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Roy doesn’t know how many more post-match ice baths he’s got left in him before they simply stop working. Used to be that he could hop in after a match and get out ten minutes later feeling refreshed and pain-free no matter how hard he’d played. Used to be that the cold water helped with the swelling in his knee, made the pain disappear for a while. Now he can sit in there for twenty, thirty minutes — far longer than he’s supposed to, but the recommended fifteen no longer cuts it — and still feel like fucking shit after.
The only thing mildly lifting Roy’s spirits tonight is the fact that they managed to win a match without Tartt — who Lasso fucking benched. Roy might have to rethink his list of the funniest things he’s ever seen. Does Jamie getting sent off go above or below him running decoy?
Roy wishes he could really fucking enjoy seeing Jamie finally get what’s been coming to him instead of just mostly enjoying it, but the ticking fucking time bomb that is his fucking knee won’t let him focus on much else. Fucking goddamn injury. Fucking goddamn Tartt, waltzing around the pitch like he’s fucking untouchable, stepping over Sam like the fucking prick he is, expecting everyone to let it slide just because he can score goals.
Roy has to admit, he doesn’t mind having Ronald fucking McDonald as gaffer so much anymore. He’s still a shit manager, no doubt about that, but at least he’s got the balls to put Tartt in his fucking place. Cartrick never fucking did. Couldn’t afford to piss off their special little pre-Madonna.
Roy grinds his teeth together, dunking his head under the frigid water once more, and finally gives up on hoping that this most recent ice bath will somehow do something to fix him. He lifts himself out with a grunt of frustration, and snatches up his towel to dry himself off as the feeling slowly begins to return to his limbs.
Everyone else has probably left for the night by now, either to go home and get some sleep like Roy fucking wants to or to go out and get pissed in celebration of their win. Maybe Nate’s still lurking around somewhere. Roy doesn’t know what the fuck that bloke does when he’s not at the club, nor does he have any interest in finding out, but he hopes the lad’s gone home if only so that there’s nobody around to see Roy limping pathetically out of the weight room. Which he does. Like a useless fucking twat.
He finds the dressing room empty, thank fuck, and collapses onto the bench in front of his cubby with a weary groan. If there’s ever a time where he feels like the old man Tartt fucking says he is, it’s on nights like these, where he’s achy and exhausted from a match and wants nothing more than to go home, collapse on his bed in his clothes, and sleep through tomorrow.
He sighs, rubbing wearily at his temples. He should really get changed, but he’s fucking knackered and there’s nobody around, so what’s a few minutes to just sit first? That, or go home in just the towel wrapped around his waist, which is a ridiculous fucking idea that shouldn’t be nearly as fucking tempting as it is.
The door swings open.
Roy looks up tiredly, preparing to tell Nate to fuck off, and stops short as he realises it’s Jamie fucking Tartt who just walked in.
Jamie freezes, staring at Roy like a deer in the fucking headlights, and Roy can’t fucking believe his fucking luck. Out of all the people to find him like this, it has to be fucking Tartt?
Roy sneers, hoping it can cover up some of his exhaustion. He’s not letting Tartt lord this over him. Not when Tartt got benched. Not when something’s finally gone sort of fucking right for this shitty fucking team. Tartt doesn’t get to take that away, especially not from Roy.
“Thought you’d have fucked off by now,” he growls, sitting up a little straighter and squaring his shoulders. “What, running away crying when Lasso benched you not enough? Need me to tell you to get lost, too?”
Jamie blinks out of whatever had him all frozen up and scowls. “Fuck off, Roy. I forgot my keys.”
“You leave ‘em behind when you fled with your tail between your legs?” Roy mocks, feeling a lot safer now that Jamie’s risen to the bait and isn’t just fucking staring at him. “Thanks for the show out there, by the way. Now I've seen two things that are funnier than Step Brothers.”
“Surprised you can still see across the pitch, old man,” Jamie shoots back, smirking, and, yeah, that’s good. Roy knows what to do with this. “Maybe if you focused that much on watching the fucking ball when it’s right in front of you, you’d’ve scored a goal sometime in the last century.”
Roy snorts, rising from his seat. He’s not going to let Jamie fucking Tartt be the only man standing in the room. “The only reason I didn’t score tonight is because I actually know how to pass a fucking ball, you little prick. So does my fucking six-year-old niece. Every time I think I’ve seen the peak of your stupidity, you manage to be even more of an idiot fucking baby twat. It would be almost impressive, really, how fucking dumb you are, if there were anything about you at all that could ever count as fucking noteworthy.”
Jamie’s eyes flash, and he takes one angry step forward. There’s no Ted around to hold either of them back now, and Roy almost welcomes it. He really, really wants to headbutt this prick.
“You want to talk to me about noteworthy, Granddad?” Jamie hisses, his lip curling. “There wouldn’t be a Richmond without me. You’re a wrinkly old has-been and the rest of this team’re a bunch of fucking amateurs. I’m better than the lot of you combined. Don’t forget who scored the first two goals tonight. Don’t forget who the fans came here to cheer for. It weren’t any of you.”
Roy takes a step forward, too, hoping that his limp isn’t noticeable. There’s adrenaline rising in him now, so it hurts a little less, and he welcomes the familiar rush of trading insults with Tartt. Shouting at this prick feels a whole lot better than sitting alone feeling sorry for himself. “We managed just fine without you, though, didn’t we?” Roy says, smiling a nasty, ugly smile. “You refused to be a team player. That’s your fault. You could skate by before as Cartrick’s little fucking golden boy because he didn’t give a shit about what anyone else was doing as long as you kept scoring, but now that he’s gone and the team can function without you, it’s finally coming to bite you in the arse.” He slinks closer and closer as he speaks, until he’s stopped right in front of Jamie, one finger pressing into the little prick’s chest. “You think you’re so fucking special. You’re not. You’re a fucking child. It’s why they sent you here, innit? To fix you? And you’re still so shit that even Lasso fucking benched you. Fucking pathetic.”
