a selfish affection

by Literatus

Summary:

An argument with his sister and three long days at St George's Park to whip snotty-nosed lads into shape for the England U18s puts Roy in a foul mood.

Fortunately, six months after their Christmas meeting, Jamie Tartt is there to take the edge off.

(Pre-canon, UK legal Jamie)

Ice cold water is what wakes Roy up from his deep sleep. He surfaces, roaring. Long arms swing out to attack whatever fucker thinks that trying to drown him is a good idea. There’s a clattering as someone skitters back with a disgusted sound. His feet flat on the hardwood floor, he squints into the darkness and makes out the indistinct shape of a slim woman. Not the shape of the one he fucked, her space in the bed long since vacated. Bright light floods the room. He flinches with a hiss, covering his eyes while the pounding in his head drives nails into his skull.

“Put some clothes on, for fuck’s sake.” He recognises the voice, the note of horror that’s lacing it. His sister. “Jesus, if I knew you were balls out naked, I’d have woken you up another way.”

His vision clears. Molly’s by the door, a plastic tub in her hand—the one he uses to ice his feet when he needs to—her other clamped tightly down over her eyes. She’s in her fucking pyjamas, which makes no sense. The pale pink material covered by a long coat he’s pretty sure he got her at one point since he recognises it’s fucking expensive before he recognises anything else. She’s shoved her feet into some trainers and is making gagging sounds as she tries to scrub the sight of his dick from her mind.

“What the fuck?” Roy demands, dripping wet and furious.

He was hoping for a morning blowjob to start his day, not whatever the fuck this is.

“Are you dressed?” Molly snaps, turned from him so all that’s visible is her back. “Because I’m not looking until you’re dressed.”

He scowls and starts looking for his boxers. He doesn’t find them but he does find a delicately lacy thong that he brings to his nose, inhaling deeply. A shame last night’s woman has fucked off. He wouldn’t have minded an orgasm or two to start his day off right, especially since he’s got a long drive and little twats to bolster ahead of him. He slips the thong into his bedside drawer and yanks open another one, pulling out a fresh pair of boxers. As added security, he steps into a pair of trackies as well.

“I’m dressed,” Roy grouses, dragging a hand over and through his wet hair and flicking the water from him. “What the fuck are you doing here? And why the fuck’re you throwing water on me?”

Molly cautiously lowers her hand, cheeks stained red in what he quickly realises isn’t solely from embarrassment. She launches the plastic tub at him. His reflexes are slowed because of his hangover but he manages to duck. It leaves a crack in his window that he stares at, even more confused and growing rapidly annoyed.

“Don’t you fucking stand there and pretend you don’t know,” Molly rages, so unlike their mother, more like Dad than she’ll ever admit. “What the fuck, Roy?”

“Did I rip the head off one of your dolls again?” He wants to get a drink but he also doesn’t want to walk past her. She’s a dirty fighter, he’s got the scars to prove it. “Don’t think I’ve done that since we were kids but whatever. I’ll buy you a new one.”

She pulls a face at him, mean and twisted, like one of the gargoyles churches use to terrify children. “Brendan!”

“Could you keep that twat’s name out of my house?” Roy asks. “It’s bad enough I have to look at him whenever he’s around, I don’t want to hear about him too.”

Molly ignores him. “Why would you do it? Why the fuck would you do it?”

“You’re talking about his new job?” Roy scratches his hip, yawning now that he’s warming up. “Is that what you’re upset about?”

“Drop the act, you cunt.” Such ladylike language. All that money he spent on her private education and she comes out sounding like a fishwife. He should get his money back. “It’s not that you got him a job, it’s that you got him a job in Hong Kong.”

“Hong Kong’s great,” he says. “What’s wrong with Hong Kong?”

She looks around for something else to throw, finds nothing, so takes her left shoe off and hurls it at his head. He catches it this time, waking up enough that a flying shoe is no threat to him or his windows.

“I don’t know why you’re acting like this.” He tosses the warm shoe onto the bed. “It’s a great job. Four times what he’s making now, great career opportunities. They’re even providing housing.”

“Roy.”

Her voice breaks, hitching on his name. It’s here, a brief moment, when something like a conscience stirs in him. He doesn’t like making her sad, never has, not even when she was pulling on his hair and screaming in his face because he flushed her crayons down the toilet for eating the last biscuit.

“You know that I won’t move because of my studies, and you know he won’t say no to this job,” Molly presses, fingers curling into fists at her side as she fights back the tears she’s refusing to spill. “Why the fuck’ve you done this?”

It’s a stupid question, one of the rare stupid questions she asks. They’ve had this argument a thousand times if they’ve had it once. He despises Brendan. The only one who fucking does, since he’s not been taken in by a softly spoken charm that barely covers the rot inside. The only one who sees the way Molly’s changed since she started seeing him, shifting and altering herself so that a different person faces the world rather than the girl that was his sister. He worries it’s only a matter of time before she stops studying, gives up her dreams of a career to follow Brendan in whatever the fuck he wants to do. He wants to cut the thread that binds them before it gets stronger.

If only Molly wouldn’t fucking fight him at every step of the way like he’s interfering instead of helping.

“Brendan said he was worried about money,” Roy replies even though Brendan’s got a nice little nest egg when his grandparents died that, unsurprisingly, Molly hasn’t seen anything of. It’s his money, not hers even though Brendan’s happy enough to live off what Roy gives Molly every quarter. “Doesn’t think the shop will last much longer.”

Molly glares at him from under their grandfather’s eyebrows. “You know perfectly well he was asking you for money.”

“Oh, was he?”

“Roy!” He winces at her volume, headache throbbing. “You—”

“Do you need money?” He interrupts. “If you need money, I’ll give it to you, always. You know that. You never have to ask, not you. But he’s been coasting—”

“He just doesn’t know what he wants to do, that’s all,” she argues. “He’s not like us. We knew exactly what we wanted since we were old enough to figure it out.”

“He’s twenty-five, married, and is bothering you about having a kid,” he snaps. She takes a step back, surprise flashing across her face. He supposes Brendan wasn’t supposed to tell him that little tidbit then. “He should’ve figured his shit out before dragging you into it. He works in a fucking shop.”

“He works in logistics!”

“For fucking Romesh at the corner shop,” Roy shoots back. “Jesus fucking Christ! He got that job when he was fifteen and he says he does logistics but he fills out some Excel sheets or whatever to place the order and that’s it. The only reason Romesh hasn’t fired him is because the poor old fucker has Alzheimer's and doesn’t know what day of the fucking week it is.”

“Romesh needs the help,” Molly shouts, her voice hitting a level only their father at his angriest manages. “Bren does that.”

“He takes the fucking piss is what he does,” he snaps out at her. “You’re studying full time, got work in that care home to get practical experience, do all the housework while he does what? Twenty hours a week at the shop, if that?”

“He’s exploring his options!”

“And he always will because there’s no reason for him to do more,” he half shouts. “Jesus fucking Christ! He cheated on you, for fuck’s sake!”

Her cheeks flare red. “He hit on a stripper at his stag do. It’s not the end of the world!”

“It was fucking disrespectful, is what it was,” Roy snaps. “And if he did that in front of me, imagine what he’s doing behind your back.”

Molly burns even brighter. “I trust him.”

Roy turns on the spot, infuriated, because if he doesn’t, he’s going to throw something at her and he’s got the better aim. “Then you’re a fucking idiot. He’s not good enough for you. Fucking hell, don’t you remember the fight because you were determined to go to university. He didn’t want you to, did he? Said it was a waste of time.”

“He supports me,” Molly replies.

“Does he?” Roy wishes he wasn’t hungover for this, but they’ve had this argument before, painfully sober, so it doesn’t make a difference at the end of the day. “He’s happy to coast. He doesn’t have any ambition. He’s happy to live on my money and whatever you bring in.”

Tears brim in Molly’s eyes but she refuses to shed them. “He’s helping me.”

“He’s manipulating you,” Roy yells. “And if him going to Hong Kong is the only way to make you see that, then good! Hopefully you’ll wake up and fucking leave him.”

“I won’t!”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because I’m pregnant!”

All the air’s sucked out of the room. At least it feels like it. He stares at her, and she finally starts crying—soft, exhausted, silent. Roy’s knees wobble beneath him and he needs to sit. He does so on his bed, back facing her, face falling into his hands.

“You could get an abortion,” he suggests.

“Fuck you,” she says, wetly.

“I’m serious. Does he know?” Roy tells her, shifting to look at her. She hesitates and hope flickers to life in his chest. “Then get rid of it. I’ll pay for everything, get you the best in the business. It’ll be over in an afternoon.”

She uses the sleeves of her coat to rub at her eyes, looking like she’s five and fighting against going to bed because her big brother’s home from Sunderland. “Speaking from experience?”

Roy breathes out. “Yeah, actually.”

“Figures,” she sighs, tipping her head back. “You fuck everything that walks. I’ve always wondered why there weren’t any kids around.”

“I’m careful, and when I’m not, there are options,” he tells her. “Options you have.”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Molly—”

“I said no, Roy, fuck!” She kicks at his bed and sinks onto it, hunched in on herself. Her elbows dig into her knees, fingers in her hair as tension ripples through her body. “This—it’s a good thing. He wants a baby so badly. It’s going to help him find his way, and he’s going to be a great dad, I know it.”

Roy has his doubts. “Is he going to be a better husband though?”

Her knuckles whiten. “He’s already a great one.”

“No, he’s not.”

“What the fuck do you know?” Molly asks, sitting up and breathing deep. “You’ve never been married. Never had a relationship last longer than a few fucks. You don’t know what it takes.”

“I know what bad relationships look like,” Roy tells her. “We grew up with the same parents, don’t forget. And Mum was worse when I was a kid, she didn’t have her meds then.”

“We’re not Mum and Dad,” Molly says, angry.

“Aren’t you?” Her jaw tightens, anger flashing in her eyes. “He wouldn’t marry you unless you changed your name. Do you remember that?”

It’s an old hurt, one that still stings. The ultimatum, the weeks of tears with Molly’s head on his shoulders, the hours and hours and hours it took to change Kent to O’Sullivan on all her documents.

“And what the fuck does he give you? Nothing. He’s doing fucking nothing for you, and now you want to have a kid with this cunt?” Roy wants to shake her, wants her to see the truth of it all. “Of course I got him a fucking job because maybe if he’s away from you, you’ll fucking wake up and realise that you can do better!”

Molly turns her head and stares at him. She looks thinner than usual, like she’s either not been eating because work is too busy or she’s not been eating because she’s on another fucking diet again. Either way, he fucking hates it.

“I’m done,” she says. There’s a wave of relief that crashes over him, flooding right down into the marrow of his bones. His mind’s already filled with ideas of what to do—he’s got a flat in London for investment reasons, she can have it. He’ll fill her bank account with money so she can do whatever. She’ll be free. “Until you learn to respect Brendan as my husband, I don’t want anything more to do with you.”

The words take a second to land. “What?”

“You heard me,” she says, standing and tightening her coat around her and resting her hand on her flat stomach. “He’s the father of my child. My husband. You need to keep your nose out of my family, my business. Until you can do that, keep your money, keep your concern, and stay the hell away from me.”

She leaves his bedroom as abruptly as she came. He sits there, listening to her make her way down the stairs, out the front door that she slams deliberately loudly, and then he’s left with the silence her absence leaves behind.

“What the fuck?”

*

 

A baby.

A fucking baby.

Roy’s hands tighten on the wheel as he passes Milton Keynes. It’s been light for hours but it’s still so early that there’s a light haze in the air, the motorway relatively empty, which is good considering he’s distracted. He wants to believe that Molly will get an abortion but he also knows that she won’t. She’s in too fucking deep with Brendan, all her eggs shoved into that frayed, wicker basket the night she moved out of their parents home and put a cheap ring on her finger in a registry office. A stupid choice then, stupider now that Brendan’s flaws are on display like strips of gold have been peeled back to reveal the rot underneath.

The leather of the wheel squeaks under his palms. He forces himself to relax. Dying in a car crash while heading to Burton-on-Trent is not how he wants to die. He frees one hand and reaches for his second bottle of water, opening it with his teeth. The pounding headache that paracetamol hasn’t touched keeps throbbing, the dark of his sunglasses the only thing stopping him from careening off the road when the sunlight hits his eyes. He hopes it fucks off by the time he gets to the training facility, not sure he’ll be able to tolerate the hand shaking and the excitement that always greets him at these things.

For fuck’s sake—an actual baby.

Molly’s only twenty-two. She’s just finished up her first year at medical school, an internship lined up for the summer in a phlebotomy lab. Everything she’s worked for sliding down the drain because of Brendan fucking O’Sullivan. If anyone can make having a baby and going to medical school work, it’s his sister, but there’s no need to make life harder for herself than it already is.

He punches the wheel so hard his hand hurts. “FUCK!”

It’s a good job Roy has to be in Burton-on-Trent, better still that Brendan’s made himself scarce. There’s nothing he wants more than to storm around to Molly’s to find his waste of space brother-in-law and press his knuckles deep into his face. The fact he’s never hit the man is an insult to decency.  Of all the people she could have married, she had to marry the first fuckwit that paid the slightest bit of attention to her, like she wasn’t smart and pretty and funny. She had to throw all of that away on some lanky, bespectacled dickhead who he knows how to dig into Molly’s insecurities to keep her close.

Blame swirls in his mind. Molly for being a fucking idiot. Brendan most of all for being a cunt. But his parents as well—blame rests at the feet of their parents just as much, if not more, than Molly’s herself. If Dad wasn’t fucking Dad, if Mum wasn’t the way she was, then maybe Molly wouldn’t have climbed out of her window the minute she turned eighteen to marry Brendan’s promises of a happy life, free from the shadow of grief and rage that cauls the Kent family home.

The sort of shadow all the money in the world can’t fix and God knows Roy’s fucking tried.

He jabs at the radio, desperate for something to fill the silence in the car. Early morning radio is fucking awful, the news never something that interests him, but he forces himself to listen attentively to reports that the Duchess of Cambridge was in apparently in labour. It does not help him keep his mind off Molly and the tiny cluster of cells in her body that was going to tie her to Brendan for the rest of her life.

