Art didn’t open his eyes until 11:47 am. He let the light wake him, streaming in over his face, from the window just above your headboard. Your room was always the right temperature- Brian liked to keep his shared dorm room with Art so cold that he usually woke shivering. He was vaguely aware that your head was resting on his bicep, but he was lying on his back, his eyes and temples pulsing slightly against the brightness of the room. He could feel Patrick still asleep, heavy, at the end of your bed.
You always kept your curtains open for the sun; you were an early riser, so that was the price to pay for staying over in your room. The most violent sunbeam straight into hungover eyes. Slowly, just as violently, the conversation of the night prior seeped back in. A lot of drunk laughter about Brenda, the fact that Brenda had been lying to people around him, the things she said to his coach… Fuck. She sucked, bad.
She was just already so- on his ass, she was so weird. Those memories came back as every feeling and drunk memory resurfaced, leading him up to the very moment he passed out next to you. Art was becoming more and more aware that you were still asleep next to him.
He wondered if this was the latest you’d slept in a while. He knew you didn’t like sleeping in and would spend the whole day feeling lazy if you did much longer. You were probably the most productive person he knew, sometimes he got a good morning text at five in the morning. He turned his head to the side and slowly remembered the conclusion of the night before.
You were now his fake girlfriend, if you remembered at all. But that thought came first, then his head was suspiciously clear, cut and dry. He wondered if he should wake you up, but you looked peaceful. And how often did you ever let yourself get this much sleep? He noted the way your eyelashes rested shut- he swore you had lipstick on, but it seemed that your lips just had that colour. Rosy. Kind of perfect. He decided that when his watch said noon, he’d wake you up. He knew Patrick wouldn’t be a risk; he’d sleep like a log until four if you left him to it.
Art was a little curious about the situation you’d put yourselves in. The entire time he’d known you, you loved studies, writing, and tennis, and you were consistently too busy to notice that the boys in class talked about you. Art and Patrick heard them a little too often, but you’d always just had work as your priority, which most boys caught onto, therefore leaving you alone.
Art was usually your ‘date’ to school dances when both of you didn’t get real dates, but that was friendly. This was friendly, too, he figured. He was always grateful for you, this was just another time you saved his ass from looking lonely. This wasn’t a bad thing. The best thing about this was that there was no way this relationship would end badly. He smiled to himself, closing his eyes for another few minutes to stop them from pulsing so hard.
At twelve, you were still soundly asleep. Art hated to wake a sleeping cat, but he’d rather that than let you sleep through book club. Instead of shaking you awake, he gently, slowly, tensed his bicep. He did that a few times before your nose scrunched gently against the light in the room.
“Hi,” you whispered, eyes slowly opening, squinting in the light, eyelashes fluttering. “I’ve never been woken up like that.” You sat up just slightly, noting Patrick asleep at the end of the bed.
“No?” He smiled.
“Gym freak,” you responded, rubbing your eyes with a smile. “What time is it?”
“Twelve,” Art replied. He wondered if you remembered last night. “How are you feeling?”
Your lips pulled into a small smirk, “You let me sleep in? How much earlier did you wake up?”
“Fifteen minutes,” he replied. He propped himself up on his elbow. “You need your energy for book club.” He was almost teasing, but not quite. You always liked that about him. He was genuine. “What book are you reading?”
“Oh it’s this… romance novel that is actually pretty good,” you answered, stretching. But you stopped, mid-stretch, as things came back to you, just a moment late. He saw you remember- saw it click. The arrangement. “Oh my god, are we committing to that?” You asked. He knew what you meant.
He grinned, fidgeting with his lower lip, almost shy. “That’s up to you. I’d owe you.”
You hid your grin in your hands, “Us? Fake date?” You wrapped yourself in your blanket and pressed your fingertips to your lips, eyes a little wide. Like you were curious, but a little fearful. “I don’t know anything about being a girlfriend.”
“The fun part is you don’t have to,” he shrugged. “Like Pat said, we hang out enough. If you honestly can’t, it’s no big deal. It’s up to you, you have full control, full say.”
Part of you was nervous, but it was just Art. “I think it works.” You said, getting up, still wrapped in your blanket like a cape. You grabbed a glass, going to the sink in your dorm room to fill it, taking a sip and passing it to Art. He thanked you.
“I’m in if you are. I’d hate if this Brenda thing kept going.” Art’s grin spread further up his face as you sat down at your desk and cracked open your book, hungover and four minutes after you woke up. Bookworm.
You’d agreed on the fake dating thing. It was set, it seemed.
Art took another drink of water and stood up, stretching before he scavenged through your dorm room pantry for something to eat. He made up a can of tomato soup while you continued to read and take notes. He placed a bowl of it in front of you around one o’clock, extra pepper already on top- around the same time Patrick woke up and immediately asked to take a shower. You and Art shared a laugh and a look.
