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They’re paired to play together for the final round of the Masters.
Bryson doesn’t think about it too much, other than when he takes the lead, briefly, from Rory, and when Rory takes the lead back, and when Bryson falls far enough behind that he knows that the window is closing for him to win this, with Rose coming in from behind and Bryson’s ball in the water hazard. Rory seems to have blocked him out entirely, though, not talking to anybody but his caddie, and for once anybody seems to include Bryson.
Bryson knows their relationship doesn’t come with them on the course, but he can’t help feeling a little jilted.
Still. Tying for 5th with a -7 at the Masters isn’t bad. He knows he has what it takes to win the tournament one day, and he can feel the tension sloughing off of Rory as he misses the putt to send it to sudden death instead of immediate victory. In the moments between Rory finishing regulation and getting whisked away to prepare for the playoff, Bryson manages to squeeze his shoulder in encouragement. Not quite the grip on the back of his neck that makes Rory melt like butter and would get him to relax completely, but who knows who’s watching. Rory’s brief glance Bryson’s way is the first honest acknowledgement he’s made of Bryson all day.
Bryson watches the playoff. If he’s not going to be the victor today, he prays to God it’s Rory.
This time, Rose misses the putt, and Rory puts it in for birdie and collapses to his knees with a sob, then rears back with a yell.
Bryson knows he’s going to have to share him with the public for a while, now, but he can’t be too upset when his Rory has finally, finally, gotten his Masters, his Career Slam, everything he deserves for how talented he is. He smiles to himself and decides he can stick around long enough to watch Scottie give Rory the jacket. It’s a nice ceremony, even if Bryson bristles at Scottie giving Rory an extra clap to his shoulder as he makes his way out.
He’s fucking exhausted, but he stays up waiting for Rory, knowing he’ll be coming back eventually still high on the win, and Bryson would put up with worse to get his hands on Rory like this.
And then he’s here, and he’s absolutely glowing, and Bryson can’t get over to him fast enough. Rory meets him, and Bryson has his tongue in Rory’s mouth before the door closes. It’s difficult to make out when Rory can’t keep the smile off of his face, infecting Bryson with his joy in the process.
“You did it,” Bryson says, finally far enough away to hold Rory’s face in his hands and just look at him, at the well-worn smile lines highlighted by Rory’s grin and fervent nod in response, at the way he’s still shaking while he finally wears the mantle of victory. Speaking of, “green looks so good on you, baby.”
“Doesn’t it? Fits perfectly, too.”
Bryson grins and pops one of the buttons on the polo Rory’s still wearing so he can move the collar aside and suck a kiss below his clavicle, where the mark won’t be seen as Rory does his press tour. He tastes like sweat from a round of golf in Georgia’s afternoon heat. “You want me to fuck you in it? You can get whatever you want tonight.”
“No, can’t get it-can’t get it dirty.” Rory’s breathless already, a hand burying itself in Bryson’s hair to keep him close, something Bryson wouldn’t let Rory get away with any day but today.
“Fine. You’d better take it off fast, then,” Bryson says, stepping away and moving toward the bed, giving Rory enough room to shrug off his green jacket and put it on a hanger. It watches them from the handle on the closet door.
Bryson will have his own one day. He’s sure of it. He was so, so close today, but he can keep analyzing his performance later.
Once the jacket is off, Rory starts taking the rest of his clothes off, too. Bryson didn’t tell him he had to, but it must be habit. Bryson’s not complaining; the view never gets old. Rory’s perky tits, tight ass, half-hard cock, all Bryson’s.
The body of a champion. Bryson’s champion.
Rory stands between Bryson’s knees where he sits on the edge of the bed, looks down at Bryson with that look in his eye. He’s radiant. Bryson rests his hands on Rory’s hips, thumbs tracing the ridge of his hipbones.
“At media, they asked me if I knew how you were feeling. I told them I didn’t, since you hadn’t talked to me all day.”
“If I had been focusing on anything other than my game, I wouldn’t have won.” Rory’s voice is soft, but his face is steely, daring Bryson to punish him for winning, for doing what it took to win.
