Perks of Being a Wallflower
Jake Lockley x plus size fem!Reader
cross-posted to ao3
tags: rated T for thirsty jake, author does not dance but saw it on the tv once (i'm mostly kidding), mustachioed jake jumpscare (tagging for the haters), no use of Y/N
wc: 1.9k
fic summary: For Jake, a night on the town means sticking to the background, listening for signs of trouble. That all changes when he sees you at the dance hall.
A/N: still on the jake train and I am making it everyone's problem. just wanted to preface by saying, as a curvy girlie, i recognize that plus size folk are not a monolith. so everything in this fic is based on my own experience, etc. enjoy!
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Jake likes to keep his intel hotspots in rotation.
Mondays and Wednesdays he'll head to the diner after a day in the cab, refueling and checking in with his network.
Tuesdays and Thursdays he'll hit the bars. Weekends are mostly for driving.
But Fridays? Fridays are for dancing.
Jake's guilty pleasure is scoping out the dance hall. The clubs have their appeal, but there's something timeless about the hole in the wall he’d discovered a while back. Nothing special, just a cozy ballroom with a bar, tables lifted on a platform framing ¾ of the room and turning the dance floor into an inverse stage.
Tonight he nurses a beer in the corner, listening to a couple of seedy characters describe some suspicious activity at a warehouse he'd been tailing. But he hasn't caught much of their conversation. Truth be told, he's a bit distracted tonight.
Because of you.
He'd seen you come in with four other people, two couples by the look of it. He'd been immediately taken by you: while some patrons came to dance in jeans and t-shirts, you'd dressed to impress. He'd shamelessly raked his eyes over your form, generous curves hugged by the bodice of your dress that trailed down over your ample hips. You walked with a timid sway, the movement inevitable even as you drew your arms about yourself, settling into your seat with care at a table clear across the room from him.
As much as he's tried to fight it, his attention always drifts back to you: poised and pretty, eyes scanning the room as one couple, then another leaves you for the Latin-dance-of-the-week group lesson hosted like clockwork every Friday. The instructor drones on, but Jake is zeroed in on you: all softness and warmth, criminally tucked away from the rest of the fun.
The warehouse can wait.
__________
You don’t consider yourself the kind of girl someone crosses the room for.
That’s probably why you don’t notice the determined stranger making his way across the crowded dance floor, eyes trained on you as he adjusts his cap with a smirk.
You’re taking another sip of your overpriced cocktail when you hear an unfamiliar voice below you.
“Not a fan of the rumba?”
You finally register the man standing by the corner of your table. He’s handsome, you have to admit, his dark features highlighting kind brown eyes, creased from his almost too-eager smile. When you realize he’s talking to you, your words are still slow to come out.
But he doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s the mustache, isn’t it?” He grins sheepishly, dragging a palm across his lower face. “Knew it’d skeeve some people out, but I thought I’d give it a go.”
“No,” you say too quickly for your own liking, “It’s, ah– nice. Suits you.”
You’re met with a cheeky grin as he steps closer, eyes half-lidded as he leans in. “I’m Jake. Nice to meet a friendly face.”
You eye him warily, wondering what his angle could be. A quick glance around the room confirms there’s only so many unattached women surrounding the dance floor. You sigh internally. The game is always the same: keep them entertained until the girls they really want to talk to come back from the bar, or the bathroom, or stray just far enough from the guys they arrived with.
Might as well play along.
Settling back into your seat, you tell him your name. His grin widens as he echoes it with something bordering reverence, and you bite your cheek to keep from smiling too wide.
Jake props one elbow on the table, looking up at you. Seems like he’s not going anywhere for a while.
“I gotta know– you not a fan of the rumba?” He asks again, staring up at you dreamily. You don't catch it, your eyes flitting between him and the dance floor. The lesson is over, and couples spread out to dance independently.
“Hm? Oh, um– it’s alright,” you say with a shrug, arms wrapping around your middle again. “Just not a dancing night for me.”
Truth be told, it’s been ages since anyone’s invited you to dance. You’ve contented yourself with watching, although something deep inside aches for someone to ask you to–
"Dance with me."
You raise an eyebrow, struck by his bluntness. "I'm sorry?"
He leans in, both arms now resting on the table. "Dance with me, doll." His grin widens as he drinks you in. Your cheeks heat under his gaze, and you almost believe the admiration behind his eyes.
You press your lips together and look back to the crowd. "No thanks."
"I promise I don't bite," he teases, baring his teeth for effect. The slight gap in his smile catches your eye and you look away again. He's definitely a charmer.
"I…" you trail off, searching for an excuse but find you're hesitant to give it.
Your self-sabotaging streak wins out. "Sorry, I have to keep the table for my friends." You nod toward the couples you came with, each person settled in the arms of their partner as they stumble through the rumba on their own. Your frown deepens; it does look fun.
Jake hums and props his head on one hand. "Don't tell me you only tagged along to watch their purses? Not the best of friends," he adds, critique mixed with sympathy.
