Chapter Text
Fuck, it were always fucking freezing, thought Jamie, looking around the alley as he waited for the door to open. He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets and kicked the door frame in an unhappy little rhythm.
He could feel the shakes, the tremors, just below the surface.
The ones that didn’t fucking have anything to do with the fucking cold.
The door opened, and Kara’s pretty face peeked out. “Jamie!” she said, surprised. “Back so soon?”
“Yeah, screwed up at work, fucking- need it,” muttered Jamie, hunching his shoulders and glaring down the alley.
“Well, we got Andrew,” Kara said, sounding as relieved as that information made Jamie feel. “Or Diamond, yeah?”
“Andrew’s good, can I- can we fucking go inside?” demanded Jamie.
“You do need it,” she giggled, nodding and pulling the door open.
“Fuck,” breathed Jamie under his breath, as he followed her in.
“You look so different, without all your-” she waved a hand up and down at his outfit. “You know?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Kinda the fucking point, yeah?”
“Oh, yeah, you’re not out, then,” she remembered.
He thought she was adorable- he knew why the club fucking kept her- but it wasn’t for her fucking brains. “Yeah, Kara,” he said carefully. “That’s how come I come here, yeah?”
“Thanks for fetching him, love,” said Andrew, and Jamie felt the shiver down his spine at the low, gruff voice.
“You’re very welcome,” said Kara warmly, tilting her face up to the man like a flower to the sun.
Andrew smiled down at her, cupped her cheek.
Kara sighed. “Am I good girl, then?” she asked.
Jamie tried a fucking breathing exercise, watching her go all liquid like she did, as easily as she fucking did.
“Always, Kara, love,” Andrew assured her. “Go back by Diamond, tell her you done good and deserve a little treat.”
Kara fucking wiggled then, happy as a fucking puppy, right there, where anyone could fucking see her.
Not that there was anyone to see her.
Just Jamie, and Andrew.
But Jamie’d seen her do it with a full crowd, many times. Just about as subby as a cliche, happy little housewife you could rent by the minute to burble up at you, melt into you, try to be good for you.
There was a reason the club kept Kara around.
Andrew’s eyes turned harder, when they fell on Jamie as Kara walked away.
Jamie shifted his weight, uneasy beneath them.
“You in trouble?” Andrew demanded.
Jamie nodded, short and sharp. “Fucked up at work,” he spat. “Need it.”
“Grab your bag,” Andrew said shortly, nodding at the row of shelves.
Jamie let some of the air tightening his chest out in a little puff, and lifted his duffle from its cubby. “I’m sorry,” he said, because he fucking had to, it had been choking him for the last fucking hour of training.
“You will be, Jamie,” Andrew promised solemnly.
It was such a fucking relief, it made him stumble, as he followed the man, his entire body tingling, the duffle bag full of paddles and straps and other tools of Andrew’s trade slung over his shoulder.
~~~
It didn’t take long. It never did.
Andrew was fucking efficient.
“Food, a full meal, right off your plan,” Andrew said sternly. “And water, Jamie. A glass with dinner, a glass before bed.”
Jamie nodded.
“Sorry, what’s that?” asked Andrew.
“Yes, sir,” mumbled Jamie, feeling how thick his tongue was, how muzzy his head felt.
“I’ll call you in the morning,” said Andrew. “Jamie!”
Jamie looked up.
“I’ll call you in the morning,” repeated Andrew, his face intent. “And you’ll answer. What time?”
“Six,” mumbled Jamie. “Gotta- short run, b’fore work.”
“Good boy,” said Andrew, and Jamie rocked on his heels, couldn’t help it. He’d been so fucking bad, hadn’t he? But then Andrew’d- they’d put it all behind them, they had. “You’ll answer, yeah, Jamie? Six, when I call?”
“Yes, sir,” slurred Jamie, nodding.
“How’d you get here?” asked Andrew.
“Bus,” said Jamie. “Walked.” He shrugged.
Andrew let out a little frustrated noise and Jamie flinched. “Shh, Jamie, I’m not mad,” the man said quickly, and quietly. “It was good you came, yeah, good boy? Good you figured out the bus, good to take a little walk from the station. It was so good, Jamie. I’m so proud.”
It still fucking hurt, but- but the words helped.
It might help more if Andrew would hug him, but he’d said no. Jamie’d said no, on the paper, no hugs, no holding, no- nothing soft.
“I’ll have Denny drop you ‘round your neighborhood,” Andrew said. “You can walk yourself in, but- yeah. I don’t like you on public transport like this, my good boy.”
Jamie wasn’t anyone’s good boy, even when he was being so fucking good it hurt. But the tremors below his skin had fucking stopped. He’d gotten what he needed. “Whatever, sir,” he got out, lifting a hand, circling it.
Andrew sighed, came closer. He cupped Jamie’s chin which was dangerously close to too fucking soft, but then gripped it tight, so it were okay. Andrew always fucking knew how to make it okay. “You stay good, Jamie,” he said sternly. “Eat dinner, drink water. Take your shower, comfy pajamas, bed. Answer the phone when I call, at six.”
“Yeah. Yes, sir,” agreed Jamie.
“Look at me,” said Andrew fiercely.
Jamie looked up, gasping a little at how fucking hard it always fucking was.
Andrew stared down at him.
Jamie stared back, heart in his throat, which it shouldn’t be. He paid the man for this, yeah?
“Be good, Jamie,” said Andrew, giving his jaw a little shake.
“Course, sir, do me best,” promised Jamie, pulling back as much as he dared.
“Answer the phone when I call,” Andrew said.
“Yes, sir,” agreed Jamie. “At six.”
“At six,” repeated Andrew, releasing his jaw. “I mean it, Jamie.”
“Yeah, of course,” agreed Jamie, nodding.
“Put your bag away. I’ll go get Denny,” said Andrew.
And that was why Jamie had Andrew, instead of Diamond. Short, clear instructions. Hard to fuck that up.
~~~
His phone rang at six a.m. but he didn’t answer it.
He’d paid for a fucking scene, not for fucking aftercare.
~~~
“So, she’s down on her knees, yeah?” laughed Isaac, “and I’m like, sweetheart, and you know how they fucking get, yeah?”
All the lads at the table laughed, and Jamie laughed with them, despite how his stomach twisted, picturing Kara’s sweet face upturned to look up at Isaac.