He watches his words hit home. Watches them dig right into Jamie and hook beneath his skin. Watches Jamie gear up for a fight and does the same. Watches, almost in slow motion, as Jamie raises one clenched fist and swings.
It’s chaos from there.
Neither of them are interested in fighting fair, so it’s a rough tussle from the get-go. Rather sloppy, honestly, and Roy’s hardly in top form, but he does manage to get a decent headbutt in before Jamie’s shoving hard at his chest to keep him at bay. He’s too slow to dodge when Jamie kicks his foot from under him — luckily on the leg without the bum knee, or he would have been extra fucked, but it does mean he collapses to the floor with a thud and a grunt of pain.
Jamie follows him down, holding one of Roy’s flailing arms in an iron grip as he traps the other between his free hand and Roy’s neck, pressing it down hard on Roy’s windpipe. He’s got Roy’s legs pinned, too, and Roy is suddenly made agonisingly aware that he’s wearing nothing but a towel that is threatening to fall off while Jamie towers above him, fully clothed and easily overpowering Roy.
Roy knows he’s fucked as soon as Jamie digs his fingernails into Roy’s bicep.
The thing is, Roy’s always had a certain kind of reaction to certain kinds of pain. Not the long, aching, dull kind like what he feels in his fucked knee, no. That shit’s just fucking miserable. But other kinds of pain; the fleeting kind, the sharper kind… well, that’s a different thing entirely. And with the position that they’re locked in, the fact that Roy’s own arm is choking him, there’s not much blood getting to his head. Considering the combination of the cut off air supply and the dig of fingernails into Roy’s skin, it’s no surprise, then, that all that blood in Roy’s body finds another place to gather.
Jamie has one knee between Roy’s legs, which means he feels exactly at the same time that Roy does when Roy’s cock stirs in interest.
Traitorous fucking thing. After what his last girlfriend had enjoyed in bed, though, it’s been trained well to respond to the kind of agony he’s always liked. Doesn’t mean it has any right responding like that to Jamie Tartt of all people.
Jamie, the fucking prick, looks shocked for exactly half a fucking second before he fucking smirks. “Didn’t know you enjoyed getting your arse kicked, Roy,” he says, like learning this is Christmas come early, if Christmas was kink-shaped and designed specifically to humiliate Roy. “Next you’ll tell me you get off on playing like shit, too.”
“Fuck- gnh, off, Tartt,” Roy manages to wheeze.
Jamie’s smirk grows a little wider. “Nah, don’t think I will. Who woulda thought that the great Roy Kent goes down so easily, huh?” He raises his eyebrows thoughtfully, as if getting an idea. As if he’s ever experienced a single thought in his fucking life. “Or maybe you wanted to. Dirty old man. Maybe you knew you’d fucking like this.”
He punctuates his last sentence by grinding his nails a little deeper into Roy’s arm and pressing down a little harder on Roy’s neck. Roy’s joints are beginning to fucking protest, but his dick has never been fucking happier.
Roy glares up at Jamie’s stupid smug face, trying and failing to buck the other man’s grip. “Get… off, or I’ll- fucking, hnf, kill you.”
Jamie sticks out his tongue. “Make me.”
The minute Roy can get an arm free, he’s doing to fucking deck this little prick. As it is, though, Jamie’s got him pinned in a way that breaking out of the grapple will wrench his knee. Roy’s entirely sure Jamie positioned himself like that on purpose. Well, fuck that. Roy’s not going to risk a serious injury over a row with fucking Tartt. Even if he really, really fucking wants to.
Roy snarls at him, but they both know that there's nothing he can do.
Jamie chuckles, a smug fucking grin spreading across his face. “You can’t, can you?” he mocks, looking far too confident in his control of this situation, and Roy fucking hates him. “Face it, Roy. I’m just better than you. Younger, faster, stronger.” He twists his grip on Roy’s arm to punctuate his words. “Just fucking admit it already.“
His fingers twist and twist, digging into Roy’s skin so deeply that they’re probably drawing blood — they’ll certainly be leaving bruises, at the very least. Roy can’t breathe. Roy can’t think. It fucking hurts, but this new pain overrides the throbbing in his knee, and suddenly there’s nothing he can focus on more than the dig of Jamie’s nails into his bicep.
Roy didn’t think this situation could get any more humiliating. His body, committed being a fucking cunt about everything always, decides to prove him wrong.
Entirely against his will, Roy Kent fucking whines.
Jamie’s grip loosens a little as his jaw drops in surprise.
Fuck the whole fucking world, because Roy doesn’t take the golden fucking chance to break away. He just lies there like a twat instead, cock straining against a towel that’s a hair’s breadth away from falling off entirely, and gives Jamie Tartt enough blackmail material to lord over him until the end of time.
