Chapter Text
The next few weeks, Roy holds Jamie nearly every night, chest pressed to Jamie’s back, while he works on the dildo. Some nights Roy rubs Jamie’s cock at the same time as a little reward for working so hard. Others, Roy gets himself off all over Jamie’s bum as a reward to himself for being such a good coach.
The majority of the time, though, Roy just holds him, angling his head this way and that, adjusting the pace of his hand, the rate of drool leaking over the plastic. If Roy ever decides to take Trent’s publisher up on his offer of an autobiography, this is going to need its own chapter.
Tonight, though, Roy just wants to have a quick wank, maybe with a cuddle after. He fucking needs it. Phoebe’s latest school project has gotten out of hand again, leading Roy to get home late, covered in glitter and fucking exhausted from explaining for the fifteenth time that, no, Guy Fawkes Day has fuckall to do with tits, even if Phoebe draws them with gunpowder in the background.
Jamie’s sprawled on the couch when Roy gets home, video game controller in hand and headset on, the telly volume turned up so loud it’s a miracle it hasn’t given Roy a migraine already. Jamie looks like a right fucking dork, too focused on Overwatch or Fortnite or whatever the fuck to so much as glance at Roy.
“I’m home,” Roy shouts over the din of the TV. It’s common courtesy – the last time Roy snuck up on Jamie, fucker almost nutted him.
Jamie makes a distracted huff of a sound, one loose arm flopping up in a weak wave as he pauses the game.
“Hi,” Jamie says once he sets his headset aside, rubbing his eyes. He looks fucking precious, swathed in a mint-green hoodie with crisp wrappers forming a cloud around his crossed legs. “How’s Pheebs?”
“A fucking terror,” Roy mutters, walking over to the back of the couch and squeezing Jamie’s shoulder. It’s tight; fucker must have been playing upside down again. It always throws out his fucking shoulder, and he never fucking stops because “what else are boyfriends for if not to rub my back?”
Jamie smiles sleepily and cranes his head back to look at Roy, walnut mist hair fanning out on the back of the sofa in a soft halo. “The Guy Fawkes project still?”
“Little fucker wanted to make an ‘artistic representation’ of the gunpowder plot.”
Jamie’s grin cracks wider. “Were it tits or glitter this time?”
“Both.”
Jamie pouts sympathetically and pats Roy’s forearm. “Well, I have an idea for stress relief,” he offers gently.
“Me using your balls as a speed bag?” Roy grunts, teasing a hand through Jamie’s hair.
Jamie sighs loudly and rolls his eyes. “Christ, man, you have got to stop asking for that. I’m gonna start thinking you’re only with me for my massive bollocks.”
Roy tries his best to give his yeah-what-of-it grunt, and from the way Jamie scoffs playfully, Roy thinks it’s come across.
“Really, though. I was thinking I, erm, could suck you off. Stress relief, you know?” Jamie suggests it as confidently as he does pancakes for breakfast, but there’s enough of a twinge behind his eyes that Roy’s insides itch a bit.
He has been taking the dildo fucking well recently, even managed to get it to nudge his throat without gagging. And Roy can’t lie, the vision of Jamie on his knees, staring up at Roy all nervous and excited and wanting, has his stomach tying into tight, aroused knots.
“Are you up for that?” Roy just asks, hoping his pupils aren’t blown enough to give him away, to make Jamie think Roy has any stake in this beyond purely coaching, academic pursuits.
Jamie nods, still staring at Roy upside-down. “I mean, we do have Everton tomorrow. Could do with a little extra protein.”
“Careful,” Roy murmurs in the silky tone that gets Jamie crying for his cock. “You keep saying that kind of shit, and I’m gonna have to start logging my come in your fucking meal plan.”
Jamie bites his lip wickedly, even as his cheeks colour. His shorts are small enough and tight enough that Roy can fucking see him thickening up inside them. Christ.