“So I said to myself, do I make it easy on her, or like- do I have some fucking fun?” chuckled Isaac.
“You have your fucking fun, mate,” declared Hughes, shaking Isaac by the shoulders.
Isaac glanced around the faces of the men, and solemnly nodded his head, his eyes twinkling.
Everyone burst into knowing laughter, so Jamie did, as well, thinking about Kara, tears in her eyes as she tried so fucking hard for a client who was having his fucking fun with her, right out there in the common room, because he’d fucking paid for it.
“Did she safeword?” asked Dixon, who was always such a fucking prick.
“Nahhhhh,” said Isaac. “Gave her the treat she was looking for, after I’d played a bit, didn’t I?”
More laughter, more jeering.
“You going to call her?” demanded Richard.
“Why would I?” asked Isaac, spreading his hands, palm up. “I told you, I had my fucking fun, yeah?”
Everyone else was laughing, so Jamie did, too.
It actually helped, thinking it were just Kara.
Kara got fucking paid for that, and had all the club doms to keep her from fucking dropping.
~~~
“Tartt, Tartt!” said Ted, “Come here, son.”
“I’m not your fucking kid,” Jamie told the man as he trotted over.
“Sorry about that,” Ted said. “You did ask me to stop. Should call you tiger, anyway, all that snarling you do instead of talking. Look, I know you’ve got all that adrenaline and-” his hands did a wavy motion in the air, “-fight for dominance in your head, sport, but your aggression level’s too high today. Can you dial it back, or do I need to ask for one of the club subs to come help balance you out?”
“I’ll fucking dial it back, the club subs give me the heebie jeebies,” Jamie told the man, for the five thousandth time.
“Now, we’re gonna have to disagree on the heebie jeebie vibes they’re not putting out, they are sweethearts,” said Ted, hand on his chest over his heart. “But if you dial it back, I won’t make you go find out.”
“I said I would,” muttered Jamie, glaring at the man, his heart hammering, thinking of fucking Denbo for some fucking reason, laughing and saying He dives straight down to the bottom of the pile every fucking time, has to be the subbiest fucking sub in the fucking room, mate!
“And your word’s all I need, Jamie,” Ted swore, with that awful fucking sincerity that caregiver fucking doms got. “Go pour some hustle on, catch up with the gang.”
Jamie nodded, took three steps away from the man, well aware that he’d fucking leaned in and hoping no one had fucking noticed the way he’d swayed. Or that they’d think he was fucking tired.
It was the end of a long day of training. He could’ve been fucking tired, that was all. Tired happened to fucking everyone, didn’t it?
He took a vicious sense of satisfaction of pouring on the hustle and getting ahead of fucking Kent, the old fucking cunt. It helped soothe the anxiety, knowing that everyone would fucking pay attention to the right things, instead of the fucking wrong things, if he just fucking- made them.
~~~
There was a text from Andrew, when he got back to his phone.
If you don’t answer your phone for a check-in, I can drop you as a client. Call me after work.
Fuck.
He’d worked so hard to find a fucking discreet club, and Andrew was- nearly perfect. The only paid dom he’d ever found who respected his fucking boundaries, didn’t try to push, didn’t try to be soft with him.
He hesitated.
He could find a different dom. He could go back to doing the one-night pick-ups, although eventually they’d fuck with his career, wouldn’t they?
He’d been lucky, to find Keeley, a switch who never kept track, never figured it out.
And then he’d fucked that up, royally, trying to fucking establish dominance at the fucking charity gala.
The choice was call Andrew, or risk everything.
His thumb still hesitated, hovering over the green call button.
He shifted in the driver’s seat, unable to force himself to do it.
But it were Andrew. He probably had a fucking checklist he wanted to complete.
He wouldn’t be fucking soft about it. He knew that were Jamie’s boundaries.
“Fuck it,” he said, and thumbed the green button.
It rang three times, and Jamie was on the edge of tapping the red one, when Andrew picked up.
He sounded breathless as he said, “Jamie!”
“Sorry,” said Jamie, gritting his teeth as the fucking word hit, all the way down. “I don’t- didn’t-”
“I know why you didn’t answer,” said Andrew in a hard tone. “You don’t want anything soft.”
Jamie nodded, and then choked out, “Right, mate.”
“I’ve told you, we don’t have to be fucking soft about the check-ins, Jamie, but we do have to fucking do them.”
It helped, the stern tone in his voice, the way it was devoid of any anger for Jamie’s conscience to get bothered by.
“Sorry,” Jamie spat again, feeling it echo too much, all the way down to the pit of his stomach.
“You don’t have to be sorry, Jamie,” Andrew told him, just as stern, and Jamie breathed in relief.
He didn’t have to be sorry. He didn’t have to be sorry. Andrew said he didn’t have to be sorry.
“It was good you called, Jamie,” Andrew said.
It were good. He were good. Andrew said he were good.
It weren’t the truth, but good meant he weren’t in trouble.
“Did you eat dinner last night?” asked Andrew.
Jamie nodded, remembered again he were on the phone, and croaked, “Yeah, from the frozen meals, plan-approved.”
“Thank you,” said Andrew.
Andrew fucking thanked him!
“And did you drink water?” asked Andrew.
“Four glasses,” Jamie told him eagerly.
“Thank you,” said Andrew.
Fuck, that was the fucking best!
“Have a little shower, go to bed on time?”
“Early!” supplied Jamie, feeling lightheaded and burbly, in his chest. “I went in early, had my warmest jammies, I promise.”
“That’s so good for me, Jamie,” said Andrew.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, it were too- he was getting fucking soft on the man!
“Yellow,” he breathed.
“I know check-ins are hard,” Andrew said, back to stern again. “But you’re going to do them, Jamie. Did you drop, today?”
“No,” said Jamie confidently. “Felt aces, again. Did good at work.”
“Then answer the phone tomorrow, Jamie, or else,” said Andrew, voice as hard as stone.
He were so fucking good at doing exactly as Jamie paid him to do.
“I’m sorry, Andrew,” Jamie said, because he could, now that Andrew were back to being hard. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer the phone.”
“I know why you didn’t,” said Andrew in that same hard tone. “But check-ins are not optional. I may not have as much riding on my performance as you do on yours, but I have people who depend on me to stay licensed, Jamie. I won’t risk it.”
“Sorry,” said Jamie. “I am sorry, Andrew, I do know that.”
