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“That’s the whistle and Richmond has done it!! Ancelloti, Pellegrini, Conte, Mourinho and now Kent - he joins the ranks of the very few who have succeeded in winning the Premier League in their first season as manager and truly, it’s been an outstanding season.”
“Beautiful scenes here from the Dogtrack as Richmond staff join their team on the pitch. I think the fans might not be very far from joining them, Arlo; Nelson Road is about to explode! And yes, an absolutely fantastic season from Richmond, much thanks to the dynamic duo, the dream team, some even calling them the Premier Power Couple, Kent and Tartt-”
-
People and press are clamouring for interviews and congratulations already but Rebecca had known better. At the 80th minute, with a solid 4-1 lead over Fulham and Nelson Road at a boiling point, she sent the Veuve down to the locker room and locked the building down tight. As the Richmond faithful stormed the pitch the team was ushered back inside, away from the ecstatic chaos. Not that they’re any better, screaming their heads off, but they deserve to celebrate with each other and not be professionals for just a little while.
As they spill in, it’s as if someone set off a bomb in the locker room. The screaming is deafening, bodies crushing against one another in endless hugs, Bumbercatch is slamming the lid on the ice bath bin like a one-man production of Stomp, and they are all Richmond until the day they die. They descend like a swarm of locusts on the numerous bottles - placed centre stage, foil removed but corks still in - popping them, spraying thousand-pound foam on each other, passing them around, pouring them for each other, on each other. O’Brien connects to the speaker and starts blasting Queen at full volume.
Isaac’s tremendous voice draws everyone’s attention for a moment, impossibly, as he pops the cork on a bottle.
“To a fucking prem final hattrick!” he booms, toasting Jamie as the rest of them shout their agreements. Isaac takes a swig - almost choking on the bubbles - before pressing it into Jamie’s hands and joining in the chorus of We Are The Champions.
Jamie accepts it gratefully but suddenly freezes, bottle halfway to his mouth, and casts about wildly for Roy until he spots him. Amidst the chaos he raises his eyebrows in silent question, pointing at the bottle and then himself. He’s been good and dry since Christmas and something churns and aches in Roy’s chest at the idea that even after winning the fucking Prem, he’s still asking for permission to have a drink. Roy pretends to consider it for a moment, just to watch him squirm, before giving him a single nod. He smiles to himself as Jamie wastes no time in tipping the bottle back, getting a decent amount in his mouth and a more considerable amount dripping from his face. It runs in rivulets down his neck, mingling with his sweat. Roy tracks the path it takes down his carotid, blood rushing in his ears, and then Isaac slams into him, lifting him clean off the floor and shouting.
-
Beard shakes his hand. Nate gives him a smile and a nod. Sam is crying again, thanking him, hugging him. Dani jumps on his back, chanting in Spanish. (When did they all stop fearing him? When did he become this comfortable with touch? When did he actually succeed in changing?)
Eventually, he collapses on one of the benches further back in the room, outside the epicentre of the chaos, exhausted and elated. He’s shaking a little, he thinks, and his face hurts from smiling. It doesn’t take long before Jamie comes sliding in next to him on the bench, soaking wet from head to toe, covered in sweat and champagne and god knows what else. He doesn’t hesitate, climbing halfway into Roy’s lap, almost decking him with the bottle still clutched in his hand. They end up in a strange sideways hug, foreheads pressed against one another.
“We fuckin’ did it, Coach, we fuckin’ did it .”
They both laugh, incredulously, clinging to each other.
“We fuckin’ did,” Roy answers, nodding. “ You did it. A hattrick and an assist, you prick.”
“All for you, Coach,” Jamie says, pressing a wet kiss to his temple. “And for mummy. And one for meself. We get one each. And Pheebs can have the assist.”
“You fuckin’ muppet,” Roy laughs, reaching up to ruffle Jamie’s hair. “You’re sticky.”
Jamie pulls back a little, grinning like an idiot. “Dani got me good, yeah.”
“Fuckin’ waste, you’re meant to drink it.”
“Oh, trust me , granddad, I’m fuckin’ drinkin’ this.”
He slides sideways off him but keeps one leg slung across Roy’s; one sticky, muscled thigh scalding him through his trackies. There’s bits of grass stuck to his skin, and a bruise is purpling just above his knee, on the inside of his leg. Roy’s hand finds it without his volition, pressing on it just a little. Jamie tips his head back against the locker behind him and takes a swig from the bottle, eyes closing for a moment in pure bliss. Roy watches his throat work as he swallows, suddenly filled with a clawing want, a desperate thirst.
“Go on, pass that here then.”
