#this is corny and rom-commy and very outside of my comfort zone which is part of the reason i enjoyed writing it

[toxicroyjamie]

🌀 and ⛅ please!!!! 🙏🙏🙏 I would make a blood sacrifice to read your RoyJamie fic, if that's any motivation.

THANK YOUUUU .... It so is.... I have like 39 wips and I NEVER have time to finish them but I feel like if I actually locked in on one project I could like. Actually make something idk. but yes ty <3

🌀: Post the fic summary for a fic you haven't published.

I'm literally so bad at writing summaries and I never do it, so I'll just describe one haha

It's an AU where Jamie's life veered off course in his late teens and he became a year 0/reception (or Pre-K in the US - 4-5 year olds) teacher instead of a football player. Roy is the exact same. Phoebe's in Jamie's class and Roy and Jamie hit it off when Roy's sister gets an emergency call into work and he has to go be the Volunteer Parent Helper in Jamie's classroom haha

🌤️: Post your favorite dialogue from your WIP.

This is from the same one just to keep the theme going. Keep in mind this is a work in progmess lol <3

“So,” she starts, drawing out the o sound, which immediately confirms Roy’s suspicion that she’s got vicious, nasty ulterior motives.

“What do you think of Mr. Jamie?”

Roy throws his head back and groans.

Since he came out, Rachel’s been on the fool’s errand of trying to lure him into talking about men with her.

It's like she thinks they're on fucking Sex and the fucking City, or something.

Roy is really no more eager to discuss men with his sister than he ever was to discuss women with her (or than he would be to, say, flatten his testicles in a vice-grip), and has tried several times to explain as much, but Rachel doesn’t listen to a goddamn word he says.

She reaps some sort of demented delight from his continued irritation.

Fucking little sisters.

Roy takes a hedonistically-long swig from his stemmed glass and swishes the bitter liquid around in his cheeks like a wine-tasting old-money prick.

It tastes like wine; he thinks he detects notes of grapes.

"Jamie’s fine,” Roy concedes, refusing to fall prey to her scheme. “Seems…nice.”

Rachel - undeterred - jabs him beneath the ribs with her bony index finger.

It fucking hurts. She’s inherited their mother's hawk talon fingers, long and sharp and probably strong enough to break a rodent’s neck in one go.

Roy cradles his poor, abused side and glares daggers at her across the sofa.

“Fuck off! What?”

“You know.”

He does.

“No, I don’t,” he insists, directing his attention back towards the TV.

He keeps his arms firmly glued to his sides, just in case she tries it.

Two of the dark-haired, belipfillered women who have been courting the same ugly little blond lad are yelling at each other in a restaurant booth, but Rachel was running her mouth through the entirety of the talking heads segment, so Roy's got no idea what's happened or where they are.

He growls in annoyance and moves to grab the remote off the coffee table.

The moment his sides are exposed, Rachel lunges at him, driving her talon into his vulnerable side.

Next time, Roy thinks, I’ll bite her finger clean off.

“Fucking stop!” He orders.

He slaps her hand away hard enough that she yelps.

"Are you really gonna make me say it?" She demands, cradling her hand like Roy's fucking broken it, or something. “I have to be the weirdo?”

“Yeah. Because I've got no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on, Roy. He's fucking fit.”

“Is he? Didn't notice. Can I just fucking watch our fucking show?”

“All the mummies fancy him, too,” Rachel continues, ignoring him altogether. “I mean, not me. I don't like athletic men. They're all vain and shallow.”

“Hm.”

“But all the other mummies. God, there's a mums’ groupchat—for, like, playdates, or day-drinking, or whatever—and the shit these women say about this boy—let me show you.”

She reaches for her phone on the coffee table, but Roy waves her off.

“I can imagine, thanks.”