By the time he draws into St George’s Park, he’s in a foul mood. His headache throbs fiercely in his temples and his stomach churned, bile slicking his throat. He pops two fresh paracetamol from the blister pack and rubs the bridge of his nose before squeezing the fleshy part of his hand between his thumb and forefinger. Very briefly, his headache disappears. He pulls in a deep breath, enjoying the respite, before he grabs his bag and climbs out of his car.

“Mr Kent, welcome.” A woman with a lovely round face and hair pulled back into a braided bun is waiting for him. Sweeping his eyes over her, wanting to press his fingers into the soft flesh of her hips, he wonders how he can work into conversation that orgasms are good for headaches. “I’m Irma and—”

Roy snorts. “Really?”

“Sir?”

“Your name’s Irma?” The name settles heavy and strange on his tongue. “You secretly eighty or something?”

Her expression shifts, unimpressed. “Your name’s Roy.”

“Fair point.” He glances around at the facility, the smell of it familiar and comforting. “Bit light on the welcoming committee, aren’t you?”

“They were here two hours ago, sir,” Irma says, all polished professionalism. The when you were supposed to be goes unsaid and yet echoes all at once. Roy’s impressed. She looks down at the bag he has by his side. “Is that your luggage?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, efficiently taking it from him and handing it off to another member of staff. Roy recognises this one, a younger lad who was on internship last time and gave a somewhat toothy blowjob. He blushes at the sight of Roy, glancing back over his shoulder as though hoping Roy would look at him too.

Roy doesn’t.

“Would you like something to drink while you get changed, Mr Kent?” Irma asks, politely.

He shakes his head. “Where’s your loo? Need to piss.”

Half said because he does actually need to piss, half said to see her reaction—he’s mildly disappointed she doesn’t even blink. He’s going to have fun with her for the next few days, he decides, following her directions to the visitor’s bathroom.

He empties his bladder and changes into his England tracksuit that Irma has waiting for him. It’s easier to put the shit morning behind him with the familiar stretch of a uniform he’s been proud to wear since he made his national debut a little over a decade ago. He shakes off the feelings left behind and only carries with him the headache that’s running down his neck, tightening the muscles and applying pressure that lets him know the knots are going to be unbearable later.

He glances at Irma’s hands as they walk towards the pitch. Thin, slender, and potentially strong. He’s not sure whether she’d work the knots out of him or strangle him. He likes that it’s an open-ended question.

“Have you worked here long?”

A smile curves up towards her eyes. “You asked me that last time. And the time before that too.”

Roy glances at her again, not recognising her. “What was your answer?”

“Long enough to know better than to take your flirting seriously, Mr Kent,” Irma says, smiling pleasantly. “If you could not fuck everyone that works here during your stay, Human Resources would greatly appreciate it.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “You’re HR?”

“Recently promoted to lead the department,” she replies. “I should thank you, really. It was my handling of your sex scandal the last time you were here that showed management I had what it took.”

“You’re welcome,” Roy says. “What scandal?”

The heavy sigh she heaves rolls through the hallway they’re passing through, pictures of the 1966 team staring down at them. Bobby, Jack, Nobby, Geoff, Jimmy and all keep them company on their way to the pitch.

“Was it the waitress I fucked in the kitchen?” Roy asks, thinking. “Or the cleaner who blew me in the laundry room?” He shakes his head. “No, you know what? I bet it was the programme co-ordinate with the big—”

“Mr Kent.” His name whips out, hard and firm. He likes it. “If you must know, it was none of them. The fact you don’t remember something that made me work an eighty-hour week is…frustrating.”

Roy nods. “That sounds difficult. I could eat you out if it’d make you feel better.”

She stops in the middle of the hallway and turns to stare at him, chin jutting up to glare at him. She’s too tiny for it to be effective but he appreciates the effort.

“Mr Kent—”

“Roy,” he interrupts.

“Mr Kent,” she repeats. Not that it matters, he’s willing to soften her up as best he can. He’s charming when he puts his mind to it, and he’s always enjoyed a challenge particularly with women who have a sharp mind in their heads. “This is a place of work. Remember that over the next three days. I don’t want to hear about used condoms left in the kitchen—”

“That was once.”

“Twice,” she corrects. “I don’t want to hear complaints about loud noises from the air vents—”

“I can explain that,” he says.

“I’d rather you didn’t.” She holds up a hand, stopping him from talking. “And I certainly don’t want to hear about any orgies, pool parties, jacuzzi sex, or, for reasons I don’t understand, turtles.”

“Listen,” he protests because the tabloids made that a bigger thing than it actually was. “That turtle thing was taken out of context.”

“You will be on your best behaviour,” Irma informs him. “I don’t want any trouble. If you feel the urge to fuck something, might I suggest an escort agency rather than a member of staff?”

Roy considers that. “That’d be okay.”

“Wonderful,” she says. “A number will be left in your room. Please have a lovely day.”

There’s a little more energy to him as he walks the rest of the way alone. Training camp is shit when he’s not the one actually training, and three days helping to whip the snotty little bastards into shape with various pep talks and coaching is enough to drive his headache deeper into his skull. But he’s England’s captain and he’ll be playing with some of these young fucks in a year or two so he needs to know who’s coming up and who’s going to be easy to work with and who’s going to be a twat.

In the one useful piece of advice Beckham gave him when he handed the captain’s band over, it was to make sure that the young ones coming up had their feet on the ground. It can fuck a team when they’re not and, since captains don’t get to choose their teammates, the best they can do is be prepared for it.

“Oh, here he is, about time.” A familiar voice, gravelly with age, greets him. “You know, this sort of tardiness wouldn’t have been accepted in my time.”

“The fucking dark ages?”

“Witty man, witty man.” Butch feints a punch that Roy dodges before he’s dragged in for a quick embrace, fist pounding against his back. “Good to see you, lad.”

“You too, coach.”

Ray Wilkins is a fucking legend, someone who has Roy’s respect and keeps it with ease. A midfielder when he played, Roy watched hours and hours of match footage to figure out how to move like him, how to lead plays. Named Butch due to his presence on the pitch, Roy took lessons from him and made the play his own, and it’s good to have a familiar face, even one as wizened as old Butch’s now was.

The old fuck.

Roy might just kill himself if he ever gets so old and his playing days are behind him.

“Not a bad showing this season,” Butch says, clapping Roy on the back once more before his broad hand drops. “Third though.”

“I know,” Roy grunts. “Following City too. Fucking embarrassing is what it was.”

“Eh, it’s how it goes sometimes,” Butch tells him. “You played well, kid. And you’ve got the Europa League under your belt too.”

He inclines his head, that’s true. He nods out at the pitch where the U18s are stumbling around, blindfolded and laughing. “Team building?”

“Needed,” Butch replies. “There was a bit of a to-do about one of the lads fucking another’s girlfriend. Came to blows last night in the dorms.”

“Jesus,” Roy mutters, shaking his head. “Bunch of twats.”

“You’re one to talk,” Butch notes, squinting at his nose. “Get a nose job after Bridge broke it, did you?”

His eyes narrow. “Had to. Couldn’t fucking breathe properly.”

“Serves you right for shagging his missus,” Butch grins, bumping his shoulder. “Come on, the lads are excited you’re coming. They’ve been talking about it non-stop for days. You should hear them rag on this one kid. He’s your number one fan apparently.”

“They’re all my number one fans,” he says. “You remember how it is.”

“Different in my day.” Butch looks out over the pitch, the kids stumbling around like drunk ducklings. “You kids have all this social media shit to deal with now.”

“Yeah, what was it for you, carrier pigeons? Stone tablets?”

“You shit,” Butch laughs, cuffing him. “Wait until you’re my age. There’s going to be some little shit ribbing you even worse.”

“It’ll never happen,” he says. “I’m Roy fucking Kent.”

“Roy fucking Kunt, more like it.”

Roy waves the familiar insult away, good mood filtering into him. Perhaps today’s not going to be shit after all. The sun’s shining, he’s got the pitch beneath his feet, and the U18s are already shooting excited looks in his direction.

He doesn’t normally fuck about with the older ones since they’re more troublesome than the ones just starting out, who have all the reasons to keep their mouths shut. The ones who have made it, getting regular minutes on the first team, they’re more likely to see something there that isn’t, to want more from him and then be reckless when they don’t get it. But he recognises one or two of the lads, ones he knows won’t make it far because they don’t have that drive to push them over the edge even though they’re here, England badge on their chests.

“Roy Kent, good to see you again.” Noel Blake shakes his hand, paths having crossed in his last year at Sunderland. “The team’s excited you’re here. Heard them all talking about it last night before fists started flying. Brace yourself though, there’s going to be some showing off before we get properly down to it.”

He’ll manage by seeking out whichever one is least annoying but tolerably devoted to the idea of Roy Kent that he’ll keep quiet after getting on his knees. He watches the blindfold exercise continue, something he's done before but thankfully not any more. Navigating a ball around cones without vision is difficult if your partner’s shit at giving instructions, which a lot of them seem to be. Clear communication is obviously something that needs to be worked on, but there’s one pair who are doing well. The ball flows smoothly around the cones, controlled neatly by a sharp right foot.

“They’re not bad. Kid’s got good control, partner’s being clear,” Roy says, jerking his chin in the direction. Blake and Butch share a laugh. “What?”

“That’s your number one fan, the one with the ball,” Butch tells him. “He might die on the spot if you tell him that.”

“Ah, he’s a good lad,” Blake says, mouth tugging up. “Won’t shut up about you though. Roy Kent this, Roy Kent that. That’s not how Roy Kent does it, coach. Amazed Lombardo didn’t kill him if he’s anything like he is here.”

“Lombardo? He a City boy?” There’s a nod of assent. Roy grunts. “I take it back. He’s shit.”

Butch laughs as Blake lifts his whistle to his smiling mouth. The sharp whistle rocks through Roy, pain flaring out from his temples, nausea swirling in his gut. Blindfolds come off and general shoving happens as everyone jogs forwards, some a little too eager and tripping over cones, others trying to remain calm, as though they’re not shitting themselves at the thought of getting some face time with Roy Kent.

He spares a nod for Loftus-Cheek, a Chelsea lad who’s rising through the ranks swiftly, and one for Chalobah too. Both of them straighten at his attention, trying their hardest not to look smug even as their eyes dart around to make sure that their teammates saw they’ve been singled out. Not bad lads either of them, solid prospects and decent enough to talk to. Also two players he has no intention of touching since he doesn’t like to shit where he eats and fucking players who will likely end up playing with him is a recipe for disaster.

“Alright, you lot, settle down.” Blake doesn’t need to do anything to get their attention, strong and severe in appearance, he commands it naturally. “You all know who Roy Kent is. He’s been good enough to come out here for three days to do some set pieces with you, help you with your training. You’ll all have a chance to learn from him and ask him questions but don’t crowd him. The man’s not a toy for you to poke at.”

“Not unless you ask nicely,” Butch adds.

Roy rolls his eyes. “Fuck you.”

The lads grins, always amused by swearing and Roy swears better than most. Blake glances over at him. “Anything you want to say, Roy?”

“No,” he grunts, distracted by some movement at the back. Shoving, he thinks. “Oi. What’s going on back there?”

Heads slip around, dipping when the lads see what’s going on, a shared joke that Roy’s not a part of. He thinks it’s bullying, one of the few things he can’t fucking abide on a team. Sometimes people are twats, sometimes they’re even cunts, but if personal feelings can’t be put aside when they’re on the same team then they don’t deserve to be on that team. He opens his mouth, about to say exactly that, when Loftus-Cheek speaks.

“It’s just a joke, skip,” he says, holding himself straight. “Tartt here’s a big fan.”

There’s a muffled fuck you from the lad in question.

“And you’re taking the piss out of him for it?” Roy raises his eyebrows. “Like all you other fucks aren’t fans?”

“At least we don’t have a tattoo,” someone mutters, a well of laughter washing over them.

“Nicer than the ugly thing you’ve got on your neck,” a lad from Spurs shoots back with a grin, ducking the hand that reaches out to retaliate. “Barbed wire is so lame.”

“Not one of you has good taste in tattoos,” Blake says, cutting across them. “And not all of you are old enough to have them, so cut it out. Besides, at least it’s not a wolf tattoo on his thigh.”

Roy snorts. That was certainly a choice de Rossi made. He’s not sure it was a good one though.

“Nah, just a fake signature on his chest,” Chalobah grins, reaching back to ruffle the head of the poor twat in question. “Come on, Jamie, show him.”

Roy pauses, surprise sliding through him, and the pulse of blood turns louder, stronger in his ears. He doesn’t move as the team parts and a red-faced Jamie Tartt is deposited in front of him.

It’s been months since Joe’s Christmas party came with the unexpected surprise of a ballsy lad with a sweet smile and shit football opinions. Roy’s not thought of him much, except on those lazy mornings when no one’s in bed with him and he wonders what the boy who let him tattoo his name on his chest is up to. And now here he is, in broad fucking daylight, looking even better than he had then.

“Show him,” some twat from the back says. “Come on, Tartt, get your tits out.”

There’s a rumble of laughter, Jamie’s skin darkening. His eyes dance up to Roy and then down again, the memory of his soft goodbye kiss, given in the bathroom of the tattooist’s Roy had woken up and shoved £500 at, rolling through him. He remembers the sharp smell of chlorine from the toilet, Jamie’s hand pressed over the new ink-stained skin of his chest, and how bright his fucking eyes looked as he angled his mouth for a final kiss.

His cock starts to stir in his trackies, face set like stone.

“Fuck off,” Jamie mutters to his feet, the back of his neck fiercely red. Roy remembers how hot and sweaty it was under his hand as he fucked into him. “Bunch of pricks.”

“Come on now,” Blake says, lazy but amused. “Leave the lad alone. No need to embarrass him in front of his hero.”