Bryson would never. He respects Rory too much for that. A part of him stings, though, hearing Rory say that Bryson didn’t just focus on the game, and that’s why Bryson didn’t win. Rory can shut Bryson out, but Bryson can’t shut Rory out, not completely.
It’s not what Rory actually meant. Probably. It’s something for Bryson to work on, not discipline Rory for being successful at. “Then good thing you ignored me. I can ask now, though. How are you feeling?”
Whatever had hardened in Rory dissolves into a brilliant grin. “God. Over the moon. So much relief. It’s indescribable, when you finally get something you’ve been wanting for so long. I am glad you were there with me today, you know. I think it would’ve been different if it were anybody else. I’m too used to you to let you throw me off my game.”
“I’m glad I could be a part of history, then,” Bryson says, tilting his head up ever so slightly, just enough for Rory to understand the demand and bend down to kiss him.
It’s soft, and it’s insane how Rory can still make his heart swoop like this, when by all accounts he should be immune to such simplicity by now.
When they break apart, Bryson says, “you still haven’t told me what you want for your reward.”
Rory looks down at him with a slight frown of concentration. He’s not used to asking for what he wants in bed and getting it, so Bryson knows he’s not taking the decision lightly.
“Can you take your clothes off, first?” Rory asks.
“Yeah, of course, baby.”
Rory takes a step back so Bryson can stand, take off his shirt and unbuckle his belt. When he’s finally naked, Rory runs a tentative hand up Bryson’s torso, looking up at Bryson and seemingly trying to gauge if there really won’t be any repercussions for acting without Bryson’s say-so today.
Bryson knows he’s trained his boy well, seeing Rory’s delicate hesitance. “Rory. Tell me what you want.”
“I want…I want you to take care of me. Fuck me slow. So I feel you tomorrow.”
“Ok. We can do that.” Bryson captures Rory’s mouth again and guides him onto the bed, laying him down like the precious thing he is. He leans over Rory on his elbows, working kisses into his mouth and jaw and throat, as Rory drags his fingertips up and down Bryson’s back. It’s making Bryson go lax, and he can’t have that, so he continues on his way down to suck one of Rory’s nipples into his mouth.
He hears Rory’s whine, glances up to see the way his eyes are shut tight and his head is thrown to the side as Bryson’s tongue laves over Rory’s chest, teeth worry the skin. Bryson’s never thought of himself as a tits man, finds that kind of labelling restrictive, but feeling the way Rory squirms while Bryson sucks on one while his fingers pinch at the other is one of the fastest ways to get Bryson hard enough to pound nails.
Bryson distantly considers that he hasn’t paid enough attention to Rory’s tits recently. When they’re both back at home, he should make Rory sit on his cock with the clamps on so he can feel the way Rory’s whole body tenses at the pain. Yeah. That’d be nice.
Now, though, Rory is worked up to the point where he’s humping the air, missing friction since Bryson’s thigh is positioned slightly too high above his hips, and Bryson promised he’d take care of him tonight, so he presses one final kiss to the nipple he’s been working on, runs his thumbs over the soft swell of Rory’s pecs one last time, and continues making his way down.
He licks over the tip of Rory’s cock once before forcing his thighs a little wider so he can bite at where they join with his pelvis.
“Bryson, Bryson, don’t, I’m gross right now, I–”
“I don’t care,” he says, before licking over Rory’s hole. He’s fucking delicious, pure Rory, musk and sweat and a major win, and Bryson wishes he could surround himself in it, get closer, so he noses and tongues at Rory until he’s wet and loosening and chanting Bryson’s name. Close enough.
Rory is trembling under his palms, and he only seems to be able to open his eyes when Bryson momentarily pulls away to get the lube. His eyes are shiny, and while Bryson knows very well that Rory will cry when Bryson pushes his body to the limit, he’s never seen Rory so much as tear up when they’re being vanilla before. Rory’s eyes flutter shut again when Bryson kisses his cheek, and he lets out a soft sigh.
“Good to keep going?” Bryson asks.
“Yeah, yeah. Please give me your fingers.”
“Since you asked so politely,” he chuckles, kissing Rory’s chin this time before pulling back to watch Rory’s hole take two of his fingers. He loves the squelch of the lube as he pumps them in and out, loves the way Rory keens when he grazes Rory’s prostate.
