simple when it is sweet
simple when it is sweet
bandom, ~1400 words, PG-13, Travie McCoy/Victoria Asher
This is a sequel to the haves and have-nots and an AU. You probably need to read the previous fic for this to make much sense. Unbetaed - sorry! If anyone wants to beta this, I'd be happy to reupload.
Posted as a part of 14valentines, [Day 7] Sexual Assault
( Victoria doesn't go home with Travie the first night they meet. )
Victoria doesn't go home with Travie the first night they meet.
It's not that she's not interested - Travie has some pretty impressive hands and he's got a great smile and he just leans well. Plus, even though he is impressively stoned the first time they meet, he's really fucking attentive, noticing small things like the way that Victoria fidgets with her sleeves when she's cold and giving her his jacket, the sleeves hanging way past Victoria’s hands.
And really, that bodes well for taking him home. Experience has shown Victoria that attentiveness is an important quality in bed.
But she doesn't go home with him. Instead, they spend all night laughing and talking at Yaffa with Brendon, Jon, Ryan, Pete, Patrick, and Jon's co-worker Spencer. They trade looks and phone numbers and a quick kiss outside in the alley before Vicky walks with Ryan, Jon, and Brendon to catch the L back to their apartment.
It's not an orgasm, but it might actually be a little better.
*
The biggest reason Victoria didn't take Travie home with her is actually simple - she doesn't know what she wants. She's pretty sure she doesn't want a boyfriend and she knows that she sucks at one-night stands and somehow having the "regular fuckbuddies: your thoughts" conversation with Travie at 1:30 in the morning with six other people there just didn't seem that appealing.
Travie, however, pushes it as soon as humanly possible. The next day.
*
Victoria's phone rings loudly - having the volume as high as it will go is the only way that she won't sleep through her alarm. However, it is 8:30 in the morning on a Saturday and she hadn't gotten home until 2:30 and Victoria likes her sleep. Her family would never call her this early and she lied and told the café that she was Jewish so that they wouldn't try to call her in on Saturdays, so she has no fucking idea who it is, but she's pretty sure she's going to kill them.
Dead. Really, really dead.
As soon as she finds her phone, that is.
"What?" she groans, answering without checking the Caller ID. Whoever it is, they can deal with her being pissed off. "Whaaaaaat?"
"Well, that's a less-than-enthusiastic greeting," a deep voice greets her. It takes her a second to place it and then … Travie. Right, Travie. Sounding way more chipper than a person she was making out with just a few hours ago has a right to sound.
"Ugh," she groans again, rolling onto her back. "It's morning. Why are you calling in the morning?"
"Well," she could hear the smile in Travie' voice, the chipper fucker. "I thought maybe we could have dinner, but if you're too tired …"
"Travie, I'm tired because it is the morning. When it is no longer morning, I will not be tired. So, it's probably safe to say that I am not too tired for dinner," she says in a voice that seems reasonable to her, if more than a little irritated. "You know where I live. I'll see you at six."
She hits the "End Call" button and promptly goes back to sleep.
*
Apparently, Travie likes women pissy. Or maybe he just likes Victoria?
Either way, he shows up five minutes early, his hands shoved in the pockets of his …
Victoria stares a little. Is he wearing Dockers?
“Nice outfit,” she says, smiling. “Your mom buy pants those for you?”
“Shut up,” he says, grinning back. “Yes, she did.”
He wore his nice pants for their date, she realizes. He also brushed out his hair, wore his glasses, and brought her a plant.
“Urie said your place might need a little warming up,” he explains as he waters it under the kitchen faucet. “Plus, I hate giving people flowers. It’s like giving them something beautiful and saying ‘Hey, head’s up, it’s fucking dying.’”
“Thanks,” Victoria smiles, her hand hovering near her new aloe plant. “I don’t really like flowers anyway.”
*
The unsurprising thing is that Travie is really fucking good at this. All of it. The dressier pants that aren’t too dressy, the plant instead of the flowers, putting his hand on Victoria’s lower back when they leave. He’s assertive without being pushy and smooth without being creepy.
In short, Travie has moves. Damn good ones.
They go out to dinner, taking the subway to Brooklyn for what Travie swears is the best pizza in New York. Victoria doesn’t know about it being the best, but it’s pretty damn good.
They talk more than they eat. Travie tells her about growing up upstate, about his mom and brother, about the friends he discovered in high school who are still his guys. He talks about the music he makes and the music he loves and not much at all about what pays his bills. “It’s bullshit,” he explains. “Just doing shit to keep a roof over my head. I don’t care about it. Why would you?”
Victoria talks about her family, about the mom that she misses and the older brother who moved to San Francisco years ago. She doesn’t have a lot of friends to describe, not beyond the ones Travie already knows. When pressed, she talks a little bit about her art.
“It’s mixed media with video installation,” she says. “It’s kind of hard to explain and I think that artists always sound like assholes when we try to explain our stuff.”