He could hear, faintly, Kara’s voice say, “Is that Jamie? Tell him I send love!”
“Kara says hello,” Andrew reported.
“Hi, Kara,” said Jamie.
“Ask him if we can do another scene soon,” Kara giggled. “I love Jamie!”
“She’s a little goofy right now,” said Andrew, and there was amusement in his tone that almost hurt to hear. “She’d like to scene with you, the next time you come in.”
“Maybe,” said Jamie, heart in his throat. “If it were you. Uh. If it-”
“It would be,” said Andrew firmly. “Your rules and boundaries are too important, Jamie, and I won’t let anyone here at the club ruin the safety of the club for you. And balancing you and Kara is-” he paused, and Jamie held his breath, “-a thrill,” he finished.
Jamie blew out the breath, feeling like the wrong word would have cut too deep.
He needed to find a new club.
He needed to find someone other than Andrew.
Andrew was getting too close. He’d gone to the man too often, and Andrew was getting too close, and it wasn’t Andrew getting soft, it was the softness inside Jamie getting too fucking close.
He should call his dad.
Jamie swallowed. “Yeah, I’d- we can do that,” he told Andrew, around the sinking, clawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Next time. Our scheduled one.”
“Call if you need one, in between,” said Andrew in a heavy, brusque tone. “Don’t hesitate, Jamie. Don’t wait. You pay the fees, the service is here for you.”
He did pay the fees.
He did pay for Andrew to be so good.
It were okay, to be happy with good services.
“Thank you,” he told Andrew.
“Be good, Jamie,” said Andrew sternly.
“I will,” he promised the man. “Or, eh, I’ll call, right?”
Andrew chuckled. “I’ll be here, waiting.”
Right. Because Jamie paid for him to be there- or for one of his staff, if it were just a bad day, fucking up at work.
“Be good,” Andrew repeated.
“I will,” he promised, and then he cut the call.
Sat there, staring at his phone, reminding himself it weren’t Andrew fucking getting soft on him, because Andrew were a fucking professional.
The knock on the window made him yelp, tossing the phone onto the floor.
“FUCK ME,” he shouted, glaring, pushing the button to roll down the window.
“Sorry for making you a little jumpy, slugger. Thanks for not punching first. Just wanted to check in, since you were sitting there,” babbled Ted. “You okay? You did good, dialing it back, after I asked.”
“Fucking- yeah, I took a fucking call, weren’t safe to drive while talking, yeah?” muttered Jamie angrily, digging around for his phone with trembling fingers.
“Well, go work out your aggression on some young sweet thing tonight, tiger,” chuckled Ted. “Know you’re back to being a free agent, was a little worried about it, to be honest, but other than today, you’ve been doing great, Jamie. You really have. I see the work you’re putting in.”
“Fucking, thanks, Coach,” muttered Jamie, fingers brushing the phone, pinching it. “Didn’t need the fucking heart attack, but thanks.”
Ted patted the bottom of the open window. “Okay! Just so you know!”
“I fucking know how hard I’m working, I’m the one putting the fucking work in,” Jamie told him.
“And I appreciate it, that’s all,” said Ted, hands up defensively, stepping back. “Go get that aggression taken care of. Hope she’s cute!”
“She’ll be fucking gorgeous,” Jamie told him, carefully not thinking of Kara at all, with all of her pinks and bows and sweet little dresses.
Ted laughed. “Well, remember to be nice.”
“That’s not why the birds fucking come home with me, Ted,” Jamie told him, rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, you sharp shooters,” said Ted, shaking his head. “Never could quite get the hang of sadism for its own sake. Seemed mean.”
Jamie glared at him. “Yeah, that’s the whole fucking point.”
Ted chuckled. “Well, leave you to it. Plenty of fish like that spicy water.”
“Are we done?” demanded Jamie, because he couldn’t fucking leave his fucking Coach, until his Coach were fucking done, but he fucking needed to be done.
“Yeah, Jamie, get gone,” laughed Ted. “Go catch your birds, ruffle their feathers a bit.”
“Thanks for the permission, Coach,” spat Jamie, rolling up the window.
The fucking git.
He kept glancing at the phone, though.
Tomorrow was Friday.
He could text, meet him up.
He’d be healed enough by Monday. No one would fucking know, and the dangerous fucking softness would be fucking gone.
He pulled into his driveway, put the car in park.
Stared at the phone in the cup holder.
Remembered how it had felt, the first time Andrew had called to check in.
How easy it had been, to answer the fucking phone, say his fucking yes, yes, yes, I did all that, I’m a good ickle boy for you even after the scene shite.
How he hadn’t fucking felt soft, not once, for the first few months.
Because he’d gone to his dad, after Keeley broke it off.
And his dad knew what to fucking do with soft.
…It would only hurt until it healed.
He’d survived it when he was so much fucking younger, and smaller.
He could take it better, now.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
But he couldn’t afford to be fucking soft, not now, not on loan from Man City, not with fucking Keeley gone and having to pay just to get through every fucking fuck-up. If he weren’t the fucking subbiest sub, always trying to fucking dive to the bottom of the fucking pile, he could fucking scrape by, probably.
His hands trembled, as he picked up the phone.
Tapped the “Dad.”
Typed out, slowly, each fucking letter: You free?
Almost didn’t send it.
So fucking scared.
But footie was his fucking life. And subs weren’t allowed to be fucking strikers. You’d be mad to keep a sub as a striker. You needed the aggression of a fucking sado-dom, in that position. Everyone fucking knew you kept caretakers as goalkeepers and defenders and masters in the midfield, and sados as strikers and forwards. Everyone fucking knew a sub couldn’t fucking do it.
And Jamie was barely clinging to it. Like Ted said. Got too fucking aggressive, fighting against his own mates, trying to fucking mimic the aggression that came naturally to a sado.
He couldn’t afford to be soft, or he’d get fucking benched. Or worse.
Hit send.
Blew out a breath.
Went inside, and had a meal, because Andrew would call tomorrow.
Drank a glass of water for the prick, too.
Showered, shaved, brushed his teeth. Threw on a shirt, tossed his phone on the nightstand.
Woke up when the phone buzzed, hours later.
See you Saturday.
Didn’t cry, because crying before you were even hurt were fucking soft.
~~~
He fucking hated Roy Kent.
The midfielder was always fucking pushing him. Always fucking calling him on every fucking mistake he made, trying to fucking fit in with Isaac and the other sados. Always drawing attention to the way Jamie took it too far, when he were just trying to fucking be convincing.