“I wish I could have been up there with you during the ceremony, shown all those people who were chanting your name who you really belong to. Fucked you right there with everybody watching. Woulda been nice, huh? You could’ve lifted that trophy with my come dripping out of your hole.” He pulls out with two fingers, pushes back in with three, to his knuckles in one smooth motion. As Rory lets out these cute little whimpers, Bryson marvels at the way his hole can stretch, twists his wrist so the pressure on Rory’s spot changes and the stretch is different.
“Would you have let me fuck you in front of everybody, baby?”
“Yeah, yes, shit–”
“Good. Now, are you ready for my cock, sweetheart?”
“Yes, please, Bryson,” Rory pants. He sighs when Bryson removes his fingers, makes a noise somewhere between a scream and a whine when Bryson nudges against his entrance, pushes in.
They moan in tandem as Bryson bottoms out, Rory shaking like a leaf while Bryson relishes in that familiar heat and pressure around his dick. It’s the best ass Bryson’s ever had, but that could just be because it’s Rory’s ass.
As he starts grinding into him, he licks over Rory’s mouth, then forces his tongue inside, remembering a second too late that he was eating Rory’s ass not that long ago and then proceeding to not care at all. Rory sure doesn’t seem to, mouth open wide to give Bryson room to work.
The soft, wet, heat of Rory’s mouth exists in parallel to that of his ass, driving Bryson fucking nuts. He just wants to pound Rory into next week, but he promised slow, so he keeps it slow, making little circles with his hips so that he rubs Rory’s prostate and not much else.
“How’s it, baby? Everything you hoped for?”
That seems to be a trigger. Rory chokes out Bryson’s name, before dissolving into harsh sobs, nearly hyperventilating as tears stream down his face.
“Fuck, I know, it’s a lot,” Bryson says, wiping some of the tears away and being mindful not to stop moving.
Rory’s legs lock around Bryson’s hips and his nails dig into Bryson’s shoulders, using Bryson as a lifeline. Bryson smears his lips along Rory’s jaw and tastes salt, starts whispering sweet nothings as Rory falls apart.
“It’s ok, baby, I got you. You did so well today, I’m so proud of you. So many people are so happy to see you succeed. They love you so much, Rory, I love you so much. Love you, love you.” He tucks his face into Rory’s neck and picks up the pace–still gentle, always gentle when Rory asked to be taken care of and Rory gets what he wants today–enough so he’s steadily thrusting in and out, additional friction that’s making Bryson crazy and making Rory cry out wetly.
Bryson has to look at him. Tears are still streaming down his face, and his breathing is shallow but in time with Bryson’s movements. His face is all screwed up with unnameable emotion, but he opens his eyes when Bryson cups his face with one hand.
“So beautiful, my beautiful boy, can’t believe you’re mine, d’you wanna come for me, sweetheart?”
Rory whines when Bryson takes his hand away from his face, and moans when Bryson then brushes over the vein of his dick, the head, the slit. Bryson loves how desperate he gets, barely capable of more than those little noises that make Bryson’s dick twitch and heartbeat stutter, no different if Rory has been edged for hours or if he gets to come after ten minutes.
“Is this fine? Is this what you want?” Bryson’s grip is loose on Rory’s cock, not necessarily stroking it but letting the movement of his body create a little friction as a byproduct.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m– I’m close,” Rory says, and Bryson sees the signs, picks up the pace just enough to get Rory to moan and to feel his own orgasm starting to creep up on him.
Bryson takes his hand away for a moment to grab Rory’s chin and force his head to the side so that he’s facing the jacket. “Look at it, Rory. It’s yours. You earned it.”
That pushes Rory over; he comes with a scream distorted by tears enough to be a wail, and Bryson works him through it, even as Rory is almost unbearably tight around him.
Rory seems out of it, completely lax in Bryson’s arms. It’s a bit disconcerting, so Bryson pulls out and gets himself off with a few quick strokes, adding to the mess on Rory’s stomach. He’s got enough presence of mind to maneuver himself to nestle against Rory’s side instead of collapsing onto him.