-
Later, the book club was buzzing. This was the most excited the group had been about a book yet this year. It was just a group of girls and the two men, who were, yes, dating each other, giggling madly discussing the love interest’s hands on the reader’s waist. You swore you’d never understand that.
“So subtle- You just know he really likes her, but even he doesn’t know it yet,” Janie said, in her 30-year-old exaggeration. “The tension, my god. I read it in the bath with a cup of tea, let’s just say-” And 30-year-old oversharing to follow.
“Lord, I felt it through the page,” another friend, Beth, said. “He reminds me of my ex so much, though it kinda hurts. Too fresh.”
Another girl chimed in, “He reminds me of my boyfriend when we started dating.”
“I need a man like him,” replied another girl. “He’s literally my dream man.”
You didn’t really notice that the conversation was travelling in a circle until all eyes were on you, for your piece. You were caught just the slightest bit off guard. “I like his name- I looked into the meaning and it means ‘home’ or ‘homestead’, which I think is important because the main character just moved to New York and is trying to find her place, or home.”
Janie blinked, “That’s a great observation, but I was going to save thoughts and research to last, so-”
Another one of the girls piped up. “Do you maybe relate to anything? Like an ex, or like a guy you liked in high school or a random guy you dated?”
You laughed and shuffled your pages. “Oh, sorry,” you giggled, then moved on to shuffling your notes. “But um… No, I’ve never dated anyone.” You hated the wide eyes around the table. “Just not much time in a day.” You expressed.
Pierre, across the table, put his hands down, “There’s no way, you? Gorgeous…” He said it with a tone that carried pity.
“I’ve always been too busy,” you said. They knew that. “I like Harry, though, I think he’s pretty different than the usual ‘cold’ guys we see in books, he-”
Your peers and friends smiled kindly, buzzing the way girls do when there’s new information. Pierre shook his head, “Girl, you need to get out there!How much time do you spend reading and writing? Do you go out? Club? Bar?” You felt yourself starting to flush, with attention on your love life, borderline on your social life, too. It wasn’t a call-out of any malicious intent, but… come on.
“Occasionally…”
Two years of friendship with the group, and somehow this hadn’t come up before. It felt a little strange to be the centre of attention. You were a dedicated reader, writer, and aspiring journalist. You were sure- maybe in the future, once academic things settled, you could feel properly able to maintain a relationship. But that seemed ages ahead.
You just decided one day, years ago, that it would be a distraction to have feelings, to be in pursuit, to date, but there was never any real way to test that out. You’d never been asked out seriously, and you didn’t exactly care to be on the constant lookout for ideal partners. Nobody would like your schedule anyway; it was always busy and always changing. The reminder of the new arrangement with Art crossed your mind, only momentarily.
Janie put her hand out on top of yours. “We all have our priorities.” You were grateful. Pierre mouthed a ‘sorry’ and signalled to you across the table to come talk to him afterward, sticking out his tongue at you through clenched teeth, cheeky. You shot him a small smile and nod, and the conversation moved away from you, down the circle again.
When the book club ended, he pounced. Pierre pursed his lips, “Phone, please,” he held his hand out flat. You shook your head with a smile and dug your phone out of your pocket, handing it to him. He flipped it open and started pressing buttons. You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, watching. He then flipped it closed and placed it right back in your hand. “We are better friends now. We hang out, I matchmake. You come out when I tell you, ditching the books. Can you commit? We need to do you some good, find you a mannnn.” He looked at you dead on, through his perfectly groomed eyebrows, wiggling his fingers.
You giggled, a little taken aback, “Oh- yeah, maybe.” You were already kind of set to be out more with the whole Art thing, so this sounded not so bad. The finding a man part maybe not the greatest, but a reason to maybe start changing things up. Things were probably going to be a little different anyway, so why not test the waters? Get out more. “Can you take a maybe?”
“Maybe,” he nodded, lips pulled to the side, and his hand came up to touch your hair, lifting, then dropping. “Will you let me give you layers? You have the perfect face for the style…”
“Sure.” You nodded, fighting a laugh at this absurdity. You felt a hand on your shoulder and watched Pierre’s eyes lift to behind you. Just Art. “Hi!” You smiled, surprised he was there.
His hand fell casually at his side. “Hey, how was it?”
“It was good. A bunch of girls and guys discussing romance over crackers and cheese.” You nodded, turning back to Pierre, who looked like he was psychoanalyzing Art. “Art, this is my friend Pierre, he’s going to give me layers, I think? Pierre, this is my best friend, Art, from the tennis school I went to.”
Art raised his hand in a small wave, then extended his hand to Pierre, who shook it with that same cheeky smile, tongue between his teeth. “Pleasure,” Pierre nodded before putting his hand up like a wall to Art, mouthing ‘he’s cute’. You smiled and nodded in return. Pierre then looked back at Art to wave goodbye to you both, dismissing himself wordlessly.
