_a/n: these are totally random and i pictured them being set around high school years. there's no particular order. simply just a collection of headcanons i may or may not add onto. i also added one(? maybe a couple?) of my headcanons from tumblr onto here
games and sweet nothings
(She steals his umbrella when it's pouring and pushes him in the pool during their class barbecue. And he's in love with her, he really is.)
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She steals his umbrella once—straight out of his hands, too. (even when he'd been sharing with her on their walk to her house because he'd been gentlemanly enough to walk her all the way home) She laughs when she runs away with it, infuriating him all the more because he's drenched in a span of nine seconds and she thinks it's funny. (when she knows he'd just gotten over a cold a mere week ago and he knows—man, does he feel it already coming back) And so when he catches up to her, (the damned girl had finally stopped in her tracks, large smile and large eyes to match) she holds the handle out to him. She says something along the lines of hey, a little water won't kill anybody, but he shuts her up by taking the handle and throwing it somewhat behind him and cupping her face instead. Now they're both soaking wet and she's incredulously looking at him with a what the hell? being slurred out and he replies with a smug smirk and a this is what you call karma, sweetheart before tasting her lips.
They both stay at home the following days to come, in bed with runny noses, heated foreheads, and no regrets.
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He likes his clothes, he does. He likes them better on her, though. By far.
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When she pushes him in the pool, it's all for kicks and giggles. He's sure to pull her in with him once she offers to help him out. She asked for it.
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She has a collection of her mother's lipstick tubes in every possible hue of pinks, reds, and purples that she never uses until he finds them in her vanity drawer. It is not until that day that she coats her lips every single shade and leaves her lip print pressed on his tanned skin between each change of tone, painting his body with her mouth and being successful in catching every hitched breath.
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He teaches her how to ride a horse. He isn't sure how he'd persuaded her to get onto the animal, but once she's seated behind him, squealing at every accelerating gallop and her hold around his waist tightens, his pride in his persuasion skills is the last thing on his mind.
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She dances for him once. It's only because he continually prodded her after coming across old, faded rose pointe shoes in her closet when he'd been trying to find one of the flannels she'd stolen from him.
"You were a ballerina?" he had asked, holding the ribbons of the flats up in the air. No wonder her legs were killer.
"Yeah," was her response in all sighs and pangs of nostalgia.
"What happened?"
"Life."
He nods at that, understanding and empathetic. He grins at her, arching brows and gesturing to get the message across. She simply rolls her eyes and shakes her head, the waves of her hair falling over her shoulders as she refuses. But when he does get her to do it (with guilt-tripping and—right, let's not forget—making her feel uncomfortable by simply throwing genuine compliments she hates hearing) she's a tantalizing sight on her toes. She twirls and twirls and stretches her leg much too far behind her. She's surrealism, a brilliant piece of art, a screaming beauty in gliding elegance within the small space of her lavender-painted room.
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She blames him that one time they'd gotten themselves locked in the janitor's closet, fully disregarding the fact it had been her idea to sneak into school after closed hours just because she'd forgotten her acrylics in the art room. They're mine and they're special and they were expensive! She'd exclaimed, on the phone to him, panicking when she'd already been near her house. She'd have thought he'd still be at school due to sports, but she'd been forty minutes too late. The thought of a conniving, little underclassman using her paints set her mind on fire.
And so there they were, sneaking onto school property (because he was Lucas and he'd pretty much do anything for her, but she doesn't know this yet) and trailing softly along the hallway toward the classroom. When they'd realized it'd been locked, he suggests what he knows, involving how Janitor Keiner keeps a chain of spare keys in the unlocked closet on the second floor. When she had asked him how he had been aware of this in obvious suspicion, it doesn't take her long to realize and then they'd said it in unison: Farkle.
And once they're in, she begins her search, moving past brooms and hanging mops and shifting her hands through bottles of soap and tools. And he does the same, jamming his hands into the pockets of the hanging uniform and allowing the door to close behind him. They had never thought of the idea of a one-sided lock, and when she gives up in all her distress and melancholic glory, she starts to twist the knob to realize that it's only locked on the inside of the room.
