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Roy watches the blood trickle slowly from Jamie's nose down to his lip.
Back when Roy and Keeley were dating, he showed up at her house one day and found her changing a lightbulb. He made some comment about it, joking that he'd seen through her usual excuse about not wanting to fuck up her nails when she asked him to do that sort of thing for her, and she held up her hands to show him the messy remains of her bubble-gum-pink manicure. She'd fucked up a nail on the cheese grater that morning, she said, and hadn't been able to get an appointment to fix it until the next morning, so she'd decided to spend the rest of her day doing all the shit around the house she usually avoided to keep her nails nice. Keeley is always fucking hot, but that moment was the most attracted to her Roy has ever been.
He reaches out to touch the blood on Jamie's lip.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Jamie demands, bracing like he's expecting another hit.
Roy's thinking about Jamie out on the pitch in the rain, falling in mud and getting it all over his face, bouncing right back up and getting back into the game. He always whines about it in the dressing room later, drags his caddy of eighteen haircare products into the showers and fusses for ages, but in that moment he couldn't give less of a shit. In that moment, all that matters is the ball.
"You're so fucking pretty," Roy says, not in the nice way. There are two ways to say that, and he knows Jamie is intimately familiar with the difference.
"Fuck off," Jamie snaps.
Roy strokes Jamie's cheek with his fingertips, leaving a streak of blood. "You're so fucking pretty," he says, the other way this time.
Jamie goes still. He's not even breathing. His eyes dart to Roy's lips and back to his eyes, twice.
"I want to fuck it up," Roy says, and he bites Jamie's lip.
It's not a kiss. Jamie tries to make it one, but Roy doesn't let him, just sinks his teeth in and pulls and then lets go. Jamie moans like someone's just found his prostate for the first time, eyes half-lidded, his whole body straining toward Roy.
Roy didn't quite draw blood with the bite, but there's an indentation from his teeth in the soft skin just under Jamie's bottom lip. Roy wants to leave those marks all over that pretty fucking body, to destroy all that tight smooth perfection.
"Please," Jamie whispers.
"Please what?"
Jamie shakes his head. "Please, anything. Anything you want. Please, Roy."
Well, there's a blank cheque he's about to fucking regret.
*
They go to Jamie's house, because he's got a gated property and Roy wants to smash his face in the dirt.
Jamie thinks they're going inside, and startles when Roy pushes him to the ground, but he doesn't fight back. Doesn't resist when Roy uses a foot to roll him over onto his front, then sets it on the back of his head.
"You need to tap out?" Roy asks. He may be a twisted bastard, but he's not going to do this shit without consent.
Jamie shakes his head, barely able to move with it clamped between the sole of Roy's shoe and the grass.
Roy scrapes his shoe down Jamie's neck and presses it between his shoulderblades, leaving a dusty mark, then nudges Jamie to roll over again. He goes immediately, landing on his back and staring up at Roy with something between hatred and hunger.
Roy straddles him, a position his knee won't tolerate more than a minute, but he doesn't need more than a minute. "I'll stop if you tell me to stop," he says, and slaps Jamie in the face.
"So you get off on beating me up, do you?" Jamie's nose is starting to bleed again. He licks it off his lip. "Is that why you've been bullying me all this time? Getting your rocks off?"
He tilts his cheek up, daring Roy to slap it again, and gets what he's asked for. Roy keeps to the same cheek, wanting to see the difference between the two as it pinks up. It's fucking sublime, it's fucking art, like a torn-up rose, like that painting that shredded itself right after being sold, like Roy's fucking knee. Nothing's perfect until it's not anymore.
Roy grabs Jamie by the hair and pulls his head to the side, looking at the cheek he hasn't been smacking. "So fucking pretty," he says, somehow both the nice way and the other way at the same time.
Jamie is limp, pliant, submissive everywhere but the fire in his eyes. He waits for Roy to turn his head back so he can make direct eye contact, and says, "Know what else is pretty?"
*
Roy trails his fingers across Jamie's collection of belts, feeling the textures. Most of them are ridiculous, bright colours and patterns and whatnot, but there are a few plain black ones. He unhooks one of those and bends it in half, running it doubled-up through his fingers. That'll do.
Jamie is spread out facedown on the bed, trousers and pants pulled down just enough, shirt still on. It's tempting to undress him entirely, but Roy doesn't want to lose focus. There's plenty of time for the rest.
"I want pictures," Jamie says, a little muffled by his pillow.
Roy snorts. "Why, so you can bring them as evidence against me in court?"