“Not a chance, this one’s mine.”
“Such a child,” Roy says, not even bothered by the affection dripping off of his words. He tries to reach for the bottle, grabbing for Jamie's arm but that insane thigh - with muscles that should be spent after doing a full 90 - pushes him down, locks him in place. He did this to himself; he turned Jamie into some sort of super-muscled freak with inhuman stamina. He struggles, but it’s no use.
“You twat, give me that, I’m the fuckin’ gaffer and I haven’t even had any!”
Clearly delighted by Roy’s protests and ignoring them wholeheartedly with a cackle, Jamie lifts the bottle again and drains the last of it, before turning to Roy, looking extremely pleased with himself. The smug look is somewhat ruined by the bulge of his cheeks, his mouth clearly full of champagne. In the tussle, the bottle drops from his hand and hits the floor with a loud clink that barely makes a dent in the chaos that still surrounds them. He swallows some of it, making a pleased sound, swilling the remainder around in his mouth.
Blood is rushing in Roy’s ears again, louder this time. There are other bottles, dozens of them circulating around the locker room, going from hand to hand. He could easily intercept one, or just shout for someone to pass him an unopened one. He could, but he won’t.
He grabs whatever he can get his hands on and yanks, and Jamie goes willingly, eyes glittering. He untangles their legs and climbs back onto Roy’s lap, so hot and damp he may as well be steaming. Roy slings one arm around his waist and puts one hand on the back of his neck, pressing their foreheads together again. (“Fuck it, let’s go.”)
“You’re being a greedy boy.”
“Mhm,” Jamie agrees smugly.
Roy could ask for another bottle. But he won’t. He tightens the arm around Jamie’s waist and strokes the side of his neck with his thumb.
“Give me the champagne, Jamie.”
Jamie’s hands slide up from his shoulders, up his neck and land on either side of his jaw, tipping his head back, and he leans in without a moment’s hesitation. He pries Roy’s lips open with his tongue, letting the champagne drip into his waiting mouth. It’s warm as it trickles across Roy’s lips, as it drips down his cheeks. It feels sacred, like a religious rite - it’s not the wine that is Jamie’s blood but it’s the Veuve that is their victory, and Roy drinks it all, laps it up until there’s nothing left in Jamie’s mouth. He presses in after it, groaning and needy, desperately chasing the flavour on Jamie’s tongue. You could generously call it a kiss but in reality it’s just Roy sucking on Jamie’s tongue and licking at the roof of his mouth. When Jamie pulls back Roy lets out a noise of protest, tangling his fingers in his hair to tug him back in but Jamie shushes him, laughing and breathless.
“Steady on, lad, lemme just-” He looks around, searching for another bottle.
He’s beautiful, Roy thinks, the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, both on and off the pitch. Jamie pats the side of his face with a clumsy hand, fingers brushing across Roy’s open mouth, and Roy wastes no time, wastes no energy in hesitating or considering whether or not he should - he doesn’t care, he doesn’t give a single fuck, they won , they are untouchable . He wraps his lips around two of Jamie’s sticky fingers and sucks.
Jamie twitches in his lap, a full-body shudder kind of thing, hips coming down in a hard grind against Roy’s. The half-chub he’s most likely been sporting since his second goal is like a brand against Roy’s abs, hot and insistent even through his pants and shorts and Roy’s shirt. He gives Roy a loopy, drunken smile. Drunk on champagne after five months of abstaining, drunk on their victory, drunk on his own talent, the little prick.
“Fuckin’ hell , Coach, that’s- yeah…”
He trails off, reaches out a hand as Winchester dances by, shirtless.
“Give us that, mate, there’s a good lad, thank you!”
Tommy hands it over with a wide grin and a smack to Jamie’s ass. He jerks in Roy’s lap again, the inside of his thigh dragging over Roy’s own hardness. If this is how the legendary Roy Kent dies then so be it.
Jamie twists around, looming over him, filling his entire field of vision. He pulls his fingers free from Roy’s mouth and grabs his chin instead, holding him firmly but gently, steadying him in a roiling ocean. He lifts the bottle to pour directly into Roy’s mouth with a reverent look on his wrecked, flushed face but Roy summons what little he has left of his higher cognitive function and grabs his arm. He shakes his head, just a little, careful not to dislodge Jamie’s other hand from his jaw - under no circumstances should he be allowed to stop touching, to take his hands away from Roy - and pushes the bottle towards Jamie’s mouth instead.
“Go on,” he says, “do it proper.”
Jamie gives him a smile, small and filthy, and Roy can do nothing but smile back.