“Fine with me,” Jamie says, his nose wrinkling in the way it goes when it really isn’t fine with him. “You’re just lucky you retired before we started shagging. Don’t think the nutritionists really wanna know the macros in bunghole.”
There’s about a hundred things Roy wants to do in response to that, chief among them explaining that Roy sure as shit isn’t swallowing anything when he’s rimming Jamie, but he settles for rubbing Jamie’s shoulder through the hoodie and saying, “You’re fucking disgusting. Now go clean up your fucking crisps and meet me in the shower.”
Jamie smiles toothily, and it’s a true feat of strength that Roy doesn’t just stick his tongue down Jamie’s throat and then let him blow him right here, right by the floor-to-ceiling windows for any curious pap with a drone to see.
Instead, Roy pinches Jamie’s earlobe and heads upstairs to their bedroom’s en suite, shucking his shirt as he goes. He’s pretty sure he spies a shine of glitter hitting the floor, and curses Phoebe’s fucking history teacher for the umpteenth time that night.
Whatever. Roy has more important things to focus on right now.
He turns up the shower far too hot and steps in immediately, grateful for the extra water heater he got so he never has to wait for the shower to warm up. He shelled out far too fucking much to remodel the fucking thing when he moved in, but it’s fucking worth it for the two showerheads, steam settings, heated floor, and truly miraculous water pressure.
Roy sighs and lets the water hit his back, work over his stiff muscles in hot rivulets. The sound of it is nice, too, loud and formless as it hits the frosted glass door. Of course, that means he doesn’t notice Jamie coming in until a blast of cool air hits him as Jamie opens the door.
“Hi, babe,” Roy says lightly, eyes skimming over Jamie’s naked body hungrily. He always looks good, but tonight, between the trail of dark hickies on his upper thighs and the just-this-side of nervous lilt to his eyebrows, he has Roy’s cock filling out even faster than it was downstairs.
Jamie appears to be on the same page. All he says by way of greeting is, “Fuck, you’re fucking fit,” before making a pleased hum and planting gentle hands on Roy’s hips. His thumbs stroke over the bones, light enough that Roy nearly jumps, even as Jamie meets his lips in a sloppy, languid kiss.
“Fucking impatient,” Roy praises generously, grabbing a nice handful of Jamie’s arse. Jamie twitches just a bit, and it makes pride twine itself, eager and hot, around his cock.
“‘Course I’m impatient. I need your cock in my mouth or I’ll fucking die.”
“Is that so?” Roy raises an eyebrow in what he hopes is a sardonic manner, but is more likely just an expression of open adoration.
Jamie nods, his hands rubbing lightly up and down Roy’s back. “Yep. Keel over and fucking die. Crack my head on the tile and all.”
Roy winces despite himself, and it makes Jamie fucking smirk, the bastard. “Just don’t fuck up the grout. Just cleaned that shit,” Roy mutters, rather than do what he wants, which is cradle Jamie’s fucking head, just in fucking case.
“It’s so fucking hot how much you care. My sexy house-husband,” Jamie sighs, twining his arms around Roy’s neck, his fingers pulling at the wet strands of Roy’s hair. Their chests are pressed together, Jamie’s abs brushing Roy’s with every inhale.
Fucking hell. Jamie’s so smooth and tan and hot under Roy’s hands that have come to settle on Jamie’s hips that Roy doesn’t have a choice but to shove his hips against Jamie’s, a slow, dirty grind.
“Now who’s eager?” Jamie teases gently, nipping Roy’s chin. “Keep it in your pants, you dirty old man.”
“Can’t,” Roy murmurs, angling Jamie’s head up just enough that he can lick Jamie’s plush bottom lip. It leaves Jamie fucking shivering despite the heat of the shower. “Haven’t got any.”
“Is that an invitation?” Jamie slides his hand a fraction of an inch over from Roy’s hip, just enough that if either of them breathes wrong, the heel of Jamie’s hand will press into Roy’s erection. It would provide some relief, of course, but Roy finds himself not wanting it. The first real, purposeful touch on his cock tonight is going to be from Jamie’s mouth. The prick’s fucking earned it.