Travie grins at that.
They meander through art and back to music, to creating and making things and, while Victoria is sure that not going home with Travie the first night was a good call, she’s not sure that doing it again is something she’s interested in.
“So I was thinking about what we should do next,” Travie says. “I’ve got a friend who is DJing at this club not far from your place. That could be cool, but … I kind of want to be able to hear you when you talk. And that isn’t AK.”
Victoria nods. It’s surprisingly easy to say: “We could go back to my place. You can hear there.”
Travie raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Look,” Victoria doesn’t really know how to do this. Nobody does. “Here’s the thing. You’re cute and you’re funny and you brought me a plant. You talk about music like it’s alive and you want me to talk about art and … you brought me a plant.”
“This is usually the part where someone says ‘but’ and lets me down easy,” Travie says. “But you already asked me back.”
“Yeah,” Victoria nods. She meant that. “I meant that. I’m not letting you down. I don’t think. I just … I don’t want a boyfriend, right? But I like you. And I would prefer that this didn’t just happen once. And I don’t know how to do that but it seems like it might be something we could figure out.”
So. Apparently that’s how you start a “regular fuckbuddies: your thoughts" conversation. Good to know.
Travie was smiling when Victoria started her little … whatever that was. The grin is now stretched all the way across his face, pulling a little at the Monroe piercing above his lips.
“I think we can figure that out, yeah,” he says.
*
They figure it out.
*
So the best thing about having someone regularly in your bed, beyond the orgasms, is that sometimes you can wake up to someone else making coffee.
Three mornings out of five, Travie is making the coffee.
He hums when he measures out the grounds, his naked ass wiggling a little in counter-rhythm to the music in his head. Sometimes, he catches her watching and tackles her back onto the bed. Mostly, he doesn’t.
So there’s coffee in the morning and sweaty, warm, wonderful sex at night. The coffee isn’t every morning, the sex isn’t every night, and Victoria still gets the evenings where she and Gizmo curl up together on the couch and watch ‘80s teen movies. Travie doesn’t crowd her, she doesn’t make jealous girlfriend faces when he has gigs in other cities. They both create - Victoria’s been painting a little again and Travie’s band has gotten a couple of good local gigs.
For the most part, they just. They fit. Sure, sometimes it’s annoying or they fight or Victoria leaves teabags on the counter or Travie leaves boxers all over her apartment, but mostly … mostly, it’s good.
It’s just. Good.
bandom, ~1400 words, PG-13, Travie McCoy/Victoria Asher
This is a sequel to the haves and have-nots and an AU. You probably need to read the previous fic for this to make much sense. Unbetaed - sorry! If anyone wants to beta this, I'd be happy to reupload.
Posted as a part of 14valentines, [Day 7] Sexual Assault
( Victoria doesn't go home with Travie the first night they meet. )
Victoria doesn't go home with Travie the first night they meet.
It's not that she's not interested - Travie has some pretty impressive hands and he's got a great smile and he just leans well. Plus, even though he is impressively stoned the first time they meet, he's really fucking attentive, noticing small things like the way that Victoria fidgets with her sleeves when she's cold and giving her his jacket, the sleeves hanging way past Victoria’s hands.
And really, that bodes well for taking him home. Experience has shown Victoria that attentiveness is an important quality in bed.
But she doesn't go home with him. Instead, they spend all night laughing and talking at Yaffa with Brendon, Jon, Ryan, Pete, Patrick, and Jon's co-worker Spencer. They trade looks and phone numbers and a quick kiss outside in the alley before Vicky walks with Ryan, Jon, and Brendon to catch the L back to their apartment.
It's not an orgasm, but it might actually be a little better.
*
The biggest reason Victoria didn't take Travie home with her is actually simple - she doesn't know what she wants. She's pretty sure she doesn't want a boyfriend and she knows that she sucks at one-night stands and somehow having the "regular fuckbuddies: your thoughts" conversation with Travie at 1:30 in the morning with six other people there just didn't seem that appealing.
Travie, however, pushes it as soon as humanly possible. The next day.
*
Victoria's phone rings loudly - having the volume as high as it will go is the only way that she won't sleep through her alarm. However, it is 8:30 in the morning on a Saturday and she hadn't gotten home until 2:30 and Victoria likes her sleep. Her family would never call her this early and she lied and told the café that she was Jewish so that they wouldn't try to call her in on Saturdays, so she has no fucking idea who it is, but she's pretty sure she's going to kill them.
Dead. Really, really dead.
As soon as she finds her phone, that is.
"What?" she groans, answering without checking the Caller ID. Whoever it is, they can deal with her being pissed off. "Whaaaaaat?"
"Well, that's a less-than-enthusiastic greeting," a deep voice greets her. It takes her a second to place it and then … Travie. Right, Travie. Sounding way more chipper than a person she was making out with just a few hours ago has a right to sound.