“What’s up?” You asked, turning to Art.
“Wanted to see if you were up for Chinese.” He said, one hand in the pocket of his red shorts, his nose scrunched just slightly against the overhead light. He tsked, “I don’t think me or Pat is over this hangover, how’s your head?” And he extended an ice-cold bottle of water to you arbitrarily, like it was just part of the conversation. He unscrewed it for you.
“-Thank you- Pretty normal,” you smiled, taking a much-needed swig of the water. “Not too, too bad. I think I’d be up for Chinese, I just have to check my bank account.” You handed the water back to him, lid back on.
“No, my treat, just come on,” he replied casually, taking a swig himself. “We crashed in your room last night, I ate your soup; it’s only fair, you know.” He said, gesturing with his hand still in his pocket. You rolled your eyes. He knew you didn’t care about the soup, but you played along. “Please?”
“You act like I’m going to say no to free food,” you laughed. He chuckled as he opened the door for you, his crooked grin struggling to stay hidden.
“I’m not paying for Patrick, though.” He added.
“Good.”
He tsked again, smile cracking open his expression, “Are we evil?”
“No… I’ll spot him next time. Full circle. And then he has to pay for you after that.”
“Better.” He grinned. “Chinese is not the time to pay for his food anyway. He orders way too much.”
Like clockwork, like magic, like an evil fate, in a comfortable moment- that now-familiar curly ginger bob stepped out from behind a corner. She had on a long pair of shorts and a striped sweater that seemed to be too baggy in the front, but tight on her arms. It was alarming, the way that you could tell she had obviously not just been walking, but rather just started walking. Waiting, wanting to be seen. You felt a twinge in your chest, disturbed. She was creepy as hell.
“Oh hey, Art!” She called, waving with her entire arm above her head.
Your shoulder that continued to bump against Art’s as you walked suddenly stuck to his. There is no feeling bad for anyone like you felt bad for Art. You wondered if maybe he should just get campus security on the case, but hearing how Brenda was able to make people believe things, maybe it was best to just stick it out? This was why you three had come up with the plan. This very reason. You felt Art’s hand bump yours, a slight touch.
Your skin was always really soft. It was always so weird to both Art and Patrick how you hit balls SO hard on the court, but maintained the softest hands. They wanted that, preferred over callouses, though they wouldn’t ever admit that to you. They did talk about it in their dorm room sometimes, though.
He hadn’t thought about it until now, when your hand bumped his. She was here, you were here. Your fingertips accidentally brushed the back of his hand. Act fast.
His hand slipped into yours in a movement you could only describe as smooth. Your hand sliding over his gently, swiftly, your fingers interlocking with his. “Is this okay?” He asked, lifting your hands just slightly. You watched as Brenda observed, her face and arm falling, smacking against the side of her leg. You swore her eye twitched.
You fought a smile, “Yeah, of course. Look at her.”
Art smiled a little and looked away from Brenda so she wouldn’t see. This was not a bad idea at all. The look alone was quite satisfactory; you’d have to tell Patrick he actually thought up something that seemed to work. It could be over sooner than either of you thought.
He watched you cover your face with your hand, trying to hide the same grin. It was pretty funny as you passed her, seeing her in your peripheral vision as she put both arms in fists at her side and stomped away. It took all you both had not to burst out laughing at the sound of her boots on the path. You held hands all the way to the Chinese place, just in case.
When his hand left yours, you realized how much colder the air felt than before. You’d only really held hands when making circles, which was back in grade eight, maybe? You made a little face to yourself as you thought about just how long it’d really been. You looked around the restaurant for Patrick, who was already seated and waiting. You gave yourself another second to think about your hand in his. The first thought came to recognize that hand-holding could absolutely be platonic, but was followed by- How weird, it’s sort of pleasant to hold hands.
You and Art sat on the same side of the little booth, close. Knees touching, his feet over yours. Probably in case Brenda followed you in…
Hm.
The next week was full of hanging out with Art more. His practices had always been enjoyable to watch, but this situation allowed a lot more laughing at him from the stands, watching as his serves only got worse, unable to not laugh with you. You were a distraction, but with Brenda also in the stands or on the court, he didn’t mind it all that much. Plus, after practices, you usually went to get a coffee or croissant at the campus cafe, and that was just always fun.
It was definitely good to get out more often. Studying, you found, didn’t need to be an all-day, all-spare-moments event. You started moving it to evenings, reading and taking notes as a pre-bedtime ritual, but some days, Art found his way over and read off your cue-cards for you.
You always felt like your schedule was so crowded, but you were surprised how much you could fit into the hour between classes, even with Pierre, who texted you about coming over Friday to his dorm and let him give you those layers.
