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Four hours. It's not much, when held against the total sum spent traveling between stadiums since he was a child. Long drives have a habit of reminding him of his grandfather—especially in the cold, especially with the windscreen wipers bouncing rhythmically against the glass. The car had been largely silent, then, apart from the radio crackling between them. He had been small and afraid, and his grandad had been kind and warm, even if he was quiet.
Beside him now, Jamie hardly knows the meaning of the word. He uses his water bottle as a pretend microphone while he sings overtop of Ella Fitzgerald—they’ve been on something of a Christmas music roulette, his regular obnoxious music interspersed with holiday classics through the drive, and Jamie’s been on leading vocals for it all. Roy doesn't have to ignore the fondness that blooms in his chest these days.
He drives with a hand resting affectionately on Jamie's thigh, thumbing at the brightly colored embroidery stitched into his trackies. He has to be careful about that, or he’ll have a whining, wanting footballer on his hands. He seems too distracted by the music to pay much mind to Roy’s hand on his leg, and he smiles so brightly it carves those deep dimples into his cheeks. It's easy to admit that he loves him, like this.
When the car comes to a halt in front of Georgie and Simon’s, Jamie’s already out of the car before Roy’s put it in park. He expects this. It's nothing new. They’ll come out for their bags some time after dinner, and Jamie will grab them both so he can tease him about making sure “he don't slip on the ice, old man.” Roy will roll his eyes, and he’ll kiss him while their ears go cold.
He hears Georgie’s trilling voice follow after the bells on the wreath jingle against the door as it’s swung open. Jamie laughs as he bends to wrap his arms around her, and Roy presses a hand flat against his back once he’s at the top of the stairs.
“There he is!” Her grin lights up her face in the same way Jamie’s does. “Oh, come here.” Georgie yanks him close just the same as she had her son, kissing across both his cheeks before she beckons them inside, lest the three of them freeze to death.
The house sparkles with decoration—shining baubles and strings of lights, green ivy wound up the stair railings with plastic, red flowers and berries pinned at perfect angles. The same festive music plays from the television in the living room, floating through the house with the smell of cinnamon and orange from the kitchen nestled at the back. Roy’s never been big on Christmas, but he has to admit that he respects the way Georgie and Simon do it. The house is warm and inviting, and the three of them fold him in like he’s always been here.
Simon brings wine in tall glasses while the four of them settle in the living room together, Jamie and Georgie set on their ritual of winding around each other for the better part of an hour while Roy and Simon chat. It's bizarre, still, watching Jamie wind his fingers with Georgie’s, move both their hands together as he animatedly tells a story about their last match—he ties it into a story about Phoebe’s game in October, and it doesn't feel like a performance meant to drag him into the conversation. She comes up naturally, like she’s just as much his family as the rest of them, and maybe she is. Maybe they both are. He’s not had nearly enough wine to be getting this soft.
Between the four of them, the bottle goes quickly, and Jamie extracts himself from Georgie’s arms to follow after Simon to the kitchen to pilfer through the cabinets like he was still sixteen and sleeping upstairs. Roy rolls his eyes again (fond—disgustingly so,) as he watches him go. He can hear them chattering in the other room as Georgie turns her attention to him. Her earrings jingle like bells when she turns her head, and Roy notices they are; red and gold, dangling from her ears and catching in the light.
“Jamie mentioned you don't really do Christmas back home. I’m glad you two got to come around this year, yeah?”
Roy nods, polite as he leans to put his glass on the knitted coaster on the table. It’s shaped like a bell, too, with glittering thread woven in. “It's important to him.” He shrugs before he continues. “And you know I wouldn't miss an opportunity to see your gorgeous face, Georgie.”
She laughs as she leans back into the sofa, smacking his arm.
“Oi,” Jamie chirps as he reenters, sliding a box of minty biscuits onto the coffee table, and sidling up next to Roy. He cuddles up into the crook of his arm with one leg tucked under his weight as he shoves one of the biscuits into Roy’s mouth. “I leave for two minutes, and you start chatting up my mum?”
Roy snaps off a bite rather than taking it all at once, draping his arm around Jamie’s shoulders as he speaks around chocolate and shortbread. “Obviously.”
Jamie pinches him, sweet and smiling as he leans to kiss him.
They ask about Ruby and Phoebe, the team, and summer break. Not so subtly goading them into visiting when they've got time off, and Jamie looks at Roy pleadingly like he’ll do anything but agree. Maybe they can come to London next time—Jamie can show them around, and Simon will ask questions where Roy just lets him spout trivia. It’s not quite Amsterdam or Istanbul, but Jamie loves playing tour guide. Roy loves to watch him go.
It's eleven by the time they finally make it upstairs; the air mattress is waiting for Roy to inflate while Jamie grabs their shit from the car (knight in shining armor that he is,) and Roy, like always, very pointedly tries to ignore his own gaze from the wall. He’s used to it by some measure now; there were life size vinyl cutouts of him on the walls for years before he retired, and he’s signed more of these exact posters than he can count. There’s something different about it being Jamie’s. Something different about knowing his history with it, knowing what it meant to him and knowing what it means now.
“Have you got bricks in there, Roy-o?” Jamie asks as he interrupts his thoughts. He’s good at that, getting in between Roy and a spiral before it starts.
“Just because you've got the day off of training doesn’t mean you get off scot-free.”
“Show you scot-free.” Jamie grumbles, but he’s grinning as he climbs into Roy’s lap, his own bag slung across the mattress. His hands and face are still cold from the air outside as he kisses him, sharp as they try and sneak up his shirt.
“Oi,” Roy chides, breath of a laugh against his searching mouth. When he stops kissing him, Jamie plays dirty, goes for his jaw, tucks himself into the crook of Roy’s neck. “I’m not fooling around with you while your parents are on the other side of the hall. I’m a grown man.”
“Just trying to warm up my hands, you arrogant prick.” Jamie lies, and Roy can feel the way he grins as much as he hears it. To his credit, he presses his hands flat against his back, sliding across freckled skin as he drags Roy’s shirt upward with his wrists.
