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mypimpademia · 3 years

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Shinso x reader, Mina x reader, Kaminari x reader, Kirishima x reader

TW: Swearing

Note: another part of my high school AU! I've been wanting to write for some characters that I dont write too often, and I thought this would be the best way, enjoy!

Thank you to @katsuflossy for helping me w shinso and Kaminaris soccer parts😭

Taglist: @myhoodacademia @katsuflossy @iiminibattlehero @ecao @nnnoya @hawklmaoo @strawberry-ice @mixfi @wolfkid22 @mythiccheroacademia @myfandemons @lilsparkyswife @her-majesty-kiara @mindofess @kqtsukisgf @1-800-s1mping @angiebug101 @mads-fairy @solar3lunar

SHINSO.

He's one of the people that genuinely perfers being alone most of the time

And hes very intimidating to most people, but most realize that he's pretty chill and cool if you just talk to him

Hitoshi would be on the soccer team too

Number 12 baby (Ronaldinho's number)

Hed play midfield, and have insane control over the ball

Hes calm on the field just like he is off it

But he gets a little competitive sometimes, might have to sit down and take a breather for a second

He sometimes ends up talking shit about his opponents, and he is NOT quiet about it

Will look the exact player he's talking about dead in the eye and say that shit

"I'll knock your knees out if you push me again."

And he plays a little dirty, might kick the ball around in away that'll make people fall on their ass just to get a laugh out of it

He steps on and kicks shins too

Hes really the soccer teams MVP, they went one game without him an lost and realized just how much of a key he was to them

Hitoshi sees you as his good luck charm during games, if you're not there he feels like he can't play his absolute best

Good luck kisses before he goes on the field are mandatory, if you dont give him one or forget, youre gonna get a very sweaty hug after the game

Hitoshi has only ever come to school in sweatpants and hoodies, and only wears jeans or something other than his usual once a week just so he can switch it up

He probably comes in with major bags under his eyes and smelling like coffee

And just a little bit late

He normally goes out to eat during lunch, and always takes you with him and let's you choose

You're honestly the most underrated couple in school

The loner boy and his gorgeous s/o, it's basically a real life wattpad story

When people try flirting with you, he tries getting his soccer cleats out on them and you have to stop him before someone gets hurt

Hitoshi is just underrated overall and no one but you and his friens realize, give him more recognition </3

MINA.

The really nice popular girl of course

But one of the popular people whose popularity actually means something for once

Gets along with basically the whole school

And she makes sure everyone knows she belongs to you and you belong to her

"Mhm, I've got a pretty s/o, and I love them soo much."

Probably posts you on all her socials (that the whole school follows) everyday

Mina has been in pretty much every club and team, which is exactly how she got popular

She joins as many as she can every year, but her favorites are dance and volleyball, maybe soccer too

For dance she likes to show you her routines, and maybe even teach you how to do them if you're down for it

"How was that?!"

"You wanna learn it too, babe? I could teach you!"

She's the captain of every team she's been on

It honestly just comes from her being so charismatic and the way she can get along with people and bring everyone together

Mina is 100% best dressed

Best everything honestly

Best dressed, Best hair, all that

She's cool with all the staff members, so sometimes the turn a blind eye if she decides to head out at random even when she's not supposed to

The two of you are Thee School Couple

Everyone wishes they were you guys or at least had a relationship like the one you had

Everyone would be in tears if yall so much as fought

So 10/10 for both of you

KAMINARI.

Certified pretty play boy

Hes a flirt, and friendly, and super popular

But the playboy act dropped once the two of you got together, because that's when everyone saw how much of a simp he was for you

Denki would just constantly fawn and gush over you, it would be annoying if it were anyone else, but it was just so cute to see him be so crazy for someone after he was basically known for never being tied down

Hes on the soccer team with Shinso!