Your hair was unstyled in the second class, and by the third class of the day, you had a fresh haircut and a style. A sort of toned-down blowout, Pierre said. It was different, framing your face perfectly, and somehow, when you shook your head side-to-side, it kept fixing itself in some chic way. You couldn’t hate it if you tried; you were actually kind of in love with it. You really liked it.
So did Art when he showed up to your last class of the day. He had free time, so why not go see you?
The paper’s meeting had been pushed to Monday to allot more time for the pieces, so you were free, if you didn’t shove your nose in a book in this newfound spare time.
“Woah,” he said, looking at your hair, signature grin growing on his face as he took you in.
You rolled your eyes and clicked your tongue, fighting a smile, “Stop, I don’t want to hear it.” You shut your eyes and scrunched your nose. “I know.”
“You think I think it looks bad?” He asked, adjusting the strap of his tennis bag.
To him, you were one of those people who could make wearing a paper bag look good. He always wondered why you were so reluctant to admit you looked nice. “It looks great. I mean, I liked your hair before, but this looks really good on you.” He assured you, smiling widely, pushing a piece of stray hair out of your eyes.
You looked at him, narrowing your eyes as if trying to see if he was lying. “Swear?”
“Promise,” he nodded, putting his hands in his pockets. “Oh- are you free?”
“I am,” you nodded, your joined step began, wordlessly.
He held the door for you, slight skepticism crossing his face, “Actually? Because I know your schedule and you have the paper in about 45 minutes,”
You laughed, “It’s so weird that you know that! I hate it- thank you-, but no, it’s postponed. I’m completely and entirely purposeless for the rest of the day.”
Your laugh was always so hard not to catch. It was contagious; he couldn’t help but laugh with you. He knew so much about you, your habits, your reactions, it was kind of second nature- but he was reminding himself of all these things about you, like he was rediscovering how it was impossible not to laugh when you laugh. “Not purposeless.” He said, gesturing to the tennis bags. “And I’ll pay if you come with me to the diner after.”
He watched you look at the bag, then at him, your lower lip between your teeth. “Free food.”
“Free food. Plus, I haven’t seen you on the court in ages. I miss-”
“Getting your ass kicked?”
He laughed, hanging his smile, almost bashful, “Yeah.”
You did miss tennis sometimes, but you had way more time than you could have even thought, so why not?
Maybe you were rusty and overconfident, but it was still a fun idea. It was best to enjoy the warmth that still hung in the autumn air. You changed into a black skort and top and grabbed your racket from your closet. You walked onto that court with the confidence of your hairstyle, and Art would admit you looked kind of amazing. Especially in this light. He was kind of glad Brenda was playing three courts down.
“Still remember how to serve?” He teased, leaning side to side.
You shook your head, racket ready, ball in hand, “Remember when you used to flinch every time I raised a ball?” You teased back.
He raised his arms, almost in questioning, “Okay- They weren’t really flinches- And I was fourteen. Your serves are violent. I was strategizing.”
“Strategizing a panic response, maybe.” You laughed, moving your hands off your knees to re-assume the position to serve. This version of you only existed on the court. “I’ll go easy.”
His grin was wide, kind, and knowing. “I missed playing with you.”
You rolled your shoulders back, hair blowing around your face in a perfect way. “Me too.” And the words hung only a moment. “You ready?”
“Only emotionally,” he replied, readying himself.
So you eased up, tossed the ball in the air, and hit it with not quite brutal force, but a force that had been waiting to have a purpose. It was straight, clean, and he hit it right back. You made the chase, hitting it his direction again with a spin you hadn’t used since before you graduated high school.
For Art, it felt a little like going back in time. You played a lot better when you weren’t working on a tennis grade, like back in school. Seeing you in your element was always one of his favourite things; he missed a ball or two just because of the nostalgia that creeped in on him. You found it all too funny when he did, making a cute comment about still being better than him. You didn’t mean it, obviously. He joked right back in the exact same way. You both forgot who was nearby. She slipped your minds entirely.
Rally turned casual, slowing, talking too much to really be keeping score. Art didn’t really want to keep score anyway- You were kicking his ass. It wasn’t long before the casual tennis turned into a laughing fit as Art lunged a little too far to catch your serve and ended up falling- but tried not to fall- which only made it so much worse. But so much funnier.
“Are you okay?” You managed, trying to breathe through the laughter, jogging over to where he lay sprawled on the ground, defeated, throwing an arm over his grin. You dropped your racket to extend him your hand and help him up, only for him to stick out his foot, just slightly, and trip you.
You let out a sharp gasping noise as you tumbled forward, gently landing on the bouncy rubber of the court. Art burst out into his loud, full-bodied, hearty laugh, and soon you were both clutching your ribs, wheezing from just how hard you were laughing. As you both began to catch your breath, the two of you rolled just a little closer, your head lightly bumping against his chest.