Roy shakes his head, resisting the urge to drag his hand forward, off the bed and onto Jamie. He was good at denying him what he wanted, even better at denying himself, but he’s had two glasses of wine and Jamie—well. He’s good at wanting Jamie.
“Bold of you.” Roy smiles as he says it, nosing against chilled hair. “Misbehaving on Christmas Eve. Might not find anything for you under the tree tomorrow.”
“Worth it.” Jamie rumbles, amused, shifting in his lap with intention.
Roy hefts him to the side, dumping him onto the football themed sheets. Jamie tries to whine, but he’s laughing, rosy-cheeked and it takes everything in Roy to stand from the bed and stop the pump for the mattress when the motor starts to protest. They should probably be in a hotel room, but Jamie likes staying over and Roy can’t blame him. He can survive two nights on a shit bed—though, in all likelihood, they're going to end up on the same tiny mattress, tangled together like they always do. It's horrible.
It’s not so bad.
It’s alright.
He looks forward to it every time.
“You just sit there, I’ll go ahead and make this up.” Roy motions to the inflatable bed, and Jamie bounces his eyebrows playfully as he nods, cuddling up into the corner of his own bed with his hands wound into the hem of his shirt. Like he’s settling in to watch a movie. The shit.
He manages to sit still for about half of it, making idle conversation before his body gets the better of him and he springs into action, helping Roy make the bed, if not only so he can get into it and out of it as quickly as he can. He’s downright giddy—he gets like this, being back home, and Roy doesn't fucking understand it, but he does like to see it on him. It's so different from the first time they came here together; he can hardly believe they’ve got a fucking routine for staying the night at Jamie’s mother’s house. Even worse, Roy might like it almost as much as him. Almost.
Jamie looks up at him from the inflatable mattress, balancing his head on his fist as he watches him, like he hasn't seen him change more times than he can count. Long before they ever got together.
“You know, there was a time where I would've came all over myself at the idea of Roy Kent in this room, getting all naked and shit.”
Roy looks at him, deadpan as he drags a t-shirt over his head. Normally doesn't wear much at all to bed, but he’s not risking that here, is he?
“It's true!”
“I know. You say it every time.”
Jamie snickers, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “Can't help it. Being home with you—reminds me I’m still a proper fucking groupie, doesn't it?”
Roy hums, clicking off the light before he climbs into Jamie’s old bed, glad that it at least has the decency not to groan and whine under his weight.
“Love pretending like you don't like it.” He continues, goading, reaching for Roy’s hand to hold it in his own. Sometimes it feels like they both might collapse onto the floor if they aren't touching. Gross. When did he get like that? “But I know you do. Ego the size of fucking Saturn, it turns you on so bad that I’ve been obsessed with you all me life.”
“Mostly it just makes me feel old.”
“Liar.”
Even in the dark, Roy knows that tilt to his voice. Knows what he’s in for and drags Jamie close by their linked hands to kiss him quiet. He comes willingly (eagerly), and nearly crawls onto the bed without any pretense of sleeping in separate beds at all.
“I think you're incredibly fucking sexy, Jamie.” Roy says, quiet and affectionate as he runs his fingers through his hair, his hand landing to hold Jamie’s face. “And I’m still not going to fuck you tonight.”
He whines against his mouth, trying to press even closer before Roy pushes him backward, back to his own bed.
“And if you start telling me about your fantasies again, you're just going to get yourself worked up. Then you're going to have to sit there pouting all night.”
“Not even the one where you let me blow you in a club bathroom my first time out?” He asks with big eyes, bobbing eyebrows Roy can catch even in the dark.
“The one that ends with you coming in your underwear without me ever touching you?”
“That’s the one.”
“No. Fucking muppet.” It’s flat and simple, and Jamie groans into his pillow.
It's hardly half an hour before he crawls onto the tiny bed, and the bastard wraps all around him with his head tucked up on his shoulder. There's nowhere to escape. It's unbearably hot; absolutely stifling.
Roy sleeps like a fucking baby.
In the morning, he wakes alone. Not too surprising, all things considered, but he notices Jamie’s absence almost immediately. He expects him to be sat on the air bed scrolling on his phone, checking on his socials, but Roy’s alone in his tiny, ridiculous room. When he sits up on his elbows, his own image comes into focus on the wall, and he salutes himself lazily before noticing that Jamie’s stuck red and white paper in the shape of Santa’s hat onto the old poster at some point. It might be the most festive he’s ever looked, glaring down at himself like that, if nothing else.
Jamie’s careful as he opens the door, but he abandons it when he finds Roy awake. He avoids the mess of their clothes and shoes on the floor before he’s pouncing on him like this bed won't give out at a moment's notice, straddling his hips and minty as he kisses him.
“Morning, babe. Happy Christm—”
He’s kissing him, still, firm and heavy in his lap. Like he hasn't gone far longer than a day without jumping his bones. Jamie murmurs something that sounds like Christmas against his mouth before he pulls back, hands smoothing against his shoulders. He beams at him from his perch, almost looking bashful. Roy raises an eyebrow.
“Fuck are you up to?”
“Nothing.” Jamie says too quickly, but he drags his bottom lip between his teeth like it isn't his biggest tell. Or maybe he knows it is, and he’s trying to get Roy to pry.
He grunts noncommittally, though, running his hand up his thigh. Perfectly innocently, he’s incredibly aware of their surroundings. Until Jamie leans close again, with intention, hands in dark hair with their noses slotted together. He’s only so strong.
“Had a dream about you last night.” Jamie says against his skin, kissing his jaw.
“Yeah?” It's dangerous water engaging him here. Asking more means he’ll hear more, means either he’ll have to not think about it all day or pull something risky (and maybe a little sleazy. Maybe.)
“Yeah. One of Joe Hart’s parties—you did coke off of my collarbone and stuck your tongue down my throat. He invited me just for you.”
“Sounds like me.” Roy nods, relenting to that one. He was a fucking nightmare before Phoebe was born, and he wasn't much better after the fact. Jamie caught the tail end of it; he was horrible in the last years of his career. He wanted to go out in a fucking blaze, and fucking Jamie Tartt outshone him every step of the way. Prick.
