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thetarttfuldickhead · 9 months

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Roy wakes, fully hard and – two seconds later, when the details of the dream return to him – fully panicked.

Fuck.

---

It’s not like he’s never had sex dreams before. Come on. But none of them had featured men (except that weird one about Lee Pace in a banana costume and that hadn’t left him so much turned on as thoroughly confused) and abso-fucking-lutely not a single one of them had starred Jamie Tartt.

Jamie Tartt, who is now standing right in front of him in the dressing room, saying something about football something something, right Coach, something free kicks, and all Roy can think about is how he now has a very vivid idea of what those lips would look like when wrapped around his cock.

Jamie pushes a strand of hair of out of his eyes. They look grey now; in Roy’s dream they were green-tinting-towards-brown and heavy-lidded with lust as Roy had pushed him back on the bed—

Roy can’t stand it. Except one very specific part of him apparently can and no, no, fuck no, he’s not doing this. Without a word he turns on his heel and walks away, ignoring Jamie’s surprised objection.

Fuck.

---

Training is a nightmare.

The only way Roy can get through it at all is by not sparing Jamie a single glance. (Jamie running, dribbling, shooting; Jamie turning and twisting, as graceful as water; Jamie with hair damp with sweat and calling out to the others with that eager voice that had called out Roy’s name last night.) It’s really fucking difficult, though, because he’s used to always keeping at least half an eye on Jamie these days, no matter what else is going on. Besides, the prick’s everywhere, rushing around the pitch like the fucking Duracell Bunny on speed. Roy clearly made a huge mistake ever pushing him towards the heights of endurance because the little shit just. won’t. stop.

Roy’s attempts at avoidance don’t go unnoticed, either. He can feel the eyes of Beard and Nate on him; can see the way the other players look from him to Jamie and mutter among themselves.

He makes them run suicides until they collapse just to shut them up and when Jamie is the only one still on his feet Roy tells Beard that oh fuck, he has a really important meeting he needs to go to right now, he fucking forgot about it and now he’s running late, could Beard and Nate finish this up please, and of course Roy doesn’t flee from the pitch because Roy Kent doesn’t fucking flee from anything. He walks off rather hurriedly, sure, but that’s just to properly sell the lie of the meeting he’s in a rush to.

“Yeah, something is definitively up with him and Jamie,” he hears Beard mutter to Nate as he walks off.

Fuck.

---

He withdraws to the supply cupboard where he’s not likely to be disturbed, or found. He’s not hiding, obviously; he just needs a few moments to himself, to gather his wits. He’d drive home, except he actually does have a meeting with Rebecca in a couple of hours, and she is the one person he daren’t piss off. Not because she’s terrifying – although she can be, a fact that Roy respects immensely – but because she’ll know that something is off if he doesn’t show and unlike everyone else she has both the guts and the capacity to force it out of him.

In a farcical turn of events, which he entirely blames on Dr. Sharon (and maybe also on Keeley and Jamie a little, for their absurd and sometimes infectious tendency towards emotional honesty), Roy thinks that maybe he wouldn’t mind talking to someone about this. Maybe it would… help? Give him some perspective on things?

Problems is, there’s no one he can talk to, is there? Jamie is right out, for obvious reasons, and while this would probably be right up the Diamond Dogs’ alley, there’s no fucking way Roy is telling his fellow coaches and the club’s director of football operations about having a wet dream about the team’s star player. Apart from the utter mortification of it, it’s hardly fair on Jamie, having almost all his bosses discuss him like that. Even if it’s not the real Jamie they’d be discussing, really, just the very bendable and delightfully masochistic Jamie that’s taken shameless residence in Roy’s battered mind.

He can’t talk to Rebecca, for the same reason, even though he’s pretty sure she’d be able to say something clever enough and cutting enough that he’d snap right out of whatever the hell this is. Maybe she’d declare him clinically insane and unfit for duty and have him carted off to an asylum or some shit, and as much as that would suck it’d be a bit of a relief, honestly. At least he wouldn’t near twist his neck off his shoulders trying to avoid looking at Jamie.

Jamie would probably come and visit him, the fucking arsehole.