Jamie manages to gather himself quickly, that shock morphing into the most evil fucking grin Roy has ever seen. He cocks his head to the side like he’s considering something, and then says in a way that makes it clear he’s in no rush at all, “Right, so how about a deal, Granddad? We can keep fighting, which I’m fine with. Don’t got a problem with beating up the elderly. Think I’d enjoy it, actually, long as the old fucking man’s you.” He winks, his tongue flickering out between his lips. Roy hates that fucking tongue with a burning passion. “Or… you admit defeat and I take care of that for you,” he drawls, nodding to Roy’s erection with a smirk, “‘cause I’m nice like that. An’ maybe you take care of me, too, ‘cause I’m not a fucking charity, am I? Then I go get me keys, leave, and agree to pretend none of this ever happened. How’s that sound?”
Roy does not think there has ever been a man he has hated more than Jamie Tartt, not even Doug fucking Stashwick. But Jamie’s still twisting his nails into Roy’s skin, what feels like all of the blood in his body has pooled to his dick, and the most he can manage is a pitiful, “Fuck.”
“Yes or no, Roy?” Jamie taunts, grinding his thigh against Roy’s cock to punctuate the statement, which does not fucking help.
Fucking hell. Roy is actually going to die of embarrassment if his dick doesn’t kill him first.
Jamie wrenches his fucking hand, and now Roy is definitely fucking bleeding, because he can feel hot wet pinpricks gathering on his arm. And the thought of him bleeding has no right being as fucking hot as it is, but Roy’s always liked what he’s liked. A shout tears through his throat.
He glares up at Jamie like he can set him on fire with his eyes. “F-fuck you,” he growls, gasping for air. “Yes.”
Jamie raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Come on, Roy. You can do better than that. Yes what?”
And Roy doesn’t mean to answer. He really doesn’t fucking mean to. But the words come out anyway, in the form of a desperately, so desperately gasped, “Yes, please.”
Roy’s vision swims. He can’t fucking breathe. Everything’s getting a little fuzzy.
He can still see, though, when Jamie nods, apparently satisfied. “See? That wasn’t so hard,” he says, that prickish smirk out in full force. “You think you’re big bad Roy Kent. So fucking tough, so fucking scary.” He leans down, lips ghosting over the shell of Roy’s ear, and murmurs, “Well I’m gonna make you fucking scream, yeah?”
As he finishes speaking, he releases some of the pressure in Roy’s neck — not all of it, but enough that there’s a dizzying rush of returning blood to his brain and oxygen to his lungs. It’s fucking exhilarating. Roy moans, head lolling back against the floor, and ceases his struggling entirely.
Jamie makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds like approval. “There you go,” he says, still breathing into Roy’s ear, voice low and sultry and far too fucking sexy to belong to a man like him. “Changed me mind a bit. You’re getting me off first. Not on this fucking floor, though. I’m not risking an infection for you.”
He draws back, the hand holding Roy’s arm against his neck switching instead to grip the back of it. With a fluidity that almost makes Roy fucking jealous, he withdraws every point of contact pinning Roy against the ground, then roughly pulls Roy up by the scruff of his neck. Roy manages to scramble to his feet without fucking his knee, but he has to really fucking scramble.
The towel, bless it, is somehow still hanging onto Roy’s hips for dear fucking life, but doesn’t last more than a few seconds before Jamie yanks it away and tosses it to the floor.
Roy surveys Jamie’s face as the striker peers down at Roy’s flushed cock, noting the way the other man licks his lips with something like hunger in his eyes. A shiver runs down Roy’s spine, far from unpleasant.
Jamie, who still holds Roy’s neck in an iron grip, looks back up, catches Roy staring, and grins like a cat who got the canary.
“This way,” Jamie orders, steering Roy in the direction of the coaches’ office.
If Roy wanted to fight him off, he probably could at this point, but there’s tiny trails of fresh blood dripping down his arm and a vice-like grip keeping Roy from doing much other than stare straight ahead, and Roy’s dick is aching with how fucking hard he is. His head must still be fucking deprived of oxygen, because Roy doesn’t fucking fight. The promise of release, tantalising as it is infuriating to be coming from Tartt, is enough to keep him from bucking the grip.
He’s going fucking mental. Has to be, because there’s no other explanation for why he’d moan a second time, otherwise, when Jamie shoves him hard against the desks in the centre of the room and boxes him in. His mind feels cloudy. The sharp edge of the desk is digging into his thighs, but this pain is not enough to keep the ache in his knee at bay, and certainly not enough for what he intends to get from tonight. He needs more.
He must vocalise this somehow, despite not meaning to or even registering that he’s speaking, because Jamie smiles that too-pleased smile, dropping his hand from Roy’s neck to join the other in gripping tightly at Roy’s hips. He lifts Roy onto the desks with infuriating ease, sliding him backwards over strewn papers with no regard for how he’s knocking various pens and other clutter to the ground in the process, until Roy’s lying across the full length and his knees no longer have to strain from the weight of his legs hanging off the edge. Then Jamie fucking vaults on top of him, the little show-off, straddling Roy with his arse facing outward so that his hands are on Roy’s chest, thighs bracketing Roy’s head, and Roy physically cannot look at anything else but the obvious bulge in Jamie’s trackies.
He doesn’t know why it surprises him a little, that Jamie is so clearly into this. He was the one who made the offer, after all. Then again, he’s so fucking young that a stiff breeze would probably turn him on. Still, maybe the blackmail opportunity of being able to say Roy Kent is fucking gagging for it wasn’t the only reason Tartt proposed the idea.
“Here’s what you’re going to do,” Jamie tells him, snapping Roy out of his reverie. “You’re going to open your mouth and lie fucking still while I fuck your throat, that clear? I’m sick of hearing you fucking talk.” He lowers his hips, grinding against Roy’s face, and the thin cloth between them does nothing to hide the shape of Jamie’s erection against Roy’s mouth.