Jamie hums in his lap now, in that certain way he always does, projecting his want and interest plain as he can. Something like purring.
“And you let me take you back to mine, ‘cause I’m just down the road in this dream, I guess—but when you shoved me over, it wasn't my old flat anymore, we were here. You were so fucking… Warm.” He shudders at his own words, and Roy isn't above a little preening.
“Can't even go one night without thinking about me?”
“And you tore my clothes off, like a fucking animal,” He continues unimpeded, because Jamie is a shameless creature sent from hell for the express purpose of torturing him.
“I wouldn't tear your clothes off. Even if I were coked out of my mind, I’m a grown man.”
Jamie squints, making a high, doubtful sound at the back of his throat. “D’you not remember how you nearly did exactly that after that match against Arsenal? Thought you were going to tear into me with your teeth.”
“You,” Roy starts, humoring him now because he is a weak, weak man and it's far too early for him to be fighting. Fucking unfair when he attacks him like this when he’s barely gotten his eyes open. “Were fucking gorgeous, and you know it.”
“I’m always gorgeous.” And, really, he should've expected that one. “Come on, Roy. I’ll be quiet. I've been good. It's Christmas, and I deserve it.”
“Do you, now?” Roy asks, raising a brow and running his hand further, squeezing the meat of him. “For acting like a slut in your dream?”
Jamie nods, running his hands down his sides, sneaking them under the black t-shirt that hangs loose on his frame. “Just for you. Wouldn't go over for just any middle-aged bloke with warm hands.”
“Just me.” He repeats, refusing the bait laid before him and opting for the stroke of his ego instead. “Dunno if that's true, though. I've heard the way the lads talk about you, you know.”
“Team ain't middle-aged, are they? Got to have them on reserve when you can't get it up, grandad.”
“You fucking—” Roy grins, grabbing him with two hands as he flips them both, putting Jamie flat on his back. He opens his mouth, warm and inviting, and Roy loses himself in the sight of it.
“Is this what you want?” He asks, sat on one elbow and tucking his hand between Jamie’s legs. They close around his wrist as Jamie nods, flushed and wanting, mischievous glint replaced with satisfaction. He makes a half-aborted sound and Roy kisses him quiet, smiling against him. “You want me to fuck you, right here, like this? Need me to remind you I’m still Roy fucking Kent?”
“Fuck yeah.” Jamie breathes, two fistfuls of Roy as he tries to roll his hips up into his hand.
“Boys!” Georgie’s voice suddenly rings up the stairs. It startles them both into inaction, Roy’s laugh rumbling in his chest as he tucks his face into the crook of Jamie’s neck. “Breakfast, whenever you're ready!”
“Yeah! Thanks!” Jamie calls back, and Roy feels his skin heat with flush from where he’s positioned. His voice almost wobbles, and it's the sexiest thing about this whole ordeal. He groans, tucking himself against Roy; winding a leg around him to pull him on top of him, his hand now trapped between their bodies. Jamie huffs, disappointed when he pulls it free.
“Later. Tomorrow, probably.” Roy says as he kisses his neck, moving to extract himself.
Jamie holds tighter in protest. “We’ve got a match tomorrow.”
“Better score, then, so I have a reason to fuck you.” He pats Jamie’s thigh before he stands, and hears him groan into his pillow as he kicks his feet like a child. Roy chuckles to himself as he heads down the stairs.
The morning goes sort of perfectly, actually. Jamie sits on the floor by Roy’s feet to hand presents out, Roy does his best not to knock the paper crown from his head as he absently strokes his fingers through his hair. (It's dark again, and soft, and Roy finds himself incapable of keeping his hands to himself most days.)
Jamie thrills at the bright, ridiculous tracksuit with his name embroidered across the hem Georgie’s got him; it’s almost like the one she’s got on now, and if it were anyone else Roy might roll his eyes. He still might. Georgie thrills in a similar fashion when she opens her gift of dazzling, golden earrings and a weekend trip for two that Simon’s been in on for a month. She squeezes Jamie’s cheeks between her forefingers and thumbs before she kisses the dimples left behind.
They drink more wine than is probably smart, especially considering the match tomorrow, but Jamie is warm and giggly against him on the sofa and Roy lets him get away with another glass while they chat over the same Christmas music Jamie had been playing in the car. Simon’s tried something new with the mulled wine; splash of pineapple juice, or a different sort of liquor—he’s had one too many glasses to remember. It’s idyllic as shit, he’s not above admitting it, wearing stupid, matching fleece pyjama bottoms and teaming up on Jamie to tease him as he takes it like all. Puffed chest and chin up, even as he leans into Roy, pressing his forehead into his temple to hide his face while he laughs, open and sweet. He can't help it when he turns his face to kiss him.
After the speech, Simon looks down at his watch and frowns at what he sees.
“I really do hate to do this, but Georgie and I really do have to get ready for dinner. I’ll never hear the end of it if I miss it again.”
“Simon,” The second syllable is long, drawn out, and Georgie presses her hand against his chest. Her cheeks are pinked from the wine, surely warm to the touch. “Your mother is terrible. Do we have to?”
Roy raises an eyebrow to hear Jamie Tartt come out of his mother’s mouth—he’s said those exact words to Roy more times than he can count on one hand. He supposes Jamie comes by it honest, at least, and he smiles when he glances down at him and Jamie’s already looking back with a knowing smile on his face. He laughs, obviously picking up on what Roy was thinking, and he leans over to kiss him with wine on his lip.
“You know you don't have to, I’m happy to leave you three here, wouldn't take you from Jamie.” Simon starts, but Georgie’s already dutifully pulling herself off the couch, smiling as she winds an arm around his hip.
“You boys will be alright here on your own, won't you? You don't leave until tomorrow morning?”
“We’ll be fine, mummy.” Jamie salutes her lazily, wrapping back around Roy to snuggle impossibly closer into his chest. “Wouldn't leave before you got back, anyway, even if I had to drive all night with the old man snoring in the passenger seat.”