And Roy can’t talk to Keeley, either, because even though she’s probably the best person to bring this to and the person he’d most like to talk to, she’s been clear about having no interest in sorting Roy and Jamie’s shit out for them. Besides, he doesn’t want to somehow give her the idea that he’s over her. He’s not. He had a pretty wild dream about her just the other week, and—

For a brief moment, he’s assailed by the image of Keeley and Jamie tangled on Roy’s mattress, looking up at him with twin smiles and—

In spite of the cupboard being rather chilly, Roy starts to sweat. Desperately, he crosses his legs and forces his mind back to the time when he took a chug of orange juice only for it to be egg yolk and he nearly threw up.

It doesn’t really help. He’s still turned on, only now he’s feeling sick too.

He could talk to Dr. Sharon, he guesses, but Dr. Sharon is travelling southern France for the rest of the week.

Roy won’t last that long.

Fuck.

---

The door to the cupboard is pulled open with enough force to almost startle Roy off of the bucket he’s sat on.

“All right, what the fuck’s going on, man?” Jamie demands, without even having the decency to look surprised at finding Roy hiding hanging out among the mops and micro fibre cloths. “Did you hit your head and forget the last two years or something?”

“Of course not,” Roy mutters, determinedly not looking up from the computer precariously balanced on his lap.

“Then why the fuck are you ignoring me? The lads all think I did something really bad!” There’s a plaintive note in Jamie’s voice, reminding Roy of the noises dream-Jamie had made when Roy—

Roy closes his eyes. He can’t go on like this. He’s pretty sure that if he could just get a day or two – three or four tops, absolutely no more than five – away from Jamie, away from these constant reminders, the details of the dream would fade away, and his desire with it – but they have a game the day after tomorrow, so that’s not going to happen, and he can’t keep avoiding Jamie until then. It’d be bad for the team – not to mention that he can’t really stomach the hurt he hears in Jamie’s voice.

Nothing for it, then. Fuck it all to hell.

“I had a sex dream,” he grits out, carefully looking to the doorframe right next to Jamie’s face, so that he can catch Jamie’s reactions without having to look him in the eye.

Jamie doesn’t react much, just cocks his head to the side. “You had a sex dream about me?”

“Did I say it was about you, you muppet?!” Conceited prick.

“Uh, no, but it was? You wouldn’t be all weird about it if wasn’t.” Trust Jamie to always choose the worst moments to be insightful and reasonable. He’s doing it just to be contrary, Roy’s sure of it.

Jamie’s watching him expectantly, as if believing Roy will elaborate or explain further. Roy doesn’t say a word. Roy is busy stonily inspecting a small speck of dirt on the wall next to Jamie’s face.

Eventually, Jamie lets out a long sigh and rolls his eyes. “Fine. What’s the big deal then?”

Now Roy’s eyes snap to Jamie’s face, because what the hell? “What do you mean, what’s the big deal? You don’t think it’s a little weird and really fucking uncomfortable that I, Roy Kent, had a sex dream about you, Jamie Tartt? I’m your fucking coach! We’re friends!”

Jamie makes a face, like Roy’s being the insane one. “Roy, mate, you’ve seen the wall in my old bedroom. Bunch of half-naked girls and you, right? You never did the math on that?”

Roy has, in fact, never done the math on that. Hasn’t realize there as math to do. “You were impressed by my prowess as a football player,” he tries feebly.

Jamie rolls his eyes. “Um, yeah. Which is hot.”

“… oh.”

Roy doesn’t know what else to say to that. Doesn’t know how to feel about that. Hasn’t the faintest idea about how to even begin to process it.

Jamie is watching him with a small frown. He looks concerned, pitying almost, which makes Roy want to go throw himself in the Thames more than anything else in this discussion has.

“So,” Jamie says eventually, speaking slowly, like he’s trying very hard to find the right words, “all these years and you never once figured that this whole thing we’ve got going, all this fucking tension, that it was… you know… just a little bit sexual?”

“No.”

“What, never?”

“No.”

“That’s fucking mental, man.” Jamie looks like he doesn’t know whether to be incredulous or impressed. Then his eyes widen. “Ooh, is this because men getting with other men was illegal when you were a kid back in the dark ages? They burned people alive and shit, so you’re, like, repressed and stuff?”