Roy’s lips pop open of their own volition, tongue lolling out of his mouth to lave at straining fabric. It’s been too fucking long since he last sucked cock. Longer still since he’s gotten his face fucked, never mind his throat, and oh, fuck, even just the thought of it makes Roy’s head go fuzzy.
“I’ll make it good for you,” Jamie promises, rising back up and out of reach so that he can strip off his trousers and pants.
The loss of heat makes Roy whimper involuntarily, a tiny desperate note before he manages to cut himself off, cheeks flaming with heated embarrassment. He’s so fucking fucked.
As Jamie’s cock bounces free, Roy hysterically cannot help but think that it’s just as perfect as the rest of Jamie’s body — perfectly shaped and proportioned, almost fucking beautiful if Roy were the type of person to describe dicks that way. Jamie really does wax his whole fucking body, too. Roy knew this, of course, in the nebulous kind of way that he knows plenty other unimportant things, but seeing it up close and personal suddenly makes Roy feel like he’s never known anything more important in his fucking life.
Roy wants to fucking lick him.
He doesn’t get the chance, though, or at least not quite, because Jamie’s finally finished kicking off his trackies and doesn’t give Roy any further warning before he forces Roy’s jaw open with the heel of one hand, lines up his perfect fucking cock with Roy’s mouth, and plunges in.
And shit, fuck, Roy has never been more aware of how long it’s been since he last did this until right now, as the thick weight of Jamie fucking Tartt’s pretty fucking cock slides down his throat like it’s made to fit there.
He gags at first, somewhat unprepared in the absence of a fucking head’s-up, fucking prick, but Jamie just draws back up until his head is barely past Roy’s lips, letting Roy recover for the barest of moments, and sinks back down again. Roy manages not to gag a second time, because he’s not a fucking amateur, is he, and focuses on relaxing into it. He flattens his tongue against Jamie’s shaft and suctions his mouth tight, closing his eyes as he lays back and lets go.
Jamie moans, and Roy should hate how fucking hot it is, how pretty he fucking sounds, but it goes straight to his cock instead. Not that he’s focusing much on that when Jamie’s ruthlessly fucking his throat, though. He finds it hard to think about much of anything but the slide of velvety skin across his tongue, the slap of Jamie’s balls against his nose when he bottoms out, and the tears beginning to gather in the corners of Roy’s eyes from the intensity of it all.
Jamie’s hands, which rest on Roy’s chest for balance, begin to wander as he starts to pick up his pace, hips practically snapping up and down with the force of his motion. He runs his hands along Roy’s ribcage, down to his stomach, then up again to his pecs, and pauses there, digging his nails just the faintest bit into Roy’s skin. He’s fucking teasing him.
Roy growls, although it’s not very effective since he’s trying to force sound around the cock pumping in and out of his mouth, and Jamie just laughs.
“You asking for something, Granddad?” he teases, ending his sentence with another snap of his hips. “Want me to make it hurt for you?”
Fuck. Fucking fuck.
Yes. Roy really fucking does.
He breathes in sharply through his nose and answers by swallowing hard around Jamie’s cock the next time he bottoms out. His tongue flickers out of his mouth at the same time, lapping at Jamie’s balls, and Jamie’s hips stutter as a loud moan escapes him.
“Oh, fuck, do that again,” Jamie pants, increasing speed. “Fuck. Okay. Yeah, that’s good.”
His hands palm Roy’s chest, fingers skating over Roy’s nipples, but Roy doesn’t have time to revel in that sensation before Jamie gathers up two fistfuls of Roy chest hair into his hands and fucking yanks. Hard.
Roy cries out, his hips jerking helplessly up into the air. He goes to touch himself — anything, anything to relieve the pressure in his cock — but Jamie swats his hand away.
“Hands off,” he orders sternly. “Hold onto my thighs if you can’t control yourself.”
Well, Roy would be incredibly remiss to reject that offer, wouldn’t he? Jamie’s thighs, like the rest of him, are too fucking beautiful to be real. But they must be, because Roy can feel them beneath his hands when he reaches out, can feel the thick muscle clench and shift as Jamie pistons his hips. He grips them with force enough to bruise, and Jamie pulls at Roy’s hair in kind, twisting his wrists to add to the delicious agony.
Roy’s a fucking mess now, tears and drool spilling freely down his face, drops of pre-come cooling on his stomach. His throat aches as the head of Jamie’s cock slams against the back of it again and again, and still he continues to hold still, to submit to it, because fucking hell, he hasn’t had this in so fucking long. He needs it like he needs fucking air — more than that, really, since he’s having a hard time breathing and doesn’t even mind it.
He suckles and swallows and tries his best not to gag, half-frenzied in his determination to outclass anyone and everyone Jamie’s ever done this to. It must work at least somewhat, for Jamie begins thrusting faster and faster, his quickly-increasing pace befitting that of a professional athlete. He starts to moan more, too, needy little things that slip out of his mouth and dissipate quickly in the air. Roy wants nothing more than to bottle up the sound and keep it forever.
“Fuck. Shit, Roy, I’m close,” he stammers, panting hard. “Do you want me to pull out, or—“
Roy snarls around Jamie’s cock, wrapping his arms around Jamie’s lower back and holding him right where he is, so that he can’t even fucking think about it. No fucking way Roy’s not finishing this. It’s his favourite fucking part. If anyone is going to take Jamie Tartt to pieces, it’s going to be fucking him.
“Fuuuck,” Jamie murmurs, pausing for the barest of a moment. Then he’s moving at a truly punishing pace, and Roy gags but doesn’t even fucking care, and Jamie’s hands are back on Roy’s nipples, except this time they claw in deep and wrench at Roy’s skin.