Number 5 <3

Who did you think was calming Shinso down when he got mad??? Definitely not their other teammates

Hes the teams striker, and him an Shinso are so coordinated on the field together it leaves their own teammates in shock everytime

Hes a good sport (unlike Shinso), and is very friendly with his opponents

Wishes them luck before the game, helps them up if they fall, even says 'My bad!' If he accidentally trips someone, and tells the good job if they lose

Like Shinso, good luck kisses are a must

They're more like good luck make outs with him, and he usually ends up getting so wrapped up in them that he only makes it to the field by the skin of his teeth (he gets yelled at by the coach a lot)

He gets so god damn DIRTY on the field

And it doesn't even make sense because he really doesn't slide around or fall too much

He just manages to come out covered in dirt, and the sweat doesn't make it better

Oh, and even if you give him a good luck kiss, he still hugs you after the game

He doesn't do it to be mean, he just gets excited when he's on the field and has a bunch of energy left when games are over

Denki takes you to get ice cream after games. Shinso third wheels sometimes, but it's cool and not awkward at all because you're all besties

Denki is the most popular guy in school, and he'd be most popular overall if it weren't for Mina

You guys get rated cutest couple by all the students because no one had seen Denki simp till you came along and it was just too cute

Everyone wishes they could be yall </3

And half the school has beef with you because you're dating Denki and they're jealous

But you guys are still an adorable and amazing couple so who cares

KIRISHIMA.

The super sweet and popular jock!

Hes the older sibling to all the people younger than him and in lower grades

Hes on the football team of course

The quarterback too

Number 44

Hes that player that the coach is really trying to get a scholarship for

The one the coach pulls off to the side and says "son, let me talk to you..." and then tells him how far he'll go

Colleges are already scouting him

Most of the school is crushing on him honestly

But they all know that he's all for you and only you

Eiji gives you kisses before games, after games and sometimes when there's a long enough break he'll run and kiss you really quick

Hes a vv good sport, always wishes players good luck and says nice job after games, and separates any of his teammates that try to fight w their opponents then say sorry

It's usually Bakugo hes separating because hes on the football team with Eiji when he's not in Boxing

Everyone that's younger than you sees you and kiri as big siblings, and those older see you as cousins

Yall are just that couple that everyone loves

The whole school basically gushes when you walk in wearing his letterman jacket or one of his football jerseys

You're the couple the doesn't disgust everyone when you kiss in the halls <3

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shepherds-of-haven · 4 years

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College!Au of Shepherd members? What likely are they (i.e. jock, player in the soccer team, bad-boy, the clichès.)? definitely not thinking of writing an au, and im certainly not thinking of maybe making a small edit about it. nOt aT aLl cApTAiN

Hi there! Have you seen the college AU asks? This one is pretty detailed about what kind of students they are, and this one is more succinct with their majors/minors! But I’m always happy to go more in-depth about AUs! 😉

In my imagination, Blade, Trouble, and Chase were suite-mates freshman year and get an apartment together when they’re not living on campus. (Halek, Red, and Riel are also roommates and then Riel can’t stand living in a dorm anymore so he buys a townhome with his family’s money and allows Halek and Red to live there to give himself some semblance of a social life.)

Blade is the scion of a very wealthy family who’s expected to take over the family business one day. Instead he majors in Criminal Justice and--in my imagination--secretly aims to become either a detective or a prosecutor because he suspects his family is involved with criminal organizations. He’s generally quiet, solemn, broody, and troubled (just like in the game lol) and is only dragged out to do “normal” college things by Trouble and Chase’s persistence! He’s in the fencing club and also goes to a mixed martial arts gym off-campus, sometimes with Trouble, which also happens to be the one Briony goes to.

Trouble is in ROTC and majors in mechanical engineering, with dreams of joining the Air Force and becoming a pilot after graduation if he can keep his grades up. For some reason I have this idea that he got into this university on a soccer scholarship? He plays guitar and later gets a dog because fuck it, he’s always wanted one, and he’s rebuilding an old motorcycle in his spare time at this garage where his old school friends work. He definitely wears bomber jackets and letterman jackets like, a lot. He’s very popular and considered a “jock,” but a friendly one! He has an English class with Red and a math class with Riel, going to both of their study groups and then driving them crazy because he either doodles instead of studying or texts. Part-time, I feel like he delivers pizzas for some reason...

Chase is the third part of their trio and is more lax about his studies than the other two (which is a bad influence on Trouble). He does not talk at all about his family or home life and generally spends the holidays with either Blade or Trouble’s families. He’s an undeclared major and has no idea what he wants to do after college and is not worrying about it. He pays smart kids to do his homework for him, so he has an excellent GPA, much to the class president’s (Riel) fury. He’s part of a frat but doesn’t actually drink at parties, more concerned that everyone’s having a good time and making fun memories than he is about himself. He doesn’t allow any scummy behavior in the frat and secretly, on a whim, auditioned for a student play and is surprisingly very into it, to the point where he asks Briony and Trouble for help with his lines. After throwing a huge party where [x] happens, he starts a group chat with everybody involved in this story and it’s sort of how they all become friends, even though many of them already knew each other individually. Oh, and he’s very into Tinder, much to the chagrin of his other two roommates.