“Already met him, hasn’t he?” Jordan Pickford, a Sunderland reservist, says, arm slung around Chalobah. “Got it signed by you, captain. At least that’s what he says, isn’t that right, Jamie?”

It hits Roy as the rest of the team jostle Jamie that this isn’t bullying, this is teasing. Good natured, warm, full of laughter. Jamie’s popular, at least it looks that way from how nothing takes on a sharp edge. It’s the sort of ribbing Roy’s witnessed over the years between teammates who genuinely like each other, and Jamie’s taking it well. He doesn’t shy away from the hands pushing at his shoulders or tugging playfully at his shirt. He’s definitely embarrassed if the colour of his skin is anything to go by, but he’s also biting the inside of his cheek to stop from grinning outright.

Like he’s enjoying it, drinking up the affection as though starved for it.

Roy realises he has to speak, he’s been silent for too long. They’re expecting him to say something, to join in.

“You have a tattoo of me?” Jamie’s head lifts, eyes meeting his. The bright gaze cuts into him and slices down to his groin, warmth blooming there. “What is it, my face?”

Jamie’s eyes narrow just a bit. “Your signature.”

“Must be this big.” He holds up his thumb and forefinger, well aware of his writing since every girlfriend he’s ever made the mistake of giving a key to has had something to say about his grocery lists. “You sure it’s mine?”

Loftus-Cheek flicks Jamie’s ear. “Show him.”

Jamie hesitates and waits for Roy to give the nod. When he does, he sighs and pulls his shirt up and off to hoots and cheers from the rest of them, Blake and Butch removed, supervising.

Roy stares because looking away isn’t an option. He’s as pale as ever, light freckles decorating his skin, the shirt coming all the way off to mess up his hair.

It takes Roy a second for his vision to focus, eyes fixed on his name that’s scrawled across the boy’s chest. He shifts, growing hard in his boxers because the tattoo is definitely one of the stupider ideas he’s ever had but seeing his name in strong black ink across the faintly freckled chest is something else. The R of his name starts just above Jamie’s flat, brown nipple, the T set close to his armpit. It’s gorgeous, a perfect mark he wants to reach out and touch.

The sudden urge to pull him close and see if he remembers everything Roy taught him pulses through him. He knows that he’s going to get the opportunity. It’s as though the universe saw his suffering and delivered up this treat of a boy on a plate for him, an apology for Molly and her shitty fucking decisions. Jamie’s exactly what he needs after everything, and he keeps his voice steady and unaffected when he speaks.

“Not the worst I’ve ever seen,” Roy says, bland and uninterested. “Where’d you get my signature?”

Jamie’s eyes narrow just a little, mouth pushing into a pinched frown. There’s a burst of laughter from his teammates, like they’ve heard one story and Roy’s just revealed it to be a tangle of lies with his question.

“This is the best bit,” Loftus-Cheek says, reminding Roy that he and Jamie aren’t alone. “C’mon, mate, tell him what you told us.”

A deep sigh, a glance just over Roy’s shoulder, an acceptance of his fate “You signed it.”

He did, there’s no doubt about that: Roy sprawled on the chair next to him as Jamie lay back on the table, throwing excited glances at Roy as his skin was prepared before he leaned in and signed it in big, sprawling letters just like Jamie asked. “Did I?”

“Yes,” Jamie says, mutinously.

“Was I drunk?”

More laughter. “Definitely on coke.”

“That does sound like me.” Roy reaches out and presses his fingertip in the centre of the O of his name. Jamie’s mouth mimics the shape. “I don’t know though. This is a little big for me. Think you were duped, kid.”

Laughter wraps around them, some of the lads jostling Jamie in a we knew you were lying sort of way. Jamie’s glare intensifies. Roy lets his finger fall from the middle of the O to drag across his skin and ghost across the flat nipple that pebbles under his touch, Jamie’s expression shifting as his mouth falls open and his breath catches in his throat.

Roy pulls his hand back. “Should be more careful who you let sign your chest. Could be anyone.”

“Yeah, I’ll—er—think about that next time,” Jamie says, tip of his tongue wetting his bottom lip. “Thanks, skip.”

“Alright, enough taking the piss out of Tartt.” Blake moves forward to draw their attention that flows easily to him. All except Jamie who holds his T-shirt in one hand, staring at Roy who can’t seem to look away from him. “Jamie, shirt on.”

Jamie starts and steps back, murmuring an apology as he quickly tugs his shirt back on. He falls in with his teammates, taking their gentle jostling with an embarrassed grin. As Blake details what’s going to happen next, he glances back at Roy and, this time, Roy looks back.

*

 

Jamie disappears. One second he’s there, right in Roy’s periphery, the next he’s gone, and it’s a bitter kick of disappointment since he thought the kid was a sure thing. He doesn’t exactly want to track him down since he’s not desperate but his headache is becoming untenable and, now that he’s right in front of him again, memories of how tight his arse was are distracting him. As such, Pickford’s the one to approach him. The captain’s armband is tugged high up his bicep, shoulders set back as he makes his way to Roy when they break for lunch.

“We’re all heading to the caf,” Pickford says when he’s close enough to realise Roy’s not about to acknowledge him without prompting. “Wondered if you’d join us, captain. I know the others would really like it.”

The urge to be a cunt is on the tip of his tongue but Pickford’s earnest in an awkward way, like he’s not used to it. He shakes his head instead, disappointment crashing across Pickford’s face that he hasn’t yet skilled into a mask.

“Got shit to do,” Roy tells him. He scrounges up a lie to spare the kid’s feeling since he vaguely remembers what it was like at his age—fucking vaguely though, all the drugs he took on his summer break have done a number on his system. “Keep it up here.” He taps at Pickford’s temple. “More successful you get, the busier management keeps you.”

Pickford smiles, delighted that Roy’s confided in him. He nods like he understands. “Maybe later then?”

Roy nods and watches him walk back to his team, telling them the bad news. He watches long enough to feel gratified by the disappointment that sweeps through them before turning, making his way into the building. There’s a possibility he’s going to be sick. Nausea swirls in his stomach and the slick taste of bile is back in his throat. Either he took some bad coke the night before or his argument with Molly is doing a number on his system. He hopes it’s the second because that means he won’t have to explain any problems to medical when preseason starts.

He’s not needed for a couple of hours, not until later in the afternoon where the social media team will film some bits of him having a kickabout with the team, a few interviews he’ll have to conduct pitchside about the future of the England team. A shower and a wank might be the only thing that fixes him to get him through the rest of the day. And, Jesus Christ, he’s got dinner with the rest of the coaches and a few visiting twats—

“Roy!”

Speaking of. He whirls and grunts. “Alright, mate?”

“Heard you were about, wanted to come say hi.” Gary Lineker slaps him on the shoulder, cupping the back of his neck briefly. Pain drips through Roy as their foreheads come together in a friendly bonk. “Great work this year with Chelsea.”

“Cheers,” Roy says because it’s Gary fucking Lineker. “What’re you doing here?”

“Prepping for Children in Need,” is the response. Roy grunts sympathetically. He’s done his own share of charity work, that fucking single to help end world hunger for one, and he doesn’t wish it on anyone. “Don’t suppose I can rope you in to have a kickabout with Mr Blobby, can I?”

Roy stares. “No.”

“Ah, well, worth asking.” Gary gives his shoulder a pat. “Can’t stay and chat, mate. Got to be back in London before five for an ad shoot.”

“Another crisp one? What do they have you doing this time?”

“Flavour suggestions, it’s part of the Do Us a Flavour campaign,” Gary says with a good-natured shrug. “Don’t work the lads too hard, yeah? Some of them are looking promising.”

“They look like twats,” Roy replies. “But they’re good kids.”

Gary claps his arm and gives him a cheerful wave before he’s moving off. There are moments, few and far between though they are, when Roy remains a little awestruck of the big names of football knowing his name. He’s played against most of them but the older lot, the ones who’d moved on by the time he made his Premier League debut—part of him still feels surprised that they know who he is. But it’s as it should be of course, he’s Roy fucking Kent.

He walks the five minutes it takes to get to the on-site hotel. Hilton, passable. He’s definitely stayed in better. But the room service is good, and if Irma was serious about the escort agency then he’s going to have an agreeable night. He takes the key from the receptionist, asks not to be disturbed since he’s not sure he’ll be able to eat anything without throwing it back up, and is stepping out of the elevator on his floor when—

“Hi.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Roy’s fairly certain his entire body comes off the ground, whirling to find a wide-eyed Jamie waiting for him out of sight. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Sorry,” Jamie says, startled before his mouth turns teasing. “Thought you had your hearing aids in.”

“I’m thirty-one, you fuckwit,” he snaps, rubbing his chest and glaring at him. “Shouldn’t you be at lunch?”

“Grabbed a sandwich real quick.” Jamie rocks back on his heels, looking at him with nervous anticipation. “Hi.”

Roy grunts, palming the key card and moving towards his room. Jamie’s soft footfalls follow him. “You said that.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t say hi back,” Jamie points out. “‘S rude, innit?”

“So’s stalking me to my hotel room,” he says, the door beeping open. He stands in the doorway and looks up and down the hall casually, but not casual enough for Jamie not to grin, knowing. “Get in.”

Jamie slides past him, ambling into the room like he belongs there, like this was always going to happen.

“This is harassment,” Roy says as he shuts the door. “First you stalk me to Joe’s party, now you’re waiting for me outside my room.”

Jamie rolls his eyes, swinging his arms in the empty space before turning to face him, the light at his back. “Charming, aren’t I?”

“You’re something,” Roy decides, tossing the key on the table. “What the fuck’re you doing here?”

“Wanted to talk,” he says, shoulders hunching in lightly, toes pressing hard against the ground. When he looks up, it’s through his lashes and Roy’s cock starts to thicken with blood.

He lifts his eyebrows. “Talk?”

“Yeah, you know, about football and stuff,” Jamie continues, gamely. His eyes are wide, cheeks turning a lovely pink as Roy moves closer with slow, easy steps, giving him an out if he wants one. “Sorry Chelsea sucked this year. Must hurt losing to City twice in a row.”

“I could throw you out,” Roy warns. He won’t, not when the solution to his shit morning and throbbing headache has delivered itself into his hands. “Make you go back to the team, let them pick on you a bit more.”

“You could’ve told them you signed my chest,” he complains. “They’re all going to think I’m a liar now!”

Roy laughs, reaching for him, pleased at how pliable he turns, melting into his touch and swaying towards him. “Should’ve thought of that before you ran away from home for the night. Did you tell them we fucked too?”

“No.” Jamie’s eyes are fixed on his face, barely breathing. “Didn’t want to get you into trouble.”

Which is good news since Roy could get in a lot of trouble for this, for the other boys he’s fucked too. He’s not like some of the other footballers who like to pressure people into bed with them, forcing them when it comes to it: Roy likes his partners willing. But he’s aware that someone like Jamie—he’s fucking dangerous to Roy. Could take his career, his life, away in a heartbeat if he wanted.

It’s fucking intoxicating.

“Good boy,” he murmurs.

Jamie’s mouth sighs against his, body nestling in against his chest as his hands grip his shoulder and he hoists himself just a little higher. Roy slides an arm around him, a band across his back, as his free hand cups the back of his head, deepening the kiss.

Christ, he tastes just as good as last time, more sure with his kisses and hands. Jamie groans, trying to draw him closer, licking into his mouth in desperate, mewling whines that make themselves at home in Roy’s cock. It wrong foots him. He expected to be the one leading, demanding what he wants from Jamie and not the other way around—it’s not unpleasant though. He slides the hand on his back down to the generous curve of the ass he knows he's going to fuck before the day is over, and tugs him closer. Jamie's already hard in his shorts, a gentle plea slipping out as he rubs against Roy's thigh.

“I've missed you,” Jamie breathes into his mouth, hands shaking slightly as he goes to pull Roy's shirt up and off. “Thought of you.”

“Yeah?” Roy doesn't bother saying he hasn't thought of Jamie, at least not much. He backs him up to the bed, not letting him answer as he kisses him again. It's only when his chest burns from lack of oxygen that he pulls back, Jamie's face red and wanting. “What did you think about?”

“Everything,” he moans, head tilting to one side for Roy's mouth, fingers sweeping down through his chest hair. “My ass ached for fucking days afterwards.”

Roy shivers and presses his cock harder against Jamie's stomach. “Couldn't sit down?”

“Fuck off,” Jamie blushes, even as he grins. “You're going to fuck me, yeah?”

God, he's still so desperate and eager. Roy can't believe he forgot this.

“You want me to?”

Jamie rolls his eyes, the little brat, and rubs his cock harder against his side. “Mate—when they told us you was coming, think I got hard just hearing your name. Been fingering myself waiting for you.”

“You—” Roy swallows. “You've been doing what?”

“Getting ready,” Jamie says, cheeky as anything. “Want to see?”

Fuck yes, but he doesn’t have the patience to enjoy the sight he’s sure that it is. His hand flexes harder on Jamie’s arse, grabbing a nice handful, starting up a filthy grind against him that builds in his throat, eyes hooded as he watches Jamie pant through the sensations.

“When did you last fuck yourself?”

“This morning,” Jamie keens into his mouth. “Before anyone else woke up. Had to be quiet.”

Roy’s doing the maths, trying to figure out if that’s enough, if he can just push Jamie down and fuck into him without breaking him irreparably. He tightens his fingers in his hair. “How did you do it?”

Jamie waves the fingers of his right hand against Roy’s arm where he’s gripping it. “Can get up to four if I’ve got time, only managed two this morning. Came like a fucking rocket, didn’t I?”

He growls and surges forward, kissing him deeper. “I’m going to fuck you.”

“Good,” Jamie breathes, rubbing against his hip. “How?”

Roy turns him suddenly, hand dipping down to cup the cock that’s straining against his shorts. Jamie arches into it, head falling back against his shoulder, before Roy pushes him onto the bed, hard enough for him to bounce the desk. He presses a hand between his shoulder blades, stopping him from rolling over, and Jamie wriggles, rump rising into the air as he pulls his shorts and briefs down to save them time.