“Not yet,” Roy chides, even as he leans down and captures Jamie’s mouth in a sloppy kiss. Water runs warm into their mouths, Jamie’s tongue cool in comparison, his hands running everywhere – down Roy’s back, through his hair, over his biceps – but never getting near his dick. Eventually, they slow to a rest on Roy’s bum with a tight little squeeze.
“Jamie,” Roy says in a way he hopes isn’t a sigh. “I’ve got to shower. Stop distracting me.”
“You started it,” Jamie complains petulantly.
Then, as if to purposefully negate his point, Jamie leans down and sucks a dark hickey over Roy’s collarbone, right on the spot that makes Roy fucking whimper. Roy’ll have to figure out a way to cover it before fucking swim lessons with Phoebe tomorrow, but he can’t bring himself to care, not with how his cock is jutting up toward his stomach and his incredibly fit boyfriend is skimming wet hands over his back.
It should be embarrassing, that a hickey and roaming hands nowhere near his dick is enough to make a bead of precome drip from Roy’s tip, but he’s never been one to be particularly ashamed of how fucking hard Jamie makes him. Like now, how just a quick flick of Jamie’s thumb over Roy’s nipple has him fucking gasping.
“Christ,” Roy groans, biting his lip to keep from humping Jamie’s thigh like a teenager. “Jamie, slow down.”
“Keep your sweater on, Granddad. Just having a little grope, yeah? Nothing to cream your jeans over.”
Roy wants to argue that what Jamie’s doing is absolutely fucking worth creaming his jeans, but Jamie’s hands, large and firm and kneading, and his plush lips, gluing themselves to Roy’s, are fucking convincing. Even more convincing is the feel of Jamie’s arse under Roy’s own grip, round and muscular, the skin silkily fucking soft. Roy doesn’t think he’s ever noticed the texture of a partner’s fucking backside before Jamie, but here he is.
“There we go,” Jamie says viciously after a moment, breaking the kiss to nibble at Roy’s earlobe.
“Satisfied?”
“No. Fucking want you.”
“You have me, baby.”
Jamie’s hand travels down further, fingertips ghosting Roy’s taint, before he squeezes Roy’s thigh, hard, and tugs him closer, his grip tight enough that Roy isn’t scared for a fucking second that he’s going to lose his balance, even with his weight leaned onto his bad leg.
“No,” Jamie mumbles into the hollow of Roy’s throat, the sound more audible through bone conduction than anything else. “Want you.”
If Roy was any less of a prick, he’d be shutting off the shower and shoving Jamie to his knees as soon as they hit a carpeted floor. As it is, he just furrows his eyebrows in a poor imitation of inquisitiveness and says, “Jamie, sweetheart, you’re not making any sense.”
Jamie groans in frustration, easier to play than a fucking music box with an instruction manual. “Your boner,” he explains desperately. “I want your fucking boner in my mouth.”
“‘Boner?’ Really?” Roy says, instead of something more reasonable, like, “Of course, sweetheart,” or, “Oh, now I get it.”
“Sorry,” Jamie says with a vicious nip of Roy’s throat that makes it patently clear he is not, in fact, sorry in the slightest. “Is ‘member’ better? ‘Staff?’ ‘Manhood?’”
“I’m going to break up with you.”
Jamie snorts a laugh and shifts his ministrations lower, starting to kiss and suck along Roy’s collarbones, the tops of his pecs. Roy knows that Jamie’s going to complain about finding hair in his teeth later, but he can’t even tell Jamie to fuck off before Jamie is sliding his hand away from Roy’s thigh, pausing just before his fingers wrap around Roy’s shaft.
He’s close enough that Roy can feel the heat of his hand, has to tighten his abs to keep from fucking forward into it.
“Be a shame to break up with me now,” Jamie tells him, as if Roy can fucking focus on anything that isn’t the way Jamie’s less than a millimeter from providing Roy with some desperately needed friction.