“And stop fucking with Nate,” Roy snapped at him.
Which was never gonna fucking happen. He needed Nate, because his shit with Nate was fucking convincing. No one had any fucking doubts that he was a fucking sado, because he were fucking cruel to the subby little man.
And Nate fucking loved it, anyway, the little bitch. Eager for any fucking attention, and he kept coming back, yeah? Might whine and lick his wounds, but he fucking came back.
Jamie knew the type. He had fucking mirrors, yeah?
But he showed throat- Roy was too intense, he fucking had to.
With Dad, on Saturday, it wouldn’t fucking matter if somewhere deep inside him, he wanted to follow Roy’s orders, wanted to be nicer to Nate.
He’d see Dad- and probably fucking Bug and Denbo, because it’d been awhile and Dad would want to give them that little treat, maintain his fucking upper hand with them, too- and he’d come back, and that part would be gone.
All the softness would be fucking locked down, again.
And he could fucking get on with being the Richmond AFC franchise man, the fucking aggressive striker they fucking needed.
So fuck Roy Kent, anyway. Jamie knew what he were fucking doing, had paid in blood and tears and sweat and every other bodily fucking fluid, too. He’d given his pound of flesh over and over, to get to Richmond AFC.
And besides, Nate fucking loved it.
He came back, didn’t he?
~~~
Jamie woke up groggy and swallowed, tasting the flavor of Denbo’s fucking piss and trying not to gag on it because his throat were raw enough, thanks.
His back fucking hurt, but dad had remembered his fucking kit and his knees and calves felt okay.
The floor of the garage were fucking cold, but at least they’d untied him. If he could push up, he could get to the fucking towels.
He felt a lot of fucking things in his head, but he didn’t feel fucking soft.
“Once again, he works fucking wonders,” he whispered, and weren’t surprised when tears fell with the harsh laughter that choked out.
Doms cried when they got hurt, too, and no one fucking thought it were soft.
~~~
“You’re here early,” said Jeff, shocked.
“Needed a run,” lied Jamie, tucking his thumbs in the long sleeves of his compression shirt. He didn’t fucking need it- Dad had done good, remembering the whole point were keeping it under the fucking kit, but he were so fucking cold, and it… helped. Were part of the fucking routine, weren’t it?
Jeff nodded, but then grinned, “Hey, what’s this?” he laughed, fingers coming for Jamie’s neck, tapping the scabs and bruises there. “She put up a fight, then, Jamie?”
“You know how I like ‘em,” lied Jamie, giving a grin so sharp it hurt to slide it across his face, shoving back the memory of Bug’s hands and fucking panic because he had no fucking air.
“You’re fucking mental, mate,” laughed Jeff. “You know you sados are supposed to hurt the subs, right?”
“I love the fucking brats, though,” Jamie told him earnestly. “The more they fight, the better it fucking is.”
“Mentalists, all you strikers,” commented Jeff, shaking his head. “They’d bite your fucking ear clean through, and you’d have a money shot.”
“Nah, that were just the once, and she were special,” Jamie said loftily. “I’ll never find another one that fucking good.”
“Mental,” sighed Jeff, pulling off his shirt.
Jamie’s ribs hurt, but he laughed anyway, and it came out sharp, like it were supposed to.
Which were good- ideal even- because Roy Kent was glaring at them, and Jamie had wondered how to explain away the scratches and bruises, when they weren’t fucking talking to each other. But now the story were out, he just had to be first in, and last out, until the mess on his back and arse could be explained away with other fucking stories.
Extra training made fucking sense, anyway. Ted were on his case about too much aggression, too little teamwork. The lads would see he were taking Ted seriously, trying to improve, and that’d be good.
~~~
“I said, stay the fuck away from Nate,” growled Roy in the club, later that week. He fucking headbutted Colin, and Colin went down, and what would have happened, if Jamie weren’t fucking compromised by alcohol, is that Jamie would have gone for him, they’d’ve had a fucking fight, he’d’ve taken some fucking punches and gotten in his own, and then he’d’ve cemented his fucking legend as the sado-striker who went up against midfield master Roy Kent and he’d’ve been mint the rest of his fucking career.
But he’d had more than one drink, and the fucking lines were blurred by it, and so he did fucking nothing, just stared. Just showed throat, although he kept enough of his fucking head that he didn’t kneel, thank Christ.
And that’s how he fucking lost Nate, to Roy fucking Kent, who decided he could fucking step up at the worst possible time, when Jamie just needed a fucking break, and easy cover, because he was starting to go soft with Andrew.
~~~
Which meant he had to give up Andrew.
Which fucking hurt to think about.
Because then he’d only have Dad.
~~~
“Jamie, help me understand,” said Andrew patiently. “Did I cross a boundary?”
“No, mate, you fucking- you’re mint,” Jamie said, fingers tracing the little stitch lines of the football in his lap. “You’re the best, really. Best I ever had. Don’t fucking deserve you.”
“Did you find someone?” asked Andrew hopefully. “Is this- Jamie, are you-”
“Sure, yes, yeah, I did,” lied Jamie.
“Jamie Tartt,” scolded Andrew.
Jamie flinched. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled, because he couldn’t help it.
A long sigh. “So you’re not trading me for free labor,” he said wryly. “And you’re not unhappy with my services.”
“I’m not,” croaked Jamie, because that were one thing he were fucking unwilling to lie about, when he knew he were a fucking headcase, and Andrew had navigated his needs so fucking well, every fucking time. Had even coached his staff, so they could manage Jamie in a fucking pinch. “You’re aces.”
“Do you need me to be meaner, Jamie?” asked Andrew. “Harsher? Would it help, would it make it safer, for you to come to me, if I were meaner?”
Jamie’s heart thudded in his ears. “I don’t want you to change,” he mumbled, honesty spilling out. He could feel the tears gathering in his eyes. “You’re fucking perfect, sir.”
A long silence.
“Can I give you a referral, then, Jamie, if you’re set on this?” said Andrew carefully. “Someone I trust, someone I can talk to, to help them navigate, like I do with the other club doms.”
“I, uh,” stammered Jamie. He hadn’t thought of that.
It didn’t feel soft, when he turned the thought around in his head, tried it on for size.
“Sure, yeah,” he said. “If you- yeah. That would be mint, sir.”