For as much as Bryson is bone tired, Rory must be feeling it a hundred times worse. Bryson’s prepared to go and fetch a cloth to wipe him down since it looks like he’s going to fall asleep there, but then Rory hauls himself to sitting with what looks like great effort and stands shakily.
“Where’re you going, Rors?”
“Shower,” is the quiet response.
“Want me to come with?” Bryson’s already sitting up and moving toward the edge of the bed, before Rory turns back to look at him with a tired smile that stops him in his tracks.
“No. I won’t be long, don’t worry.” Rory shuffles into the bathroom, and Bryson hears the water almost immediately.
It’s fair enough. Rory’s been either playing golf or surrounded by people for hours now, it’s reasonable to expect that he needs a moment alone. That doesn’t stop Bryson from wishing he was in there with Rory, if for no other reason than to make sure he doesn’t slip and fall in his exhaustion.
Bryson’s hands twitch.
He knows Rory is taking some time off after this, but Bryson doesn’t have that luxury, with Mexico City coming up in a couple weeks and Korea the week after that. He kinda wants Rory to be there for them, in the same way he wants water after finishing eighteen holes under a blistering Texas sun.
It would be really nice, for Rory just to be there. They could practice together. They could talk about the course over breakfast. Bryson could show off during the tournament, knowing Rory was watching, and knowing that the hurt of somebody winning and somebody losing wouldn’t have a chance to bubble up. They could take half a day to actually enjoy the place they’re in together, do some sightseeing. Bryson could kiss him as they walked down an empty alleyway.
The bathroom door clicks open, and Rory walks out, going to his bag to pull on underwear and a t-shirt. He lands next to Bryson on the side of the bed that doesn’t have the wet spot, and kisses his shoulder. “All yours.”
“Thanks.” Bryson reaches out to squeeze Rory’s wrist as he gets up. It doesn’t take long to rinse off and brush his teeth, and he turns off the lights on his way back to bed. He has to feel it out a little in the dark room, runs a hand up Rory’s leg to know where he is as he climbs into bed, but eventually curls up around Rory with a sigh.
Rory flips over so he can bury himself in Bryson’s chest. Bryson pulls him a little closer, draws small circles on his back.
“You ever been to Korea?”
“No. Seems like a fun place, though. You’re going there soon, right?”
“Yeah. I was hoping you would come with.”
Rory is so close; it’s easy to tell when his body goes stiff. There’s a long pause. “When is it, again?”
“Tournament’s first weekend of May; that Sunday is the fourth, I think.”
Another pause. Rory’s doing the math, probably. “My next tournament is the week after. I don’t think jetlag will do me any good.”
“Mexico City is the week before that, no issues like that there.”
Bryson can feel Rory’s fingers drumming against his side as he thinks. Bryson knows Rory knows his own schedule like the back of his hand, so all of the thinking is a bit disheartening.
Finally: “Bryson. The optics if I get spotted at a LIV event are not great, and you know I’m absolutely getting spotted if I get within ten miles of the course. There’s no world where I can go to Mexico City. I know it’s hard, but we’ve made our choices. We have to deal with them.”
No matter the use of “we” or however much Rory has come to accept LIV, Bryson knows that Rory thinks the choice has always been Bryson’s. It’s a universal constant that Rory McIlroy will play for the PGA Tour. Bryson will always be the deserter. Rory’s not wrong to think so, even, but Bryson still hates the reminder that he will always be the reason the rift between them will never go away.
“Fine. I get it, I wouldn’t want to do that to you,” he sighs, before Bryson remembers and a grin creeps back onto his face. “They’d make such a big fuss about the Masters champion, right? Who just completed the Career Slam, and now is scandalously in Mexico wearing Crushers merch. You’d never live it down.”
He can feel Rory’s giggles resonate in his body. Bryson can’t help but laugh, too, less at the absurdity of the scene he just painted and more because he has one of six ever men to complete the Career Slam in his bed, giddy with delight.
“Exactly,” Rory says, “That’s–” he cuts himself off with a massive yawn, and he’s probably been awake long enough, hasn’t he.
“It’s ok. My champion needs sleep. Love you.”
“Yeah. G’night,” Rory mumbles, his breathing evening out immediately after.
Bryson spends a moment rubbing his back and admiring the form of his body in the dark before he, too, sleeps.