Yeah, Roy remembers this arse. He takes a moment to run his finger down the dip of Jamie’s spine and into the cleft, lighting teasing. Shame about the headache. He’d have liked to appreciate this more, but from the way Jamie’s moaning into the duvet, already drooling into it, Roy knows there’s going to be more.

“Lube,” he grunts, stroking down his thighs just to feel them. “Bedside drawer.”

Jamie reaches back and takes his hand, guiding his fingers between his cheeks and—

“Wanted to be ready, didn’t I?” Tacky lube coats his entrance, freshly applied judging by the slick. Images of what Jamie was doing waiting for him in the very public hallway races through his mind. “Want to feel you in me.”

“You filthy little shit.” Roy grabs his hips and pulls him back, grinding against him to let the pleasure roll through him. Jamie pushes back, eager, and Roy’s hands are shaking as he pushes his tracksuit down to his thighs and spits into his hand, coating his cock. “God, you’re fucking desperate for me.”

“Fuck yeah, I am,” Jamie moans, reaching behind him to try and feed Roy’s fingers into him. It’s so fucking hot and demanding that Roy allows it, pressing one finger inside of him and crooking. His body reacts perfectly. “Roy, please. Just fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me. Please.”

Roy kicks his feet open and strokes his cock. “Still got an afternoon of training. You don’t want to be limping. Should just fuck your thighs instead. Or your mouth.”

“No,” Jamie begs. “Fucking—make me limp. Want to feel you. God, Roy, please.”

He shudders at how desperate he is. If it’s what the kid wants. He presses the head of his cock to his hole and pushes inside. Even with the prep, it’s a tight fit. Jamie’s too keyed up to relax properly, and Roy’s too turned on to take his time. He flattens his hands on his back, pinning him in place, fucking into him in abortive thrusts that would be made easier by more lube. Neither of them wants to break apart to get it though, and Jamie—the little freak that he is—is loving it judging by the sounds he makes.

Roy’s damp under the arms by the time he’s seated himself, breathing hard, the throbbing shifting from his head to his cock.

“Fuck,” Jamie moans, dropping his forehead to the mattress as he breathes in, deep and shuddery and fucking gone for Roy in a way that makes his entire body pulse with want. “That’s good. That’s so fucking good.”

“Yeah?” Roy grunts, grinding in with a mean press of his hips. It’s so tight he’s sure he’s going to be stripped raw when he moves. “Bet you’ve fucking dreamed of this, haven’t you? Bet you love having something filling your ass.”

Jamie flexes around him. “Love that it’s you.”

God, this kid knows exactly which strings to pluck to hit the right fucking note.

“Keep quiet,” Roy warns, fingers tightening on the gorgeous hips as he adjusts his stance. “Can’t have people knowing you’re in here. The HR lady doesn’t like me.”

“Because of the turtle?”

“That was—” he sighs. “Shut the fuck up.”

Jamie laughs, weak and soft, but he dutifully drags his shirt up and stuffs it in his mouth, eyes flashing with laughter over his shoulder. If he wasn’t so red faced, damp clinging to his hairline already, Roy would spank the laughter out of him.

“Good boy.” Roy leans over and presses his forehead to between his shoulder blades, swallowing hard. “You’re going to take it fucking good for me, aren’t you?”

Jamie moans, a muffled yes slipping out around his mouthful.

Roy breathes, head swimming from the heat of Jamie’s body and the pain of his headache before he drags the length of his cock out, head falling back with a groan at the burning sensation of pleasure that rips through him. If Jamie wants him to slow down, he’ll have to say because Roy tightens his hold on Jamie’s hips and starts to pound into him. Desperate, harsh, too much when he doesn’t know how much Jamie’s been fucked recently, but he takes it so well, cheek pressed into the mattress, eyes not sure whether they want to open or close, little uh uh uhs punching out of him every time Roy’s hips meet his arse—which is often.

It’s glorious, a tight heat that pulls him deeper and deeper each time. He hikes Jamie’s hips higher, making the muscles in his thighs strain as his toes scramble against the thin carpet for purchase but Roy doesn’t make it easier for him. He fucks into him hard and fast, grunting as he takes in how well Jamie’s taking him, how he’s drooling into his shirt, eyes rolling into the back of his head like he’s been dying for this since Roy last touched him.

The thought of Jamie in a single bed, football paraphernalia around him, his mum and stepdad fussing about downstairs, fucking himself with his fingers as he jerks off to the thought of Roy, of how Roy used him—

Jamie chokes on a moan when Roy angles his hips, rolling them in a curve that’s made the front pages of the tabloids. He grazes Jamie’s prostate every time, fingers digging bruises into his hips as the knot of tension tightens at the base of his spine, head throbbing so loudly that his vision blurs with it.

He only knows Jamie comes because of the vice clamp that seizes his cock. Forcing his eyes to focus, he takes in the sweaty red of his face, the tears that leak from his eyes, mouth open and moaning as Roy doesn’t let up. Roy loses his mind, dragging Jamie further off the bed, hand unclenching from his hip to sink into his hair, pushing his cheek into the come he’s left on the covers he’s going to have to sleep in.

Jamie’s body heaves, clenching around him, and Roy’s orgasm snaps the tension in his spine, flooding him as he slams into Jamie so hard it rattles through him. His hips jerk mindlessly, grinding into the heat to chase his pleasure as he empties himself into Jamie’s body. It floods his spine, flowing up his neck, drenching his mind in pure-white pleasure that makes his teeth ache and his chest roar. Distantly, he’s vaguely away of Jamie moaning in pain, too fucking sensitive for what Roy’s doing to his arse, but that doesn’t stop him grinding back onto him, demanding more like he doesn’t know what’s good for him.

Roy slumps forward, dropping Jamie’s hips and collapsing onto his back, breathing hard against the side of his face. Jesus fucking Christ on a bike, that was exactly what he needed.

His headache’s gone, mind clear, and there’s a burst of affection for the twat under him that he presses his nose into his cheek, a small nuzzle. Jamie responds to it immediately, turning to kiss him lazily, tongue trying to taste the inside of his mouth. Roy indulges him before he shifts, pulling his cock out, a smile curving his mouth at the whimper Jamie makes, his hole fluttering, grasping around nothing as Roy’s come starts to leak from him.

He pushes it back inside, Jamie sighing at the touch.

Roy drags his free hand through Jamie’s damp hair, lifting his head to look at the mess of come on his face, satisfied.

“Come back tonight,” he says. Jamie fucking melts in his grasp, nodding, but Roy knows he’d agree to fucking anything right now, maybe always. “Where are you staying? Will anyone notice you're gone?”

“I'm—residential facility,” Jamie manages, voice hoarse and crackly. “Dorm rooms.”

“Can you get out without anyone noticing?” It’s been an age since Roy stayed in them, the layout surely changed from a decade or so ago. “You managed it from your mum’s house, think you can do it again?”

Jamie swallows, eyes hooded as he searches Roy’s face. “Already figured it out. Was—planned it when I heard you were coming.”

“God.” Roy puts a knee on the bed to lean in and kiss him, slow and deep. “You’re fucking trouble you are.”

“Says you,” Jamie murmurs, pleased. “Going around, corrupting innocents.”

“Is that what you are? Innocent?” Roy shouldn’t. Jamie needs to get back before someone notices him missing, but fucked-out and lazy like this, he’s too tempting to ignore. “That’s not how I remember it.”

“That’s cause you’re old,” he says, a grin tugging like he wants Roy to tighten the grip in his hair, land a palm against his arse. “Forget things, don’t you?”

Roy does tighten his grip, gratified by the breathy sound of pleasure Jamie makes. “Best hope I don’t forget you’re coming tonight. Would hate not to be here when you come.”

“No, Roy,” Jamie whines, squirming. “‘M sorry. I’ll be good.”

“Yes, you will,” he says, kissing him one last time. “But only for me, yeah?”

Jamie nods, young enough and dumb enough to mean it.

 

*

 

The limp doesn't go unnoticed during afternoon training.

“What the fuck's wrong with Tartt?” Blake asks, squinting across the pitch. “He wasn't limping this morning, was he?”

Butch shakes his head. “Probably pulled a muscle. Should get physio to take a look.”

“Nah,” Roy says, grin locked away behind his stoic expression. “Give him a chance to shake it off. He most likely sat funny at lunch. Pins and needles.”

As though aware that they're talking about him, Jamie glances over, the sun reflecting off his hair and casting him in warm afternoon light. He grins, happy to be the centre of attention, and takes off at a run. Limping he may be, it doesn't slow him down at all.

And Roy likes that.

 

*

 

Jamie’s idea of breaking out is breaking in via the tree outside Roy’s window. It’s pitch black when Roy’s startled by a rap at his window, and considering he’s on the sixth floor of the hotel, it’s slightly concerning—though nothing he hasn’t experienced before. He’s had his fair share of enthusiastically creative stalkers. Jamie presses his face against the window, beaming from ear to ear, mouth stretching in a hi, Roy.

Roy yanks the window open. “What the fuck’re you doing?”

“Being discreet, aren’t I?” Jamie tosses his backpack in and starts to shimmy in through the open window, legs kicking out behind him. Roy mutters an oath and grabs him under the arms, yanking. “Oi! Careful, nearly ripped my cock off there.”

He pauses. “Are you hard already?”

Jamie twists to blink up at him. “You’re not?”

He gives him another yank and the window spits him out, depositing Jamie at his feet in a tangle of limbs. “You look like a fucking cat burglar.”

“Nah, mate, I don’t have the whiskers, do I?” Jamie pushes himself up, sitting with a grin. He looks like an idiot dressed in head to toe black, a beanie pulled down low over his head, the one spot of colour given that it’s City blue. “I call this my Roy Kent look.”

“You’re a twat,” Roy says, reluctantly charmed.

“You’re well fit, can’t believe you’re wearing clothes, that’s such a waste of time.” Jamie uses Roy’s thighs to get him to his knees. It’s impossible for Roy to stop himself from pulling the stupid beanie off, pushing his fingers through freshly washed hair. “Can I blow you?”

Roy presses his thumb against Jamie’s mouth, tugging his jaw down. “You remember how?”

“Been practicing,” he says around his thumb, a spark of jealousy rolling through Roy that someone other than him has enjoyed Jamie’s body. “Let me show you.”

“Not sure I want someone’s sloppy seconds,” Roy says, meaner than he should but it shivers through Jamie, his cheeks turning pink with it. “Working your way through the team, are you?”

Jamie shakes his head, fingers slipping under the elastic Roy’s boxers, knuckles pressing into his skin. “Hasn’t been anyone else. Just you.”

“You expect me to believe that?” He tips Jamie’s head back, wanting to cover his face in his come, rub it into his pink cheeks and mess him up all over again. “Pretty boy like you?”

Jamie’s mouth parts, eyelashes long and gorgeous against his cheeks. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Fucking hell.” He shoves his boxers down and wraps a hand around his cock, the other resting on Jamie’s forehead, holding him back as he strains forward to try and get Roy’s cock into his mouth. “Look at you, so fucking desperate to have my cock down your throat.”

“Uh-huh.” Jamie tries to free his forehead and get closer. Roy keeps him at bay, working his hand over his cock that thickens at the sight of Jamie’s eagerness, his impatience, his thorough lack of shame. “Roy.”

He lets him go and staggers a step back when he lands hard against him, eagerness making him clumsy. His cock scrapes across the side of his face but Jamie turns into it, mouth at the shaft with a low, pleased groan that spools heat through Roy, his hips twitching forwards.

“You weren’t this eager last time,” he notes.

“I was nervous as fuck last time,” Jamie tells him, cupping the side of Roy’s dick with a tenderness that borders on worshipful. “Didn’t know what was going to happen. Fucking glad it did though.” He smiles up, all warm sunshine like the memory is something lovely instead of something Roy could see the inside of a dock for. “Been thinking about this all the time.”

Roy reaches down to press his fingers deep into Jamie’s hair, pulling him forward until his forehead’s resting against his stomach. “Get to it then.”

Jamie rubs his forehead against the flat of Roy’s stomach before dipping to drag his nose along the top of Roy’s thigh, inhaling deeply until he’s at the soft crease where thigh meets hip, nuzzling deeper into the warmth there. Tongue slipping out, he drags it over the soft skin, his thumb stroking down his shaft, a slow, gentle pressure.

Roy grunts, hand coming to rest on his shoulders, another on the back of his neck. He’s not going to rush this. He wants to see what Jamie’s learnt in the last six months, what skills other cocks in his mouth have given him even though the thought makes him want to thrust deep and fast until Jamie only remembers his. He curls his fingers into his hair when Jamie’s mouth moves over his inner thigh, sucking a blooming bruise there, and then ghosts lightly across his balls on their path to his other leg.

“You smell fantastic,” Jamie groans, burying his nose in the rough curls of Roy’s pubes. Mouth opening, he presses his tongue against them. “God, so good.”

Roy’s head falls back as Jamie laves the base of his cock with soft, sucking kisses that rock through him before he spreads his tongue and drags it up the length of his shaft, slow and thorough. At the top, his mouth closes over the head of Roy’s cock, cheeks hollowing as he suckles away the pre-come that beads there. Tip of his tongue points and dips into the slit, clearing it away, and Roy’s thighs tremble. Jamie has large hands for his age, fingers that are going to be broader, thicker than Roy’s when he’s older, and he wraps one around his cock.

“Should’ve got lube,” Roy mutters, distracted when Jamie pulls back. He looks down and watches Jamie spit, dripping it down his shaft and smoothing it over him with a firm stroke of his palm. “Good boy.”

Jamie spits again, wetting him further, and then turns his attention back onto the head of his cock. Roy wants to push all the way in but holds himself back out of curiosity since Jamie’s mouth is better practiced than before. There’s a rhythm he lacked last time, a clumsiness that’s only faintly there, and Roy groans because Jamie’s a footballer who thrives on being told he’s done a good job. He thinks it’s going to be decent, a nice slow blowjob that’ll make him come like a soft wave. He thinks this right up until Jamie does something with his tongue that sends a burning wave of agonisingly perfect heat through him.