It took a moment to get yourself upright, but you sat up a little, your hand on his chest as you physically struggled to breathe. You tried to look anywhere else to catch your breath, but ended up launching yourself back into it, watching Brenda get hit in the chest by a ball just for staring over at you both. You swallowed hard, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, but you and Art just couldn’t stop. He saw her fumble, too. Your ribs were done for.
You decided then to call it quits and just go get food because neither of you would be able to focus on playing with the threat of bursting out laughing too easily. He helped you to your feet, and you grabbed your stuff, laughing and talking the whole way. Neither of you saw Brenda pack up her things and follow.
“Campus paper!” The photographer for the paper, Robbie, caught up to you, announcing himself. Camera in front of his face, as always. “Oh, Y/N, I didn’t recognize you… Your hair. I’m out taking pictures of the sports players of the school. I didn’t know you played tennis.”
“My whole life, actually,” you chuckled. “Art, this is our photographer, Robbie. Robbie, Art Donaldson.”
“Nice to meet you,” Art nodded politely.
Robbie nodded in return, adjusted his lens, not lowering the camera for one second, “You count, then. Can I take your photo? Oh, Jenna is gonna love this, here, pose-” You had no time before his camera was up and Art put his arm around you, pulling you closer- allowing you just the right amount of time to properly smile, lean a little more toward Art and raise your racket before Robbie snapped the picture.
“Wow,” Robbie said. “The lighting was perfect, you guys photograph really well together- Wanna see?”
Art’s arm, still around you, loosened only slightly as you both leaned forward to see the photo. You were a little surprised at how good you looked, especially next to Art. Art wasn’t surprised at either of those things. “Can I have that?” He asked.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Robbie replied. You stared at the picture. Your head against his shoulder, his arm around you, your smiles. It was probably the most flattering photo of yourself you’d ever seen. Both you and Art stayed peering over the tiny screen. “If I can’t, you’ll see it in every copy of the school paper this upcoming week.”
You chuckled, “We’ll see about that.” You were higher than him in rank. “Thanks, though. It is a great picture, I love the lighting.” You and Art didn’t stop staring until he pulled his camera back. You felt Art’s hand slip off your shoulder, over your back, then lower back, then fall back to his pocket. You blinked hard, then cracked a small smile. “I’ll see you Monday?”
“Monday. Bye, guys.” And he was off.
You and Art resumed your walk, you looked at him. “That was like… the best photo ever.”
“I’m with you.”
Dinner was good. The waitress seemed to be somewhat nice to you both again. Maybe Brenda was easing up? Maybe she was correcting herself. Wishful thinking?
You talked about tennis, your days at MRTA, Patrick’s next time passing through being in about a week and a bit. And soon enough, the week was on.
Your piece in the paper was a hit, all the research had more than paid off, but so had your time out and about, gathering more experience to put into your writing. As much as your writing was praised, you seemed to hear more about that photo of you and Art. It did end up in that paper as well- You and Art decided that it was probably a good tactic to use against Brenda, so despite being afraid to have your face plastered all around the school, you let it happen.
You were well-known in the office as one of the best, most dedicated writers, but everyone knew you as a busybody with your nose in a book almost constantly. For some people, seeing that photo was seeing a fish out of water get up on its fins and have fun. Robbie sent you the digital by email, which you forwarded to Art, who had it sitting on his windowsill now, facing outward. Just in case. You ran into Brenda twice in that week, just so happening to be at the library when you and Art were, glaring. It turned out to have absolutely been wishful thinking that maybe she would leave him alone.
You took some spare time to catch up on your book club reading, getting lost in the romance before Pierre came over Friday afternoon. So far, your experience with fake-dating Art hadn’t been so bad.
Brenda had been quiet, mostly, but still lurked. It was only a matter of time before she burned every copy of the school paper and gave up. It was good to have something to do after classes, talking, laughing, getting a snack or a meal to fill the spaces in your days.
You felt your stress lift a little, having fun with him so often now. It was the opposite of anything you might’ve expected, having more in a day, but less pressure. It was kind of easy, honestly. Holding hands when Brenda was around, leaning to whisper, constantly smiling at something the other said, sitting close to each other, feet touching under the tables. It was kind of similar to the content in the book you were reading. You found, as you thought of the progressively softening love interest of the book, that you let your mind compare him to Art.
“I’m early!” Pierre’s voice chimed from outside your door. You smiled and shook your head to rid yourself of those thoughts about Art and that book character. You welcomed your friend in, and immediately, the topic was the newest Rihanna song. He brought over a pre-cut fruit platter, and conversation started up. It was honestly really nice.
Then, he said. “What’s the deal with your cute friend, the blonde? The one I met after book club.”
“Oh, Art?” You smiled, casually.
Pierre gasped, “You are smiling!”
“Yeah,” you replied, a little wary, trying to hide the smile. There wasn’t much of a reason not to, but it felt condemning for some reason. “Okay, no. It’s not like that.” You could probably tell Pierre about the whole thing, but for now, you’d just enjoy the girl talk without all the complications.