I think Briony, Ayla, and Lavinet are also roommates, and so are Shery, Tallys, and Mimir. Briony-Ayla-Lavinet’s place (BAL? Brionaylavi?) is Party Central, whereas Shery-Tallys-Mimir’s place (STM? Shallir?) is Quiet Coffee-Drinking Art Loft Sometimes Hipster Slam Poetry Book Clubs Central.

Briony is either a journalism student or a law student, I can’t really decide. She takes a lot of extracurriculars at their university as a way to blow off steam, including a painting class (which is where she met Shery) and a horseback riding class, because why not? She has been training at the same mixed martial arts gym since she was a teenager, and she starts bringing Ayla and Lavinet there so they can defend themselves when they’re not altogether. Despite her cheerful attitude and popularity around campus, she seems to be running from a past back in her hometown that she doesn’t talk to anyone about, not even her closest friends: an obsessive ex and a dark past are just some of the things she doesn’t want catching up to her. Sometimes she earns part-time money covering shifts at the cafe Shery works at.

Ayla is a journalism/communications student who will later switch majors to hospitality and hate it. She gives wilderness tours and white-water-rafting tours in the summers as a seasonal job and plays volleyball on the university team during the spring seasons and track and field during the fall. Her grades are abysmal and she goes to the tutoring center often for help, which is how she meets Red and Riel. She rides a Vespa around town and also attends the yoga class that Tallys teaches. Yes she wears leather jackets and occasionally beanies. She was too cheap to a buy a meal plan at the university cafeteria so she often skims from others or uses their extra meals before the week runs out. She is a lover of junk food and crams their apartment pantry with all manner of chips, soda, ramen, packaged mac and cheese, and etc! She also definitely games.

Lavinet is a wealthy socialite daughter of the CEO and founder of a huge conglomerate: think a Paris Hilton, but more grounded. She’s majoring in business and political science, being groomed to take over her father’s role, but she wants a taste of “normal” life before that happens. All of her rich friends from high school thinks she’s slumming it with the other kids, but Lavinet’s having the time of her life. She tries not to stand out too much, but she unconsciously does, anyway: wearing designer coats and sunglasses to class, driving a flashy convertible, and keeping her books in a high-end handbag, because backpacks are “schlubby.” She means well but can sometimes be a bit of a drama queen to her roommates. She also loves juicy gossip and eats it up! She has been known to take her roommates’ phones and flirt for them with potential dates. She has a popular vlog and Instagram account, which I imagine is how Briony’s dark past catches up to her. She loves to get coffee at the shop that Shery and sometimes Briony work at and always seems to have a latte in her hand. She can point at any given person and name what lipstick they would be if they were one. She’s fairly good at her studies and loves to be in charge of study groups and gets into a war with another girl who tries to ‘poach’ her study partners. She absolutely takes French and fashion design classes and heads all over campus turn when she walks past!

Red, Riel, and Halek live in what is known as the “Nerd House.” Red is pretty much always at coffee shops and libraries, studying and reading, so much so that he doesn’t notice multiple other students checking him out in his rolled-up sweater sleeves and messenger bag. He’s got a bit of an “Academic Hipster” vibe and definitely has hipster tastes in music and books. He goes to poetry readings at cafes (of which Mimir is a staple) and goes on a lot of first dates that don’t lead anywhere, giving him the reputation of either a really picky person or a playboy. Does he wear glasses? Absolutely. Is it because he needs them? Probably not. On some subconscious level he is probably aware that he looks smart and cute in them. Sometimes he plays pickup soccer with Trouble’s practice team (he played in high school) when he realizes he’s been sitting around too long reading and needs to get some blood pumping! He studies philosophy and history as a double-major.