His eyes snap open and his hips jerk against his will as his body arches forward. Jamie chokes when Roy’s cock hits the back of his throat, coughing wet and thick around him before he yanks himself off. Roy’s heart slams in his chest, pleasure reaching every part of him.

“What the fuck was that?” He demands.

Jamie’s eyes stream with tears as he coughs. “Didn’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that,” he says, reaching over to pound him on the back. “Where the fuck did you learn that?”

“Internet,” Jamie rasps with another cough. “Good?”

“Yeah.” Roy wipes at his face with his free hand. “Do it again.”

Jamie’s smile is knowing even as he coughs one last time, clearing his throat so he doesn’t choke again. He shuffles back into place and glances up at Roy who’s tense and dips his head once more. Roy’s ready for it this time, at least as ready as he can be, and when Jamie does it again, he fucking moans like he’s being paid for it. Christ alive, whatever websites Jamie has been using is worth it because he’s forgetting his name.

Warmth wraps around him as Jamie sinks lower, reaching down to cup Roy’s balls in his hands. He brushes over the perineum but doesn’t dip further back, which is…Roy figures he’ll think about that later. He doesn’t want the boy to fuck him but this blowjob could only be improved with a couple of fingers up his arse. Take it into the top five, definitely.

“Fuck.” Roy puts his hands on Jamie’s head when he sure he’s not about to rip chunks of hair out, swallowing and breathing hard as Jamie tightens the pressure around him and twists his wrist, jerking the bit of him that’s not in his mouth. “You have been practicing.”

Jamie keeps up the pressure as he pulls up to the head again, eyes flashing to Roy, and then he’s sinking down holding eye contact all the way. He’s been watching too much porn, that’s for sure, but it’s fucking doing it for Roy.

“Come on, kid, I know you can take more than this,” Roy encourages, skin warm all over.

Jamie slides back up, mouth stretched in an obscene kiss over the head of his cock before he pulls off, tongue the last thing to leave him. “You’re not on coke this time.”

He frowns. “So?”

“Did research, didn’t I?’ At least he hasn’t stopped jerking Roy with a firm, wet grip. “Coke keeps you hard for longer, yeah? That’s why you were able to fuck me so much.”

“Your point?”

Jamie rolls his eyes like Roy’s slow. “So…want you to fuck me. If I get you off—”

“You little shit,” Roy laughs, taken aback by his audacity. “I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk, now get that bratty mouth back on my cock.”

“Alright, alright, old man.” He licks the head of his cock. “Just looking out for the elderly, ain’t I?”

Roy’s laughing as Jamie takes him down his throat, slow and easy, turning it into a moan of appreciation. Jamie swallows around him, rolling his balls in his palm, before pulling back up, slowly dragging his tongue up his shaft.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Just like that.”

Jamie kisses the head of his cock, grinning, visibly pleased. He drops his head once more, working Roy over, and it doesn’t take long until his fingers tighten against the back of Jamie’s neck and he’s coming with a long, appreciative moan down his throat, so deep Jamie can’t taste it. A disappointment he vocalises as soon as he has his mouth free, resting his forehead against Roy’s hipbone, breathing heavily, arms loose around his calves in a shadow of a cuddle.

Roy’s too orgasm drunk to do anything other than pet him. “C'mon, then, give me a show.”

It doesn’t take long. Jamie reaches down and tugs himself to a stunning orgasm in four quick strokes, coming with a groan and teeth pressing into Roy’s thigh, breathing heavily as he shakes just a little. Roy reaches out and traces fingers over his mouth and then down to linger on the tattoo that keeps drawing his eyes. Jamie rests his cheek on his thigh, watching him.

“Fuck,” Roy says, taking a step back from Jamie on horrifically unsteady legs. He collapses in the seat by the TV, legs stretched out in front of him as Jamie stays kneeling on the floor. He pats his thigh to invite him closer. Jamie scampers towards him, shedding clothes until he’s crawling naked into Roy’s lap. “That wasn’t half bad.”

“Liar.” Jamie presses his face right into Roy’s neck, breathing deeply. “You came so hard, thought you might have a heart attack.”

He pinches the ample flesh on his arse, enjoying the quiet yelp that’s muffled against his neck. “Who are they?”

“Hmm?” Jamie’s fingers are moving across Roy’s chest, brushing his nipple, down his ribs, over his clavicle, everywhere he can reach. “Who?”

“The other people you’ve fucked,” he says even though he’s not sure he wants to know. If they’re other footballers, he’s going to be fucking furious. “Who taught you how to use this pretty mouth of yours?”

Jamie shudders against him, the word pretty turning him pink all over, but when he lifts his head, his eyes are wide and a little startled. “Haven’t fucked anyone else, have I? Been waiting to see you again.”

The thing is, Roy knows it could very easily be a line. People often say what they think he wants to hear—oh, yes, I’m a virgin; no one’s ever fucked me in the ass before; I don’t do this sort of thing—and he lets it slide because it doesn’t bother him. Except Jamie doesn’t have a single ounce of guile in his body. Everything shows on his face, and his bordering on unhinged obsession with Roy is too close to the surface for him to be anything other than truthful.

Roy’s cock throbs. “You—what?”

“Was planning to go to Joe’s party again this Christmas.” Jamie tells him, embarrassed. He presses his face deeper into Roy’s neck, warming him from the heat radiating off his cheeks. “Wanted to see you again.”

Roy spreads his fingers across Jamie’s back. “Going to sneak in again?”

“Joe would’ve invited me,” he mutters, turning his entire body into Roy’s like an overlarge plushie. “‘Cause of the tattoo. Would’ve wanted you to meet me. Everyone’s taken the piss. Fucking worse now you told them you didn’t do it.”

Roy closes his eyes, trying not to let it show how much Jamie’s unexpected, unasked for, devotion affects him. There’s something to it: the fact Jamie looks the way he does, is popular among his friends, is fucking lovely, and he chose to wait for Roy when he didn’t even know for sure if they would meet again. It makes him want to push Jamie to the bed and spread him out, leave bruises and marks on his body that will mark him as Roy’s more than the tattoo already does.

“Is that…should I have fucked someone else?” It sounds very much like Jamie’s asking for permission. “I mean, I’ve watched porn and stuff. Used my fingers, some dildos. I’m not—it’s not like last time. I know some stuff now. Just wanted to do it with you is all.”

Jesus fucking Christ. He’s going to pass out with all the blood flooding his cock.

“Yeah, no, that’s good.” He jumps, startled, when Jamie’s hand moves from his chest down his stomach, into the warm space between them. His thumb rubs over the head of Roy’s cock, spreading the slickness left from his mouth. “You’re a fucking piece of work.”

Jamie turns pink-skinned and shy. “Do you like it though?”

“Yeah,” he rasps. “I do.”

Roy kisses him. It’s impossible not to when his mouth is right there, just as pretty when it’s tipped up in a faint smile as it is wrapped around his cock. Jamie sighs, pleased, opening easily under his mouth, welcoming his tongue inside as he tries to curl his entire body around Roy’s, like there’s no such thing as close enough. He kisses him deep, cradling the back of his head with the crook of his arm, searching out the rich, minerally taste of his own come on the surface of his tongue, the roof of his mouth. His other hand shifts off his arse—a fucking tragedy, all told—and brushes over his stomach before spreading across his tattoo.

He pulls back and traces the letters of his own name as Jamie breathes, trying to catch his breath, squirming just a little in his lap because he’s sixteen years old and in a state of constant arousal. He pinches Jamie’s nipple until his mouth parts with a pained gasp.

He lets go and Jamie’s smile stretches against his cheek when he presses his nose to Roy’s beard. “Are you hungry? Did you eat?”

Jamie shook his head. “Was too excited.”

This kid.

“Room service menu should be over there.” He gestures vaguely towards the living area. “Go get.”

Jamie grumbles as he gets up, clearly not wanting to leave the warmth of Roy’s lap but he’s a hungry lad and the thought of food wins out. Roy watches him move, all pale skin and lean muscles. His arse is plump enough that Roy imagines sinking his teeth into it. And when he turns, the front of him is just as nice, cock damp from his come that’s soaking the carpet and will probably get him a fresh complaint to Irma.

“Didn’t know hotel rooms could be this big,” Jamie says, clambering back into his lap and making himself comfortable. “You’ve got two sofas over there. Fucking posh.”

“Work hard and you’ll get posh hotel rooms too,” he grunts, shifting so that his cock’s resting against the meat of Jamie’s thigh. “This isn’t posh though.”

“You’ve got a little mini-fridge with booze like this big.” Jamie holds his thumb and forefinger apart. “That’s posh people shit right there. My dad would lose his nut if someone gave him a bottle that big.”

Roy makes a non-committal noise, plucking the menu from Jamie’s hands and casting his eyes over it. It’s late, the kitchen’ll be closing soon but that’s never been a problem for him in the past. And with Jamie resting his head on his shoulder, eyes fixed on the menu, he's in no mood to hurry things along.

“I’m hungry,” he says, almost apologetic, almost testing.

“Get what you want.” Roy rests his chin on the top of his head while looking down at the menu. “No alcohol.”

Jamie rolls his eyes. “You offered me coke last time.”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t in training then, were you?” He tweaks Jamie’s nipple again, laughing at the way he squirms deeper into Roy’s chest. “Blake’ll be on you if he thinks you’ve been drinking.”

“Don’t want to drink anyway,” Jamie mutters. “Tastes like shit.”

Roy just hums, absently dragging his fingers over Jamie’s side, thinking he’d be quite comfortable falling asleep like this. Just a quick nap. He did have an early morning after all, but Jamie demands his attention.

“What the fuck is escargot?”

“Snails.”

“What the fuck?”

“It’s French,” Roy explains.

“It’s fucking weird,” Jamie decides. “Who looks at a snail and thinks, yeah, I’m going to eat that?”

“Manchester egg,” he reminds him.

“Oi.” Jamie pops up, all offended Mancunian. “That’s well lush, that is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Fucking is,” he grumbles. “My stepdad makes a  cracking one.”

“Still black pudding, still disgusting.” Roy covers Jamie’s mouth with his hand to peruse the menu without his commentary, not that it stops him from talking, muffled and amused. “Do you ever shut up?”

Jamie considers it. “Could suck your cock again. That keeps me quiet.”

Roy sighs, heavily. He's already had a decent blowjob, he could kick Jamie out but it does seem a shame to waste such an eager lad.

“Get the burger,” he decides since Jamie's a teenage boy and, as such, a bottomless pit. “It comes with chips.”

“Sweet potato fries,” Jamie reads off like he’s discovered the written word for the first time. “Blimey, this place is posh. Is this what it’s like being Roy Kent then? Snails and funny fries?”

Roy strokes his fingers through Jamie’s sweat damp hair and tugs his head back, gratified by the way his pupils blow wide. “And bratty little shits with talented mouths.”

“Oh,” Jamie breathes. “You think I’m talented.”

“For fuck’s sake, you’re a pain in the ass,” he mutters, tipping Jamie off him onto the floor instead of letting him see his smile. He stands and kicks his boxers off his ankles, stepping over Jamie to reach the room’s phone. “Be quiet for two minutes.”

Jamie mimes zipping his mouth shut.

Roy shakes his head and places the order via the bored-sounding woman who answers the phone, opting for the silver service since Jamie seems so in awe of the poshness of a middling hotel. He may as well blow the lad’s mind while he’s here, give him something to aspire to and all that.

When he turns back around, Jamie’s made himself busy by poking through Roy’s stuff. The audacity of this fucking kid stuns Roy into silence, watching as he digs through Roy’s unpacked bag—he’s only here for a few days, no sense in wasting time unpacking—and sniffing at his cologne, nodding in approval. Like he’s never heard of boundaries, he keeps going and pulls out a small baggie of cocaine and throws him a look, grinning like he knows what Roy’s about.

He takes the coke from his hand and gives his head a cuff that does nothing to knock the grin from his face. “Nobody ever teach you about not looking through people’s things?”

“No,” Jamie says. “I’m an only child.”

“That explains a lot.” He tucks the coke away. He brought it simply to keep himself entertained if he needed it, but Jamie’s far better entertainment than the rush of coke—longer lasting, for one. “Stop touching my shit.”

“Just curious,” Jamie says, easy as anything. And he puts his restless hands on Roy instead, fingers passing through his chest hair and over his waist. “Can't believe you fucking got your name tattooed on me but didn't give me your number. We could've been shagging for months! You were in Manchester a month ago.”

It’s a tone of faint accusation Roy recognises from when Molly was young and he forgot that he was supposed to spend the afternoon with her, the childish complaint of being too young and self-involved to realise he had better things to do.

“If you had my number, I’d never have a moment of peace,” he says. “Now shut up.”

Jamie tilts his face, wanting and expecting a kiss. He absently wonders as he rubs his thumb over the soft pinkness of his lips whether this boy’s ever been denied anything in his life. He doesn’t kiss him, not inclined to spoil him like everyone else in his life seems to do. The pout that slips over Jamie’s face warms his groin, his fingers moving down to press over his tattoo again, drawn there by the searing brand of his name on this kid’s body.

A bad decision driven by alcohol and coke, he’s absolutely positive, but the black ink on Jamie’s pale skin is beautiful. And the fact Jamie let it happen in the first place, that he’s been telling people Roy did it even though no one believes him—he likes that very much.

“Mummy was pissed when she saw it,” Jamie murmurs, eyes hooded like he’s drunk on Roy’s touch. His cock is hard again, pressing against Roy’s thigh, smearing a thin sheen of come against him. “Thought I was a right twat to get it done, wanted me to have it lasered off.”

“Sensible.” He presses his finger hard against the K of his name, like the skin’s still sore and inflamed. Jamie just sways. “Why didn’t you?”

“Wanted to keep it,” Jamie murmurs, staring up at him. “Souvenir, innit?”

He traces the edge of Jamie’s nipple with the flat of his finger, watching it pebble under his touch before he scrapes it with the sharp side of his nail, a hard cock thrusting against his leg as Jamie gasps, startled by the pleasure.