He shot you a look of disbelief, tsking. “Yeah, and I hate fruit,” He said sarcastically, popping a piece of pineapple in his mouth to prove a point. “I literally see you guys on campus together all the time. I saw that cute little pic in the paper, hell- I’ve seen you hold hands, I know it’s like that. No shame though- You keeping it casual?”
Your smile came comfortably, but a little bashful. “Just friends.”
“Bull-shit!”
There wasn’t really a sane way to explain it, you wouldn’t today. Maybe in a week or so. “Just friends. Take my word on it for now, I’m begginggg.” You drew out the ‘g’. “I’d tell you if it was serious.”
He kept his look, eyes narrowed deeper. “Mmmmhm…” But he dropped it, respectfully, then immediately dove into detailing his most recent escapade to a drag brunch with his boyfriend, and how you should definitely come to the next one, because they serve the best mimosas. Remnants of the topic lingered on in you, though, becoming a small thinking point.
You hadn’t expected the whole fake-dating thing to be so convincing to everyone. And honestly, neither did Art.
Somewhere across campus, Art shrugged it off when his coach held up that photo of him and you, asking about you as his girlfriend and why you weren’t in the girls’ division with that serve he saw when you came to play at practice the other day. Art didn’t bother to correct him. Why would he? You were his fake girlfriend, so he did what he could and stayed ‘in character’.
He stayed ‘in character’ when the guys in the changeroom asked how he pulled you, and asked if you have any friends or sisters. Called you ‘fine’ and ‘bad’, and not anything all that good, or anything he really wanted to hear, especially about you. Nothing he would say himself. They pried the way girls would, and he was worried the whole time that he’d get caught up in a lie, but instead got caught up, saying more than he meant to about you. Just how you met, things about school, things he knew about you, things you do, just speaking from himself. The easiest thing to do, anyway.
You stayed in character as well, talking to your friends at the paper and book club about him on other days, speaking honestly about all the things you and Art would do to hold the act. They were girls, obviously invested after seeing that photo, and wanted to know everything. Every little detail. The book club girls were particularly ruthless, pressing on the fact that they now knew he was a ‘first’, after learning last meeting that you’d never dated anyone.
When they mentioned that- the ‘first’ thing- It was the only time it really bothered you, all of this pretending.
You soon became the topic of the lunch conversations and pre- and post-meetings. They seemed to treat it like it was news or gossip, wanting updates, wanting to know how dates went, wanting to know how he treated you when you had a sore throat one day, though you really didn’t think all of it was all that crazy or interesting. It was fake, anyway. You tried not to be offended at all of the:
‘You have time for that?’
‘But you’re so busy-’
‘I would have never expected-’
‘Is it serious?’
‘You? No way.’
Another week passed, full of holding hands, sitting closer. Art stayed over twice that week, the first time passing out after trying to do a movie marathon; the second time after listening to you talk passionately about your upcoming chance to enter a writing competition. He exchanged ideas with you until you both fell asleep on top of your bed. You woke up the next morning, under the covers with your concealer and blush removed, while he found a weird way to sleep against the wall like he didn’t want to take up space.
You looked over at him that morning and felt something sweep over your body, extending to the tips of your fingers. Soft, full, and immediate. Maybe it was just how grateful you were for him. Maybe. You weren’t sure what else to call it, but what he did was really sweet and genuine. You didn’t have a name for the feeling, just knew it made your fingers buzz and your chest go warm. He’d done something small and quiet, and it stayed with you.
It was followed by him making you toast while you got up and showered later that morning, and it felt weird. Strange. Not him, but something about the small action made the whole room feel like it was tilted askew.
And you’d read enough books to notice he was doing the dating thing ‘right’. He’d always been considerate, often walking on the outer part of a sidewalk when with you, knowing things before you knew them, getting water, buying food. Later that day, the hand on your lower back to guide you through students trying to get to the cafeteria for ‘free pancakes’ was new, different, and the room was back to feeling a little sideways. You breathed through it.
A lingering touch that you thought for sure was selling it to Brenda, but the absence of his hand always lingered just a little extra than the action itself. And Brenda wasn’t around.
To your knowledge, anyway, you told yourself. It was also what Art told himself.
Fake-dating- it was opening his head up a little. He’d never really seen you in a romantic context; he knew your priorities were sorted, and that’s why you never ended up with anyone, but you were out a lot more now, and you seemed to like it. He wouldn’t complain about hanging out with you ever, but you did seem to have the time. And you weren’t all that bad at being a fake girlfriend.
Now that he was out on campus pretending to be fully into you, he kept rediscovering things about you that he really liked. Like quirks and references he’d somehow lost, buried under time, school, and tennis. In fact, now that he was walking beside you, hand in yours, pretending to be into you, it kept catching him off guard how easy it was. How much there was to like. Anyone could do it, he surmised. You were funny, sharp, smart, and pretty. Anyone could.