Andrew blew out a breath, like he’d been hoping that would be the answer. “Thank you, Jamie, you’re a good boy,” he said.
Jamie flinched, because that were fucking too much, and muttered, “Yellow.”
“Can’t even say that, one last time, Jamie?” asked Andrew wistfully.
“Eh, no, sir, it- I- I am sorry,” stammered Jamie, as his soft fucking heart clenched. “But no. I- it’s too much.”
“Too soft,” corrected Andrew sadly. “And Jamie Tartt can’t have soft, nice things.”
Jamie winced.
“I’ll talk to my friend, set you up,” said Andrew into the long silence that fell. “I’ll text, Jamie, include him directly, so I can see you’re handed off.”
“And he’s discreet,” Jamie said, fear spiking through him. “You promise?”
“He’s a friend, Jamie,” Andrew said. “And a professional. Just like me. Have I been discreet?”
“You’ve been fucking mint,” Jamie told him again, wishing there were some way to fucking force Andrew to understand how fucking good he’d been.
“He will be, too, Jamie,” Andrew promised.
Andrew never broke a fucking promise. Not once. Never.
A short pause, and then Andrew said, “And he knows Kara, if you still want to-”
“No,” said Jamie shortly. “No, I can’t have Kara, anymore.”
“Oh, Jamie,” said Andrew quietly, like he couldn’t help himself. “You can, sweetheart.”
“Red,” gasped Jamie, and hung up on the man before he could say anything worse.
~~~
Jamie, this is Michael -Andrew
Hello, Jamie, I’m looking forward to our first meeting. -Michael
Jamie stared at his phone.
He wanted Andrew. He wanted Andrew’s hands on his hair, tugging just a bit. He’d always known how to not make Jamie feel too soft, while stripping him down to his component parts, while cleaning up the fucking messes Jamie always made.
He wanted Andrew.
hi michael, me too -jt he texted back.
It fucking hurt, and that meant it were okay to cry, because doms got to cry when they were hurt, too.
~~~
Ted yelled at him in the changing room.
Ted, the caretaker coach, yelled at him, in the changing room.
Everyone were fucking watching.
He couldn’t fucking kneel.
He couldn’t fucking breathe.
He’d been so bad, he’d made Ted, the fucking caretaker coach, yell at him!
He’d do anything, anything, but the man hadn’t given him a fucking thing to do, an easy fucking task, something he could fucking do, to make him stop being mad!
Something he could actually do.
He didn’t need a doctor or the physios to tell him he couldn’t fucking play with the hard lump on his back. He knew when a bruise went bad like that, you had to fucking rest it. Or go to A&E and have it drained, or one of the little drop-shops, where they’d be mad about it and ask a bunch of questions, but would know what to do.
Jamie didn’t know what to do.
Not about this.
Ted yelled.
Ted yelled at him, he were so bad.
But he couldn’t play!
He’d gotten that infection once, playing with a hard bruise that had popped and it had fucking almost killed him.
He couldn’t play, which meant he couldn’t be good for Ted, and Ted were so fucking mad at him he were shouting, and Ted never shouted, caretakers never shouted, they didn’t!
Ted said put out the cones.
He could do that, but it wouldn’t help the shakes in his body, the tremors below the surface. He needed to fucking kneel. He needed more than fucking cones.
He needed Andrew, but he couldn’t have Andrew.
His head were so fucking full, and it were all fucking things, painful and sharp.
Everyone were watching.
Subs couldn’t be strikers.
He couldn’t play with a bruise like that.
Ted were fucking mad at him.
He couldn’t have Andrew.
He couldn’t take a fucking mess this bad to Michael, not for their first fucking scene.
So it’d have to be Dad, again.
Too fucking soon.
But it were that, or drop.
And he could feel the drop looming, and he dropped so fucking hard because he were so fucking soft- the subbiest sub, bottom of the pile. It lasted days, locked him in his head for days, made him needy and soft and hurt for days.
He’d made it all through academy with Dad, anyway, and he’d been so much younger, so much smaller.
He’d drive up, tonight.
Dad would know about the bruise, he’d listen. He wanted Jamie to send him cash, he’d do what he needed to, without fucking breaking him so he couldn’t fucking get paid.
He’d drive up, tonight, and Dad would fix the drop, and then- and then. And then it wouldn’t hurt so much, that he’d been so bad Ted had yelled at him.
Ted had yelled.
He’d done that.
He’d done that, by being bad.
~~~
“Fucking, one to grow on,” said Dad, and then it were done.
Jamie’d been bad.
And now he’d be good.
Just as soon as he could fucking move from the floor.
~~~
“You’re late,” said Roy fucking Kent, master of a thousand midfields. “And you look like shit. You’re moving stiff.”
“Go out to the p-pitch, grandad, I’ll take me fine, I had a little p-party last night, and I’ll fucking- take me laps, too,” sighed Jamie, feeling so fucking cold he had to grit his teeth. A jog would warm him up, like, too.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” demanded Kent. “You didn’t play yesterday, you went out drinking last night, you come in here looking like a fucking piece of shit scrapped off a pub toilet, what the fuck is going on?”
“I’m-” bad, Jamie didn’t say, trying to get his brain and body to fucking cooperate. “-working on s-something. In me head, like. I don’t- you don’t have to f-fucking understand it. Just- let me get on with it. I’ll p-practice today.”
He’d just be careful. His dad had fucking lanced the hard one last night, anyway.
Fuck, he were so fucking cold.
“He’s gonna fucking bench you, and I’m gonna let him,” sneered Kent.
Subs couldn’t be strikers.
Jamie were a striker.
Jamie weren’t on a fucking bench. Couldn’t be put on a bench.
Fuck, it were so fucking cold. He were so fucking cold.
“What’s that,” demanded Kent.
“What’s- f-fucking- what,” hissed Jamie.
“Why aren’t you pulling on your kit,” asked Kent, in a heavy, rough voice that pulled an answer from deep in Jamie’s chest.
“Don’t want to.” He couldn’t imagine peeling out of the fucking hoodie. It’d taken so long to fucking put it on.
The tshirt he’d been wearing wasn’t a fucking shirt anymore.
Shivers, up and down his spine, at the thought of taking off the hoodie.
“Don’t want to,” repeated Kent, and the way he said it, it were like he knew something. Recognized something.
Fuck, he’d had that sister, yeah?
It had made all the fucking news, when Jamie’d been young.