Roy pinches his ear and Jamie laughs as he catches his hand between his head and his shoulder.
“Go on, get dressed. You can wear your new earrings, really knock her socks off.”
“He’ll clean all this up before you get back, I promise.” Roy says, motioning to the wrapping paper and empty glasses, and Jamie clicks his tongue indignantly.
Georgie laughs, and leans close to kiss Jamie on the head and give Roy’s shoulder a squeeze before she’s disappearing up the stairs, Simon following close behind.
“I meant it, get cleaning.” Roy teases, and Jamie closes his eyes, getting properly cozy.
“Fuck off, old man, it’s Christmas.”
He gets away with it. The prick.
Jamie disappears for a while, and Roy uses the time to call his parents. Phoebe had FaceTimed sometime during breakfast and Roy had only gotten about four words in before Jamie had stolen the phone from his hands, demanding to see her on the fancy, new (Ruby-approved) bike he’d gotten for her. The bell Roy had attached is going to drive Ruby up the fucking wall, and the pink tassels hanging off the handlebars had been all Jamie. He’d been so excited to sneak it into the house before they left yesterday, he’s been absolutely vibrating with it since. It makes something in Roy’s chest ache, and kissing him stupid about it had only made it stronger.
Jamie comes back soon enough, sending his love (questionable, really, when it comes to his parents) over the phone as he settles back down to scroll through his socials. Once Georgie and Simon leave for the evening, Roy waits a bit before he speaks again. He likes the silence. He likes spending it with Jamie, but it can only last so long. He knows him better than anyone.
“Didn’t just get you that ugly jacket and the bag, you know. Got something else for you upstairs.”
Jamie sits up, some sort of curious spark in his eye. Like a puppy whose ears perk at the sound of its name. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Go on.” He motions toward the stairs, and Jamie grins like a loon as he takes them two at a time.
“You're going to fucking—sit there, and be good, and not peek.” Roy instructs, and Jamie groans as he sits on the little bed, pushing himself up toward the corner of it again, tucked comfortably against the headboard and the wall.
“Not good at surprises, Roy.”
“D’you want your present or not?”
Jamie huffs, but he’s smiling, and Roy squints at him a moment longer until he covers his eyes with his hands.
It’s fucking ridiculous. All of this is ridiculous. Roy has never felt so fucking silly in all his life, but the wine is warming his chest and limbs, and he knows Jamie is going to go fucking ballistic. So it's worth it, in all its humiliating glory, to lace up the boots and pull the football from his bag. After he’s changed, he glances back at the poster of himself and sighs, resting his hands on his hips.
“Alright.” Roy feels fucking stupid, gesturing in the air. He’s just tipsy and rosy-cheeked enough to let it fucking slide. “Open your—your fucking eyes.”
Jamie obeys with an obvious, bubbling anticipation that shakes his very edges. His smile falters for just a second—just long enough for Roy to see it happen, just long enough to consider writing this whole thing off and getting back to their normal shit. His eyes suddenly dart between the real, solid Roy before him and the photo on the wall like he can't quite believe what he’s seeing before something shifts in his gaze.
“Holy shit.” He grins again, slack-jawed and beyond pleased as he climbs from the bed, reaching out to touch him before he stops—thinks better of it and winds his hands into the hem of his own shirt to get ahold of himself. “Can I touch you?”
Roy almost rolls his eyes. Looking down at him, Jamie’s eyes are big, wet, wild. He’s fucking vibrating with it and it's exactly what Roy wanted with this whole humiliating ordeal. He doesn't know if he’s ever wanted Jamie to touch him more.
“Yeah.”
Jamie nods, overeager, given an inch and taking a mile as he slides his hands over Roy’s sides, taking deep blue fabric, still hanging loose on his frame, into his hands. “Roy,” it's just above a whisper, all giddy anticipation. “You kept this?”
Roy shrugs, hands coming to rest on his own hips. “Got all kinds of shit in storage. Figured any fucking kit would do, but found this one buried in there.”
“God, you're so fucking fit.” He’s still smiling as he kisses him. “Roy Kent in my room, more than ten years on, looking all sexy just for me? Better haircut and everything. Happy fucking Christmas to me.”
Roy still feels sort of ridiculous, standing here in Jamie’s old room, getting felt up and kissed on, but, well. He also knows he feels a bit like a wild animal whenever Jamie waltzes around the house with Kent across his back in big, bold letters. Maybe it's sort of the same principle.
“Tell me what you thought about, staring up at that poster of me.”
Jamie pulls back, a new sort of sparkle in his eye. They’ve played similar games before; pretending to be dicks to each other again for the sake of the mean fuck, Jamie pretending he’s anything but their star player, batting his eyelashes and begging for more minutes (“I’ll do anything, Coach, let me prove it—”). This feels similar, drawing it out of Jamie and the look in his eye.
“Well, used to think about you coming to one of my matches, didn't matter why. And obviously, you'd be impressed by how good I was, you’d just have to come talk to me. And you just can't take your eyes off of me, ‘cos I’m so pretty, and—”
“Fucking involved.”
“Yeah, I’m a born storyteller. My fantasy, I get to make it as complicated as I want.” Jamie grins, bobbing his eyebrows playfully. He sneaks his hands up under the deep blue fabric here, running broad hands over his skin. He runs his thumbs against the lines of his pelvis before he opens his mouth again, watching his fingers press against his skin.
“And you’d ask me back to yours. For a drink, maybe, or to show me some move. Sometimes I’d ask to see your trophies, and you've got such an ego, you'd agree. But I knew what you wanted. Didn't even cross your mind that it could be possible I might not want it, you're Roy fucking Kent, obviously I’d want it.”
“I was a bit like that.”
Jamie’s eyes dart back to his face, one eyebrow raised.
“I am a bit like that, yeah, fine.”
Jamie laughs again, kicking the ball out from under Roy’s foot. It rolls up under the bed, and he keeps his eye on him as he starts to sink, going slowly to his knees. Jamie’s hands hold to his hips still, but one slides down his thigh, almost reverently. He watches the fabric bend and fold under his touch before he holds his knee; Roy watches as Jamie tucks his head, presses a kiss against the joint.