Riel is the class president and later valedictorian of their class. He majors in math, business and finance, history, and psychology as one of the university’s only “quadruple majors”. He comes from an extremely wealthy family that has donated so much money to the school that many of the buildings have his last name on them. Occasionally he volunteers at the tutoring center, where his worst and most rebellious student is Ayla, who he vows to break. You can often find him in the music building, reserving one of the practice rooms to play beautiful classical piano, which he doesn’t like to play at home with his roommates around. He abhors eating or studying outside because, mysteriously, every time he walks through the quad, a frisbee hits him in the head. He is the head of a business fraternity that is constantly being pranked by Chase’s frat.

Halek initially attended their university as a Food Science major, but dropped out and now attends the culinary arts institute across the street. (His twin brother, Naolin, goes to a prestigious university across the country and is studying to become a doctor.) He works as a barista at the cafe where Shery and sometimes Briony work as servers: the one with sleepy eyes that you end up spilling your life story to when you sit at the counter to drink your frappe and study. Plays the drums in a band that performs at open-mic nights and owns a tank of fish. In class he was constantly falling asleep at his desk but has no trouble now. Definitely smokes weed in his room occasionally and has a litany of tattoos up and down his forearms and hands (and for that matter, Ayla does too).

Finally, the Art Loft trio, Tallys, Shery, and Mimir, who definitely have a garden on their roof and hang their clothes up to dry in the sun up there, which Lavinet for whatever reason refers to as their “solarium.”

Tallys is a plant biology major who aims to be recruited into the country’s top holistic/nature-based pharmaceutical company. She teaches yoga outside of class to make money (and Ayla and sometimes Lavinet attend her morning classes). For whatever reason I feel like she smokes and looks really freaking cool doing it but decides to quit after a relative has a cancer scare. She enjoys classical music and plays the violin when she can. She is shares cooking duties with Shery and picks her up from her job at the cafe so she doesn’t have to walk home at night, leading many to mistakenly assume they’re girlfriends. She constantly has AirPods/earphones in, listening to music, and rarely speaks to others outside of class. Strangely, she owns a flip phone and owns no social media.

Shery is a nursing student who loves to cook and bake as a hobby. She’s a natural introvert and prefers to stay in with her roommates, watching TV while she embroiders, or something, but one day she decides she wants to be more social and that’s how she befriends Halek and Briony. She owns a cat who rules the roost in their apartment as well as a hamster. She keeps detailed diaries and also writes poetry, but is too shy to share it with anyone, including Mimir, her roommate who’s an art major. She always wears pastels and very cute clothing and is a straight-A student. Her parents are pretty stingy so she works at a coffee shop, the Haven, as a way to earn money. She’s also helping with costume design for Chase’s play and rides a bike to campus and to work. She’s close with her professors and often visits them during office hours just to chat.

Mimir is an art student who’s making a big splash in the local scene, as she’s regarded as something of a young genius for her bizarre slam poetry and cryptic, surrealistic paintings. She often does readings at the Haven coffee shop during open-mic nights, and she constantly wears a hoodie, even to class. She paints her nails black and rocks that goth artist aesthetic, complete with dark eye makeup and black lipstick. She rarely speaks, but when she does, it’s usually to say something startlingly-insightful or incredibly mysterious. She feeds birds in the main quad on campus, to the point where they recognize her and will fly to her hand. She smells constantly of incense and can sometimes be seen rummaging around in trash cans on campus for her art installations. There is a mysterious cloaked figure on campus who rides a unicycle while blowing on bagpipes that also spew fire that everyone thinks is her, and she only smiles and fades away when anyone asks.

#aurynofhavens #Shepherds of Haven #AU #modern AU #college AU #college #university #all characters #long

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virtueangel · 4 years

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limitless.

chapter three.

wc: 1,972. original publish date: october 5, 2020.

Van Gogh switches off his phone, smiling to himself in secret contentment to have his best friend back. The fight didn't last more than an hour -- definitely their shortest fight to date -- but usually he's the one who has to go seek out Kennedy to make things right. Which makes sense: Gogh's usually the one who starts the fight so he should be the one to finish it. But it still feels nice to know that JFK cares enough to put an end to it all. Sometimes Van Gogh wonders if Kennedy is ever as hurt by their arguing as he is. Now he doesn't have to guess.

Van Gogh begins packing his carryon-sized suitcase, which is brown with black trim and scuffed plastic wheels. He's had it since he was a kid -- he used to have to go on his parents' business trips with them. They started leaving him at JFK's house when he was ten and eventually stopped leaving him with anyone at all. He had to learn how to watch the house himself once he turned fourteen -- he was a scared freshman with only one friend who lived on the upside of town. He never learned how to meet anyone new. Van Gogh grew so accustomed to being alone that he never knew he should meet anyone new.