He’d heard what Kent had done to that dom, and he’d hung his poster up. Maybe it had worked. Maybe that’s what had made his bedroom fucking safe. Maybe Dad had fucking remembered what Kent had done, to the dom that fucked up his sister. Maybe that’s why, even if mum and Simon were out, and he’d snuck over, he’d never fucking touched Jamie, not in Jamie’s room. He’d fucking take money, slap him a little, and then fucking leave.
Kent had been awarded rehabilitation rights.
He thought he knew something.
Jamie fucking shivered, felt the tremors chatter his teeth, and clenched his jaw, closing his eyes.
“It’s not cold in here,” Kent said. “You’re covered in clothes. How many layers?”
“None of your fucking b-business, you weird cunt,” Jamie said, but it came out wrong. Not mean enough.
“You’re shivering,” Kent said. “In here, with the heat blasting so we can be comfortable with the morning change.”
“Heat’s gone off,” Jamie told him, through clenched teeth, willing his fucking body to fucking behave.
“It hasn’t,” said Kent, stepping closer.
Jamie couldn’t help the response, he stepped away. Tried to make it a move, bring his hands up, like he was getting ready to square up.
But it fucking hurt, moving fast like that, pulled on his shoulders, pulled on the slice in his back.
He made a noise, and it weren’t a noise for doms, that had built up in the back of his throat.
“Fucking hell,” swore Kent, all drawn out. “Jamie.”
“I’m not- d-don’t think that,” said Jamie. “It’s just a-”
“It’s just a what, lad,” said Kent, stepping closer.
Another noise, another fucking- of course it would be his fucking mouth that would end it all. His stupid fucking mouth, just like Denbo fucking said all the time.
His dad would fucking kill him.
“Lad, Jamie,” said Kent, in such a soft fucking tone, and where- why did he get to be so fucking soft, when Jamie had to- had to- had to- “Hey, hey, hey,” crooned Kent. “Not hurting you, not gonna-”
“I don’t need that,” Jamie said, as hard as he fucking could. “You don’t- I d-don’t need-”
“I know,” said Kent, quiet and calm. “I know you don’t, Jamie. Shhh. You know I won’t hurt you, yeah? So we don’t- we don’t have to fucking say it, yeah?”
Kent had fucking brutalized the dom.
That’s why Jamie had put his poster up.
So Dad would know, Jamie’s room weren’t a place for any of that.
Jamie only took the abuse- and he fucking knew what it were, right? He weren’t a fucking idiot. He’d been to the same safety courses as all kids! He knew it were fucking abuse, yeah?
But it got rid of all the soft.
He couldn’t be soft, and be a striker. Subs weren’t strikers.
Subs had too much soft in them.
And it never happened in his room, because Roy Kent had fucking beat up the abusive dom who’d done for his sister, and Jamie had hung the poster up, above his bed.
“Shh, Jamie,” said Kent.
He should open his eyes. He should glare at the fucking prick.
“Red,” said Jamie.
“I know,” said Kent. “I know it hurts, I know you’re scared.”
He were supposed to stop.
The gentle were supposed to stop, when Jamie said red, but he’d fucking forgotten to negotiate with Kent, forgot to tell him his boundaries, and that were bad, you were always supposed to negotiate, he even fucking negotiated with Dad and Denbo and Bug, that first time, and-
Jamie’s body backed into a wall, and the pain flared, and he couldn’t help crying out, then, eyes shocked open by the sheer fucking pain.
Roy Kent were right there, hands palms-out by his side, radiating calm. Radiating control.
His eyes were narrowed, but not angry.
“Your back,” Kent said. “It’s your back.”
“Nothing,” said Jamie, his tongue feeling thick, as he looked up at Roy Kent, and Roy Kent’s calm.
He were so fucking cold, he shivered, and the shivering shook him against the wall, and it fucking hurt, and the noise slipped out again. He couldn’t fucking help it.
Roy Kent stepped in, hands slowly lifting up, and said, “Jamie.”
“Red,” said Jamie, his tongue so fucking thick, the word coming out all wrong.
They had to listen, when you said red.
But he’d been bad, and had forgotten to tell Roy that.
“I’m going to touch you,” Roy said. “Because you’re dropping, Jamie. I’m sorry you’re fucking dropping, I don’t- I don’t know what happened, but you’re dropping, lad. And you need touch, Jamie.”
“Red,” repeated Jamie, shoving back against the wall. Fuck, it fucking hurt.
“I know,” said Roy softly, so fucking softly, so fucking fucking softly, and it weren’t fair, that he got to be so fucking soft. “I know, Jamie. It’s scary, but you have to trust me, okay? I know it hurts.”
And then his hand touched Jamie’s cheek, too soft too gentle too soft, and that were all.
Jamie’s knees hit the floor with a jolt that jarred his back, and he whined, long and low, rubbing his cheek against Roy’s fucking hand.
Soft, and stupid, and the subbiest sub at the bottom of the pile.
“There we go,” said Roy, and then there were a hand in his hair, stroking gently, and not even tugging, and he were always supposed to have hair pulling, he’d made that very clear, but the hand didn’t. “There we go, Jamie.”
He couldn’t fucking breathe.
“Shhh,” said Roy. The hands soothed his hair back, tipped his chin up, and he wouldn’t fucking look, his body shivering and shaking, and he were on his knees.
“Hey, Roy, Coach says- oh shit,” gasped Tommy, somewhere in the room.
“Good,” said Roy quietly, calmly, totally in control of himself, and Jamie clung to that control, as shivers wracked his body and the pain came in waves, then, in response to all the little pulls and twists across his injuries. “Tommy, come here.”
“Roy, Roy, he’s-”
“Shh,” soothed Roy. “Shh, Tommy. I have a very important job for you.”
“Yeah- yeah, yes, yes, Roy, of course,” said Tommy, and all the fear was going out of his voice and that were better, it loosened the thing in Jamie’s chest that were panicking, that the other sub were calming down.
“You’re going to go out there, and tell Ted that I need to see him, immediately. He cannot bring anyone else- do you hear me, Tommy?”
“You need Coach, no one else can come,” repeated Tommy.
“You’ll come back with him, bring him here. Pull the shade on the door, Tommy, and lock it behind you. Ted has a key. Look at me.”
Jamie’s eyes opened and he looked up, but Roy was looking at Tommy. “If anyone else tries to come, you hit your knees, okay? It’s that important, Tommy. You hit your knees and you tell Ted no, only Ted. Is that clear?”