“You'd take me back to yours—which looks fucking nothing like I imagined it would, by the way—and you’d get yourself a drink. Make me one, too. Sit on the couch and be so impressed when I didn't wince at your old man whisky.”
Roy wants to roll his eyes. Maybe, normally, he would. He runs his fingers through Jamie’s hair, now, and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth looking down at him.
“You’d tell me to come sit with you. And I would, pretty on the sofa with our knees touching. Sometimes you’d put music on, other times you'd just grab my hand and put it on your cock, already almost hard in your trackies. And fuck, Roy, my mouth would start watering. In real life—’s happening right now.”
He looks up at Roy as his pupils widen, leaving them looking dark, wanting. He swallows as if to accent his point, and his hand sneaks up under the fabric of his shorts.
“I've got fucking manners.” Roy protests, but he feels his voice shift lower, quieter, just for Jamie. Almost every fucking thing he did these days is just for him, little shit. “I’d have asked you about something I didn't care about first. And when I touched you, I would've grabbed you by the back of the neck, ran my thumb over your hairline. Held you just tight enough that you could feel it. You’d know what I wanted.”
Jamie’s breath shakes as he leans forward, pressing his face against his thigh. Roy can feel his breath through the fabric of his shorts, can feel the way it stalls, just for a second, when Roy runs dull nails across his scalp.
“And you’d give it to me, wouldn't you? So fucking eager, little groupie, you’d bend over and suck me off through my trousers, if that’s all I let you have.”
Jamie nods too quickly, that spark still ringing through him. “But I'd be better than that, promise. I’d get onto the floor, on me knees, so you’d have a better view. I’d look up at you while I had your cock in my mouth, and you'd push my head down until I choked, but you'd like that, and you'd push up into my mouth so I’d do it again.”
“Jesus Christ.” Roy murmurs, his skin feeling hot where Jamie touches him. His words vibrate through his skin, up into the core of him. He presses impossibly closer, nuzzling against Roy’s groin before looking up at him again, his mouth half-open and lips shining.
“Please, Roy—” His breath is hot, the tips of his fingers dig into the meat of his thigh. “I’ve been good. Need it.”
Roy digs his own thumbs into the waistband, dips it just low enough so that the warm air and Jamie’s warmer breath can skirt across the skin of him. “Is this what you want?”
He spits in his own palm before his hand dips to hold his own cock as Jamie nods, his grip on him almost trembling. He’s almost amazed by just how quickly it got so ramped up, but he really shouldn’t be anymore. He knows how they are. Roy strokes himself hard, Jamie making a pitiful sound on the floor before him. He runs the tip of it across his bottom lip (warm, wet, wanting) before Jamie opens up without needing to be told.
“There's a good boy.” Roy says, nodding in approval as he presses close. He knows how deeply Jamie can comfortably take him, this is his favorite place to be. Tucked between his knees on the floor, beneath his desk, tangled up on the bed; Jamie wasn't shy about how much he loved having Roy’s cock in his mouth. When he pulls back, light eyes flutter closed, Jamie pleased at getting exactly what he wanted. Roy wasn't much good at telling him “no” these days—when it came to blow jobs, anyways.
He knows what Jamie can take. Roy knows when he’s had enough, and he knows it as he pushes past it, his hand sweetly cradling the back of Jamie’s head as he does. His moan is low, cut short as his muscles clench around a gag. Roy pulls back, intending to pull free, but Jamie holds him tighter, keeps him close. Gets that stubborn set to his brow, looks up at him with determination. He doesn't need to use his mouth to say “I can take it, Coach.”
Roy rewards him with strong fingers stroking gently through his hair, rolling his hips forward again as he takes hold. If that's what he wants, that’s what he’ll get.
“You were fucking beautiful out there today, Tartt.” He tries, and Jamie looks up at him quizzically (fucking tilts his head like a proper dog,) before realization seems to dawn across his features and his eyes flutter again. He makes a desperate sound, choked off with the tip of Roy’s cock at the back of his throat.
“Don't think I’ve seen anyone pull off a scorpion like that at your level in God knows how long. You knew I was watching, didn't you? Just had to put on a show for me.”
He doesn't give Jamie any time to protest or agree, or do much of anything at all, beyond sit there like a good boy and take it while Roy moves his head for him, meets him halfway with his hips. Jamie’s nose bumps against his pelvis, spit gathering at the corner of his lips, and when his shoulders turn into another gag, Roy pulls away to let him breathe. Jamie gasps for air, flush high on his cheeks as he holds to his thighs, his thumbs digging into the meat of him.
“Roy—” His mouth barely pauses a beat to catch his breath before he’s taking the base of him into his hand, dragging his tongue up the length to spit on the tip, breath just this side of ragged as he drags his hand back down. He makes sure to catch his eye before he opens his mouth again, lips red and shining like his eyes. “Fuck my face, yeah? Please?”
It really shouldn't knock the wind out of him. Jamie alone has said it to him a hundred times over, it's one of his favorite things to do. He likes being used, and Roy is more than happy to use him.
“Open your fucking mouth.”
Jamie grins, crooked and dimpled, and opens his mouth to take him again.
Roy holds the back of his head before his fingers wind into his hair again, making sure he has the leverage to move his head exactly how he pleases. He doesn't give Jamie the grace of adjustment; the fingers in his hair are twisting and insistent as he guides his head forward, and the choked sound Jamie gives him flies immediately to his gut.
Jamie’s eyes are wet and his brow is pinched in focus, holding Roy’s cock steady at the base as he takes him. His cheeks go red and Roy knows from experience that it trails down his neck and onto his tits, splayed perfect across his skin to make his moles stand out. He reaches a hand upward to tangle into Roy’s shirt—maybe it's for something to hold, maybe it’s part of his fantasy, maybe it's some fucked up reverence Roy isn't sure he’s earned. The wet sound of Jamie’s mouth rings across the room, and it’s like a fucking porno when his dick slips free and Jamie gasps, angles his head so he can catch the tip of him again before Roy can bring his head forward again.