“You degenerate old man,” he says lowly before raising the bottle to his lips. Roy just growls in response. Jamie pours. He makes it sloppy on purpose, clearly, letting half of it run down his chin, soaking his jersey. His fingers dig in tighter on Roy’s jaw, holding him steady, holding him open for him as he tips forward once more.
There’s more champagne this time, rushing from Jamie’s mouth to his, cooler and less diluted. Roy drinks it all, takes it from him with force, takes his mouth and claims it. Jamie pulls back and pulls that stupid fucking face that never fails to enrage whoever he’s aiming it at, tongue out and eyebrows dancing. He takes another swig before blindly pressing the bottle into the hands of someone behind him and that stupid, pink tongue back into Roy’s mouth.
This time it becomes a proper kiss, sloppy, indecent, borderline pornographic, with Jamie working up a steady grind in his lap. It’s so fucking good Roy’s head is spinning with it. He hears Zoreaux shout - a hoarse “Fucking get some!” - and Montlaur reply something that sounds like a French equivalent, and he thinks it might be for him and Jamie but he couldn’t give less of a shit. All that matters is for Roy to kiss him until he’s ruined for other people, hopefully forever. It’s his fucking fault anyway, making Roy this mad, invading every thought and dream and breath he takes. He gets his hand on Jamie’s dick, gives him something more to grind against through his shorts, quickly working the half-chub into a full hard-on. The chaos around them falls away, like it always does when he looks at Jamie. There’s nothing left except the two of them, except the last traces of the Veuve in their mouths, except the punch-drunk sounds Jamie’s making, except the hands sticking to his neck, except this exceptional man who keeps finding the limits of Roy’s expectations on him and exceeding them beyond his wildest imagination.
“ Fuck , you’re beautiful,” he murmurs into the skin of Jamie’s neck, licking at the sweat and the alcohol. “On the pitch. Now. Always so fuckin’ beautiful. Are you gonna come? Right here?”
Jamie chokes on a whine and bites Roy’s shoulder, nodding around his mouthful of flesh and cloth before letting go. Seems like a bit of a hair trigger but hell, he's probably been wanting to come since '34, when he nutmegged Castagne and scored from 35 yards. Roy doesn't begrudge him.
“So good for me. Want you to come right here with everyone watching. Just like everyone watched you on the pitch.” He can’t hold back, doesn’t even try to. It spills out of his mouth like Veuve, like Dom Pérignon, like Krug, like Bollinger. “And they might be watching, but it’s all for me, innit?”
Jamie’s hips are frantic as he nods again, whimpering between stifled utterings of “fuck, fuck, please, yes”.
“Three hattricks and an assist. A premier league victory. Your come. All for me.”
Jamie twines his fingers in Roy’s hair and makes a sound that’s probably only audible to dogs in the immediate area and Roy himself. His dick is scalding under Roy’s hand, and so, so wet. His thighs tremble, spread across Roy’s lap, and most likely it’s going to be Roy who’ll be ruined forever. Maybe they can ruin each other.
“Be good for me, go on, get yourself off. Use my hand. Come for me, Jamie.”
He does. It’s another full-body thing, hips jerking, fingers clawing at the back of Roy’s head, shivering and trembling, head thrown back, eyes closed and mouth open on a groan Roy wants to drown in. It goes on for ages and it’s over way too soon, so Roy keeps working him with his hand until he whimpers again, oversensitive and shuddering, and slaps him desperately on the wrist. He breathes into Roy’s mouth for a long moment, looking like he’s trying to turn his brain back on and failing spectacularly. Roy laughs at him fondly and a little mockingly.
“Good boy. Did you like that?”
All he gets in reply is a vague noise of exasperation and another kiss. Then Jamie slides backwards, slumped and grabbing for the bench like he’s aiming to hit the floor on his knees and settle in for a while, make himself comfortable, like. Roy feels like he’s about to shake apart on a molecular level and his dick is straining obscenely in his trackies. (Is he gonna let Jamie blow him in the middle of the locker room with the entire team there? Fuck, he just might.They won the Prem, he’s untouchable.)
Very distantly he thinks he hears Rebecca come in, saying something about the press. A single one of the shaken molecules tells him her presence is something he should take into account. He glances in that direction and sees Bumbercatch nodding at her, ushering her back out the door with reassurances that, “Coach will be right out, he just needs one minute, Ms Welton.”
Then he turns and whistles sharply between two fingers. In Roy’s periphery, Jan Maas appears.
“This will be unpleasant for you, and
very
entertaining for us,” he says cheerfully, and lifts an enormous bucket of ice water over his head.