Chapter Text
"You're a wolf."
"You run to the wolf in me. That don't make you no lamb."
Moonstruck (1987)
Roy regains the upper-hand, rolling over Jamie, straddling him and punching him in the jaw. Jamie groans, and honestly, it probably sounds more like a sexy moan than anything else. He masks it with laughter, but takes breaks for more groaning when Roy grabs a fistful of his hair and presses his face hard against the mat on the floor.
This is better than porn. These precious moments will get Jamie through a lot of lovesick times. He didn't know when, he didn't know where, but he knew—hoped—he and Roy would end up fighting in his home gym. Their bickering and skimpy clothes and macho bullshit? In the privacy of Jamie's house? C'mon.
"Quit fucking laughing," Roy growls, moving his hands to Jamie's throat, making him hiccup with anticipation. Roy gets fucking cleavage from how he's holding his arms. Jamie thinks Roy should definitely rock this whole "wearing trackies and nothing else" look way more often.
Jamie also thinks the sexual satisfaction he gets from Roy fucking up his throat will turn out to be more trouble than it's worth. So, he grabs at Roy all over, pretending to scramble, then punches him in the balls as hard as he can.
Roy shrieks, curls in on himself, and moves his hands, but the vibe he lays down is less "I'm letting go of your neck because I have to" and more "I'm letting go because you clearly want me to." Jamie feels all gooey inside—like a big, chunky, chocolate chip cookie fresh outta the oven.
"You fucking dickhead." Roy pins Jamie's hands to the floor, and glares down at him in a manic way. "You always have to fight fucking dirty. You think you're so fucking clever, but you're not. You're an idiot. You should do the world a favour and go for a dip in the Thames in a dress made of cinder blocks."
"Let he who is without sin live in a glass house," Jamie sneers.
"You're making my fucking point."
Jamie spits blood in Roy's face. "You know who you sound like?"
Roy grunts as their blood and Jamie's saliva drips down his face, over his eye, between his lips and into his beard. "You could tell me, but I won't recognise the name. I'm not familiar with the children's programming you watch."
Jamie rolls his tongue around in his mouth, feeling the cuts made by Roy's fists and Jamie's teeth, relishing the sweet zing of the killer jab: "You sound like my dad."
Roy honest to God laughs. "No the fuck I don't. You're just saying that to try to get a rise out of me."
Drat. "It's true! Every day, you speak and I hear his voice."
Roy's smile is so gorgeous. "Then you're a real dumb shit..."
You don't have to be a genius to see that Roy looks really fucking fond, but you do have to be really fucking tight with Roy to know that that stupid smirk he's getting means: I just had a fucking devious idea and I'm about to be such a little shit.
Fuck. Fuck.
Roy might win.
He lets go of Jamie's wrists and sits up straight, now slightly hovering over Jamie, so he's barely pinning him down. "If that's how you fucking feel, you should go find some other glue-factory-bound midfielder to give you treats for running through tunnels."
Jamie feels his fucking face fall.
Roy raises his eyebrows, waiting for a move he knows won't come. "Go on."
Jamie just closes his eyes and shakes his head—not admitting nothing! Only showing how little he appreciates this trick. And Roy? Roy fucking leans down and whispers in Jamie's fucking ear.
"I'm bad for you, Tartt, is that it? I treat you so terribly, giving you shit you can't handle, and you just close your eyes and think of Richmond?" Roy makes this little amused, affectionate noise, and then he's sliding his legs down Jamie's body and just fully laying on top of him. Jamie immediately wraps his arms around Roy. Roy buries his face in the crook of Jamie's neck. They lay like that for a while.
"We're stupid," Roy mumbles, his breath hot and lush on Jamie's skin.
Jamie laughs. "Anything to get outta our heads for a minute, yeah?"
"We should finally start fucking instead of doing this. Everything hurts."
They're talking about it. Holy guacamole, they're talking about it. Jamie smiles so big he cries. But, wait—
"Instead? Are you trying to tell me you ain't into S&M?"
"Honestly? I'm pretty boring in bed. I'd show you right now, but I still kinda feel like I might vomit from the ball punch." Roy gets on his elbows, and rubs his eye. He kisses the corner of Jamie's lips, gets up, and heads for the door. "I call dibs on the good ice packs. And you're making dinner."
Jamie just lays there, absolutely gobsmacked. Thank fucking Christ, his brain don't take long to reboot.
"Alright, wait for me!" he shouts, giddy, as he hops up, and follows Roy.