You almost tell him that this wasn't the plan, you were meant to have a date tonight. A date who suddenly couldn't make it once your friend had caved and sent him a picture of you– a snapshot you'd both hoped wouldn't "fatfish" but was flattering enough to entice him to commit. Clearly he didn't.
You consider telling him everything, so lost in thought you don't realize he's been saying your name. He calls you once more, and you snap back to the present, tearing your eyes away from the dance floor.
"Sorry, what was that?"
As you speak, Jake walks around the table until he's closer to your side. He holds out his hand.
"C'mon, one dance." He asks again, angling his head to catch your eye. "Please?"
The last of your resolve absolutely crumbles at the way his voice softens with every word. As if you have something he wants. As if you could reject him and make it sting.
Oh, what the hell.
"...Alright. One dance."
You didn't think he could smile any wider, but he does– tossing his cap onto the table and trailing a hand through his thick black curls, he's all crow's feet and smile lines as you accept his hand.
Jake weaves between dancing pairs with you in tow, until you reach the middle of the floor. Your eyes dart around at the couples surrounding you, but a gentle touch under your chin brings your attention back to him.
"Just focus on me, yeah?" His voice is still soft, keeping you grounded in the eye of the busy dance floor. You nod, letting out a shaky breath.
"Right, so–" Jake clasps your right hand and raises it to chin level. He moves your left hand to cradle his shoulder, and places his right hand on your shoulder blade. It takes everything in him not to squeeze the flesh under his palm; you're just as warm and soft as he'd thought you'd be.
He talks you through the basics, how to time your steps and the flow of each movement. Every so often, he’ll lift your chin again, since you keep looking at your feet to keep up.
You catch on quicker than you’d expected. Even though your cheeks are blazing, you feel yourself loosen up– your body relaxing, your hips swaying a bit more freely.
Jake can tell: he’s never short of praise and encouragement, and has to remember his own advice to stop himself from watching your hips the whole time.
"Alright," he warns, "here's something a little tricky-"
As soon as you feel his hand flex, you know what to do. You step out and deftly spin under his arm, hips swaying with a cheeky flourish for effect.
Jake barks a laugh of surprise, arms settling back into place as you complete the step.
You let yourself crack a smile. “You third wheel enough of these dance lessons, you’re bound to pick some things up.”
“No kidding,” he affirms, resuming an easy rhythm for you both. You’d think he was born with that grin on his face, the way it hasn’t faltered since he introduced himself.
One song bleeds into another, but neither of you notice. Instead, you draw closer together, your frame more relaxed and your heart racing. With every beat, you fight back the budding intoxication of the moment. Because this can't be real; this can't be something that lasts. No matter how many praises he showers, winks he offers, or lingering brushes against your hips, shoulders, seemingly anywhere he can touch you, you know you won't be hearing from Jake once you leave this dance floor. That's how this always goes down.
The song ends and you both slow to a stop. Slightly breathless, your hands trail up to Jake’s shoulders, thumbs tracing the fabric there as you work up the courage to ask one last question.
"So… is this the part where you go back to your friends and tally up who got the big girl to believe you were interested?"
Jake's brows knit together, his hands pressed to your shoulder blades to hold you steady. "I don't-"
"Oh please, you don't have to pretend. I survived high school, I can take it." You smirk, worrying your lip to keep your disappointment at bay. This was a nice fantasy, but you know how this ends.
The band starts to play a slower tune, and his eyes meet yours. In a flash of flexed arms and footwork, you’re suddenly looking up at him, body tilted back as he dips you. A cheeky grin is plastered on his flushed features.
"Doll, you misunderstand." He draws you back up, bringing you cheek to cheek as the stubble of his warm face scratches your skin. He continues, voice low and close to your ear:
"We're dancin' because it'd be criminal to leave such a pretty wallflower unplucked all night." He starts to sway in time to the music, still holding you. An invitation to stay, to do this all again.
You lean back; his rapt attention is trained on you like before, the warmth in his brown eyes seeping into your cheeks. Your face blossoms into the widest smile, your soft angles catching the light and making you look downright radiant.
"That's… so corny." And you laugh, a rich, uninhibited sound pouring from your lips until tears nearly spill down your cheeks.
Jake takes it all in– the vision that you are. His hand trails down to the softness at the small of your back. The way you quake from laughter sends a thrill up his spine, and he chuckles in turn. If he wasn’t holding you, he swears he’d be a little weak in the knees.
You rest your forehead against his shoulder as you calm down. “What’s one more dance?” You breathe, letting yourself move in time with the music.
Jake bites his lip and nods, taking your hand again. “Thought you’d never ask, doll.”
With a flick of the wrist he spins you out, eliciting another laugh from you as he pulls you back in.
The warehouse can definitely wait: his night's going to be spent drawing that sweet sound from your lips as long as you'll let him.
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A/N: when I say "brainrot," i mean i couldn't sleep until i set this gd thing to publish (don't ask me what time)
huge shoutout to @hon3yboy @chrissymodi-frost and @mrsnadeem for letting me ramble in your DMs about dancer!Jake, all my love my darlings <3
addtl tag list: @lunar-ghoulie @shadystarlightgentlemen @casa-boiardi
tysm for reading!
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