A Bottle of Pol Roger to the Cheek

A night of celebration, a night of fighting in an elevator, a good night. With a bottle of champagne that survives more abuse than it deserves.


“We fucking won,” Jamie said. He had an unopened bottle of Pol Roger in his fist. He waved it at Malcolm vaguely.

Malcolm let his gaze travel deliberately down to Jamie’s crotch and back up to the crooked tie. “Yeah. We won. Put that bottle down or I’ll uncork it and shove it up your arse.”

The bottle was jabbed at his face. “Have you had anything to drink at all? Or are you just skulking around the corners glowering at everyone?”

“Christ,” Malcolm said. He turned away from Jamie, but a hand on his shoulder spun him around. The bottle, in his face again.

“Drink, you skinny old fuck.”

Malcolm planted a hand in the center of Jamie’s chest and held him at bay. “You’re fucking rubbered…”

“Am I? Going to put me to bed?” A little bit of a smile on Jamie’s face. He wasn’t particularly drunk, and Malcolm knew it. Jamie knew he knew it. Oh, fuck yes, the game was fucking on.

Malcolm said, “Yes. Fucking out of here. Now.”

Malcolm got him by the collar of his black jacket and dragged him bodily out of the ballroom. Up the corridor, to the elevators. It was a show they put on, sometimes. Malcolm manhandling Jamie, kicking him around. Malcolm in charge of everything, even the rabid wolf.

In the elevator, it turned around. Malcolm let go. Jamie got his fist knotted into Malcolm’s shirt and backed him up against the wall. He pulled, very deliberately, at the bow tie Malcolm had so carefully knotted earlier in the evening.

“Posh,” Jamie said.

“You’re just as fucking posh.”

“I don’t look as good as you do.”

Malcolm spread his hands out. “I fucking look amazing, don’t I.”

“I fucking want to eat you,” Jamie said. He lunged up and bit Malcolm’s lip. Malcolm swore and shoved him away, which was all the signal Jamie needed. He was shoved back against the elevator wall so hard he bounced. Right back into Jamie, who caught him and pulled him down and kissed him again. This time Malcolm didn’t fight back. Let Jamie get his tongue into his mouth. Taste the champagne he’d been drinking.

Elevator door sliding open, onto a thankfully empty hallway. Jamie half-dragged him down to their door, kicked him to the floor. Let him go long enough to fumble in his jacket pocket for the card key. Malcolm turned away to hide his triumph while Jamie swore at the lock. Fucking winner tonight. Everything going the way he wanted. Everything. For one night, one sweet night.

Door open, half-dragged through, fighting the whole way, pointlessly, just enough to keep Jamie hot.

“Skinny old fuck, nothing to you. Couldn’t fight back if you wanted.”

Malcolm swore at him, swung wildly. Jamie caught his arm, shoved him down easily. All the way to his knees, where he fucking wanted to be, oh fuck yes. Hands dug into his hair. Malcolm undid Jamie’s flies on command, took him out, took him into his mouth. Jamie thrust into him, driving in deep, until he gagged, holding himself there, until Malcolm relaxed enough to take it. Closed his eyes, let Jamie use his mouth. His bleeding fucking mouth. Shit. Blood on his shirt? Probably. Malcolm ignored it. Concentrated on the taste of Jamie in his mouth, cock in his mouth, the feeling of being on his knees, sucking.

That wasn’t what Jamie wanted, though. Never what he wanted when they had a bedroom and a door that could be locked. Malcolm knew what came next, though he didn’t know exactly how Jamie would get it.

Without ceremony. He yanked Malcolm’s head back by the hair and shoved him over to the bed. Jamie stripped his trousers off, bent him over the bed with an oath and a hard hand on the back of his neck. Malcolm waited, licking the blood from his lip, listening. The slither of Jamie’s coat landing on the bed next to him. The sound of shoes hitting the floor. The undignified sound of a tube of slick being squeezed with an impatient hand.

Then Jamie’s hand was on the back of his neck again, forcing him further down. A foot kicking his feet further apart. Fight more? Or wait for it? Too late, there it was, Jamie’s prick, forcing its way into him. Pain, fuck yes, pain that made him arch up and cry out, and then Jamie’s hand was across his mouth, silencing him. He pushed back into Jamie, just to feel that cock even deeper inside, feel that burn as intensely as he could for as long as it would last. Because it never lasted, no matter how rough Jamie was. It felt too good, reminded him too much of the other ways Jamie would take him. And Jamie’s hand was on him almost right away, the caress completely giving the lie to the obscenities pouring out of his mouth.

Jamie, slamming into him, grunting, slap of flesh against flesh. Malcolm let himself feel it. Pain, pleasure, pressure, friction from a slick-wet hand on his cock, the fingers clamped over his mouth, silencing him, freeing him to whimper and cry out and beg incoherently, unheard. Jamie swearing, losing his rhythm, driving into him, going still, coming, coming inside him, no protection, oh God, he fucking loved this feeling, of Jamie filling him up, of Jamie leaving something with him. Jamie slumped over his back, inside him still, hand no longer clamped over his mouth.

Malcolm didn’t move. He would wait. Find out which way the madness would take Jamie this time.

Jamie stirred, straightened up. Gripped the back of his neck again, hard enough to bruise. His voice, in Malcolm’s ear. “Bring yourself off, now. While I’m still hard.”

Hand down, on himself, moving frantically fast. He was close already, and it had been days since they’d last fucked, and fuck yes, he was there, with Jamie’s voice whispering obscene encouragement in his ear, yes, coming, coming onto his fingers, the bedspread, his boiled shirt. Collapsing down, across the bed. The grief of Jamie pulling away, abandoning him, leaving him empty again.

Tenderness was not something Malcolm had ever expected, but Jamie gave it to him afterward. Every time. Tonight more so than most nights, more tenderness, more solicitous quiet care. A good night; a night to celebrate a win; a night to be be caressed and fussed over and undressed carefully by your lover, who tutted over the bruises he’d left on your body. Wonderful bruises, cherished bruises. Nobody else dared do this to him. Nobody else.

Jamie laid him down on the bed. Malcolm let his head fall back against the pillows. There was the bottle of Pol, sitting on the floor. Jamie thumbed the cork out, tipped it up, caught the foam in his mouth. He carried the bottle into bed. Malcolm lay back against Jamie’s chest, let him hold the bottle up to his bitten lips. Drank as much as Jamie wanted him to; too damn much, but what a taste.

A Bottle of Pol Roger to the Cheek

Malcolm/Jamie mature

1179 words; reading time 4 min.

first posted here

on 2015/07/29

tags: p:malcolm/jamie, f:the-thick-of-it, c:jamie-macdonald, c:malcolm-tucker, genre:kink, sex:rough, sex:anal, alcohol, tuxedos