_a/n: so i saw kick-ass 2 again. couldn't help myself.

oh, how the tables have turned




Dave runs his calloused fingers through brown curls as he sits with wide eyes at the space between his English and Calculus textbooks standing atop his desk – though that doesn't matter because his view is on nothing in particular, mind running haywire and focus on something else entirely. He doesn't notice the way he forgets to breathe when her words finally registers.

"Wait—," he inhales, grabbing the cell phone with his hand from where it had been perched between his ear and his shoulder. "What did you just say?"

He curses the way Mindy Macready could still have this goddamn effect on him, even when it'd been months since he's last heard her voice. And the fact they were only on the fucking phone – man, how uncool could he really be around her. He hadn't even spent thirty minutes on this call and he was already being taken aback.

She sighs, most likely in annoyance. But when she replies, her voice drips like honey.

"I asked you what you were wearing," she answers, and Dave is forced to wonder a lot of things.

Had she gotten experience in the months she'd been gone? (And if the answer was yes, Kick-Ass would surely have an ass to beat senselessly.) Had she rehearsed this line? Had she really thought about doing these kinds of things with him? Or maybe she was just curious at what he was wearing – like some stupid, evil, misleading, Macready-sneak test on whether or not he'd been wearing his superhero disguise. She'd sounded so natural. And he was so nervous.

(despite all the girls he's been on this road with – in his count, two.)

Mindy's different. As cliché as it might sound, he knows it. He's always known it.

So when she calls him up on a private number to catch up with him easy and quick over his life and how she's been doing without revealing where she actually is, and the conversation casually begins to die of old inside jokes, and she initiates phone sex so easily… it's only normal for him to flush red all over. Right?

He tries to be funny when his voice unintentionally cracks, "Are you really going to use me for your sex drive?"

She doesn't laugh, but he knows she's smirking.

"Dave," she says in all her smug glory. "You know that if I wanted to get an easy fuck anywhere, I'd be out doing that right now."

Momentarily silenced because she's right yet again, he unzips and hurries himself onto his bed. He hurdles himself out of his flannel and his T-shirt and his jeans before he throatily exhales stumbled, messy sentences. "So… do you really want to do this? Like we've only ever kissed… But I mean, I'm into it, yeah. I'm ready."

There's a snicker he hears from the other end of the line. And then her normal, condescending tone is present in the way she talks. "You're an idiot."

"What, why?!" He (almost) stutters.

"You kind of killed the mood, you know."

He wants to retort, defensively, but he knows he'll lose up against her.

Oh. And he's never really hated himself more than that very moment – those single lines of subtle rejection all because of a few, stupid words on his part. Standing at eighteen, his pride was just straight down the gutter with this girl, and he wouldn't stand for it. Not anymore. Kick-Ass definitely wouldn't.

Striking up every ounce of courage meshed with (what he assumes to be) adrenaline, Dave's lip curls up one side when he (tries to be very, very slick) slowly, murmurs, "Well, you know, it would have been so much hotter if you were actually here."

He takes note, with his improved observational skills, of how quiet his comment had made her for two seconds, until she gulps and her breaths hitches, transcending into pants. Light, rhythmic… pants. He can't help in the way he drowns in her breathing – in the way he wants to hear more of it, and the confidence that fills him when he realizes it'd been him to get her in this state.

"Really," it's supposed to be a question, but it's said like a statement. She sounds amused, and the signature curves of those plump, pink lips are puckered into something he can only fantasize about having on him.

He craves it – her voice, her mouth on him, encircling his shaft and thoughts of her tongue swirling makes his head dip back into his pillow as his eyes roll back in this refreshing, foreign euphoria. He bites his tongue after he thoughtlessly slurs the things that come to mind. "Fuck, I want you here."

He'd be lying if he says he isn't surprised in the way she doesn't laugh at his desperation. It's probably in the way her vulnerability matches him on equal grounds. When lust takes it's toll, she bites her lips, he shuts his eyes, and she tells him she misses him.

Their phone call transitions then, in naïve simplicity, and they both don't even recognize the change in the atmosphere when he tells her wants to see her. The tone of his voice is subdued in an unbalanced mixture of need and want (both greatly involving her), contrasting deeply against how enthusiastic they'd been just moments ago.

They're both lying down in a mutual quietness, pondering over what really could have been so easy –

and he wants to ask her when she'll be back –

(if she'll even ever come back)

but he already knows the day won't come for awhile.

So he cherishes this – this limited, restricting phone call she's rarely able to make. Dave remembers her question, and answers.

"Plaid boxers."

Her reminiscing comes to an abrupt stop at the two words, and he can imagine the way her nose scrunches up and her eyebrows furrow in a stumped curiosity. "What?"

"I'm only wearing plaid boxers," Dave deadpans, parallel to the way he forced her to repeat earlier on, sinking more into his sheets comfortably. "And I don't give a damn about what you're wearing, because I want you to tear off every piece of clothing on your body."

The Lizewski wishes he could see the way he's able to successfully catch her off guard, reddened cheeks and goose bumps all over. He settles with the way her breaths, heavy and hot, matches his through the line, and he finally understands why she loves making him so nervous.

He runs a hand through his head's strands of brown, remembering to breathe.


_a/n: rushed and wasn't re-read for errors. i'm terrible.

to write the smut or to not, that's the real question

reviews would be lovely, i'd like to know your thoughts/opinions :')