The boy begins tossing various articles of clothing and his favourite novels into the suitcase. Mostly he just stuffs the luggage with underwear and socks. He throws in a pair of jeans and two solid colour t-shirts. He walks into the bathroom and starts shoving toiletries into a plastic Ziploc bag. He takes his toothbrush, a full tube of toothpaste (it's family size, but of course he's the only one using it), a travel-size hairbrush that he barely ever uses, and a minute box of floss that he'd acquired from the dentist six months ago, but never used since. He seals the bag and turns toward the door to walk back to his room, but decides to snatch some extra bandages out of the closet for good measure. He barely ever needs to switch out his head cast now that his ear wound has stopped bleeding, but the bandages might get dirty from outside sources and he can't have that.

Van Gogh walks back to his room and throws the Ziploc bag on top of the clothes folded in his suitcase. He crouches down to flip the lid and zip the luggage, but realises he doesn't have a real jacket and this thin and simple windbreaker won't do much good outside of the heat of the house. He unzips the bag and fishes the green fleece blanket off of his bed. It's still sitting in a messy pile. Kennedy never thinks to fold anything. Van Gogh fixes it into a neat square and places it in the suitcase. He crosses the room to his closet, searching for an extra layer more practical than a blanket.

He finally decides on a jacket after meticulously searching for the perfect one. He pulls it off the plastic white hanger by the shoulder panel. It's heavy, with its leather sleeves and fleece lining. It's orange and white, which is a hideous combination, but they're also Clone High's mascot colours. Van Gogh pushes his short arms through the sleeves of the jacket and models it in the mirror, the clothing dripping off of his body and swallowing him whole. He turns around to admire the back, which is his favourite part for some reason. Sewed in crude felt lettering are the initials JFK -- it had belonged to him in freshman year, but he'd tragically outgrown it that spring. Kennedy was going to throw it away, but Van Gogh had told him not to, insisting that there was no reason to dispose of a structurally sound jacket.

Van Gogh zips the suitcase securely and tilts the whole thing upright, taking one more sweeping look around his room before deciding he's ready to go. Well, he's not ready, exactly; he just knows it's now or never. He's never been one to contemplate that sort of dilemma and still choose now, but maybe if he doesn't think at all he'll actually go.

He turns off his bedroom light, blanketing the orderly knickknacks and tight corners under a veil of deep velvet. Only the moon, hanging high and glowing bright, lights the room through the window. Van Gogh nods in satisfaction, or maybe in farewell, before turning around to walk through the ocean cave hallway and out the front door of his house. He locks it with the key which is miraculously still hidden away in the pocket of JFK's jacket from the last time he wore it. Gogh usually doesn't lock the door at all. Maybe one day the house will get robbed and his parents will finally take that as a hint to stop putting him in charge of their most expensive asset all by himself. Who trusts their sixteen-year-old son with their whole house, anyway?

Van Gogh sits on the wooden steps leading up to his splinter-hazardous porch, elbow on his knee and head in his hand. He's pushed the handle of the suitcase down and parked it on the wood slat next to him. He waits for Kennedy patiently, but his stomach sinks down into the soles of his feet as the endless minutes tick by. Maybe his dads caught him sneaking out. Maybe he changed his mind about spending so much time with Van Gogh. How long were they gonna be spending together, anyway? Kennedy hadn't said.

Gogh's head is still spinning, swirling like moonlight caught in the infinite night sky as JFK pulls up. He's driving a flashy red convertible... not the most practical car for a road trip, but the only one he has all to himself. Van Gogh doesn't have a car. Even with his parents absent as often as they are, he still doesn't own something so luxurious.

"I started to think you weren't going to come," Gogh says in place of a greeting.

"I was packing."

Van Gogh looks at his own suitcase. "So was I."

"Well, maybe you should've packed more."

"I'm sorry I don't have as many beauty products are you do," he scoffs. "I'm naturally pretty."

Kennedy walks up the stairs to wheel Van Gogh's suitcase to the car for him. "That you are."

Gogh rolls his eyes, but doesn't give a passionate retort. His head drains of all thought -- including the spinning moonlight that dizzied his conscience just minutes prior.