“That's it.” Roy shifts, picks his foot off the ground and steadies it on Jamie’s thigh when his knee starts to ache. “This is exactly what you wanted, isn't it? Drooling for it the entire match.” His voice feels low, breathy and ragged even to him.
He steps a little harder, digs his foot into Jamie’s thigh a little deeper. The studs of his boot press into the flesh of his thigh and Jamie shudders with it, Roy can feel the whine in his throat that’s choked off by the tip of his cock hitting the back of it again. He swallows around it when Roy holds him still with his nose tucked against his groin again. His hand is firm against the back of his head, and he holds him still for a beat or two (just long enough for his heart to drum like a hummingbird in his ribs,) before he pulls him off to catch his breath. He looks up at Roy with wet streaks down his face, and spit dripping down his chin. He’s hard in his patterned fleece bottoms, but he doesn't ask, even if it’s written all over his face.
“Get up.”
It’s Christmas. He’s earned it.
Jamie scrambles to his feet, pulling Roy flush against him to get his tongue in his mouth. He can taste his own precome on it, swallows the soft, breathy sounds he makes with a hand trailing back to his hair. Jamie presses impossibly closer, and Roy can feel just how hard he is when he grinds against him, reminding him that neither of them have gotten off.
“Roy,” Jamie presses his forehead against his when he slips a hand around him, squeezes his ass into the palm of his hand. “Please.”
Roy drags his tongue over his bottom lip like he has to consider it a moment before he gives Jamie’s chest a gentle shove, pushes him back toward the bed. “Shirt off.”
The thrill is clear across his features, dazed and sparkling as he pulls off to do as he’s told. Roy follows suit before he yanks the boots off, climbing into the bed after him.
“Can I—?” Jamie Tartt doesn't feel shame, not really. It's infuriating as it is entirely entrancing, but he looks giddy and embarrassed as he looks up at Roy, then down to the Chelsea shirt tossed onto the air mattress with his bottom lip between his teeth. “You know.”
“What, you want to wear my name while I fuck you?” Roy bends to pick it up again, raising a brow, and Jamie’s nodding before the words are fully out of his mouth. “Jesus, you really are a little groupie, aren't you?” He says, like he doesn't know him.
Roy tosses it at him and Jamie’s grin lights up the room as he catches it, pulling it over his head and smoothing the fabric across his stomach as he lies in his bed.
“What do you think?”
Roy thinks about asking him to marry him.
“You look fucking ridiculous in Chelsea blue.” He’s smiling as he leans over him to kiss him, though, so it doesn't hold water. “Doesn't match the plaid at all.”
Jamie laughs, but it's cut short with Roy’s hand between his thighs, pressing firmly against his cock through his bottoms and his boxers. He lifts his hips up to grind into the palm of his hand, his kiss going sloppy with his attention divided, and his want driven to the front again.
“Could get you off just like this, couldn't I?” He asks, nosing against his cheek with Jamie panting against him. “Come in your pants, just because I pressed my hand against you.”
“Please, please—you have to—’s just you and me, Roy, you have to fuck me, I need it,” He tries to catch him in a kiss again, two fistfuls of dark hair and eyes glazed over. “So fucking wet for you, Roy, please,”
It sends something hot and sharp down to the pit of his stomach to hear the words roll off of his tongue. They catch him by surprise and settle in the core of him; Jamie’s a fanboy after a match back at City, and he’s a pretty girl he’s brought back after a night out at Joe Hart’s, he’s some groupie wearing his name and his number, and he’s Jamie fucking Tartt all at once. He’s fucking Roy’s, he always has been, and he feels it now, open-mouthed and ravenous, about to tear into him in the bed Jamie grew up fantasizing about him in.
“Fuck.” Is what falls out of his mouth, and he’s yanking Jamie’s stupid Christmas bottoms off like his life depends on it. It feels like it does, anyway.
Especially so when Roy goes to grab for the boxers he’d somehow missed, and finds Jamie sitting in front of him wearing his name, his number, and pretty, lace panties to match the white vinyl. Roy makes a sound like he’s been punched at the sight of it, (hardly his shining moment, especially considering it's hardly the first and certainly not the last time he’s seen Jamie in knickers just like them) and hikes Jamie’s leg up and out by the knee to get a better look at him. He doesn't even notice the way the studs of his boot have left pretty, red spots across his thigh.
“Did you—”
“Wore them during the match.” Jamie nods, knowing what he was going to ask, keeping up this little game. It's something easy to get lost in, but he thinks he’s been lost in Jamie for longer than he’s willing to admit. “Heard you were coming, knew you wouldn't be able to do anything but fuck me after you saw me play.”
He grins, cocky as he’s ever been, and his tongue hangs obnoxiously out of his mouth before he’s pulling Roy close by the sides of his face to kiss him again. His smile melts as he does, and those desperate, breathy sounds catch up to him again. He catches Roy’s arm by the wrist and moves it between his legs again, but he skips past his prick, pushes his hand inside the lace. Roy expects to feel his skin, feel his muscles jump beneath his touch, but his fingers are greeted with the warm metal edge of Jamie’s plug. His ears start to ring like he’s been knocked around the head, and Roy feels the rumbling in his chest before he hears it.
“Jamie Tartt.” He grits his name between clenched teeth, looking down at him as his head spins. “Is this where you disappeared off to?”
Jamie nods, looking proud of himself and bobbing his eyebrows as his hand trails back up Roy’s arm to hold against his shoulder. “Happy Christmas, babe.”
Roy surges against him, and Jamie shrieks a laugh as the headboard bangs against the wall.
He nudges them to the side again when he pulls the plug out of him, discards it on the bed somewhere to be found later, and runs his thumb up the length of Jamie’s pretty, red cock. He presses against the wet patch at the head just to hear him whine, and he nearly fucking forgets to lean over and rummage through his bag to grab for the bottle of lube zipped into a side pocket. Call him an optimist, but he knows Jamie Tartt, and he knew exactly what was going to happen when he tucked that old kit into the bag. He didn't realize Jamie had a surprise for him, too.