“Oh?” he manages to grit out. “Why’s that?”
“‘Cause I just got taught how to give blowjobs by the best coach in the world.” Jamie’s face cracks in a grin wider than when they made the Champion’s League, too proud of his shitty dirty talk by half.
Roy can’t even tease him, though, because then Jamie is beginning to sink to his knees, pressing kisses down Roy’s stomach as he goes. He knows all of Roy’s fucking spots, the bastard, the ones on the edges of his ribs and to the left of his sternum and that one fucking freckle just over his right Adonis line. The whole time, Roy’s breathing is coming in short, laboured pants, his hands twitching, his fucking cock jumping with each of Jamie’s ministrations with such regularity it’s almost as if it’s practicing fucking drills.
Roy wants this. Fuck, he wants this. Jamie’s been working so fucking hard for months now, just for the privilege of making Roy feel good. His boyfriend, the fittest fucking person alive, the man the Sun crowned “Sexiest Scorer” last month, has been putting himself through hell, gagging and crying and rasping, just so Roy can wring every drop of pleasure from himself using Jamie’s body. It’s so fucking heady that Roy is half-worried he’s going to be the one to keel over and crack his own fucking head open.
Which is why it takes everything in Roy to grab Jamie’s biceps and try to stop his slow descent.
“What?” Jamie asks, his voice syrupy and slow. Fuck, Roy wants him to keep going. “Is it the ‘best coach in the world’ thing? Because I didn’t say that. Sam was the one who put it up on Twitter, you know. I were quoting.”
“No, you fucking muppet.”
Jamie rolls his eyes, somehow managing to look indignant even half-crouched with his hand still hovering over Roy’s dick. “What, then? Scared you’re gonna come too fast?” Jamie fucking pokes at the inside of his cheek with his tongue, confident even for something that he used to be shit at, and, for all they know, still is.
Roy has never fucking loved him more.
“No, you prick. I’m not letting you kneel on tile the night before a match.”
Jamie actually rolls his eyes, the picture of a petulant teenager. “I’ll be fine, granddad. Not all of us have bum knees.”
“Yeah, but the ones who do want this done fucking properly. In our bed. With a nice fucking cuddle right after. Can’t do that here.”
Jamie sighs like he’s truly put upon, and raises back up, planting a quick peck on Roy’s nose. “You’re such a cunt,” he says, licking Roy’s cheek far too sloppily to be anything except some sort of juvenile revenge for being made to wait five minutes for Roy’s cock. His erection pokes Roy’s stomach as he does, and Roy somehow manages not to groan.
“Fuck off, babe,” Roy grunts. “Let me get this fucking glitter off, and then you can do whatever the fuck you want to me.”
“I kind of like the glitter,” Jamie murmurs, running a delicate finger between Roy’s pecs.
“I’m not having you swallow microplastics. You get enough from your fucking Jaffa Cakes.”
“Prick,” Jamie huffs. “Fine. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
He smacks his own fucking bum as he leaves the shower, as if Roy needs another fucking reminder of the arousal that’s growing painful between his legs.
Roy turns away, though, focusing his attention on washing rather than the image of Jamie on his knees: big, wet eyes staring up at Roy, eyelashes fanning over hollowed cheeks as he sinks onto Roy’s cock, tattooed wrist working up and down Roy’s length, rubbing drool and precome around alike.
Roy doesn’t think about that all as he scrubs himself perfunctorily, paying special attention to clean the crease of his thighs and under his balls. Jamie doesn’t need any gross tastes, doesn’t need more difficulty for this.
And, if Roy gives himself a few strokes under the hot stream of the shower, the water easing the glide so nicely that he has to pinch his thigh to get himself to stop, well that’s between him and the rubber duck Jamie put on their shower shelf the day he moved in.
Scrubbed just enough to get the glitter off and get himself to smell like the incredibly overpriced men’s salt scrub Jamie got him for Christmas, Roy turns the shower off and goes to rub his towel over him. He doesn’t bother with lotion or beard oil or fucking anything, even though Jamie’s sure to hound him about it tomorrow.