“Close the blind, lock the door. You need Coach, no one else can come. Kneel, if anyone tries,” recited Tommy.
“Good boy,” said Roy forcefully.
Jamie whined, closing his eyes against it, rubbing his cheek in Roy’s hand. He weren’t, though. He weren’t a good boy.
“Go,” said Roy, and if Jamie had known where he was supposed to go, he would have gone.
“Shhh,” said Roy. “You stay, Jamie. You kneel for me, yeah?”
Jamie weren’t supposed to kneel. Not here. Not at the club. No matter what happened, he weren’t supposed to kneel.
“Shh,” said Roy. “I know. I know it hurts.”
Jamie couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t stop shivering.
“Good boy, Jamie Tartt,” murmured Roy Kent in a soft voice.
Jamie bit his cheek so hard he tasted blood.
“No,” said Roy, in a firm voice. “Spit that out.”
So Jamie did, spit and blood dribbling down his chin.
“Mouth open,” Roy said. “Just a little. No more biting, Jamie.”
“Red,” said Jamie dully.
“Oh, Jamie, I know,” said Roy, hands running through Jamie’s hair and not hurting at all, not tugging at all, and that were red, too. He were supposed to always have tugs, little pain. Soft things made him too soft.
“We’ll get that cleaned up, too,” sighed Roy. “We’ll- we’ll fucking fix it all up, Jamie. Trust me, yeah?”
“Trust,” agreed Jamie. He rubbed his cheek against Roy’s palm, which were just a bit rough with calluses. Just enough, so it weren’t too fucking soft.
He kept his lips parted, because Roy had said mouth open.
And when they said mouth open, you had to open your mouth, even when you didn’t want whatever were coming next.
“Shhh,” soothed Roy, too fucking soft, so soft it fucking hurt. “Just kneel, Jamie. Just kneel.”
He weren’t supposed to, but Roy were telling him to.
It were all wrong, all red, all bad, because he’d been bad.
Keys in the door.
Jamie knew that sound.
The garage door made the same sound, at Dad’s house.
“Roy, what’s the big- oh. Oh, shit,” said Ted. “Oooooh, shit. Tommy, yeah, get in here.”
Door slammed shut, and Jamie flinched.
“Shhhh, fucking hell, Ted,” said Roy. “No, I mean yes, Jamie, just as you are. Just as you are, lad, doing good.”
He weren’t though.
Everything were wrong.
“Red,” he tried, feeling it in his chest.
“They say that,” Roy said urgently. “Don’t- you can’t listen to it, when it’s like this. When they’re like this.”
“Should- Tommy shouldn’t be here, for this,” Ted said.
“Go put him in your office, kneeling pillow, have him- read a book for you,” Roy said. “And then get back here. What did you say to Beard?”
“I said keep the boys on the pitch, give me time. Figured it was something with- with him.”
“Good,” said Roy. “That’ll give us the time we need.”
“To do what?” asked Ted.
“To find out what’s wrong with Jamie,” said Roy calmly. “Good Jamie, shhh, I know it hurts, lad. Just kneel, okay?”
Fingers, wiping away the wetness from his cheeks.
“Bring back tissues,” Roy said.
“On it,” said Ted.
“I know it hurts,” said Roy. “You’re taking it so well. Such a good boy for me, Jamie.”
“Red,” Jamie tried to tell him, but it was hard to do, and keep his mouth open at the same time.
“I know, you said red,” Roy told him, warm and calm, so fucking calm. “I know it’s hard, Jamie. I know I’m not what you want right now. Just kneel, okay? Stay good.”
Couldn’t stay good, if you started bad.
And Jamie had been bad.
“Okay, he’s- he’s being good. Occupied,” said Ted, his footsteps loud. “What- what’s going on?”
“Besides the obvious?” demanded Roy, and Jamie leaned into his palm, then, the anger thrilling into him. Anger, he knew what to do with.
“Ain’t nothing obvious about what’s in front of me, Roy,” said Ted.
“He’s dropping, or- he’s dropped,” said Roy. “I tried to help, but I couldn’t- they don’t let you in, fast enough, sometimes.”
“Who doesn’t?” said Ted.
He sounded lost, confused.
Jamie were lost.
Jamie didn’t ever know his way.
Roy’s thumb stroked the cheek he’d bitten, gentle gentle gentle. “Red,” he said, and then cringed, because he’d closed his mouth.
“Shh,” said Roy. “When there’s been abuse, they don’t- they don’t always respond well to drop.”
“Abuse,” repeated Ted.
Jamie knew it had been.
Jamie’d always known.
But he kept going back, didn’t he?
And that meant he wanted it, just like they said.
Just like they said.
Bad.
“I didn’t- he’s a sub,” whispered Ted.
“Yeah, and you fucking tore into him yesterday,” said Roy. “And then someone else did, last night. Wonder why, Ted.”
Jamie pressed into the anger, could feel it there, in the palm. He pressed into it, because he knew what to do with anger.
It were soft, that Jamie never knew what to do with.
Soft, that he needed Dad for.
“I didn’t know,” said Ted, sounding lost.
Jamie were lost, too.
“Help me get his clothes off, we have to assess,” said Roy.
“He’s shivering,” Ted commented.
“Yeah, it’s- it’s common. Trauma response, they’re- it’s systemic, when it goes on and on. How long has he worn the long compression shirts, Ted?”
“Whole time I’ve been here,” said Ted. “All the tapes, too.”
“Years,” said Roy, and he sounded so fucking sad. “Never thought about it- never connected it, why would I? He fucking wore them in his academy tapes.”
“Roy, what are we looking at here?” asked Ted.
Jamie.
They were looking at Jamie.
Bad Jamie, to make them have to look.
“Shhh, I know it hurts, lad,” said Roy, rough thumb smoothing his cheek. “Hand me the tissue, let me try to get the blood off of him.”
Soft tissue, firm pressure.
Firm were fine.
Soft were not.
But it were gone, fast.
“Jamie, we’re going to touch, now, more, now, and it’s very, very important that you not make a noise, yeah? And no more biting, Jamie. All done.”
Jamie’s heart raced. “Red,” he said, shaking, trembling all over. “Red!”
“I know, I know,” said Roy, so calmly, so much in control. “I know, it’s the worst. I’m doing the meanest thing ever, I know I am. I know it’s scary. But I’ll be right here, yeah? You’re not alone.”
