him like this. He’d let Roy whip him bloody if it meant he’d look at Jamie like this. Tear him apart and fuck his mouth through a split lip, fucking—claw him open. It makes Jamie happy to give him anything at all.
“I love you,” Jamie says, hoping Roy can read everything else in it.
“Yeah.” Roy looks a bit dazed still. “How the fuck are you real?”
And that’s… Jamie’s good at feelings, usually. He’s brazen and always speaks his mind and he’s got very little shame even when he could use some. But now, Roy saying this sappy shit, totally unselfconscious—Jamie can feel the way his face goes red. He tucks his face back into Roy’s chest, picking at a furl of hairs.
“You got fucking lucky, I guess.” He trails his fingers down to Roy’s hand, lifting his fingers and drawing it to his throat. He meets Roy’s eyes, dark and hooded. He presses Roy’s fingers against his throat. “Real fucking lucky, yeah?”