"Ugh," she groans again, rolling onto her back. "It's morning. Why are you calling in the morning?"
"Well," she could hear the smile in Travie' voice, the chipper fucker. "I thought maybe we could have dinner, but if you're too tired …"
"Travie, I'm tired because it is the morning. When it is no longer morning, I will not be tired. So, it's probably safe to say that I am not too tired for dinner," she says in a voice that seems reasonable to her, if more than a little irritated. "You know where I live. I'll see you at six."
She hits the "End Call" button and promptly goes back to sleep.
*
Apparently, Travie likes women pissy. Or maybe he just likes Victoria?
Either way, he shows up five minutes early, his hands shoved in the pockets of his …
Victoria stares a little. Is he wearing Dockers?
“Nice outfit,” she says, smiling. “Your mom buy pants those for you?”
“Shut up,” he says, grinning back. “Yes, she did.”
He wore his nice pants for their date, she realizes. He also brushed out his hair, wore his glasses, and brought her a plant.
“Urie said your place might need a little warming up,” he explains as he waters it under the kitchen faucet. “Plus, I hate giving people flowers. It’s like giving them something beautiful and saying ‘Hey, head’s up, it’s fucking dying.’”
“Thanks,” Victoria smiles, her hand hovering near her new aloe plant. “I don’t really like flowers anyway.”
*
The unsurprising thing is that Travie is really fucking good at this. All of it. The dressier pants that aren’t too dressy, the plant instead of the flowers, putting his hand on Victoria’s lower back when they leave. He’s assertive without being pushy and smooth without being creepy.
In short, Travie has moves. Damn good ones.
They go out to dinner, taking the subway to Brooklyn for what Travie swears is the best pizza in New York. Victoria doesn’t know about it being the best, but it’s pretty damn good.
They talk more than they eat. Travie tells her about growing up upstate, about his mom and brother, about the friends he discovered in high school who are still his guys. He talks about the music he makes and the music he loves and not much at all about what pays his bills. “It’s bullshit,” he explains. “Just doing shit to keep a roof over my head. I don’t care about it. Why would you?”
Victoria talks about her family, about the mom that she misses and the older brother who moved to San Francisco years ago. She doesn’t have a lot of friends to describe, not beyond the ones Travie already knows. When pressed, she talks a little bit about her art.
“It’s mixed media with video installation,” she says. “It’s kind of hard to explain and I think that artists always sound like assholes when we try to explain our stuff.”
Travie grins at that.
They meander through art and back to music, to creating and making things and, while Victoria is sure that not going home with Travie the first night was a good call, she’s not sure that doing it again is something she’s interested in.
“So I was thinking about what we should do next,” Travie says. “I’ve got a friend who is DJing at this club not far from your place. That could be cool, but … I kind of want to be able to hear you when you talk. And that isn’t AK.”
Victoria nods. It’s surprisingly easy to say: “We could go back to my place. You can hear there.”
Travie raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Look,” Victoria doesn’t really know how to do this. Nobody does. “Here’s the thing. You’re cute and you’re funny and you brought me a plant. You talk about music like it’s alive and you want me to talk about art and … you brought me a plant.”
“This is usually the part where someone says ‘but’ and lets me down easy,” Travie says. “But you already asked me back.”
“Yeah,” Victoria nods. She meant that. “I meant that. I’m not letting you down. I don’t think. I just … I don’t want a boyfriend, right? But I like you. And I would prefer that this didn’t just happen once. And I don’t know how to do that but it seems like it might be something we could figure out.”
So. Apparently that’s how you start a “regular fuckbuddies: your thoughts" conversation. Good to know.
Travie was smiling when Victoria started her little … whatever that was. The grin is now stretched all the way across his face, pulling a little at the Monroe piercing above his lips.
“I think we can figure that out, yeah,” he says.
*
They figure it out.
*
So the best thing about having someone regularly in your bed, beyond the orgasms, is that sometimes you can wake up to someone else making coffee.
Three mornings out of five, Travie is making the coffee.
He hums when he measures out the grounds, his naked ass wiggling a little in counter-rhythm to the music in his head. Sometimes, he catches her watching and tackles her back onto the bed. Mostly, he doesn’t.
So there’s coffee in the morning and sweaty, warm, wonderful sex at night. The coffee isn’t every morning, the sex isn’t every night, and Victoria still gets the evenings where she and Gizmo curl up together on the couch and watch ‘80s teen movies. Travie doesn’t crowd her, she doesn’t make jealous girlfriend faces when he has gigs in other cities. They both create - Victoria’s been painting a little again and Travie’s band has gotten a couple of good local gigs.
For the most part, they just. They fit. Sure, sometimes it’s annoying or they fight or Victoria leaves teabags on the counter or Travie leaves boxers all over her apartment, but mostly … mostly, it’s good.
It’s just. Good.