prompt: laurens keeps bringing home girls and the roommate reader gets fed up and plans to move out but john confesses something first
warnings: swearing, mentions of sex
word count: 1741 lol
a/n: two fics in a night LETS GO big thanks to my love @imdedicatingeverydaytoyou for being my sounding board (also bc she loves john) okay ily goodnight xo
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” You huffed on the phone. It was the third night in a row that John asked you to leave so he could bring a girl home. Mind you, it was three in the morning.
“I hope you get an STD.” You sighed, climbing out of bed and ending the phone call.
You were John’s roommate. Both of you were working, but not enough to pay the bills. After knowing him (and maybe liking him) since fifth grade, it seemed only normal for the two of you to move in together. Still, when you agreed to sharing an apartment, you figured you’d be allowed to sleep in it once and a while.
John wouldn’t deny that he didn’t feel at least a little guilt for continuously waking you up to have emotionless sex. After the night before, he had promised not to do it again.
Then he got fired.
It was something about budget cuts that he knew was bullshit, but he still went out to the bar that night. And he still woke you up.
You used the key Eliza had given you a few months before to get into her apartment next door, slouching down on the couch. She was tired of waking up when John needed a quick fuck and you needed a quick escape route.
Even then, you couldn’t sleep listening to the mindless moans through the paper thin walls. Twice you almost rapped your fist on the wall to get them to shut up.
John wasn’t always this inconsiderate. Really. It mostly started senior year. He had the biggest crush on you, but when he tried to ask you to prom, Taylor Jacobs beat him to it. Even then, he thought he could make it work with you. He tried to make you jealous at first, sleeping around with a few girls when he went to college. It wasn’t working though. You had started seeing some guy named Chad and obviously weren’t interested in him, right?
Wrong. You had wanted John to ask you to junior prom, let alone senior prom. When Taylor asked you, you felt bad. Besides, if John hadn’t asked you then, he probably wasn’t even planning on asking you in the first place. Still, your heart broke when Taylor forced his tongue down your throat and the only person you wanted to cry to was off screwing Miranda Lysol. It only got worse from there.
The following morning, after being sure that the girl had left, you walked back into your apartment. You nearly slipped on a stray jacket that John must’ve thrown in the chaos. You rolled your eyes.
You couldn’t help but be a little pissed that he had woken you up again last night. You weren’t sleeping much lately and he knew that. Your mind was elsewhere as you reached for the cup, it slipping through your grasp and smashing onto the floor.
“Shit!” You shouted, jumping back. John came rushing in, immediately nervous.
“Are you okay?!” He was panicking.
You rolled your eyes, “I’m fine. I just - I just dropped a glass.”
He bent down the second you did, causing your foreheads to hit.
“Dammit, John! Just -“ you instantly felt bad. His eyes were sad and you couldn’t help but feel awful for snapping. “I’ve got it. Go get ready for work or whatever.“
All feelings of guilt faded the second his jaw clenched at your words and he stood up.
“Fine. Do it yourself.” He huffed, walked towards his bedroom.
You outwardly sighed; fighting was exhausting and it was merely seven in the morning. Why was it that lately, your fighting seemed around the clock?
Before the late nights, it wasn’t like this. The two of you always moved seamlessly with one another. But the longer he stayed out, the more girls he brought home, the worse the two of you got.
John came back out a few minutes later to see you putting the last of the shattered glass in the waste basket. He tried to shove down the pang of guilt he felt as he watched you work alone.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“For what?” You snapped slightly. Part of you was angry with him, the other half of you just wanted to curl up next to him and ignore what was going on.
You ignored the cuddly side of you and gritted your teeth together. He opened his mouth to speak, but you had been pushed far enough.
“For waking me up? For being an ass?”
“Listen, I had a bad day too -“
“For making everything about yourself?”
“God, Y/N, don’t be so petty.”
“Excuse me?” Now you were pissed; all thoughts of forgiveness set aside for the moment. “I’m petty, yet I let you bring home countless girls without even considering myself!”
“Oh, you martyr.” He mocked, crossing his arms. You were pissed. What the hell was wrong with him? Did he not see how rude he was being?
You stood with your mouth agape, throwing up your hands in surrender, walking towards your bedroom.
“Good, walk away. Wouldn’t be the first time -“ he snapped.
Your head turned so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash, “You’re fucking with me, right? You’ve got to be fucking with me because there is no way in hell that you would actually be this much of an asshole at,” you glanced at your watch, “7:08 in the morning.”
He shrugged, “Sorry that I want to have fun once in a while.”
“No,” you snapped, “Once is a while is not what you’re doing.”
He scoffed, “Just because you haven’t gotten laid in a while -“
“Really, Laurens? You are bringing my sex life into this?”
“What sex life?”
You stopped. He instantly regretted saying it, immediately trying to apologize. You held up your hand to stop him, closing your eyes only to feel burning tears fall.
“I’m moving out.”
A week later, you were moving the last box to your car when you noticed a frame at the top. Inside it was a picture of you and John from high school. You had just started to get over your awkward phase and John was growing his curls out. You smiled at the photo, a little embarrassed that you still had it.
“That was one of my favorite photos,” John said, startling you.
He scratched the back of his neck, “Sorry.”
You shrugged, looking back down at the photo.
“You really don’t have to go,” John said softly.
You shook your head, “I’ll be pissed at myself if I don’t.”
“I’ll be pissed at myself if you do,” he retorted.