"Who the hell designed this fucking school?" she mutters before groaning and he whips out his phone to call the usual savior.
After a conversation that lasts approximately four minutes, he hangs up and replies calmly and collectedly, "He'll be here in an hour. He's still running project errands with Riley."
She groans again. "Nice going, letting the door close."
"We're only here for you, you know."
"We're only in this closet because of you, you know."
"Don't pin the blame on me for us getting stuck in here."
"We're locked in a janitor's closet."
"You're the one at fault."
"Am not."
"Are, too."
"Am not."
"Are, too."
And by this point in time, he's up against one of the beige school walls, her finger pointing at his chest as if she'd been threatening him. "Listen here, buddy," she starts, pausing when she sees the faint hint of a smug smile at a corner of his lip. She immediately transitions, knowing the exact game to play since she'd discovered the weakness at hand. "You enjoy riling me up, don't you?"
He hesitates, making sure to think before he responds. One slip up and it's all over for him. She might know how to play the game, but he can play it better. "I do. I find it amusing when I push one of your buttons, one by one."
He takes a step forward, and she's forced to take a step back. She refuses to move any further, and if that meant nonexistent space between their bodies, then fuck it. "Oh, really? What do you like best about pulling my strings?"
And they've stopped moving, mid-center of the room and her breath is at his chin and her voice is sultry and her finger that had once made a crinkled indent into his t-shirt in anger is accompanied by another, and instead they're crawling up his chest and to the strings of his hood. She immediately yanks his collar down, knocking the breath out of him so they're at eye level and his forehead is pressed against hers.
"You're treading in an ocean of sharks, Cowboy," and her lips are so, so close to brushing against his when she murmurs that.
"Well, I'm not in varsity water polo for nothing, doll face," he murmurs right back, voice velvety and eyes smoldering. He's never going to stop challenging her.
When Mr. Matthews happens to open the door (at that very moment and much, much earlier than expected) he eyes the two for a good second before shutting the door and calling out, "Just, uh, call me when you're done."
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"Being with you doesn't help me forget the bad. And that's not a bad thing, not at all. Being with you helps me remember the good. The bad simply becomes the accepted. And I think that's the best thing a person can do for someone. So thank you."
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He can't watch scary movies. The first time he'd seen The Exorcist when he was seven was the first time he had watched a horror film and the last time he had watched a horror film. So when she tricks him into the wrong cinema theater auditorium with her and tells him that they're seated to watch The Conjuring after having whispered cute, sweet nothings into his ear beforehand to stall him, he mentally decides that he's going to give her the silent treatment for the rest of the night. And when she catches on, she pushes the armrest in between them up and moves his hand to her inner thigh and watches his face go blood red in the dim lighting. And then she swings her leg over, pulling herself onto his lap, her silhouette blocking his view of the screen and her face only inches away from his.
"What are you—," he whispers, careful not to drag attention onto them. (and fuck he had already broken his decision)
"Giving you something good to remember whenever you think about the last scary movie you watched," she interrupts before embedding her cherry-buttered lips into his, the rhythm of her grinding corresponding to the beating of their parallel hearts.
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She tends to blast The Rolling Stones whenever she's in the shower and his favorite part is hearing her sing along.
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When class gets dull (usually due to when a substitute teacher plays a movie irrelevant to anything that they're learning) and half the students begin falling asleep and she starts drawing nonsense on the cover of her binder, he finds himself playing with her hair (the golden waves already have been resting on his desk anyway) and she would be too lazy to retort or even turn her head. She'll smile to herself and he'll continue and by the time the bell rings, she'll have had a fishtail resting on her right shoulder. And they don't talk about it, not really. It simply becomes a habit, and it's a good thing she loves it.
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Before she's his, he leaves her single roses—on her doorstep, on her desk, in her mouth, and once, in her hand. It's only after she's his when he begins giving her dozens at a time. It's overwhelming and reeks of too much sweetness for her to handle, and when she complains—enough with the roses already, please—she finds a single sunflower in her locker the next day.
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fin.