Instead, he just walks into his bedroom, naked as the day he was born and hard enough to give diamonds a run for their money.
That show lasts for all of three seconds, though, before he nearly fucking trips over himself and fucks the whole evening entirely. Because Jamie is fucking . . . warming up on the dildo, sitting cross-legged on the foot of their bed, his own cock thick and full on his thigh, eyes shut tightly, mouth working. Desperate slurping sounds leak out of the corners of his mouth as spit runs down the shaft in silvery ropes.
Jamie still isn’t able to take too much more than just the head, but between both of his hands and the fucking sounds, Roy is pretty sure that won’t exactly be a hardship for him.
“Am I interrupting?” Roy says just loud enough to be heard over Jamie’s suckling, not wanting to startle him or throw him off. He doesn’t need a blow to his confidence right now.
“Not at all, Coach,” Jamie says after he slides the sopping dildo out of his mouth, just a bit of rasp colouring his cheerful tone. “Just getting ready, innit?”
Jamie grabs a flannel from the floor that he must have discarded after the shower and gives the dildo a quick clean before setting it aside on his night table. Another night, Roy would make him clean it properly. Another night, Roy would tell him to keep going.
Tonight, though, Roy just mutely crosses over to their bed and seats himself against the headboard, propping his knee with a pink throw pillow. He grabs a second one and sits it in between his inner thighs so Jamie will have something to lean on.
Jamie watches hungrily the whole time, a bit of drool, either forgotten or fresh, running down his chin, eyes fixed on Roy’s cock, pupils blown wide. The soft yellow of Jamie’s bedside lamp, the only light source in the room, makes his skin look more golden, his blush even pinker, his cock that much redder. Fucking hell, he’s gorgeous.
“C’mere, babe,” Roy says, resisting the urge to pat his lap like he’s some truly fucked up version of Santa Claus.
“Yes, Coach.” Jamie crawls up the bed and settles on his belly between Roy’s legs, chest on the pillow and his hands wrapped around Roy’s thighs, petting the hair back and forth.
If anyone was watching this from the outside, they’d think Jamie was perfectly content, just being patient and waiting for Roy’s directive. Roy knows, though, that if Jamie isn’t immediately gobbling Roy’s cock like an overeager pornstar, he’s probably close to shaking apart with nerves.
“Hey,” Roy says gently. “Give us a kiss, yeah?”
Jamie stretches up on his arms in a beautiful cobra pose, and Roy bends down to tangle his fingers in his hair and kiss him thoroughly. He’s probably using too much tongue, judging by the wet, keening sound Jamie makes, but Jamie kisses back enthusiastically, weight going onto one hand so the other can palm over Roy’s chest, his belly, stroking the hair like someone would do to a particularly pleased cat.
Roy groans into Jamie’s mouth, and sucks Jamie’s bottom lip into his mouth. He nips at it just a bit, enough that it’ll pink up without hurting or inhibiting Jamie’s blowjob at all, before letting it drop back and allowing Jamie to flop himself back onto his forearms.
“Take your time,” Roy reminds him once Jamie’s resettled himself, gaze trained on Roy’s cock. There’s still a nervous quirk to his lips, but he’s focused, sizing up Roy’s dick like he hasn’t ever had it between his thighs or in his hole or in his hands, let alone having the facsimile of it in his mouth not thirty seconds ago. “You don’t need to be perfect or anything. We have time.”
It’s probably too much coddling, judging from Jamie’s put-upon sigh, but Roy doesn’t give a fuck. Roy was serious the day of their shit dinner: Jamie means fucking everything to him.
Jamie’s Roy’s fucking boyfriend. Roy wants to give this to him. Has to. Has to let him make Roy proud, even if that means babying him or holding him after a bad dream or Facetiming his mum so she can watch when he’s training with the England team.
