Scents - Slasher OC Edition
- Audrey has clearly adopted many of his mother’s personal hygiene habits. He tends to take about 1-2 showers per day, depending on if he’s exerted himself or not, or if he’s been to work (he’ll usually shower before and after). Sometimes he’ll take more if it’s absolutely necessary.
- Audrey prefers woody, “masculine” scents for himself. He’ll usually use a cedar wood or “forest” scented body soap, deodorant, and some cologne if he’s feeling fancy or needs to/wants to impress someone.
- Audrey smells like his personal care products (all of the above mentioned products, aftershave, any sort of hair products, etc), laundry detergent (depending on if he’s wearing fresh clothes or re-wearing them), sometimes cigarettes, and sometimes a little bit like a hospital.
- He’s definitely got a “man” smell about him, but it’s not unpleasant and it’s pretty clear he’s clean and takes care of himself as best he can manage.
- Much like his mother, he has had all sorts of jobs, but the one he’s been able to hold down best over the years is as a hospital janitor. The smell from work sometimes clings to him a little bit, but usually he showers after anyways.
- He’s a social smoker, but doesn’t do it too much as he gets older. As a teenager, he might have smoked weed a few times, but it didn’t interact well with his mental illness and meds for said mental illness, so he stopped eventually.
JAMES GARREAUX (ALIVE)
- James has pretty good. He’ll use a plain or scentless soap, or whatever is on hand.
- He works in a diner, and you better believe he brings the smell home with him. It’s not unpleasant, though-- He smells like the fresh bread they make at his work, and like delicious food, savory and homey.
- He probably uses an Old Spice scent of deodorant, and he’ll have that clinging to him.
- He tends to re-wear clothes a lot, which don’t smell dirty so much as worn-in, like his skin and like himself.
- Honestly, a little bit like weed. He likes to smoke in his van after work and on his days off, it helps him relax and take the edge off.
- Art supplies. James is an artist, primarily working in collages, though sometimes he’ll do colored pencils or watercolors to augment the collage he’s working on. There’s also always the chance that he might smell a little bit like photo developing chemicals, as he sometimes develops his own photos.
JAMES GARREAUX (GHOST)
- James smells primarily like dead leaves and forest. He’s very earthy and Autumnal. A bit like dead wood.
- There’s a lingering scent of blood, and sometimes the lightest whiff of rot coming from him. It’s not too intense, and it comes in waves. He smells more like blood and rot when he’s upset.
- Altogether not wholly unpleasant, but definitely not like anything really alive or human.
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Stoner Michael Ficlet
This is all the fault of @skinsharpenedteeth and that one picture of Vlamis in his own merch, looking like everyone’s stoner brother. Which is absolutely teen Alex’s type.
Link to AO3
Alex follows Rosa and her new, maybe-definitely crush Isobel Evans into the Evans’s impressive, Southwest Contemporary home, scowling. The promise of a lazy afternoon in the cool, dark shadows of the turquoise mines with his favorite disaffected friend had convinced Alex to call in to work, but by the time he made it to the Crashdown, Isobel and Rosa were huddled together at the counter, whispering and laughing, and making plans to “drop by” Isobel’s so Rosa could borrow some DVD, and Alex had officially become a third wheel.
The girls head into the kitchen for snacks—a quick stop having already turned into a movie marathon—and Alex wanders down a long, bright hallway, idly searching for a bathroom. He passes several closed doors marked with the personalized touches of private spaces: brightly colored floral decals and a freshly-drawn heart made of a chaotic labyrinth of looping lines Alex recognizes as Rosa’s work decorate Isobel’s bright bedroom door, while the one across the hall hosts a neat collage of handwritten quotations from authors Alex didn’t think anyone his age read absent the threat of a failing grade. The final door on the left, at the end of the hall, is cracked open, the room dark, but Alex can hear Audioslave playing at a low volume inside, and when he inhales he catches the unmistakable stench of bad weed on the air.
Alex pushes the door slowly open with a finger and steps inside, glancing around the dark, messy room filled with what looks like worn, secondhand furniture, stacked textbooks and notepads in every corner, and a pristine drafting desk with a sleek, overhead lamp attached, an outlier in the otherwise typical teenage boy space. There’s sunlight streaming in via a sliding door in the corner of the room, and Alex steps through it onto a small side patio shaded by a flat stucco roof and shielded from view by the outward jut of the house where it extends farther into the yard on both sides. On the patio to Alex’s left is a small, wrought iron table and a cheap, plastic deck chair, and on that chair is a boy.