"No." Jamie turns his head, showing the cheek Roy was hitting. The pink is already starting to fade. "So I can wank to them."
Roy's dick swells. "Turn over."
Jamie turns over. He's fully erect, trousers down just enough to expose him. Roy ignores it for the moment, getting out his phone. He slaps Jamie's cheek a few more times, freshening up the colour, and takes a photo of his face all bloody and dirty and pink.
"Look at that," he says, showing it to Jamie. "Look at you all messed up. Fucking slut."
Jamie moans, his mouth still slack from the impact. "Send it to me."
"Try that the fuck again," Roy says.
"Please." Jamie is breathing like he's just finished three hours of training. "Please, Roy, please."
Roy sends the picture and then grabs Jamie by the pocket of his trousers to yank him back onto his front. He adjusts Jamie's clothes to frame that perfect arse and snaps another picture—a before picture—then tucks his phone back into his pocket. "Ask for it," he says.
"Please, Roy," Jamie pleads. "Fucking ruin me. Please."
Roy raises the belt.
*
Roy stops short in the middle of railing Jamie into next Tuesday to ask, "Are you wearing fucking mascara?"
Jamie blinks up at him through the brown-tinged tears streaking down his temples. "Yeah, why?"
Roy drags his thumb roughly across the delicate skin under Jamie's eye, smearing the makeup. "Do you always have this shit on?" He must not wear it for games—between the sweat and the rain, it would have been obvious.
Jamie's eyes fall closed as he lolls his head to the side. "No. Thought we were going on a date."
"You did?"
"Well, I were fucking right in the end," Jamie mumbles, sounding defensive. He squirms, trying to get Roy to move.
Roy snorts. "Sure, we can call it that." He touches a closed eyelid, smearing more of the mascara, transfixed by the mess he's making of Jamie.
"Royyy," Jamie whines.
"So fucking pretty," Roy says for the fourth time. Jamie draws in a sharp breath, and Roy starts thrusting again, still rubbing makeup into Jamie's tear-soaked skin. "Especially when you cry. Something's fucked in my head, I love it too much when you cry."
"Pull my hair hard enough and I'll cry for you some more," Jamie says, and that's so fucking hot Roy doesn't even make him beg.
He fucks Jamie to the edge and back four times, then he pulls out and rolls onto his side, dragging Jamie down the bed by the hair. He goes easily, eagerly, trying to get Roy's cock in his mouth, but Roy has a different plan. He holds Jamie in place with his face angled up and jerks off until he spills all over that beautifully wrecked perfection, his come mixing with the tears and sweat and mascara and dirt and blood.
"Am I allowed to come?" Jamie asks, like he would just accept it if Roy said no. Which is fucking tempting, but not as tempting as...
"Turn over," Roy says, and he starts spanking the welts.
Jamie lets out a wordless cry that's almost a scream. Roy hesitates for a second, wondering if he's gone too far, but Jamie lifts his hips in a silent plea for more, and Roy doesn't hesitate again. He thrashes Jamie until he's crying again, remnants of mascara streaking the pillow under his face, taking everything Roy gives him.
"Can you come like this?" Roy asks, punctuating the question with another slap.
"In like eight seconds, if you let me touch myself," Jamie says, muffled by the pillow.
"Go on then," Roy says, and spanks Jamie mercilessly through his orgasm.
*
"You're a proper fucking degenerate, aren't you," Jamie observes, sounding impressed.
Roy snaps another after shot of Jamie's arse and then puts his phone away, reaching for a water bottle. "Not normally, not like that. Something about you brings it out in me, I guess. Drink some fucking water."
Jamie beams as he obeys. "Really? You're only kinky for me?"
"Fucking Christ," Roy mumbles. Should have known better than to give the little fucker the idea that he's special. "No, I'm not only kinky for you, you fucking narcissist. Did that really feel like the first time I've ever whipped someone with a belt?"
"It did not," Jamie concedes. "Won't be the last time, neither, now I know how to get you in a mood."
Roy shoots him a sidelong glance. "If I do it during the season, they'll see in the dressing room."
"Only in the dressing room?" Jamie shakes his head. "Can't be having that. You'll just have to whip further down my thighs next time, so it shows below the shorts."
Roy's only got himself to blame, really. "Fucking lunatic. Come on, let's wash all this off."
Jamie licks blood off his top lip. "You want to shower with me?"
"Of course," Roy says. "I made the fucking mess, I'm going to fucking clean it up."
The brilliance of Jamie's smile makes him think there might be some kind of fucking metaphor in there, but whatever, that's Sharon's problem. There's no need to think about it tonight.