Taron Egerton Imagines

No Strings Attached?

Fully Edited

~Content Overview and Warnings~
-nsfw mentions
-swearing
-she/her pronouns for the reader
-AU: friends with benefits but make it unhealthy until it isn't anymore
-idk man it's kinda angsty but not angsty enough to just be angst

Y/N's P.O.V

The engine huffed and whistled when the car came  to a stop, a rumble shaking the seats before the system shut down. There I sat idly, watching the front door of his flat waiting for something to change.

Even as the shitbox silenced out after a few moments of shifts and cranks rattling through the bonnet, I stayed put. Stared at a car. His car. Looked at the side of the bonnet, a fresh looking scratch adorning the black paint coating. A scratch that wasn't there the night before when he flew by my apartment, but a scratch I assume he got after he left.

My phone vibrated with a pointless spam text that I had convinced myself for just a second was him. It wasn't going to be. It never was. I knew that. But I checked anyway.

My relationship with Taron really blurred the lines between romance and convenience.

As many people liked to point out; he was not my boyfriend. Every time the mere possibility was brought up it was shut down immediately, almost as if the scenario itself was preposterous. An abomination of his character if it were to ever get involved with a character like my own.

But we weren't just best friends. No. Friends didn't look at friends that way, friends don't know what the birthmark on the back of my thighs looks like, but a relationship didn't look like this either.

We were still friends, I think. Good mates who found each other's company a little more... comfortable. Companions who just so happened to know what it felt like to be beneath each other's sheets. To breathe each other's air.

It wasn't even quite friends with benefits. We would've established ground rules first, talked about boundaries. Given a shit in the first place to ask one another how it felt to lie in bed naked together for the first time. But that didn't happen. We never talked, instead he watched me rush out of his bathroom at 5:17am the next morning wearing his shirt to work acting as if this was what we did now.

I remembered how it felt when he first touched me, the burn beneath my skin and the ache dissipated from my joints, like he was a cure to these foolish bones of mine that I had been waiting my entire life for. I wondered if he did too. But we never talked about it. And if he felt something more when we locked eyes mid climax for the first time, he never said it. So I never asked.

We fucked. We talked. We didn't talk about fucking, and after some time one of us stopped giving a fuck about talking, really talking, altogether. The other didn't ask twice. We were just Taron and Y/N, nothing more, nothing less.

It's not like an official relationship couldn't exist. I was a girlfriend to others before Taron upended my life and he was a boyfriend to some lucky women before I stumbled into his. We were both adults, we could act like it.

Just not now, not in bed, not together.

I payed attention to the things a girlfriend would. I always noticed the songs he listened to depending on his mood. A bit of Bowie would softly fill his flat with music when he was happy and The Strokes would blast when he was numb. I saw how much he loves making people laugh because he loves the feeling of making people smile, and how he'll practise one liners in the mirror or on the phone to me just to impress a passer by. I always pretended to ignore his eyebrow furrows at the taste of his own cooking, by groaning in delight at the taste of his overcooked potatoes and powdery gravy mixture, because I knew it made him feel good to make me feel good with his not so good cooking.