“Fucking—” Roy growls the word as he sits back on his haunches, knee be damned. “Too pretty to take off of you, aren't they, sweetheart?”
He grabs the lace between his fingers in both his hands before he pulls them apart, until the threads begin to pop under the tension. They come apart in his grip, a hole at the bottom big enough for his hand to fit through. Normally, Jamie might protest the ruining of his clothes, but right now, his flush disappears beneath the neckline of his shirt and he looks down at him with a desperate, glassy gaze.
“Christ,” Jamie’s voice almost hiccups, and he makes a sound when Roy easily slips two fingers inside him.
“Fucking soaked for me, aren't you, Jamie?” He doesn't waste much time, knowing Jamie’s done most of the work already and they're on a timer, and only waits a few beats before sliding in a third. “That's it—good boy. My pretty girl.”
Jamie moans, loud and almost shaking as he rocks down onto Roy’s hand, his own fingers digging into the back of his neck.
“I can take it—Jesus fuck, Roy, I can take it. Please, just fuck me—”
Roy hushes him, kissing him quiet before he dips lower, fingers still inside of Jamie as he bends, dips to kiss his hip sweetly, innocently before pressing his tongue flat against Jamie’s cock through the lace. Jamie makes a startled sound, open-mouthed and harsh as Roy mouths at him with his wrist still fucking three fingers into him through the hole he’s torn in the panties. Jamie is panting above him, his hips trying to move down onto his hand and up into his mouth at the same time, rolling in something resembling a circle in an attempt to do both. His mouth is running with his fingers wound tightly into dark hair, Roy’s scalp tingling as Jamie tugs, his pleas dissolving into a whine when Roy finds the right angle, stroking his fingers against his sweet spot again and again.
He could get Jamie off like this. It would be easy, sucking at the tip of his cock through the lace, crooking his fingers to the right angles and making him see stars. A well placed “good boy,” or “sweet girl,” would do him in. He’d come in his pretty knickers under Roy’s attentions—he’d be grateful for it, even, might even thank him. Roy would lap up the come from his skin, leaving the dark patch in the lace. Or maybe he'd gather it into his hand, maybe Jamie lick his fingers clean while he fucked his mouth with them. Jamie would take it all. He’s so desperate to be touched, to be used, to be molded into what Roy thought suited them both best. It makes him dizzy, sometimes, the trust Jamie puts into his hands, the willing way he gives every part of himself up. He wants it as much as he is willing to take it all; because it’s Roy, because he knows Roy will take care of him, because he always does. Even when he fucks him over, even if he’s been trying to be better, Jamie sticks around.
“Roy,” It’s caught between a gasp and a sob, scrubbing the heel of his palm against his own face. It’s needy, and aching, and it cuts through his thoughts to remind him that Jamie is here, shaking under his touch and grinding up against his face, down onto his fingers.
“Something you want, sweetheart?” Roy asks dumbly, like he doesn't know, like Jamie hadn't asked for it just a minute ago. When he opens his mouth to ask for it again, Roy sucks the tip of his prick, paying it special attention as he hums, making sure Jamie can feel it directly. He’s playing dirty, he knows it—it’s mean, stringing him out like this, but he loves the way Jamie gets when he forgets how to talk.
Jamie ruts up against his mouth, nodding jerkily as he exhales a sharp breath, tugging on Roy’s curls. “Please.” It's simple, plain, like it’s all he can manage. Roy’s going to pass out from the lack of blood going to his brain, he thinks.
“Please what?”
Jamie cries out, like Roy’s teasing him is just as bad as his fingers inside. Maybe it is—Jamie loves being told what to do, he likes it when Roy makes him say it. Use his words.
“Jesus Christ, babe,” He swallows, and Roy watches the way his throat bobs. He wants to sink his teeth into him. “Fuck—Roy, please fuck me, need you inside of me—fuck,”
Roy doesn't give him the chance to ask again, finally giving him exactly what he wants—what he needs and watching the way his head tilts back and his mouth falls open. Jamie falls open for him, arched and just barely shining with the sweat at his hairline and his upper lip. He looks fucking beautiful like this, and Roy knows he won't ever be over the way he does it just for him. He holds Jamie steady by his hip as he presses into him, making a sound at the back of his own throat when his hips are pressed flush against him again. He has to take a moment to collect himself so he doesn't come inside of him that exact second, finish this up before he even starts. Jamie’s hands shake with it as he holds onto him, and his eyes find his when they flutter open again.
“Roy,” It sounds almost like a plea, too, as a strong hand winds into dark hair at the back of his head, and he takes his lip between his teeth again. Flushed like this, with shining eyes and slicked lips (red and slightly swollen after all they’d been through,) long hair falling in his eyes, he looks like something out of a fucking fantasy. It's still hard to believe he gets to see him like this as often as he does.
“I know, sweetheart.” Roy kisses against his jaw, sweet and understanding like he isn't about to lose his fucking mind. He starts to pull his hips back as he kisses his throat, feeling the vibration of Jamie’s moan across his tongue. He swallows it all, makes it part of himself.
He fucks into him with his mouth half-open, panting hot and damp against Jamie’s spit-slicked skin, against the neckline of his own shirt on his chest. Jamie makes the prettiest sounds, like he always does, gripping onto Roy like he’s the only thing keeping him here in this moment. He curses, breathy and low, and the punched sounds of his moans hitch in time with the way Roy’s hips move, the way the old headboard smacks into the plaster.
Knowing he doesn't stand a fucking chance in this lasting long enough, Roy shoves three fingers into Jamie’s mouth to wet them. He takes it so well—he always does, whining around them as he holds his wrist in an iron grip just to keep him close. His tongue lathes across his skin desperately as his eyes crack open, just enough to be sure that he catches Roy’s eye as he sucks on the fingers he’s given. It goes straight to his gut, sends electric shocks to every nerve in his body to see Jamie so desperate for his attention, even like this; even splayed out in his bed, with Roy’s name on his back, Roy’s fingers in his mouth, Roy’s cock inside of him. He wants to be consumed by it, he always has, and Roy wants to give all of it to him. Jamie is his, and he wants Roy to know it. It makes something in him purr and preen.