Roy shouts. Jamie makes those tiny little moans — louder now, much louder, but just as breathy. The pace builds and builds. Jamie twists at Roy’s chest, rips and yanks and scratches, and Roy tries his fucking hardest not to float away.
With one final slam into Roy, Jamie shakes and comes with a loud, drawn-out groan, pulsing hot and deep into Roy’s throat.
Roy swallows every drop down greedily, revelling in the feeling and the way his constricting throat on Jamie’s sensitive dick makes Jamie gasp and claw a little deeper into Roy’s chest. He sucks Jamie through his orgasm, then a little more after that, until Jamie pries Roy’s arms off of him and slides out. Roy immediately misses the feel of Jamie in his mouth, but he’s not far gone enough in the haze of it all to whimper at the loss, not for that.
Jamie adjusts himself so that he’s straddling Roy’s chest and facing him, and grins down at Roy with a lazy, satisfied sort of smile. It’s nothing like his prickish smirk, Roy thinks. If he were feeling particularly generous, he might even call it fucking cute. Roy is not feeling generous. Roy is feeling painfully aroused, and he needs Jamie to do something about it like he fucking promised he would.
“That,” Jamie manages between panting breaths, “was surprisingly fucking decent.”
“Fuck off, Tartt,” Roy rasps, his voice utterly ruined. Somehow, he can’t find it in himself to be angry about it.
“Sure, I can do that,” Jamie offers, shrugging. He’s still wearing the top half of his outfit, the smug fucking prick. “Leave you to take care of yourself all alone. Is that what you want, Roy?”
Roy’s face is covered in tears and spit and a little bit of snot. If he didn’t fucking want this, he wouldn’t fucking be here, and they both know it. But Tartt’s a fucking prick, always has to be, so he can’t help but run his stupidly-enticing fucking mouth.
Roy’s not going to let him fucking win.
“Don’t you fucking dare, Tartt,” he hisses, raising his chin. “I’m not fucking done with you.”
Jamie raises his eyebrows. “You’re not done with me?” He laughs, then sits back to grind his perfect fucking arse against Roy’s cock, smirking when it makes Roy gasp and thrash beneath him. “Oughta get checked for dementia, old man. I ain’t done with you.”
Roy would argue, he really would, except Jamie bows his head down over Roy’s neck and bites down hard before he can get a word in edgewise.
Roy shouts, thrusting his hips up in an attempt to get some kind of friction on his dick, preferably in the form of Jamie’s round arse, but Jamie anticipates it and slides out of reach before Roy gets even a hint of the contact he craves.
“Uh-uh,” Jamie chastises, pinning Roy’s hips beneath one arm as he begins to bite a trail down Roy’s neck. “You want to come, you’ve gotta fucking earn it. Only good boys get rewards”
“The fuck did you do to earn yours, then?” Roy grits out, his eyes rolling back further into his head with the sharp ache of each bite.
Jamie smirks up at him. “Scored two goals, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, and you were —ah, fuck— such a prick about it that Lasso benched you.”
“Why do you think I’m fucking you on his desk?” Jamie retorts, sucking hard enough at the latest mark he’s left that it will surely bruise.
Roy’s going fucking mad, isn’t he, because he finds that he doesn’t even mind that there will be evidence of this. He’s not sure what to think about Jamie using him to get back at Lasso, but he can hardly take time to examine it when the sharp clench of Jamie’s teeth on his skin that comes every few seconds risks blanking his mind entirely.
Jamie gnaws down all of Roy’s neck and then his shoulder like he’s a fucking chew toy, teeth dragging across his skin with enough pressure to tear it, and Roy can feel the edges of his mind start to fog. He’s not sure if he should let it — he wants to, fucking hell, does he want to. Submit to the sweet agony and stop thinking of anything else for a little while. Forget, just for a moment, about his knee, his career, every-fucking-thing in the world except for the pleasure of the pain — and the pleasure of the pleasure, too, if Jamie would ever fucking get around to it .
He doesn’t want to want it, is the thing. To want this. To want Jamie fucking Tartt, the Prince Prick of all Pricks, to be the one to get to make him fall apart. He’s terrified of what it will mean to let Jamie see that side of him.
Roy Kent does not want to want any of this. But he does anyway. He really fucking does.
And Jamie… Jamie’s already seen that side, hasn’t he? From the moment Jamie got him on the ground, Roy has been painfully, strikingly visible. What’s the point of pretending otherwise? It’s not like Jamie’s going to learn anything he hasn’t already if Roy lets himself go — truly, completely lets himself go.
Jamie’s got his mouth slotted around one of Roy’s pecs now. He mouths at it, tongue flickering over Roy’s nipple. A whimper begins to build in Roy’s throat. Fuck, should he let it out? Should he hold back? He doesn’t fucking know what to do. He already tossed all reason out of the window the moment he agreed to let Tartt fuck him, anyway. Is there anything he can really do at this point that’s worse than that?
Jamie peers up at him through lashes that have no right being as long as they are, almost delicate, and Roy watches, transfixed, as his tongue circles lazily along Roy’s skin. Jamie watches him watch. Roy could swear he smiles.
And then Jamie takes that same nipple he’s been teasing between his teeth and chomps fucking down.
Roy doesn’t really have a choice, then, to do anything but let that whimper spill out and turn into full-blown keening as Jamie chews Roy like he’s trying to fucking devour him.
That’s that decision made, then.