Roy is about to bite his head off for pulling out fucking stupid ha ha you’re so old jokes now, except there’s something in Jamie’s eyes giving him the distinct impression that maybe Jamie is deliberatedly being a prick, doing it for Roy’s sake, trying to offer him a sense of normalcy or something, and that’s actually quite sweet, isn’t it? Only that thought has Roy’s heart doing something weird and stupid, so actually no, back to Jamie just being a prick.

“We’re in love with Keeley,” he says, and he means for it to be gruff, but it comes out pleading more than anything else.

“Yeah, I know.” Jamie sounds exasperated. “None of this means we ain’t. Fucking hell, mate, tension’s just tension, yeah, no need to fucking act on it if you don’t want to. And dreams are just dreams. I’m mad fit, you see me running around doing impressive shit all day, course you’re gonna dream about me, be weirder if you didn’t. Bet half the team do the same, anyway. It doesn’t have to mean anything.” Jamie crosses his arms, and looks as serious and decisive as Jamie ever does. “Listen, Coach, we’re playing West Ham this Saturday, and you need to stop being weird about this and start coaching me and not freak everyone out.”

Roy doesn’t ask him what Jamie think he’s been trying to do all day. Not his fault Jamie’s been right there, all pretty eyes and strong thighs and distracting lips and shit. But he doesn’t say that; instead, he sighs, because Jamie, infuriatingly, has a point. “Yeah. Okay. But… just give me a fucking minute. Go get changed and I’ll be there in fifteen, all professional and shit.”

“Great. See you then, Coach.”

Jamie turns and as he walks away Roy can’t help his gaze sliding down to Jamie’s arse, noticing the way the blue shorts cling to the round buttocks, leaving little enough to the imagination, only Roy is imagining what they’d look like sans shorts and red from Roy’s fingers and palm, wondering if the reality would match the dream.

Fuck.

---

Dreams are just dreams. Roy tells Dr. Sharon as much during their next appointment, because even though talking to Jamie helped him pull himself together just enough to muddle through the rest of the week with his sanity mostly intact, he’s still feeling rather rattled by the whole mess. Untethered.

Jamie’s been brilliant, carrying on as if nothing’s changed between them. Somehow, that hasn’t helped as much as Roy would’ve thought it would.

Dr. Sharon listens carefully and without judgement, as she always does. “You’ve had dreams before,” she notes once Roy’s fallen silent. “I’m sure some of them have been strange or unsettling. Has any of them ever affected you like this?”

“No. Like I said, it’s just dreams, right? It’s not real. Shouldn’t affect me. Never fucking does, not even the sexy ones, usually.”

“Right. So why do you think this one was different?”

Roy stares at her. She returns his stare calmly, patiently. Waits, watching him, until he can’t help but catch the shape of it reflected back at him in her kind eyes.

Fuck.

---

“What if I don’t want it to be just a dream?”

“Eh?”

Jamie’s peering at him through the open door, looking like he’s wondering what Roy is doing showing up unannounced and spouting nonsense on his doorstep at half past three on a rest day.

Which, okay, fair enough.

“What if I don’t want it to be just a dream?” Roy repeats, a little slower this time.

For another moment, Jamie just stares at him. Then his eyes widen, lightening up with delight. “Oh! You mean… ?” He gestures between them.

“Yeah,” Roy says and then he’s being pulled into the hallway by his jacket and he has time to think that that they really need to figure out how Keeley fits into all of this and then he has his arms around a body that is firm and solid and there and Jamie Tartt is kissing him and it’s not a dream at all.

Fuck. Oh, fuck… !

#i don’t know. it’s stupid. it’s dumb. here #have an entirely random bisexual awakening ficlet that came to me in my not-yet-sober stupor this morning #why is roy so silly in this you may ask #well have you seen 3x12?#why is roy so silly in that hmmm?#also it's crack #but a little bit it isn’t you know?#special thanks to everyone helping me settle on ‘supply cupboard’#nothing else in this ficlet has been brit-picked bc why start being consistent now?#roy kent #jamie tartt #royjamie #royjamiekeeley #although the royjamiekeeley bit is mostly future #ted lasso #ficlet #my stuff #post-canon

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