“Spit.” The word is sharp, commanding when he pulls his fingers free, and Jamie does so with a quiet gasp.
He spits into the palm of Roy’s hand, and Roy dips it between them to take Jamie’s cock up into it, the waistband of his panties slipping below his grip, sitting at the base of him. Jamie makes a harsh, needy sound like he’s been slapped, and Roy laps that up, too. Desperate and shaking, Jamie blooms beneath him—red-cheeked, trailing down to his chest, mouth fallen open and face turned into his own palm. Roy sits up a little straighter to watch the way he takes him; to hold his legs open with a hand in the bend of his knee. Jamie stumbles over his own words, babbling pleas interrupted by long moans and harsh gasps as Roy pulls him off, shifting to find the best angle.
“That's it, sweetheart,” Roy feels himself say, low and rumbling, almost breathless as he watches the way Jamie’s muscles ripple under the force of their hips meeting. “Fucking beautiful.”
“Coach—Roy—fuck, babe—” Jamie sucks a breath between his teeth as he arches into his touch, clenches around him. His words stumble over themselves in his desperation. “Fuck—I can't—”
“I know.” Roy drags his teeth over his own bottom lip, feeling that same urgency that’s in Jamie’s voice. “Go on, Jamie, want to see you.”
Jamie presses his lips together in a thin line, tries to hold himself together but it falls short and he comes undone so easily in his hands. He’s fucking gorgeous as he does, holding onto Roy wherever he can reach. Come paints the stomach of his shirt, all the way up to the Fly Emirates logo stretched across his breast. Roy’s head swims with the feel and sound of him, with the alcohol still in his system, and his hand moves to grip Jamie’s hip tight his fingers as he chases down his own climax with his heart hammering in his chest. Jamie makes short, broken sounds as his movements speed up, and it crescendos into an outright cry when Roy finally finishes inside, pressed close and burying his face into the crook of Jamie’s neck. He fucks him slowly through it, panting against his skin again and feeling the slow release of tension across his back, his chest, his arms.
“Fuck me.” Jamie breathes once Roy’s finished, his weight settled on top of him. He gives half a laugh, still flushed as he runs his hand over his face before it settles at the back of Roy’s head to run his fingers through his hair.
“Give me a fucking minute, would you? Haven't even pulled out yet.”
Jamie laughs again, rolling his eyes, and nudges Roy with his jaw, tugs at his hair until Roy pulls back. He’s angling for a kiss, and he gets exactly what he wants. He usually does these days.
His kiss is slow and sweet, and his thumb strokes against Roy’s jaw. Unhurried, he kisses him like it's all he ever wants to do again.
“I fucking love you.” Jamie’s starry-eyed as he says it, still so close that their noses bump together when he shifts.
“Yeah you fucking do.” Roy smiles, because it’s Jamie, and he kisses him again before he says, “And I fucking love you, too.”
Jamie smiles, too, and makes a shuddering sound against his mouth as Roy pulls free. He’s made a fucking mess of him; he’ll have to buy him a new pair of panties to make up for destroying this one. His come spills out of him and onto the torn lace and Roy feels lightheaded at the sight of him.
Jamie whines, almost pouting, as he reaches over to grab for his phone on the desk. “Show me?” He hands him the phone with the camera already pulled open, and Roy makes a disapproving sound before Jamie pouts in earnest, and Roy folds. Of course he folds.
He takes two stills first, then slides the settings over to take a video of the way his fingers dip into the hole he’s ripped to gather his own come in the crook before he pushes it back inside. He curses at the sound Jamie makes, but it's only made worse by the one he makes when Roy searches through the blankets for the plug.
“There you go.” Roy says sweetly as he slides the toy inside, pressing against the base with his thumb before he shuts off the video and leans close to kiss him again. “You can keep my come inside you the rest of the evening, treat for being such a good boy.”
“Thank you, Coach.”
He finally shifts off of his knee, shoving Jamie so he can lay beside him in the bed. He wipes his hand on the shirt as he settles in to watch the video back, and Jamie makes a sound that sounds very much like upset when he does.
“Careful! Fucking washing this as soon as I can use my legs again. Don't want it to stain or anything, this shirt should be in a museum or something.”
Roy rolls his eyes, turning his attention instead to watching the video play again.
“Christ. No wonder you're so obsessed with me. Look at this.” Jamie pauses the video to zoom in on the image of Roy’s thumb pressed against the toy, his skin glistening around it. “Happy fucking Christmas to me, eh?”
He looks so fucking proud of himself, like this was all his idea. Sometimes when Roy looks at him, he wants to grab him by the shoulders and headbutt him so hard they both see stars. But, like. With love. Affectionately. Dr. Fieldstone tells him that’s incredibly common, called it cute aggression. Jamie Tartt is not a fucking puppy, and Roy Kent doesn't get fucking cute aggression. Except when he is, and except when he does, and Roy has to kiss him or he feels like he might blow away. Luckily for him, Jamie always wants to be kissed.
“You know, you're really going to have to pull some shit next year.” Jamie says a few minutes later, sliding into a new pair of boxer-briefs and his Christmas-y hoodie after he's washed up. “You just fulfilled a lifelong fantasy, how the hell are you going to top that?”
Roy hums noncommittally as he pulls the fleece pyjama bottoms on again. He reaches for Jamie and pulls him close by the hips as he pretends to think, pulling a face as he stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t tell him about the ridiculous holiday destinations he’s been looking into, he doesn't tell him about how he’s been mulling it over with the fucking—Diamond Dogs. He doesn't tell him he’s thinking about clueing Georgie in, and he doesn't tell him he’s been trying to find just the right ring. Instead he shrugs, looks almost bored as he almost sways here, in Jamie’s tiny, old room as the image of him over a decade old watches over them. “Kebabs?”
Jamie’s face lights up as he nods, and he brings Roy close with his arms draped over his shoulders, hands clasped behind his neck. “Fucking mint. It's a date, you old geezer.”
Jamie kisses him, soft and sweet, and Roy can feel him laughing into it when he tips him backward into a dip.