You sighed a little. If you left, you were risking your friendship. If you stayed, you were risking your patience. Then again, you never really had much of the latter.
“I fucked up.” He said finally, making you raise your eyebrows. He had started to pace a little.
“I should have never brought home any of those girls, I really shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have come home so late every night, I should’ve listened more, I -“ he continued to ramble.
“John,” you tried.
“I’m sorry.” He said finally. You tried to ignore the way your heart fluttered when he looked at you.
“It’s okay. There’s nothing you could say that would make me stay, okay? I’m leaving because I don’t want to lose you.”
“But,” he squeezed his eyes shut like he was trying to keep his tears in, “But what if by leaving I’m losing you?”
“John,” you started.
“If you’re going to leave, I need you to know that those girls meant nothing to me, okay? Those girls -“ he was pacing again, “Those girls were nothing more than for me to fill my heart because God,” he ran his hands through his hair, “Because the one girl that I’ve been longing for since middle school has never looked at me the way I look at her.”
Your brows furrowed at this and he looked at you, eyes wet and glossy.
“What if I told you that I’ve been in love with you since the seventh grade. Would that make you stay? Or would I be pushing you further out the door?” Your breathing was shallow.
“I shouldn’t have said that.” He said, his eyes locked to yours. Your heart broke a little before he continued, “I shouldn’t have said that because you probably think I’m toying with you. You probably think that I’m just trying to get you to stay, but honestly I just can’t imagine you leaving.”
You stood up, never taking your eyes off his.
“Because if you leave, I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.”
You’re entire being was fighting itself. Part of you wanted to grab his face and kiss the hell out of him. Part of you wanted to knee him in the balls.
“Please say something.”
You took in a sharp breath, “If you loved me, why would you bring those girls into our flat? If you loved me, why wouldn’t you fight for me? If you loved me, why wouldn’t you tell me before I’m about to walk out that damn door.” Your words were steady, but your voice was getting louder.
“When you love someone, you fight for them. You don’t fuck them over for the hell of it,” you said.
Angry tears were hot on your cheeks, “When you love someone, you tell them, dammit!” You were shaking. John had never looked so broken.
John took a step closer to you, “If I told you, you might’ve left.”
“So why now?” You said. Your words were sharp.
“I’ve got nothing to lose,” he paused, “except for you.”
Within an instant, his mouth was on yours, searing kisses pressing to your lips. John had his hands on your waist, pulling you flush against him. He held you tightly, scared to death that he might actually lose you.
When the two of you parted, your lips were red and swollen. Your breathing was heavy as you looked up to him.
Like I'm sorry mom nut not I'm too curious as to how you pronounce Andrea??? Cause my version is On-Dree-Ah and I'm suspecting it was An-Dree-Ah or On-Dray-Ah??? Okay goodnight for real I'll most likely see whatever you may say in the morning and either cry from happiness or plain split second upsetness??? I'm used to my name being pronounced wrong so like yeah don't mind me I'm a child that should be sleeping, but her mind is awake atm? Cause mind wants to be a dick? I'm shutting my iPad off xD
REST CHIL D (I’m away from laptop so sorry no draw :‘3) But your name is gorgeous no matter how it’s pronounced?? I’ll try to pronounce it correctly tho haha. I love your name, it’s gonna go on my list of hella lit names
He was not at ninety-four. Ninety-four was the whispered words, “Thank you. You were amazing.” They echoed inside Andrew’s head over and over, like they were an offering, a prayer, a goodbye, like they were pushed out of his body with his dying breath. It was irritating and he was going to bring it up on the bus. He was going to spell it out nice and slow how Neil needed to stop living like he was dying and start living like the exy junkie he was.
Ninety-five was turning around and seeing nothing. Not nothing in the sense that Neil was nothing, but nothing in the sense of panic, of worry, of standing on the edge of the rooftop looking down thinking “Would it hurt if I fell?” The space where Neil should have been filled with emotions that Andrew swore he would never feel again.
Ninety-six was finding his bag. It wasn’t the bag that held his entire life, that was locked away in the Fox Tower, safe. It was the bag that held his future. A future he knew Neil wanted in the way he clutched the key he gave him back in August. A key that was left in the God forsaken bag with Neil nowhere in sight.
For ninety-seven, Kevin was there. The other foxes were there too but the words Kevin formed with his breath passing over his voice box and the movements of his tongue and jaw, were the only things that mattered. Kevin’s mouth moved, sound traveled in vibrations through the air, hit Andrew’s eardrums, and then his hands were around Kevin’s neck. There were lies and half-truths and Andrew hated those. Again not in the sense he hated Neil but in the sense that he hated the word ‘please’ and ‘misunderstanding’. He hated how he didn’t hate Neil because of all the lies. And for that, ninety-seven.
Ninety-eight was the phone call that Neil had been found.
Ninety-nine was walking through the hotel door and seeing him crumple in agony. It was the hissed “Don’t” as he did his best sooth away the pain. It was the eyes that were Nathaniel’s with hints of Neil peeking out behind his irises. It was the look of a man staring helplessly as the executioner readied the guillotine. It was the words “I’m sorry” like he had something to be sorry for. It was his attitude that no matter how beat up he got, remained impeccably intact. And it was the question he still had the gall to ask: “Am I at ninety-four yet?”
But what if John says “Please, Sherlock, if you love me…” and Sherlock like spins around to face him and is like “If I love you? IF I love you?! John, everything I have ever done since the day we met is because I love you!”