When Alex had stepped out onto the patio, the boy had turned his head slowly, appraising Alex with lazy eyes, but he otherwise hadn’t moved. He’s slouched low in the chair, one leg slung open, knee up and resting against the arm of the chair. His head lolls against the slope of the chair’s back, and his feet are bare, the rest of him covered head to toe in black, from the beanie pulled low over his messy curls to his soft, faded sweatshirt and sweatpants. As Alex watches him, he brings his right hand up to his lips and takes a slow drag of the joint pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
“That smells like shit,” Alex says, and the boy huffs a laugh.
“Tastes like shit,” he answers easily in a low voice, licking his lips and casting an inquisitive glance Alex’s way. “So, what are you doing here, Alex Manes? You don’t seem like Isobel’s usual type.”
“Rosa Ortecho dragged me here,” Alex answers, and the boy laughs in earnest this time to some private joke.
“She’s definitely my sister’s type,” he says, whistling low, and a lightbulb goes off in Alex’s head.
Isobel Evans has two brothers, unofficially. Max Evans, keeper of the pretentious quotations, a shy, boy-next-door type with heart eyes the size of Texas for Alex’s other favorite Ortecho sister, Liz; and Michael Guerin, the genius stoner Max and Isobel practically forced their parents to take in when they found out he was sleeping in his truck. As a deeply mediocre student, Alex isn’t in any of Guerin’s AP classes, and the kid is so quiet he slips under most people’s radars, Alex assumes by design. But as Alex looks at him now, light, honey eyes and long lashes, soft curls around the edge of his hat and broad hands with long fingers, a perfectly crooked nose and light casting dramatic shadows across his cheekbones, Alex wonders if this is the first time he’s actually seeing Michael Guerin. Discovering, seeing, and losing his breath as Michael stares right back, a suggestive smile across his lips and his tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek.
“You, uh, you want some?” Michael asks, holding up the small joint, and Alex nods, stretches out his hand so Michael can pass it over.
Instead, Michael finally moves his body, shifting to spread himself open in the chair and arching his long neck, tilting his head farther back and pushing his beanie lower on his brow.
“Come on, then,” he offers softly, and brings the joint to his lips again, pulling smoke into his lungs and holding it in his mouth.
Alex should call bullshit, should tell Michael to fuck off and take Rosa’s keys from her backpack, let Isobel drive her home; but Michael’s eyes are soft and a little hopeful, and he doesn’t reach for Alex or make any sort of move to touch him. So Alex steps in front of Michael and slides into his lap, straddling him, and braces himself with both hands planted against the back of the chair on either side of Michael’s head. He leans in close, close enough to smell the citrus scent of Michael’s soap underneath the haze of weed, and drops his mouth open. Michael parts his lips and blows thick smoke in a steady stream into Alex’s mouth, the tip of his tongue dancing hesitantly across Alex’s bottom lip. It could be an accident, but they both know it isn’t.
Alex sucks the dank, foul-tasting smoke into his mouth, lets it sit heavy on his tongue and coat the roof of his mouth, and when his head begins to feel light on his shoulders, pleasantly untethered, he drops it back and releases the smoke into the air above him, his hands sliding onto Michael’s shoulders absent-mindedly, fingers finding their way under Michael’s beanie to wrap around the silky curls trapped beneath. Michael finally walks his fingertips up Alex’s thighs and curls his broad palms around his hips, pulling Alex closer with a soft whine. The joint is already snuffed out against the wire table and discarded at their feet.
“So,” Alex breathes, rocking subtly against Michael’s cock as he feels it fatten underneath him, “I’m more your type, huh?”
Michael grins around a soft groan, digging his fingers into the flesh above Alex’s ass.
“I’ve got good taste,” he murmurs, one hand coming up to wrap gently around Alex’s neck, guiding his mouth towards Michael’s parted lips.
“In guys, maybe,” he replies. “Not weed.”
Michael is still laughing when Alex finally seals his mouth over Michael’s, kissing him quiet.
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