It’s Roy’s job, as boyfriend and coach and best fucking friend, to set Jamie up for success. And, judging by the determined swallow and excited glint in Jamie’s eyes, he has.
“Say bye to your brain, Roy-o. I’m about to suck it out.”
Roy’s laugh gets garbled into a sharp intake of breath as Jamie dives forward. He doesn’t go for Roy’s cock, though, doesn’t even brush it, even though Roy’s been aching for nearly twenty fucking minutes at this point.
Instead, Jamie tilts his head to the side and presses wet kisses to Roy’s hipbones, left then right, before diving down and mouthing at Roy’s balls. It’s not really sucking or licking or nipping, but some sort of delicious in between that has Roy digging his heels into the bed and biting his lip to keep from thrusting up. Of all the ways to ruin this, Roy is determined to not let it be poking Jamie in the eye with his fucking dick.
“Roy,” Jamie breaths when he pulls back from Roy’s balls. “I’m going to make you feel so fucking good.”
“Fuck, yeah, you are.”
“So fucking good,” Jamie repeats, ducking forward and running his lips along the sensitive skin below Roy’s navel. It’s not really kissing, just brushing his lips over everywhere except where Roy wants him, where Roy’s half-concerned the skin of his dick is genuinely going to fucking split.
“Jamie, take your fucking time, but if you don’t fucking get your mouth on me soon, I’m going to have to go the fucking A&E.”
Jamie laughs against Roy’s lower stomach, and the vibrations run down, thrumming along Roy’s fucking dick. He’s pretty sure he sees it jump. Christ.
Jamie just tongues lower and lower, wet and hot and wanting, skating the base of Roy’s dick, the insides of his thighs.
“Jamie, for the love of fuck, please just fucking blow me.”
Jamie pulls back, the bottom half of his face slick with wet. Roy braces himself for a joke, for a shitty nickname, but Jamie just smiles and says, “I’d love to.”
Roy can’t even respond before Jamie plants a swift, soft kiss to the very head of Roy’s cock. No teeth, no tongue, no throat, just a gentle fucking peck, all wet, pillowy lips and burning breath.
“Tastes better than the dildo,” Jamie murmurs so softly Roy’s not even sure the comment was for him. Jamie doesn’t have a chance to clarify, though, because in one smooth motion, he wraps a hand around Roy’s shaft, takes a deep breath through his nose, and then sucks the head of Roy’s cock into his mouth.
Roy’s had a lot of fucking blowjobs. He’s had incredible ones from Croatian prostitutes that rubbed tongue piercings along his frenulum. He’s had desperate, filthy ones in the back of a fieldhouse from other U18s. He’s had slow, languid ones that made him nearly cry. Fast, jerky ones while he drove down the fucking Autobahn. Shitty ones, sloppy ones, ones from girls with mouths full of champagne.
This is different from all of them.
After all, it’s fucking Jamie sucking Roy’s cock into his mouth. Jamie’s sinfully soft hair wound around Roy’s desperate, searching fingers. Jamie’s long, dark eyelashes fanned out over his cheeks while he focuses on his task. Jamie’s smell of Lynx and coconut lotion drifting into Roy’s nostrils.
Even better is that it’s Jamie’s hard fucking work getting to be displayed as he inexpertly begins to blow Roy with all the enthusiasm and love of a fucking virginal bride on her goddamn wedding night.
The first thing Roy first feels is fucking heat, like Jamie’s mouth is somehow even hotter than even the clutch of his hole. Then, Jamie nudges the head of Roy’s cock into the satiny rub of the inside of his cheek, smooth and languid and wet, and Roy’s fucking toes curl.
Jamie’s jaw fucking distends as he works to manage his teeth, and Roy has no choice but to tug gently on Jamie’s hair.
“Fuck, you’re doing so fucking well. Fucking perfect,” Roy pants.
There’s a twitch to Jamie’s eyebrows that means he knows Roy is laying it on a bit thick, but Roy doesn’t give a shit. Jamie deserves it.