Roy’s not a very vocal man, most of the time. During vanilla sex, he usually keeps things to a few grunts and the occasional moan. It’s how he is and it’s how he always has been. But as soon as pain comes into the mix, he’s a fucking mess.
Jamie keeps biting and Roy keens louder and louder, trying to thrust his hips upward and failing because Jamie continues holding him down. Roy’s not going to scream, not yet, but it’s like a dam burst in his throat as soon as that first little whimper clawed free, and now he can’t fucking stop.
“Fuck! Fuck, hff, yeah, harder,” he demands, desperate for it. He wants to be black and fucking blue come morning. Wants Jamie to make him hurt, make him bleed, mark him so potently that the evidence of what's been done to him lasts for weeks, and where the fuck is that coming from?
Jamie, for once in his goddamn life, does as he’s told.
More tears trail down Roy’s cheeks as Jamie travels down his body, wrenching skin between his teeth, biting and bruising with a merciless focus. The pleasure that follows the pain is just as intense as the hurt itself. He’s wound up so tightly by the time that Jamie’s mouth first fucking brushes against Roy’s cock that he nearly comes from that featherlight touch alone.
Jamie pulls back, now kneeling between Roy’s spread legs, and grins. “You really fucking like that, huh?” he asks. It doesn’t sound mocking, though, or maybe the ringing in Roy’s ears is just drowning out his true tone. No, it sounds almost… pleased, like Tartt is proud to have figured that out.
Roy is shivering and weeping and half a world away, and all he can manage is a broken, “Jamie.”
Roy can make out through his tears that Jamie’s cock twitches upward at the sound as Jamie inhales sharply through his nose.
Jamie swallows, looking suddenly far less put together than he had just a few seconds prior. “Yeah, Roy, I’ve got you,” he promises, smoothing a hand down one of Roy’s thighs.
Roy shakily props himself up on his elbows. “Want- want your mouth,” he tells him. Jamie has such a pretty fucking mouth. And his teeth… Roy wants to feel them to scrape up and down his cock more than he’s wanted anything in his fucking life.
Jamie’s eyes go a little unfocused. His dick is swiftly rising back to attention, and his breathing is beginning to quicken again. He nods, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Fuck. Okay. Warn me if you’re gonna come,” he says, voice breathy. He stares Roy straight in the eye as he bows down and takes Roy in his mouth, and does not break that contact as his head begins to bob.
Roy groans, his head tipping back in pure gratification. His cock has been ignored for so fucking long that his whole body shudders the moment Jamie slides the wet heat of his mouth onto it for the first time, but with the pause they’d taken, he’s managed to fall back from the razor’s edge. Thank fuck. He’s not ready for this to be over yet.
“Fuck,” Roy breathes, his eyelids fluttering shut. “So good.”
Jamie moans in response, the sound vibrating around Roy’s dick, and takes Roy a little deeper. One of his hands comes up to cup Roy’s balls as the other grips the base of his shaft tightly, pumping in rhythm with his mouth. He didn’t so much as fucking spit into his palm beforehand, and the friction of dry skin against Roy’s sensitive cock is fucking delicious.
“More,” Roy demands, looking back down at Jamie, who now has his eyes closed in something like bliss. Roy’s tears are beginning to peter off, and that simply won’t do. “Said… said you’d make me scream.”
Jamie peers up at him, the head of Roy’s cock bulging against his cheek. “Are you sure?” he silently asks, studying Roy with round, searching eyes.
Roy pumps his hips up against Jamie’s hand, wishing that the friction would magnify exponentially, and growls more forcefully, “More.”
Jamie nods, and the hand cupping Roy’s balls begins to fucking squeeze. He finally lets those teeth back out, too, applying sharp and scraping pressure as he pulls back up so that only the tip of Roy’s cock is still in his mouth, watching Roy through his eyelashes as he tongues at the slit there. It’s good, so fucking good, but it’s still not enough. Roy wants to be in fucking agony.
“Jamie, I need…” A sob rises in his throat, cutting him off. Jamie’s grip on his balls is too much and nowhere fucking near enough.
Jamie pulls off Roy’s cock with an obscene popping sound, soothing a hand along Roy’s thigh. “Shh, I got you,” he murmurs. “Tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”
He lets go of his hold, pulls his hand back, and slaps Roy’s balls with deadly precision.
Roy howls, writhing, and the fog in his mind presses further inward. He’s stopped caring about trying not to let it. His cock and balls are fucking screaming at him and his head is quickly disconnecting from any reality but the pain. He fucking loves it.
Jamie pulls back, slaps again.
Roy howls louder still, his hips thrusting uselessly in the air, and oh, fucking fuck, yeah, that’s it.
Again. Again. Again.
Roy thrashes. Roy finally opens his mouth and fucking screams, the sound tearing out of his raw throat. The one thing that Roy does not do is tell Jamie to stop, so Jamie just holds him down after each slap and waits until he’s calmed before starting all over again, over and over and over until Roy is outright weeping and babbling and fucking incoherent, out of his fucking mind entirely, floating on a completely different plane of existence. He can feel the pressure building in his groin, can feel himself hurtling towards his inevitable orgasm, and he wants it so fucking badly, but Jamie— Jamie, Jamie, Jamie.
“Fuck! ‘M gonna–”
And just like that, Jamie stops. Pulls all the way back and out of reach.
Roy sobs wretchedly, trying and failing to fuck into the air, desperate to feel Jamie on him again, desperate to come, desperate for the lasting sting in his balls to fade right fucking now and also never fade ever again.