“And what does Mummy think of me now?”

“Um—” Jamie's voice shakes as he blinks slowly, swallowing against the arousal building in his throat as he tries to think. “She thinks you had nothing to do with it. Thinks Roy Kent would never do something like that.”

Roy’s mouth twitches. “Does she?”

“Uh-huh.” Jamie shuffles a little closer, hands twitching on Roy’s skin, fingers pressing into his hips like he wants to drag him in closer but isn’t sure he’s allowed. “She thinks you’re a good influence.”

“I’m a fucking fantastic influence.” He drops his fingers and thumbs them across the V of stomach muscles that twitch beneath his touch. He walks Jamie back, slow and steady to the bed. Jamie falls at his push, staring up at him, reaching for him. “No, don’t touch.”

Jamie squirms. “Roy, c’mon. I’ve got plans.”

“Oh, do you?” The fact he thought his plans would matter makes a smile curve on Roy’s mouth: this is going to happen his way or not at all. “Well, maybe I just want to look at you for a bit.”

Jamie bobs his head. “Fair, I’m fit, aren’t I?”

“You’re a mouthy brat, is what you are,” he replies, amused. He gestures with his finger and Jamie turns on the mattress, nice and slow for him. His arse remains a glorious, wonderful thing, especially when it’s wriggled at him. “Spread your legs.”

Jamie does, pillowing his head on his folded arms, hips rocking faintly into the mattress as he tries to ease the pressure on his cock.  “I cleaned up since lunch.”

“Shame,” he muses.

“Oi, dried spunk is shit,” Jamie protests, peering back over his shoulder at him. “You could’ve told me to shower last time. I had to go back to Manchester with that dried on me. Was uncomfortable.”

Roy grins. “Oops.”

Jamie laughs, the warmth of it falling through the room and sinking into Roy’s bones. “You’re a dick.”

“Yeah, I am,” he agrees, shifting forwards. He runs his hands over Jamie’s arse and then pulls his hips back so he’s pressed against the seat of Roy’s thighs, comfortable against his cock. “You like it though.”

“Like you,” Jamie breathes. “Want to fuck you again.”

Roy smooths his hand over Jamie’s thigh, squeezing just above his knee and leans over to press his mouth to the side of Jamie’s neck. “Yeah? Tell me. What do you want?”

“Mate, what don’t I want?” Jamie’s chest expands as Roy rocks his hard cock against the curve of his arse. “There’s so much.”

He presses his teeth against his skin. “Tell me. All of it.”

“I—” he starts to turn red, finally embarrassed. The heat of it rolls against Roy’s skin. “I just—new things. Fingering and stuff. Dildos.”

Roy slips his fingers into Jamie’s mouth, enthusiastic sucking taking over, getting his fingers nice and wet. “I’ll finger you but you’ve got to tell me what you’ve done. Don’t hold anything back. I want to hear everything.”

Jamie nods, eager. Roy straightens and pushes his thighs further apart to give him more space to work. He spreads open Jamie’s cheeks and thumbs over his hole, tight but loose enough from earlier that he won’t hurt the lad when he fucks him. He works his tongue against the roof of his mouth and spits onto his hole, the moan from Jamie a delicious thing he files away to replay later. It’s easy enough to fuck one finger and then two into him, his body opening for Roy like it was made for him.

“Talk,” he orders.

Jamie pushes back onto his fingers, his own clutching at the duvet under him. It takes a moment for the movement of his mouth to draw sounds out of him.

“Got some dildos,” he starts. “Tried to get them as close to your size as I could. Do you know there are Roy Kent dildos on the market? Fucking rip off is what they are. Got fucking curves and everything.”

Roy snorts. “Yeah, that’s ‘cause of the hip thing.”

“I like the hip thing,” Jamie tells him, moaning softly as Roy’s fingers stretch him open.

“Keep going,” he says. “What did you do with them?”

“Fucked myself,” he says, like it’s obvious. Roy twists his fingers as a punishment, Jamie’s hips jumping up off the bed, cock leaking come onto the material below. He plants a hand on the small of his back to keep him down. “Did it how you did it the first few times, then I tried other things. Wanted—want to ride you this time. Been working on my leg strength for it.”

Roy stares down at the back of his head, wondering how the fuck this little shit was pulled straight from his fantasies. “Yeah? We can test that later.”

“Mint,” Jamie says, sounding happy even through the strain of pleasure rolling through him.

He tugs at his rim just to hear him moan. “What else?”

“Tried one of them vibrating egg things,” Jamie carries on. “That was a bad idea. Got it lost up there. Had to have my stepdad take me to the hospital.” Roy laughs. “Oi! It’s not funny, was fucking traumatising!”

“Sorry,” he says, thoroughly unapologetic. “Go on.”

“I’ve waited for this for so long,” Jamie whines, pressing his forehead into the bed as his hips worked back under the force of Roy’s hand, fucking back onto his fingers like he can’t help himself. Roy presses a third into him, the sound Jamie makes ripped right from inside him. “Thought I was going to go crazy waiting for Christmas.”

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “What makes you think I’d fuck you again?”

“Mate.” It’s groaned out, low and sweet as Roy’s fingers brush over his prostate. “You’re three fingers deep. You’d definitely have fucked me again.”

Roy removes his fingers quick and sudden, Jamie’s protesting whine cut off as he brings his hand down in a sharp slap against his cheek that jiggles as Jamie bucks, startled and delighted if his moan’s anything to judge by. “I’m not sure I like you cocky.”

“Could fuck it out of me,” Jamie suggests, spreading his thighs as far as they’ll go. It’s such a wanton, slutty display that Roy’s cock throbs at the sight of it. “Make me behave.”

He’s not going to smile, he’s absolutely not, it’s just Jamie’s so fucking eager he’s giving everything away and it’s fucking funny.

“Bet you’ve wanked to that a few times.” He pushes his fingers back into him, knee resting on the bed just by his balls, and Jamie keens, surprised. “Roy Kent putting you in your place.”

“Fuck yeah,” Jamie groans, breathing hard. “After City kicked your ass at Wembley—” Roy pulls his fingers out and Jamie scrambles to make it right. “No, don’t, come back. You were fucking aces at the Europa League, swear down. Not bad for Chelsea.”

Roy grabs his knees and yanks him further down the bed, pressing his cock against his hole and inside with spit to guide his way. Jamie goes gratifyingly silent, mouth open against the duvet, before he starts writhing and moaning under him. Curious, he goes still and watches as Jamie fucks himself back onto Roy’s cock, knuckles white in the duvet, skin flushed red as he forces himself to take every inch of Roy into his body.

“Come on then,” he grunts, the tight heat squeezing him. “You want my cock so bad, you fucking work for it.”

Jamie moans, braces his hands, and does just that. Whatever he’s been teaching himself, whatever dildos he has, he’s a good learner. His hips roll back smoothly, cheeks pressing against Roy’s body with each move, and his back is a glorious expanse of toned muscle that Roy wants to press his hands to just to feel them work under his palms. Instead he keeps his hands to himself, not even touching Jamie’s hips, enjoying the ride and the sounds of increasing frustrations from Jamie that Roy’s not moving at all.

“Roy,” he begs, tightening his muscles around him. “Please…fuck me.”

“No.” It’s a delight to not give him what he wants, to withhold it and listen to the hitching breath that threatens to turn into a sob. Turning him into a desperate mess even with Roy’s cock in his arse, exactly as he wanted, is fantastic. “You’re going to get me off just like this.”

“I’m sorry for saying Chelsea’s shit,” Jamie groans, sweat building on their back. “S not my fault City are better.”

Roy presses his back teeth together. If he laughs, then the kid’s going to think he can get away with it. “Someone’s going to have to teach you not to run that mouth of yours if you don’t want to get smacked for it.”

His back moves like a wave, rolling as he finds a position that works and finally gets a rhythm going that sends blazing heat down Roy’s spine. It’s tempting to grab hold of him, fuck into him until the poor lad can’t walk in the morning, but he refrains, just barely, from giving in. Jamie’s panting, working himself harder and harder onto Roy’s cock, twisting his hips gracefully like he’s had a lot of practice—and the thought of Jamie fucking himself with a wall-mounted dildo thinking of him, it makes his balls draw tighter up to his body.

Which, of course, is when there’s a loud knock at the door

Room service.

“Fuck,” Jamie groans, twisting his head. “Don’t go.”

“I’m going nowhere,” Roy tells him, low and heavy as his muscles twitch with restraint. “They’ll let themselves in.”

Alarm prickles across Jamie’s face. “What?”

“Silver service, isn’t it?” He lets his gaze move leisurely over the panic coating Jamie’s expression. “They’re going to walk right in and set it up for us. That’s the sort of service you get when you’re Roy Kent.”

“But—” Jamie’s stopped moving, which is fucking criminal in Roy’s opinion. “They’ll see.”

He snorts. “They won’t see anything. Separate rooms, you twat.”

Jamie relaxes, just a little, but he doesn’t start moving again. The sound of the door opening and a voice drifts out to them—

“Mr Kent? It’s room service.”

“Set up in the living room,” he calls back, teeth bared as he grins down at Jamie. “What’s the matter? Don’t want people seeing you hanging off my cock?”

His face shifts through the typical responses—panic, fear, anxiety—but its the upwards tilt of his mouth, the breathless way his hips roll against Roy’s hips and—

“I’m not the one who’d be fucked,” Jamie says, flash of a crooked tooth in his grin. 

Roy’s hands don’t shake, they fucking don’t, as he grabs him by his hips and yanks him hard back onto his cock, punching a moan out of him. Loud, louder than he has been, the little fucking performer.

“Of course you like this,” he laughs, low and mean. “Bet you’d let me fuck you in the Etihad. Let everyone see you take my cock.”

Jamie swallows and clenches hard around him. “Be an honour, wouldn’t it? Roy Kent fucking me and no one else? It’d be mint.”

His jaw tightens, annoyed. It’s bad enough he’s taken Jamie to bed twice now, he doesn’t need him getting delusions about what this is—a decent fuck that’s available simply because the lad’s too stupid to realise he could blackmail Roy into something more. Although, he couldn’t. Not really. Some cunt named Brian or Andrew or something boring tried once but never again. He remembers the look of dumbfounded confusion in the boy’s voice when he came around to Roy’s with tears in his eyes after he found out he was being let go from Chelsea’s Academy, like Roy was going to help him after being blackmailed.

Serves the little fucker right. Trying to play games with Roy fucking Kent is a dangerous way to find out just how little worth a person has. But Jamie doesn’t bring with him the danger of blackmail or anything like that—no, he’s even more dangerous because he’s just the sort of type to think that because Roy puts his cock into him, it’s love.

With that thought in mind, he bends himself over Jamie’s back, lips on the shell of his ear as the lower murmur of voices from the other room and the clatter of knives and forks drifts through to them. The door’s not entirely shut. If they were to look in, they’d see Roy’s naked back, the strong legs of Jamie’s held to either side, but not Jamie himself, and he uses that.

“You’re not special because I fuck you,” he whispers, heat of his breath washing over Jamie’s skin. He grinds his hips, slow and dirty. “You’re just a warm body to keep me entertained while I’m here. I could have anyone.”

Jamie shudders and pushes back, at least he tries too. Roy’s not letting him move an inch now. “With me though.”

“Because you offered yourself up to me,” he says. “Rude to ignore a gift like that, isn’t it?”

Jamie whines at that, but Roy ignores him and pushes his head down into the mattress, keeping his mouth clear so his moans echo around the room. He lifts one leg next to him, tips of his toes touching his expanding rib cage. Fucking into him at this angle is glorious. The heat of him, the stretch, the moans he punches out with each thrust as a growl builds in his chest, Jamie whining like a whore under him. The noise in the other room stops for a beat, a snorted laugh making Roy grin, and he flexes so that they get a good look when they peek through the door.

They always do.

He sets a brutal, punishing pace that’s too much for his body to take, at least without lube, but Jamie’s not complaining. The whites of his eyes are visible, the soft wetness of his open mouth as moans spill from him on a river of drool as he takes everything Roy has to give him. Roy comes in a sudden burst of heat that sets off explosions behind his eyes, down his spine, his cock that presses in deep, filling every inch of Jamie he can with the hot tide of his pleasure.

The door closes as the staff leave and Roy drags his cock out of Jamie’s body, breathing hard as the come leaks from his puffy hole. He gives the right arse cheek a lazy slap, swallowing against his dry mouth and working his jaw free of the tension from clenching it.

“Get yourself off,” Roy orders, struggling to get his breath back.

Jamie’s head shakes across the duvet. “Please—”

“Hmm?” He sweeps his eyes lazily over him, pleased at the red marks on his skin, the sweat glistening there, the way his hips are moving restlessly against the bed. “Can’t follow basic instructions now?”

“Roy.” The sweet way his name’s breathed out softens his faint annoyance at the lad’s sharp take on the fact that Roy wants to be there with him, not anyone else. “Want your hand. Please.”

He flexes his fingers. He knows exactly what Jamie wants, but Roy’s not going to give it to him. At least not the way he expects. His touch to the small of his back is met with a wild moan, sweat darkening his brown hair, a live wire waiting to go off. He starts to turn, cock red and weeping, but Roy stops that straight away by bringing the flat of his palm down hard on Jamie’s left arse cheek.

The sound jumps around the room and Jamie freezes. Roy stands above him, hand tingling from the impact, eyes fixed on the skin that pinks and then fades in the seconds it takes Jamie to remember how to breathe.

“Oh,” is all he says.

That soft, single syllable sweeps through Roy and brings his arm down again. It feels slides through his veins, the addiction of those startled, breathless moans that leap and spike with each slap he lands on a cheek that fucking jiggles with the force. His pale skin turns pink, warming beneath his hand, and Roy’s cock twitches at the sight despite having come long and deep in Jamie’s arse moment’s before. It’s impossible not to with how Jamie’s squirming to get away, to get more of it all at the same time, not sure what he wants.