Especially when Jamie begins to work his tongue below Roy’s head, just rubbing back and forth. It’s filthy wet, hot and intense enough that Roy fucking gasps when Jamie’s hand on his shaft starts gliding back and forth, using the copious spit dribbling from his mouth as lube.
Jamie’s free hand twitches up a bit and cups Roy’s balls. He doesn’t do anything but hold them, occasionally rubbing a spare drop of saliva or precome into Roy’s skin like it’s fucking moisturizer.
“Fuck, Jamie,” Roy grunts, petting Jamie’s hair even as he digs his nails into his palms; he can’t let himself thrust up and risk ruining the delicate rhythm Jamie has just developed.
Jamie pulls back himself, though, angling Roy’s cock up with his hand and laving over the underside with his mouth and tongue. Roy moans something akin to Jamie’s name and pants harshly through his nose. Jamie’s tongue is moving like he’s a fucking painter determined to apply an even coat to Roy’s dick.
Even through the heady daze of saccharine pleasure coiling somewhere between Roy’s belly and his cock, Roy appreciates the technique. Gives Jamie’s jaw a break while the sensation over Roy’s cock never fucking ceases.
“Clever little prick,” Roy moans, guttural and low.
Jamie scrapes just a hint of his teeth over Roy’s shaft, and it might be a way of showing thanks or maybe just an accident, but it has Roy inhaling sharply, his hips jumping of their own accord. Thank fuck the head is no longer in Jamie’s mouth, or he would have fucking triggered his gag reflex for sure.
Even so, Jamie jumps back like a startled animal, eyes flying open and going to meet Roy’s, mouth twisted anxiously. Jamie’s face from the fucking eyebrows down is sopping, and Roy feels his cock twitch.
“Alright?” Jamie pants, his voice rough even though Roy’s dick has been nowhere near his throat.
“Fucking yes. Couldn’t help myself. Now get the fuck back here.”
Jamie smiles, a mixture of relief and straight fucking joy, before diving back into his task. This time, he takes Roy’s head in straight, not aiming for his cheek anymore, but rather the back of his throat.
He makes a little humming noise as he shoves his face down. It doesn’t go far, maybe just an inch past the head, but the back of Jamie’s throat is nudging Roy’s cock now, swallowing desperately, his breathing coming out in harsh pants through his nose.
Roy, on the other hand, hardly dares to breathe at all. He doesn’t want to do anything to trigger Jamie’s gag reflex. For one, he isn’t keen to have to wash sick off himself and their far-too-expensive duvet. For two, Jamie is so fucking close to being successful at this. If Roy knocked his confidence now, it would be nothing short of fucking monstrous.
Roy’s caution proves overkill within seconds though, as Jamie makes a quiet, gentle sort of moan in the back of his throat, before sinking a few millimetres deeper. He starts to move his hands again, sopping wet with saliva, running them up and down Roy’s cock in tandem in a jerky, desperate rhythm.
“Fucking hell, Jamie,” Roy groans. “Fuck, you’re fucking hot.”
Roy finds himself waiting for some sort of cheeky comment about how of fucking course Jamie is, he’s Jamie fucking Tartt, but there’s just the heavy sounds of their breathing and the wet gulps of Jamie fucking ravaging Roy.
Roy almost misses the banter, but there’s something incredibly fucking heady about the idea that the only time Jamie doesn’t want to talk is when his mouth is occupied with Roy’s cock, that the only thing more important to him than being the loud little fuck he loves to be is making Roy feel good.
It makes pleasure coil hot and tight in Roy’s balls, and he finds himself yanking Jamie’s hair to keep himself from humping into Jamie’s waiting mouth. It’s probably cruel, more than he’d ever do to a girl on their knees for him for the first time, but Jamie, Roy’s sweet little masochist, just keens.
Maybe it’s the vibration or the movement of Jamie’s hands or just the way Jamie has started staring up at him with big, wet, desperate eyes, but Roy can’t keep himself from barrelling over the edge at full force. Barbs of electric arousal wind around his spine, the pit of his stomach, the back of his fucking throat, and then he’s coming, thick and hot and so fucking much, like he hasn’t come in ages.