“Good?” Jamie asks him with a gentleness so at odds from what he’d been doing just seconds prior, coming up to thumb at Roy’s tears, face hovering just inches above him. There’s a furrow in his brow, but Roy can’t tell if it’s from concern or something else. He can’t tell much of anything at all, not in the state he is now.
Roy hiccups, reaching up in one jerky motion to grip Jamie’s wrist like its his fucking lifeline. Maybe it is. “Please,” he mewls, not even sure what he’s asking for. He’ll take anything Jamie gives him. Anything at all, so long as Jamie doesn’t leave.
Jamie shushes him, swiping away more of Roy’s tears. His fingers travel a light path down Roy’s face, drying some of the wetness, and as soon as they brush over Roy’s lips, Roy opens his mouth and sucks them in. Jamie’s breath hitches at the first pull, then hitches again when Roy begins to trace his tongue over the whorls of Jamie’s fingerprints. His other hand trails along Roy’s jawline. His eyes are bright, too shiny in the fluorescent lighting, and Roy makes a questioning sound as he continues lapping at Jamie’s fingertips, growing concerned.
Jamie chuckles ruefully, shaking his head. “I just wanted you to tell me I’m good,” he murmurs, something so painfully sad and so painfully vulnerable in the words. “Just wanted you to notice me.”
Roy whimpers, not quite comprehending the words given his blissed-out state, but if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that Jamie Tartt should never, ever look this lost.
Jamie smiles, shrugging. “I dunno. I didn’t think we’d end up like this, either. Dunno what it means. Dunno if it means anything at all.” He glances away, shutting his eyes. “I just… I dunno what this is, but I want it to be good for you. I want to be good for you. I–”
He trails off with a deep sigh and meets Roy’s gaze once more. “I’ll do anything you want me to. All you have to do is ask. Ask me to fuck you, and I will. Ask me to just use my hand and fuck off, and I will. Ask me to leave right fucking now and never speak to you again, and I fucking will, swear down. Just… It don’t feel like summat for me to decide, I don’t think.”
“Need you,” Roy babbles around Jamie’s fingers. “Want you to fuck me, please, fucking need it. Please, please, Jamie.”
“‘S alright, love,” Jamie assures softly, a stable counterweight to Roy’s desperate fervour. “I will. Whatever you want.”
“Not… not gonna last,” Roy warns him apologetically. He’s on the very fucking edge.
Jamie pets a soothing hand through Roy’s hair. “That’s okay. Lemme make you feel good, yeah?”
Roy nods, nuzzling at Jamie’s hand.
Jamie removes his fingers from Roy’s mouth, prompting a whimper at the loss, although it quickly turns into a whine as Jamie slides his spit-slicked pinky up into Roy’s arse in one delicious motion.
It’s been a while since Roy last got fucked, but he’s reminded all over again of how much he loves it as the familiar burning stretch simmers inside him. One finger is nowhere near enough, though, and Roy quickly grows impatient when Jamie doesn’t immediately add another. He seems content enough to stretch Roy out slowly on his fingers, but Roy thinks he’ll actually fucking die if he doesn’t get Jamie inside him right fucking now.
“Want your cock,” he demands, rolling his hips to fuck himself down on Jamie’s finger like it will suddenly transform into what he needs.
Jamie looks up from where he’s kissing a line down the soft flesh of Roy’s inner thigh, his brows raised. “Now?”
Roy hooks his good leg around Jamie’s hips and yanks them closer together, frantically grinding his arse onto Jamie’s dick. “Now.”
Jamie groans, rutting into the curve of Roy’s arsecheek, and says, “Alright. Get me slicked up first, though, yeah? Use your mouth.”
Roy accepts this, dropping his leg back down and obediently opening up.
Jamie sinks down into the wet heat with a pleased sigh, and Roy closes his own eyes happily. He’d missed Jamie’s cock so much. It feels so fucking good even just sitting on his tongue that Roy can’t help but suckle at it lazily, blissed out of his fucking head. Jamie could fuck his throat all over again and he’d welcome it. Only reason Roy’s not begging for that is because he wants to be fucked himself that tiny bit more.
He does as he’s told in time, thoroughly covering Jamie’s cock in his own spit as the salty taste of Jamie’s pre-come settles on his tongue, until Jamie pulls back out again, satisfied, and returns back to Roy’s arse to line himself up with Roy’s eager hole.
The first press of Jamie’s cockhead into Roy is fucking decadent, it fucking burns so fucking good. Roy swings his leg back up around Jamie’s hips, impatient, but Jamie resists the insistent pull with easy strength of his own, keeping the pace of his entrance maddeningly slow.
Roy huffs, annoyed, but doesn’t stay that way for long because he soon discovers that he can watch Jamie’s face as he splits Roy open on his cock. The sight is intoxicating enough on its own that Roy momentarily forgets his agitation.
Jamie Tartt is impossibly, unfairly beautiful.
Roy watches, enraptured, as Jamie’s face softens in pleasure, falling apart further and further with each inch he plunges in. Pink heat rises on Jamie’s cheeks like it’s being painted there by a fucking artist. He looks so fucking good, his tongue lolling slightly out of his mouth, that Roy physically can’t look away until Jamie’s bottomed out inside him and rolls his hips experimentally.
Then Roy has to look away because his eyes roll halfway to the back of his fucking skull out of the pure sensation of it all, and they stay that way as Jamie slowly begins to fuck in and out.
The spit holds up decently as slick, but it’s nowhere near as effective as lube, which means that Roy is on cloud fucking nine as the burn in his arse heightens. It’s so fucking perfect. Everything is so fucking perfect. Jamie is so fucking perfect. Roy’s cock screams with how fucking hard he is, and Roy lets it, revelling in the sensation.