Arm burning with the strength of his blows, Roy eases off but Jamie whimpers, choking as he drags in a wet breath, lifting his head. Blood flows thicker, hotter to Roy’s cock, at the tear-stained face, the glaze in his eyes.

“Don’t stop…please.”

Jamie could ask him for anything right now and Roy would give it to him. He shifts behind him, getting a better angle, and lets loose with strong, irregular slaps so Jamie never knows when or where they’re going to land. His breathing hitches, sliding into sobs, hips rutting against the mattress before he’s coming with a loud, cracking cry, hot come soaking into the duvet for the second time that day.

Roy lands one final slap and then stops, palm burning. He turns it up, resting his knuckles against Jamie’s skin to feel the fire of it. Jamie’s breathless, hitching little sobs hardens him further. He grips his half-hard cock and presses it into Jamie again, sick with how turned on he is.

Jamie whimpers when Roy seats himself, hips pressing against his raw skin. Roy grunts, working himself inside with shallow thrusts, bracing himself over Jamie’s body, fucking him hard and desperate. The small whimpers of pain each time his thighs hit Jamie’s arse helps, and he comes with a sharp, startled moan, bare minutes after pushing into him, his orgasm dry and painful. He collapses on his side, breathing heavily, turning his head to look at Jamie who turns to him, wet faced and blotchy.

“That was fucking aces,” Jamie says, rough, like he was given a present, not a punishment.

Fucking hell. 

Jamie pulls himself closer, and Roy automatically lifts an arm for him to settle in nice and close, breathing out against his clavicle. He tells himself to let it happen for just a few minutes because he did go a little hard towards the end and all the lad’s done is fancy him—can’t fault him for that, not really. He blinks, heavy and tired, the warm weight of Jamie against his chest and the lingering heat of two stunning orgasms pull him under and into sleep.

 

*

 

“—was so fucking cool,” Jamie enthuses around a mouthful of cold sweet potato fries that he’s dunked in mayonnaise. “Thought for sure it was going to go to penalties but then Mata’s corner came in and you just—” his body jumps, mimicking Roy’s header that secured Chelsea’s win in the Europa League final. He winces when his sore arse connects with the cushions, shifting to find a comfortable position again. “The 93rd minute! It was amazing. You looked so fit putting it in the net.”

Roy finishes the last bite of his burger, sucking his fingers clean as he considers Jamie who’s spent the entirety of their cold dinner waxing lyrical about the highlights of Roy’s game play since Christmas. It’s like listening to an enthusiastic, Roy-centric Match of the Day review, and it’s difficult not to enjoy the obvious admiration, particularly when the view is so pleasant too. Jamie’s seen no reason to put any clothes on and his body is a glorious display for Roy to look at while his voice washes over him.

“And your goal against Villa!” Jamie’s mind is dashing from point to point, giving Roy no opportunity to reply, not that he’s needed for this conversation. Jamie seems content just spilling his joy out with Roy as a silent audience. “You just—” his leg sticks out and mimes a wobbly kick that sends him toppling to his elbows. “And it went right down the pitch. No one saw it coming, not even Guzan. He saw it way too late.”

Roy pushes his plate away and cleans his fingers on a napkin. “It was a good goal.”

“It was a cracking goal,” Jamie argues, eyes wide and bright. “Even my dad was impressed and he hates you.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows twitch higher. “Not a Chelsea fan then?”

“Fuck no, he’s City down to his bones,” Jamie says, shoving the rest of his food into his mouth and scrambling forward to put his plate on top of Roy’s, chewing as he drags the cushions between Roy’s legs where he settles. “He’s never forgiven you for Chelsea beating City 6-0 at Stamford Bridge in 2007. He came around fucking fuming. I had to hide your poster or he’d have ripped it off the wall.”

A frown flickers across Roy’s forehead. “Got a temper, your dad?”

“Yeah, you know, it’s…whatever,” Jamie shrugs, awkwardness descending over him so suddenly it’s off putting. The shift from a sugared-up toddler to something smaller, closed off—Roy doesn’t like it. “He’s proper proud of me, alright? Says I’m going to make it big if I keep working hard.”

Roy doesn’t know what the tone of Jamie’s voice means, doesn’t know why it reaches inside him and digs sharp nails into his gut. He thinks of doors slamming in his childhood, Dad’s rage filling the small space of their flat, Molly planting herself like a tree and screaming back at him with red cheeks and wet eyes while Roy sat in his room and wished it would stop. He wonders if Jamie’s more like Molly or more like the skinny-legged Roy who just wanted peace and quiet on his visit home.

“He’s right,” Roy says, fingers inching forward to touch Jamie’s hair. His head lolls against his knee, a happy smile sliding across his face and chasing away the tight anxiety that had briefly been there. “You’re not bad.”

Jamie shivers. “Say that again.”

“Little freak.” He tugs Jamie’s hair, pleased at the laugh that generates. “Bet you get all worked up whenever someone says something nice.”

“Nah, I’m not weird.” His eyes roll, fingers brushing down Roy’s calves, mouth turning to the side of his knee. “Just you telling me I’m good? It’s fucking mint. Roy Kent thinks I’m good.”

He snorts. “Roy Kent thinks you talk too much.”

“You liked me talking last time,” Jamie notes, fingers slipping down to his feet. He shifts around and lifts Roy’s foot into his lap, thumbs pressing into the arch. Roy grunts at the pleasure that washes through him. “Can’t believe I’m touching the foot that scored a penalty for England.”

It surprises a laugh out of Roy. “Fucking fanboy.”

He gives Roy’s foot a little shake, shy smile back on his face before he hesitates and then leans down to kiss his toes. It shouldn’t be sexy, it fucking shouldn’t. Roy’s not into feet but this is—this is fucking electric. The wet heat of Jamie’s tongue between his tones, the suction into his mouth. He bites back a groan and watches this strange gift of a lad worship at his feet, literally. Fucking hell, Roy wants him on tap.

Jamie moves over the instep, onto the bones of his ankle and then up his calf, lazy and exploring, curious about a small scar he finds that Roy gruffly tells him is from his sister biting him when they were young. Jamie laughs into his skin at that, glancing up at him from beneath his floppy fringe. Roy doesn’t mind the laughter, doesn’t mind sharing this little thing with him, because Jamie finds a sensitive patch of skin behind his knee that he sucks on. For someone who hasn’t fucked anyone but Roy, he’s as confident as he can be and it’s bloody lovely.

Fingertips walk up his thighs and Jamie rises to his knees, forcing Roy’s knees further apart to make room for his shoulders. He settles on his haunches and examines Roy’s cock, up close and personal. His fingers are light on it, stroking it softly to fuller thickness.

“How comes it doesn’t have a little jumper?”

Roy’s mouth twitches. “Foreskin?”

“It looks cold,” Jamie says, almost forlorn. “Like it needs a hug.”

“That’s a weird way to start a blowjob.”

Jamie grins. “Could hug it with my mouth.”

“Jesus Christ.” The word hitches when Jamie leans forward and swallows the head into his mouth, Roy’s fingers dropping to his neck to grip at him. “You goddamn little shit.”

Jamie’s laughing so hard he has to pull off and Roy tightens his grip on the back of his neck, tugging him up into his lap, Jamie’s knees on either side of him. It’s getting late. At some point he’s going to have to send Jamie back to the dorms or else he’ll be marked down as missing and that’s not something Roy wants to deal with. Irma’s one thing, he’s positive he can charm her if he needs it, but Butch is old school and Roy actually respects him. He doesn’t want the embarrassing fact of him fucking Jamie to be a thing Butch knows about him.

“You need to go back to your bed,” Roy says, pleased at how immediately Jamie refuses, scooting in closer so the still-warmed skin of his arse presses against the tops of his thighs. “Get some kip in before training.”

“No.” Jamie winds his arms around his shoulders, mouth attaching to his neck. “Don’t want to.”

He rubs his fingers over the sore skin, pressing in with a tight grip that makes Jamie’s hips jerk against him. “Not about what you want, is it?”

“A bit longer, please?” It’s pleaded so sweetly against his neck that Roy can’t refuse, sliding the hand not on his arse up his back and into his hair. He draws Jamie’s mouth to his, kissing him.

Roy always thought kissing was a step he had to take in order to get to sex. Some women love it, most of the young lads he beds need it as a way to ease them into what he’s going to do to them, but it’s always just a means to an end. At least that was what he was taught at Sunderland by the older lads who liked to boast their scant knowledge gained from fingering girls behind some bins outside an under-18s nightclub. Snog them, feel them up a bit, make them feel like you’re not using them, but kissing for the sake of kissing is gay and should be avoided.

But kissing Jamie is surprisingly enjoyable on its own.

And so he stands. Jamie’s legs tighten around his waist, a muffled sound of surprise pressed into Roy’s mouth. He walks easily to the bedroom and drops Jamie on the mattress, looking down at him.

“One more and then you’re leaving,” he tells him.

Jamie brightens and holds his arms out. Roy considers denying him just because he can but he crawls over his body, kissing him again because the pink in his cheeks demand it. Little sighs of pleasure slip free as Jamie shifts under his body, their legs tangling together. Roy nuzzles into his neck, kissing at the sensitive spot there, up to his ear where he traces his tongue over the shell of it before he finds his way back to Jamie’s waiting mouth. He threads their fingers together and presses his hands to the bed, rocking lightly so their cocks slide together.

He kisses Jamie’s jaw and shuffles down to trace his tongue over the black ink of his tattoo. Jamie shivers, cock hard between them, leaking pre-come onto his stomach.

“Roy,” Jamie whines, shifting to get more friction. “C’mon.”

“Mmm?” Roy scrapes his teeth over a flat brown nipple. “You want something?”

“Want to touch you,” he says, trying to free his hands. “Didn’t get to last time.”

“That’s not what I remember.”

“Roy.” It’s a whine that makes Roy laugh against his nipple. “I want to touch you properly. Please?”

“Well, since you asked so nicely.” Roy releases him and rolls off, settling on his back with his arms folded under his head. “Go on then.”

Jamie scrambles to take advantage, hard cock bobbing that he takes in hand and strokes, almost absently. He’s only a lad so Roy can’t fault him for his inability to stave it off but, still—

“You’ve got a hair trigger,” he notes when Jamie’s come into his hand, careful not to get it on Roy like he thinks he’s not allowed.

He flushes. “No I don’t!”

Roy looks pointedly at his filthy hand that he petulantly wipes off on a towel that’s thoughtfully draped on the end of the bed.

“It’s not my fault,” Jamie continues. “You're still fucking fit. 'S not fair.”

“Life’s not fair,” Roy says, stretching, enjoying Jamie’s eyes on him. There’s something intoxicating about blowing this lad’s mind in a way that’s different to others. “Come on then, not many people get the privilege of feeling Roy Kent up.”

Jamie knee walks closer to him. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Talk about yourself in the third person?” Roy’s got no fucking clue what the third person is. “Should I start doing that?”

“I’m going to gag you,” he warns.

Jamie’s eyes brighten. “I’ve got something for that!”

He props himself up on his elbows, baffled as Jamie scrambles off the bed and hurries to his forgotten backpack, crouching. He watches him search through his bag, muttering to himself, tossing a shirt onto the floor, condoms that haven’t been used, a Snickers bar, and a set of Pokemon cards held together by an elastic band that makes Roy squint at the ceiling because fucking hell. He has no idea what’s happening until Jamie bounces back onto the bed, knee nearly ending their night when it gets far too close to Roy’s balls for comfort.

Jamie holds up a flesh-coloured dildo. “You could gag me with this.”

“Why the fuck do you have a dildo in your backpack?”

“Wasn’t going to leave it behind, was I?” Jamie gives it a shake and it wobbles. “What if the lads found it?”

A fair point. Jamie would never live it down if any of his teammates found it. Roy takes it from him, holding it in the palm of his hand, grunting. “Not much, is it?”

“Had to order it online,” he says, squirming down to lie pressed up against Roy’s side, slinging his leg over his knees. “Couldn’t exactly check it out proper like, could I?”

“Where did you get it from?”

“Amazon,” he says. “Had to time it to come when Mummy and Simon were out just in case the packaging was super obvious, you know? Waited for them to go visit Simon’s best mate.”

Roy doesn’t care about that, musing at the dildo. “And the vibrating egg?”

“Came with Roy.”

He pauses. “Did you name your dildo after me?”

“Yeah, course I did,” Jamie nods. “Got your poster above my bed, haven’t I? Easy to think of you while I’m wanking so I thought I’d call it Roy.”

There’s a lot Roy wants to say to that, thoughts rushing through his head, and he buys himself some time by winding an arm around Jamie and slipping his fingers between the cheeks of his arse to rub a dry finger over his well-fucked hole.

“You’re a horny thing, aren’t you?” He slips the tip in. “What do you think about when you’re wanking?”

“You,” he says, and people have said that before but Roy actually believes Jamie because he’s enough of a freak to actually be telling the truth. “Everything from last time. Fucking loved everything about that. It was…Jesus, Roy, was fucking amazing. Wanked myself raw thinking about it.”

Roy removes his fingers and sucks on them, getting them wet, Jamie watching him with mouth parted. “What about the dildo? What do you think about when using that?”

“Watch your best goals,” Jamie says, chest rising and falling rapidly against Roy’s side. “Compilations and shit on YouTube. Sometimes your interviews when I want to hear your voice.”

The shameless honesty of him is intoxicating. Roy presses two fingers into him, letting Jamie feel the burn that he seems to enjoy. Jamie hitches his knee higher up Roy’s body, head pillowed on his shoulder as Roy lazily fingers him.

“That time you went for the ref too,” he breathes, cheeks flushed again. “That was so fucking hot. Could see the muscles in your back because your shirt was drenched with sweat. God, I watched that again and again. Knowing what you feel like—fuck.”

“Maybe I should give you my number,” Roy rasps. “Could you have waiting for me after a match you’re so fucking desperate.”

Jamie whines and rocks his hips against his hip. “Please. I want it so much. Let me have it. Please.”

“God, you beg so prettily,” he murmurs. “Show me how much you want it.”