He hoped that maybe all of this he’d gotten you into, all the lies to just about everyone, wasn’t coming off as selfish. If anything, he was beyond grateful. He hoped quietly to himself that maybe you’d get something out of this- his biggest hope being that you maybe could see that you were completely dateable, despite everything you’ve ever said against yourself. Maybe he’d tell you that tomorrow or something, when he saw you again. Just so you’d know.
TBH I think not. Genuinely I think he loses his virginity in his late high school years, but bro does not fuck for fun all the time. He probably gets turned on as easily as a virgin but he wouldn’t be one.
Can I request sleepy evan I just feel he'd be so cute and you write so well
I don't write for real people. If you requested a character of his, that would be fine. I'm working on another request for sleepy Peter so whenever that comes out maybe it'll fulfill your needs.
REQ: I was wondering if I could request makeup smut with Love Quinn in which her and reader get into an argument maybe which ensues some fluff and smut as well. Have a good day!
Pairing: Dom!Love x Switch! AFAB! Reader
Warnings: mentions of cheating, unprotected wlw sex, oral sex, exhibitionism, possessive Love Quinn, tell me if I missed any!
"There's no way that I would ever think of being with anyone else, Love. She was coming onto me, I didn't flirt back, I didn't even enter a five-foot radius of her!" You pleaded to your wife, who was standing against the wall of your living room with fire in her eyes. Today one of your neighbours stopped by your work to flirt with you the same time Love came to drop off your lunch. She waited all day to express her anger after dropping your food on your desk and walking away.
"She touched you, though. It didn't look like you tried to move her away!" Love replied. She had that look on her face between rage and tears. You would never cheat, ever. You would never do anything to hurt Love and it pained you to see her here like this, thinking you would.
"I told you before, Love, I wouldn't betray you like that. She dropped by, I questioned it too. Me talking to her was me being polite. She came into MY work, not me into hers, she found me, I didn't seek her out."
Love took a deep breath. "You could have sent her away, you were working, after all. I would think maybe at your age, you'd know flirting when you see it and you would shut it down because you and I are married!" She countered angrily, a snarl in her lip. "Seriously, you want me to believe that you weren't thinking about fucking her while she stood there toying with her top button? You expect me to think that you just let her stand there in her short skirt because you were being polite?"
"Love, I-"
"No! Tell me, were you thinking about fucking her? Were you thinking about her fucking you?" She advanced on you, finger pointed accusingly.
"NO!" You shouted back. "Never in all my time being with you have I ever thought about anyone else that way! I wasn't thinking about fucking her, I would never think about fucking some random neighbourhood skank who doesn't understand boundaries. It's you, it's always been you, and will continue to be you until I take my last fucking breath!" There was a moment of silence and burning eye contact between you and your wife before simultaneously you crashed into each other in a mess of hands and lips.
Nobody else but Love would ever get to do this. Nobody could yell at you so harshly and kiss you so perfectly after. She yelled out of love and she kissed out of lust and the mixture of ice and fire was enough to make you melt in her grasp.
She pulled your shirt over your head with ease, due to much practice. She was still jealous, it hadn’t just gone away. Love needed to prove to herself and to you, that you were hers and not the neighbours‘. Her hand cupped your breast through your bra as her kisses trailed your jaw. You sighed a pleasure-filled sigh and threw your head back as she massaged and kissed you.
She took off her own shirt and with that, pulled you down onto the carpet in the center of the living room which was in perfect sight to the neighbours. The neighbour.
Her legs tangled with yours as she lay on her side, kissing you. She rolled you onto your back and climbed over you again, pulling your lower lip with her teeth gently. It was intoxicating. Love was extremely drunk on the idea of the skank neighbour looking out her window to see Love kissing down your chest, taking your bra off and kissing your bare tits. Love wanted that skank neighbour to see who you really belonged to. Who you moaned for. Who you married.
Love undid the button of your skirt and you shimmied it down your legs until it was off. You were wet, so wet, and Love knew it. ”You… are… mine,“ Love said with possession in her voice. You were practically squirming under her touch.
“Mhm,” you agreed. Love looked at you with fire in her eyes, eyelashes fluttering.
“Say yes,” Love ordered you. She needed to hear it. You were more than glad to say it.
You swallowed, “Yes-“ You’d hardly said it and Love already had her tongue on your clit. The chef, the baker, was tasting you and the best part was, she loved it. “Fuck! Love-“
Love knew exactly what to do to drive you crazy. Her tongue was quick and clever and the woman was small, but her power was great. You were almost screaming her name at this point, your back arching like a cat. Love wanted the neighbours to hear. She wanted to get that message out that you were for her and her ONLY.
And she stopped right before your climax. You almost screamed. “Who do you belong to?“ she ordered her reassurance.