He were so cold.
Except where the hand touched his cheek.
“We do it fast, and don’t fucking- say anything- about what you fucking see,” Roy hissed. “They take it all- wrong. So don’t- control yourself, and don’t- say anything.”
“Got it,” said Ted, sounding sure.
Wrong, wrong wrong wrong.
“Red,” tried Jamie, quiet, because Roy had said no noise, as Ted came closer.
“Shh, I know,” said Roy, and then he were dropping down, they were both dropping down, and that were bad, that were so bad, because only Jamie was supposed to kneel, yeah? It meant bad things, when they got down beside you like that, when they-
Fingers, on the hem of his hoodie.
“Red,” gasped Jamie quiet, because Roy had said no noise, and the hand were already gone, he couldn’t press against the palm for comfort, couldn’t.
“Fucking do it,” said Roy, and then they pulled.
Jamie didn’t scream, because Roy had said no noise.
“Fuck,” said Roy, and the sweatshirt dropped to the floor.
“I think- I think I’m gonna-” said Ted.
“No, you won’t,” said Roy, sharp, all sharp, all the soft gone, and that were good.
Jamie knew what to do with anger like that.
He leaned forward.
“Good boy,” said Roy, which were wrong, wrong, wrong, but the hands were back, on Jamie’s chin, and cheek. The rough hands, not soft, not soft, not soft.
He knew what hands like that could do.
“There’s old, and new, and- I think that’s a stab,” said Ted, and he were sad, he were so sad, he were sad and mad and sad and mad and-
“Shhh,” said Roy. “You’re being so good. Just kneel. Ted! No talking!”
“Right,” whispered Ted. “Sorry.”
“Sorry,” agreed Jamie thickly. That were the word.
If red didn’t work, that were the other word.
“Sorry,” he tried again. “‘m sorry. I’m sorry, sorry! I’m sorry!”
“Shhh, Jamie, I know you are,” said Roy, so calm, so calm so calm, so calm. “I know you are, but please be quiet.”
Quiet.
No noise.
“Well,” said Roy. “That’s worse than I thought.”
Worse, bad, worse.
Bad lad, Jamie, bad.
“The scars,” whispered Ted. “How’d we never-?”
“He always wears the fucking compression shirts,” muttered Roy. “Never fucking connected it. And the tattoos, to cover the ones on his arms.”
“How are you so calm,” demanded Ted.
“Because he needs me to be,” Roy said.
Yes, thought Jamie. Yes.
Need.
Roy.
“Right,” said Roy. “So, we’re not going to fuck his career, yeah? You with me on that?”
Jamie were lost.
He were quiet, and he were lost, while they talked, because he didn’t know what to do.
He never knew what to do.
But the hands were there- both hands, now, on both sides, and his mouth were closed but Roy had said no biting, so that were okay. Roy would say, if he wanted it open again.
The hands were there, and he were on his knees, and Roy were there, and his shirt were off, and he were still so cold, everywhere the hands weren’t.
So cold.
“-amie, Jamie, lad,” Roy were saying.
“Sorry,” said Jamie promptly. When red didn’t work, sometimes that word did.
“Shhh,” said Roy. “I know you are. Good lad. Good boy. Can you tell me, who you went to visit last night, Jamie?”
“Dad,” said Jamie, and then the panic hit.
“Shh,” said Roy. “I know, I know, I know, shhh, Jamie, shhh.”
“His father?” demanded Ted.
“Shut the fuck up,” snarled Roy.
Jamie leaned in, through the panic, because anger, he knew what to do with. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he mumbled, the words getting stuck and tangled. He pressed into the hands, the anger- the hands, leaning and leaning and leaning.
“Shh,” said Roy, and then there was a body, and the hands went away, slid down under Jamie’s arms, touched the back of his head, and pulled him forward.
So warm.
So very warm.
He bent his head, toward the neck, toward the throat. Like with mummy, who were always warm, always snuggly and warm and soft but it were okay, because you could snuggle your mummy, even doms snuggled their mummy, Simon snuggled mummy, it were all okay, with mummy.
“Good lad,” breathed Roy. “Just breathe, with me, okay?”
Breathe with Roy.
Everything hurt, and he did it wrong, he did it bad, but then he gasped, and drew his first breath in time with Roy’s, and then it were easier. Then it were easier, and then it were easy. It were easy.
He could breathe, and his chest weren’t tight, and Roy didn’t push him away.
And he were warm.
“Good lad,” whispered Roy, against his head. “So good for me.”
He weren’t.
He were bad.
But you didn’t argue with them, no matter what they said.
“So, we agree,” said Roy. “The doctor, and you, and me. Tommy, we can’t do anything about it, he knows. But he knows what it means. No more, not a word…until Jamie is up, and can make decisions.”
“Yeah,” sighed Ted.
Ted.
Ted were there.
A hand in his hair.
Not Roy’s.
“I’m sorry,” said Ted.
“Sorry,” mumbled Jamie, into Roy’s neck, nuzzling in, because mummy said it were okay, it would be okay. It were okay to be soft, with mummy.
And… Roy.
“Shhh,” said Roy. “Just- rest a minute, Jamie. Just- kneel. No more apologies.”
“I’ll go get the doc,” said Ted. “Be right back. Go- help Tommy. Come back, help you and the doc. Tell Beard- hell. We’ll cover him, take him to medical, then the boys can come back here. Tell everyone he’s sick, yeah?”
“I think that’s the standard lie,” said Roy, amused. “Drop, rehab, overdose.”
“Yeah,” said Ted.
Another hand, in Jamie’s hair. “I don’t- want to leave.”
“Yeah, they make you feel that way,” Roy said. “But we need to, Ted. So go, get the doctor, help Tommy. Tell Beard to keep the boys away until Tommy comes out and says it’s okay. Grab a sheet from medical.”
“Grab disinfectant, for the blood,” added Ted. “I’ll- I’ll take his shirts. Shove ‘em in my car.”
“Smart,” grunted Roy.
“How’s your knee?”
“Fucking- don’t fucking worry about me,” said Roy. “But if you could be quick about it, that’d be fucking great.”
And then the hands left his hair, and he breathed with Roy, in and out, and in and out.
Things happened around them, but Jamie didn’t have to care, because he were warm, and Roy were a safe place, like mummy, to be soft.