“Anything,” Jamie promises, fingers curling against the side of Roy’s neck as his breathing comes harder, pushing back on his fingers. “How?”

Roy reaches out and grabs the dildo, passing it to Jamie who clutches at it. “Show me.”

“Yeah—yeah, okay.” Jamie’s shaking as Roy removes his fingers and leans to one side, searching for the lube that hotels always seem to have when he stays in them. “How do I—where…?”

“Hold on,” Roy tells him, checking the lube because he doesn’t want his cock to fall off because it’s got impure metals. News has clearly spread about his preferences because it’s a kind he can use. He tosses it to Jamie and sits back against the headboard, tossing a pillow down to Jamie so he can support his back. He pats his shoulders. “Put your legs here.”

“Jesus, yeah, yeah.” Jamie hastens to follow his instructions. He turns himself, limbs trembling as he gets himself comfortable, a brief moment of shyness hitting him but Roy grabs hold of his ankles and drags his legs up to rest his ankles on his shoulders. “Roy!”

He rubs his thumb over the knob of his ankle bone. “Too much?”

Jamie shakes his head, bright red. “Just—nervous.”

“Don’t be,” he soothes. “You’re so fucking gorgeous. Want to see you fuck yourself. Want to impress me, yeah?”

Jamie’s mouth tugs in a smile, like he knows what Roy’s doing. “Yeah, want to do it.”

“Come on then,” he encourages. “Show me how you do it.”

Jamie spreads his thighs wider, moving his feet to rest wide on the headboard on either side of Roy and sucks two fingers into his mouth, holding Roy's gaze. Jamie reaches down and gives his cock a stroke, circling idly at his hole, Roy’s eyes fixed on his movements.

“Wait,” he orders, gruff. Jamie pauses. He leans in and spits on Jamie's hole, rubbing it in with his fingers, fresh come leaking from the tip of Jamie's cock. He does it one more time. “Alright, go.”

“Jesus,” Jamie pants, working the tip of his finger in.

Roy watches as Jamie works himself open with one finger and then two in quick succession, loose from the day. He doesn’t waste too much time opening himself up, he doesn’t need to, just sliding a quick third finger in before he’s pulling his fingers out and clumsily slicking the dildo up with the lube Roy tosses to him. Roy watches him, intent, as Jamie works his hand into position and pushes the head of the dildo against his opening.

The way his body opens, taking it—Roy spreads his hands under Jamie’s arse and supports his weight.

Neither of them talk as Jamie works the dildo in before he takes his cock in one hand and works the fake cock with the other. The sound of lube squelching with each pass goes right to Roy’s cock, his eyes barely able to shift away from the stretch of Jamie’s muscle.

“How does it feel?” Roy asks, low and heavy.

“Good,” Jamie breathes. “Better if it was you.”

Roy traces over where Jamie opens around the silicone. “Bet I could fuck into you right now and you’d take me just fine.”

Jamie gasps, body clenching down. His fingers tighten around the base of his cock, staving off his orgasm for a moment. “God—is that—can we do that? Is that a thing?”

“Haven’t you watched double penetration?”

“Yeah, like, ass and mouth, right?” Jamie’s grinding the dildo into him, eyes fixed on Roy. “I didn’t—can we?”

“God, you’re so fucking eager to learn,” Roy groans, palming his cock. “Fucking hell. Yeah, yeah, we’ll do it.”

“What do I—?”

“Ssh.” Roy places his hand over Jamie’s, taking hold of the dildo and pulling it slowly out. “I’ll take it from here.”

Jamie scoots backwards on his elbows, giving Roy more space. He’s pushing into his body before he’s moved too far, Jamie arching his hips to take him deeper, chest expanding as hesitation sweeps through him. “It’s not going to fit. I don’t—”

“You’ll see,” Roy breathes, leaning down to lick into his mouth. “Just relax."

He drops the dildo on the bed and rocks into him, slow and easy. Nothing like how frantic it’s been so far. He takes the time to slick up his fingers, Jamie barely blinking as he does so, and he reaches between them. Tracing his finger around where they’re joined, Jamie’s stomach muscles twitch, colour spreading down his chest, mouth parting as he applies the slightest hint of pressure.

“Roy—” he sounds nervous, maybe frightened, fingers gripping tightly at Roy’s shoulders as he makes no move to pull away. The realisation that he really could do anything to him floods into Roy’s cock, hips pressing deeper in a slow wave.

“Easy now,” he murmurs, pressing hard against the side of his cock, spreading the stretch. “You’ve got it.”

The sound Jamie makes when the tip of his finger slips in alongside his cock turns him dizzy. Stretching the rim of his muscle, Roy grinds his cock deeper as he slips to one knuckle and then the second. Jamie thrashes his head to one side, choking.

“More?"

Jamie’s mouth moves, silent except for the metal-scratch rasp of his breath. He manages a nod. Carefully, Roy presses another finger into him, forcing Jamie’s body to accept him, watching the chest below him hitches and strong fingers sink into the duvet as colour spreads like a wave over his pale skin.

“Easy, easy,” Roy coaxes, searching for the dildo with his spare hand. “I’ve got you.”

“I can’t do it,” Jamie whispers, tears wetting his eyes. “It’s too much. I can’t—I can’t—”

“You can do it,” he says because he wants to see this. He wants to see how Jamie breaks and sobs when it’s finally in there, how he willingly breaks himself into pieces to make Roy happy. “You’re going to do it for me, aren’t you?”

Jamie squeezes his eyes shut, cheeks growing damp, and he nods.

It feels non-threatening in his hand, his fingers wrapping around it easily. Jamie didn’t go large with his first dildo, which was sensible. But what feels easy in his palm feels huge when he slicks it with more lube and rubs it against where they’re joined. Hooking his fingers, he slides them out and presses the head in, catching on the rim just as his fingers leave. Jamie’s whine reaches a fever pitch, almost tipping into a scream as he gasps up at the ceiling.

He’s shaking his head. “It’s too much, it’s too much.”

“No it’s not,” Roy grunts, pushing Jamie’s thighs wider. “You can fucking take it.”

He’s barley breathing, neither of them are. Roy’s digging bruises into the inside of Jamie’s thigh as he slowly pushes the dildo in. The drag of it against his cock makes him grit his teeth, and Jamie’s just frozen—a solid rock of a boy before the dildo’s nestled inside of him, squeezed between Roy’s cock and the rim of his arse.

He moves together with the dildo. Jamie sobs.

“What does it feel like?” Roy grunts his demand.

A stream of nonsense fall from Jamie’s throats and Roy—he just fucks him.

Jamie’s gone. It’s obvious to Roy from above with sweat slicking his skin as Jamie uh uh uhs under him, eyes fixed somewhere on Roy but not seeing him. He could do anything to him, absolutely anything he wanted and Jamie would take it because, right in this moment, every part of him belongs to Roy Kent.

He lets the pleasure build in his gut, doesn't fight it. Roy twists the dildo lightly as he rolls his hips to make it feel like a curve and Jamie just falls apart. Sobs sliding from his mouth, cock jerking with come that falls over his stomach and up his chest, he doesn’t stop sobbing as the pleasure slips away and turns into pain at Roy fucking into him, cock and dildo stretching him open.

It’s Jamie’s glazed, tear-stained face that does it. Lights explode behind his eyes, orgasm sweeping him up into a storm, and he empties himself into Jamie's willing body, shuddering through it.

“Fuck,” Roy breathes when the world comes back to him. Jamie’s shaking under him, small sobs rolling through him. He quickly, carefully, pulls the dildo free and tosses it to the side where it lands with a dull thud. And then he’s sliding out of Jamie, collapsing at his side, pulling him into his arms to kiss him messily. “Good boy, good fucking boy.”

“Roy?” Jamie whispers, wet and uncertain. Hand pats at Roy, searching for him. Roy pulls him even closer, rolling him into his arms, grabbing the end of the duvet to wrap it around his shivering shoulders. “I don’t–that was—”

“Ssh,” Roy soothes, rocking him just a little, like he’s swaddled a baby to rest against his chest. “Was a lot, it’s okay. Come on, you’re okay.”

The tight embrace of Roy’s arms is enough to send Jamie shivering into sleep where his body melts against him, resting, and Roy holds him tighter because what the fuck else can he do?

 

*

 

Irma’s waiting for him when he arrives at the facility the next morning for the breakfast management has planned. There are new investors in the country who are ready to pour money into various teams around the country and Roy’s being trotted out as a show pony where he has to grunt welcomingly, shake hands, and answer stupid questions. He passes through the front doors, covering a yawn with the back of his hand, and he almost walks straight over Irma; he doesn't see her until the last moment.

“Ah.” He pulls back, startled, eyes squinting. “Morning.”

“You are aware doors exist, aren’t you?” Irma asks.

Roy glances behind him at the doors he’s just passed through. “Yes?”

“Then the next time you have one of your partners come to your hotel, please make sure they use one rather than scaling the building,” she says, simply. “We had some complaints.”

“I didn’t know they were going to come up that way,” Roy tells her. “Was as much a surprise to me as it was to you.”

She makes a low, unimpressed sound. “And when they left that way?”

“That was my idea,” he admits. “Seemed only fitting.”

Irma draws in a deep breath like she’s already questioning the meaning of life despite it not yet being 9am. “And if you could refrain from having sex with your partner while other people are in the suite simply trying to do their job, that would also be wonderful.”

“They interrupted me,” Roy argues, taking in the tight pinch of her face. “We should talk about this over coffee—”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’m really nice when you get to know me.”

“The problem is, I feel I already know you enough.” She pulls a slip of paper out of the leather folder held under her arm. “An itemised bill for the cleaning that we will be charging you for. It’s beyond the job description of the hotel cleaning staff to remove bodily fluids from the carpet.”

Roy takes the paper and sweeps his eyes over it, impressed. He left the hotel barely ten minutes earlier, the staff must’ve been waiting around a corner to assess the damage. “Should’ve saved yourself some time. Probably going to make a mess again tonight.”

“Lovely,” Irma says, dry as a desert. “I’ll be sure to forward you an updated bill.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Jamie walking alone, phone pressed to his ear as his chatter drifts across the open expanse. Irma barely looks at him, as though taking her eyes off Roy will mean that he’s going to smear his come over the nearest surface and sneak prostitutes in through the sewers.

“Try and stay out of trouble today, please,” she says, tucking her folder back under her arm. “I’d like to make it through the day without hearing any gossip about you.”

He presses his hand to his heart. “I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

“That’s what worries me.”

Roy lets his face spread into a smile, the likes of which he doesn’t normally show in public—Molly once told him if he smiled more, people wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. It lightens his entire face, softens the grouchy tilt of his eyebrows, lifts the general glare that rests there. He’s used this smile to get out of trouble with various partners, his grandmother when he forgot something important, and a few police officers when the Roy Kent of it all wasn’t enough. And, sure enough, a brush of pink coats Irma’s cheeks before her eyes narrow and she turns on her heels that snap, leaving without a goodbye.

“What did you do to her?” Jamie doesn’t make him jump, not this time. “She looked pissed at you.”

Roy keeps his voice low. “It was about you climbing in the window like a stalker.”

Jamie puffs up. “I wasn’t caught! I was wearing my Roy outfit.”

“Please don’t call it that,” he says. “Just use the fucking door next time.”

“Next time?” Jamie’s eyes fix on his, unerringly mature. He ruins it by then glancing around like a skittish foal and leaning in with a low whisper. “Tonight?”

Roy knows what his answer should be but he’s got another night here and it seems like a waste if Jamie’s not in his bed. He nods. “Don’t be late.”

“Mint,” Jamie breathes, heat rising to his face. Roy swears, if he gets an erection there, he’s walking away and leaving the little brat to deal with it alone. “Should probably get your number though. You know, so I can text you to let you know I’m on my way. Avoid having to ring up and stuff, yeah?”

“So I can have you text me every five minutes? Not a fucking chance.”

“Come on, man,” Jamie whines. “I won’t use it for weird shit or anything, I promise.”

“Oh yeah?” Roy’s not confident he has a good barometer of what weird shit actually is based on literally everything he knows about him. “And what’ll you do with it if I give it to you?”

Jamie shrugs. “Text you, I s’pose. Dirty pictures and the like.”

A few members of the catering staff roll a large trolley past them, carrying the breakfast Roy’ll be eating within the hour. “Trying to get me in trouble, are you?”

Jamie rolls his eyes. “Fine! We can just sext like old people.”

Roy shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t. It’s bad enough this has happened for a second time, but passing it off as a coincidence is easy. If he gives Jamie his number, it’ll be something else, something like an arrangement. And for all that Jamie’s fun, he’s still a young lad and, worse than that, a fan. They get clingy, expect more. But he thinks about Jamie’s eagerness to try everything, the fact he hasn’t fucked anyone because he’s waiting for Roy.

“I’ll give it to you on one condition,” he says, sealing his fate.

“Anything!”

Roy focuses on him. “No one else.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll fuck you,” he says, heart beating a little faster because what in the actual fuck is he doing. “But if you fuck someone else, this is over.”

Jamie blinks, all wide-eyed and beautiful. “Why would I want to fuck someone else?”

Gratifying, but not an answer. “You’re sixteen. Shit happens.”

“Nah, not when there’s you,” Jamie says, shifting to sit up, excited. “Just you? That’s like, it’s my fucking dream, man. Hell yeah.” He holds his phone expectantly. “Come on then. Give me your number.”

Roy rolls his eyes and rattles it off, huffing when Jamie presses to call it, glancing at him suspiciously. His phone starts to ring. “Happy?”

“Fucking yes!” Jamie laughs, bright and beautiful as Roy pulls into the facility and scans for a parking space. “I’ve got Roy Kent’s number. This is mint.”

“If you give that number to anyone, I’ll skin you alive, you understand?”

“Kinky,” he nods, the little fucker.

Jamie’s grinning so wide when he hurries away in his slides, throwing excited glances over his shoulder, Roy thinks it’s going to crack his face. He watches his body dip in a limp, satisfaction curling with utter bewilderment.

What the fuck is he even doing?

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of anything forced is not beautiful