“Fuck, Jamie, sweetheart, fuck,” Roy babbles nonsensically as he spends deep into Jamie’s mouth, ropes spurting down his throat.
Jamie’s hands keep working on the shaft as he pulls back, letting the last, weak spurt hit his lips. He licks them like it’s a fucking dessert he’s made a mess of, and Roy’s head fucking falls back.
“Fucking hell, Jamie,” Roy sighs to the ceiling, hands shaking as he moves them from Jamie’s head to run through his own curls.
“Did I do good, coach?” Jamie asks in a rasp as he crawls up into Roy’s field of vision.
Roy has no answer to that that isn’t “Are you fucking dumb? Are you actually, medically a fucking idiot?” so he just grabs the back of Jamie’s head and tugs him into a vicious, more-teeth-than-tongue, sloppy mess of a kiss as his other hand drifts down Jamie’s sweat-slicked body and wraps around Jamie’s erection.
It’s fucking pulsing, the poor thing. Must be painful.
Jamie doesn’t seem to mind, though, mouthing at Roy with a single-minded determination, even as he fucks into Roy’s fist desperately.
“Found the trick for swallowing in a fucking Cosmo article,” Jamie pants into Roy’s beard, voice shaking with the force of his hips. “Just get the tip past your gag reflex, and the spunk don’t touch nothing important. Dead fucking smart, innit?”
“Fucking genius,” Roy says, hardly listening in favour of sucking Jamie’s tongue into his mouth.
“I am a genius, huh?” Jamie grunts after a second, pulling back from the kiss and simultaneously shoving his hips into Roy’s hand like he’s fucking some particularly sturdy girl who keeps begging for more and harder.
“Yeah, baby. Smart and talented and gorgeous.”
Jamie grunts his agreement with that, shoving forward messily with a soft gasp of Roy’s name between desperate little whines of uh, uh, uh.
“Roy,” Jamie moans after a minute, high-pitched and wanton. “Fuck, Roy!”
Come coats Roy’s hip and hand and thigh in thick, wet pulses, and Roy continues working his wrist, coaxing the last little bit out of Jamie until Jamie’s head thunks against Roy’s collarbone and he gives a weak plea to stop.
Roy complies immediately, wiping his hand on Jamie’s back before wrapping both arms around him and squeezing him into a hug. It squishes the come between them, and it’ll be a fucking bitch to get out of Roy’s belly hair later, but Roy can’t find it in him to give a shit, much less move enough to do all the steps of grabbing a flannel and wiping them up.
They lay there in silence for a while, Jamie occasionally licking along Roy’s collarbone or nipping at Roy’s earlobe, an overly energetic puppy trying to survive a cuddle from its overbearing owner.
The silence of their mingled breath and the hint of wind through the windows must be too much after a minute, though, because Jamie pulls back from where he’s been worrying on Roy’s neck and mumbles, “You feeling proud of yourself?”
“Proud of you,” Roy corrects lazily, eyes slipping closed.
“No, you knobhead. You fucking coached me into giving you the orgasm of your life. Has gotta feel dead fucking good, huh?”
Roy grins despite himself, shaking his head. The feeling of his hair moving on the pillow is like fucking fireworks to his orgasm-addled mind. “Couldn’t have done it without my star player.”
Jamie presses a beaming kiss to Roy’s cheek and starfishes over him, rubbing his come even more thoroughly across Roy’s belly. Maybe Jamie has the right idea about waxing, Roy thinks absently.
“We’re a proper power couple, babe,” Jamie brags, like Roy isn’t the other half of said power couple in the first place.
Still, between the warmth of Roy’s orgasm and the pride simmering hot and heavy in his belly, Roy can’t find it in himself to tease Jamie. Instead, he just sighs, “Fuck, yeah, we are,” and cuddles Jamie closer for a good night’s sleep.