Jamie starts fucking him faster, building pace with each thrust, not quite hitting Roy’s prostate yet, and Roy’s entirely sure he’s missing it on purpose, just to stretch this on a little longer.
Which is fucking fine with Roy, even if he’s sobbing from how desperate he is to come, because he doesn’t have to come at all, really, so long as Jamie keeps fucking him. The torture of the denial is intoxicating in its own right.
His mouth works of its own accord, spilling out half-formed pleas and whimpers and moans. He can’t even finish each sound before a new one slips out. He’s panting, he’s weeping, he’s leaking pre-come onto his chest, and he’s finally so deliciously full that he doesn’t mind anything else.
“That feel good, love?” Jamie asks, sliding just off target from Roy’s prostate once again, which makes him whine needily.
“So fucking goo— unhh,” Roy moans loudly with the next thrust of Jamie into him, his back arching. “Fuck, please, I– ohhh, fuck.”
Jamie kisses the crook of his neck, a gentleness so at odds with the unforgiving snap of his hips that accompanies it. “You wanna come? I think you’ve earned it, don’t you?”
Roy nods so quickly that it makes him dizzy. “Yes, yes, hff, please, I’ll, mnh, do anything.”
Jamie smiles. “You’ve been so good. You don’t need to do anything else. Just enjoy yourself. For me.”
“Thank you,” Roy sighs.
Jamie kisses his neck again, then pulls back slightly and, with one smooth thrust of his hips, finally nails Roy’s prostate with devastatingly potent accuracy.
Roy never stood a fucking chance.
He comes with a shout, spend shooting over his chest as his vision practically blacks out. The pleasure is so intense that it actually might do for a second. His whole body feels like a live wire, jolts of pure ecstasy practically splitting him in two as he shakes and cries.
Jamie fucks him through it, although he moves to pull out as Roy calms, his orgasm petering off with a drawn-out groan.
Roy growls, out of his mind but still present enough to know he doesn’t want Jamie to go just yet, and holds him in place with his leg.
“W’nt y’ to come ‘n me,” Roy slurs faintly, panting hard.
Jamie moans and doesn’t need any further convincing than that before he’s fucking back in at a frenzied pace, now chasing his own release with single-minded intent.
Tears stream down Roy’s face as he wails from the overstimulation. He mumbles praise, half-incoherent, but he wants Jamie to hear it anyway. “So fucking good, don’t stop, so good, fuck,” he prattles. “Don’t stop, oh fuck, Jamie. ”
Roy is hurtling through outer space. Roy is on a different planet entirely.
Jamie snaps his hips again and again, too much and not enough, never enough – Roy can never get enough of this, he thinks. And then Jamie finally comes inside of him with a loud moan, hips stuttering, and collapses against Roy’s chest as he pulls out.
They’re both panting like mad, slick with sweat and come and Roy’s tears, and all Roy can do is wrap his arms around Jamie and hold him close.
“That’s it, lad, there you go,” Jamie murmurs soothingly, his head dropping to rest tiredly against Roy’s chest. He reaches up and begins to stroke through Roy’s hair again. “You did so good for me. Thank you.”
“Jamie,” is all Roy can mumble in response.
“I know, Roy. I know.”
Roy exhales slowly, pulling Jamie in a little closer. Everything is too big right now, but Jamie’s still here, so Roy thinks he can manage.
“You gonna be alright to get home?” Jamie asks, tracing Roy’s jaw with a finger.
It’s hard to think in full sentences, much less speak them, so Roy can only really answer with, “Mhm. Shower first.”
“Yeah, fair,” Jamie replies, huffing a laugh. He kisses Roy’s collarbone. “I should probably go.”
“Stay a little longer?” Roy pleads, lightly scratching at the back of Jamie’s neck. Jamie is so warm, so solid, so safe in a way Roy never thought he could be. Roy’s not quite ready to let him go.
“Okay,” Jamie agrees softly, resting his head back against Roy’s chest.
They lay there in silence, just breathing in each others’ space. Roy slowly begins to sink back into his own mind, the world sharpening and solidifying around him to the tempo of Jamie’s slowing heartbeat.
He’s not quite out of space when he begins to recall what led them here and what it means that they find themselves where they are now. It’s more of an inkling, a niggling worry, that he can’t quite focus on just yet. But it’s there.
Roy stares at Jamie.
Jamie stares at him.
“I should go,” Jamie says again, more firmly than the last time.
Roy nods. He knows that if Jamie stays, they will have to talk about this. Roy does not want to talk about this. Better to leave things unspoken. Perhaps it can be a strange dream. Perhaps Roy will be able to forget, and they will be able to move on with their lives, return to the dynamic that existed before.
Roy drops his arms to let Jamie free, nodding. “You should go.”
Jamie nods back. “Okay,” he whispers.
He slides off of Roy. His shirt, which he never removed, is stained with cum from when he’d collapsed against Roy’s chest. He doesn’t seem to notice.
He looks back at Roy, hesitant. His hand raises. Slowly, he reaches up and caresses Roy’s cheek, just once, the touch so featherlight that Roy might have very well imagined it.
Then he’s gone, striding back out into the dressing room, pulling on his trousers and retrieving the keys it feels he’d talked about coming back for ages ago. He does not look at Roy as he slips out the door.
Only when it shuts behind him does Roy let out the breath he’d been holding, his head thudding back onto the desk.
Roy’s not going to be able to forget this, is he?
Fucking hell.