“You,“ you mumbled, out of breath. “Fuck me,” you begged. “Please.”
You were naked on the living room floor. You were soaked and writhing and recovering from the letdown you were just given. Your chest heaved. “Fuck me, Love.”
She smiled a little. It was evil and devious. She kissed you again, hungrily. You undid her pants, she removed them. She rid herself of all her clothing she had on and wished that the neighbours watched her fuck you senseless. Your fingers ran over her soft skin while she kissed you, lips only parting as she lifted her leg over yours, finding herself sideways over you.
The moment you connected, you let out a small sound. Love bit her lip, grinning mischievously at all of this. How she had you under her, writhing. Then she began to move slowly, rocking her hips at the same time you did.
This was not a new connection she created, but every time felt better than before. Love learned quickly the first time you’d had sex that you liked when she had the power. You liked it when she fucked you.
Her vagina was perfect, too. The way she ground against you with the perfect friction, the perfect feeling. You wanted to grab onto something but the carpet was too tightly knit. Love rocked, Love moaned and Love squeezed your thigh as she kept herself braced.
The way her waist moved while she pushed against your core was so perfect, so rhythmic. The roll of her middle, like snake-like, but more like an angel. Devil in disguise, she was. Screaming, yelling, one moment and having you screaming and yelling her name as she practically fucked you mindless.
You’d tuned the sound out due to the pure chase of a climactic high, but you came back to reality shortly as you realized you were close. Love was breathing heavily, letting out small ‘mmm’s and you, you were loud. “Fuuuuuck, god please!” You exclaimed, nearing your peak. Love sped up her grinding and squeezing and a white hot sweat hit you. She moaned, feeling it too.
“I am… the only one… who makes you feel… like this,” Love breathed over you. You let out a loud gasp as her thumb found your clit, dually pushing herself against you and rubbing circles over it.
“Love!” You exclaimed, partly choked out through the sounds of your absolute pleasure. You’d give her more if you could reach her. You’d give her anything in this moment. You’d sign your soul over to her if she asked, though the marriage contract was mostly that. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You whispered. You were about to come undone.
Love, gorgeous as she was, threw her head back and as she removed her hand from your clit, she let her rocking movements become larger, longer, slower, and it was nearly torture, but the way she lined up with you was perfect and now she hit every spot. “If you look… at her that way… ever… again. I will kill you.” She said, biting her lip. You could tell she was close, she only but her lip at this point.
You moved your own hips against hers, watching the way she moved, still chasing your own high. “Never,” you whispered. “I will never.”
“Louder,” Love demanded. “I want to hear… you. I want everyone… to hear you.” She breathed out hard and moaned loudly. “Let everyone know… you’re mine to… use. To fuck.”
The words were nearly enough to finish you off. A few more thrusts against your simultaneously moving hips, and everything exploded. “Fuck! Love, I-“ you moaned probably the loudest you’d ever had, as you’d always been cautious of the neighbours. You fell right over the edge of your orgasm and the screams just loudened. Her name, your sounds, and the background noise of heavy breathing.
Love came a few seconds later, digging her nails into your thigh. The friction of your cores together slowed and lessened. You lay on your back, chest heaving and Love climbed off of you, back to between your legs. “No, please,” you said, but you didn’t mean it as her tongue pressed into you, licking up the wet that had filled you moments ago. It was almost a tease the way she kitten-licked. You hummed a moan until she came up and wiped her mouth.
Here you were, sweaty, naked, and wet on your back in the centre of the living room carpet. “Could she do that?” Love asked, gesturing toward the other house.
Still far gone, you shook your head. “Not in a million years.” You said shakily. Love smirked and leaned over you to kiss you. You could taste yourself. She really was the devil. Such anger into such lust was truly sinful but you loved every second of it.
There was a knock on the door. You snapped out of your trance. Love stood up, naked but currently pulling her big sweater over her head. You two shared a look, you still breathlessly on the floor as she walked toward the door. You stood up and walked yourself to the bathroom where you turned on the water for a shower whilst your wife who just fucked you, so casually answered the door.
It only took a minute. You just got into the shower and washed up and Love opened the door to the bathroom.
“Everything alright?” You asked as she entered the already foggy bathroom.
“Yes,” she answered. There was the sound of fabric hitting the tiled floor and the shower curtain opened to reveal Love in her purest form once again. She stepped right into the shower, smirking as her arms snaked around your bare waist. You kissed her, the taste of yourself still there, but this kiss was as warm as the shower water. Love smiled again, “It was the police, who received a noise complaint.” Her smile was evil. Evil but in the best way.
Random stranger that recently found your fics here, wanted to tell you your writing (especially how you characterize y/n) is superb Thank you for the food
some of you guys in my asks need therapy. I do love requests where I can tell they're mild self-inserts but some of you are giving too much detail into things you want and I feel bad because I can tell you're trying to feel better about things through fics
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