"I don't need help with that," he finally manages, hoping his voice is frozen over enough to make up for the seconds of thoughtlessness. He lifts himself up off the steps and snatches the suitcase away from JFK, probably a little too hastily for how he's feeling.

"Damn, I was only trying to help."

Van Gogh freezes and turns around, painting on the most innocent smile he can find. "I know you were." He lifts the trunk of the car and hoists the suitcase in. He then walks around to the passenger side door of the vehicle and climbs in, clicking his seatbelt securely before closing the door. He stares ahead out the windshield as he waits for JFK to join him.

Once Kennedy is securely inside the car, he drapes his wrist over the steering wheel and stares out the windshield as well, seeing the neighbourhood from a different view than Van Gogh even though they're looking at the same place.

"So," JFK starts, and the sound of his voice almost makes Van Gogh jump as he's pulled out of his trance. "Where do you wanna go?"

Gogh stares at the boy in the driver's seat, his eyebrows knit together and a scowl frothing on the corners of his lips. "You mean you don't have a plan?"

Kennedy turns to the boy, his expression soft. His whole body looks so calm and relaxed. He looks like himself, but it's a different sort of cool -- almost... withdrawn.

He's wearing his letterman jacket -- the new one he'd gotten at the beginning of the year after outgrowing the one Van Gogh is wearing. His fingernails are bitten down to stubs, from anxiety, or possibly just poor hygiene.

"My plan is that I don't want to be here."

Van Gogh shrugs agreeably. "Then let's just drive."

JFK doesn't pull his gaze away from Van Gogh, and the shorter boy shrinks down into his seat with each second that passes. Kennedy's stare is so intense and serious that Gogh squirms under the pressure. He squeezes the side of the leather seat. It's cold, just like the rest of the snowy world. He wonders if wherever they're going will being having as shitty of an April as Exclamation! is.

"Put on the seat warmers," Van Gogh whispers.

Kennedy finally looks away. He seems to snap back into reality, not knowing he'd ever left it. He starts the car and it spits to life. He revs the engine and it whirrs, comforting him with its eager lurching. Van Gogh watches JFK's hand as he presses some buttons, illuminating them green. A few seconds later, the bottoms of his thighs are warming up through his jeans.

Kennedy sinks his foot down onto the gas, oblivious to the fact that the accelerator might disturb Van Gogh's neighbours, some of whom go to sleep before 9:55pm on a Friday night. In the part of town where JFK lives, the lots are all so big that noises can't be heard from other houses. Gogh's street is jam-packed with families, stuffing their single-story homes full to the brim. Sometimes he envisions the buildings overflowing, flooding the streets with unnecessary as-seen-on-tv merchandise. Maybe that's something he'd like to paint one day, when everyone stops worrying about him and overanalysing his artwork.

JFK eases off the gas as they drift out of town, exploring the unfamiliar landscape. The night is somehow brighter out here, despite being away from all the motion and the lights. They drive up a hill, slowly, the car wheels gripping the asphalt cautiously. Kennedy pulls into a turnout, a barren overhang with a view of nothing for miles and miles spread beneath it. Kennedy turns off the car and the headlights die along with it. Van Gogh's head snaps in his direction, his chest welling up with fear. The height, the quiet, the darkness under the moon -- Kennedy doesn't do any of this. They sit on the floor of Van Gogh's bedroom when his parents are MIA. They do homework or stare at the ceiling as they listen to music from a record player. Gogh doesn't know how to be silent with his best friend -- not when they have no other task to be occupied by.

Van Gogh opens his mouth, his eyebrows heavy with concern. Kennedy starts to speak, as if on cue.

"Just breathe," he says, and it doesn't sound like a suggestion.

"It smells like nothing," Van Gogh replies after taking a deep breath.

"No," Kennedy says, shaking his head slightly. "It smells like our world."

Gogh's expression switches from vulnerable to critical. "Our world. Like we own it."

JFK turns to him. "We can. We do."

Van Gogh opens his mouth to respond, but he's cut off by his best friend again. He makes a low shhing noise without turning to his passenger.

Gogh stares out the windshield at the unfinished map beneath them, and he wonders where to begin. They have the whole world at their disposal. Van Gogh wishes he'd packed darts to throw at the map, so he could plan an unplanned trip.

From up here, he feels like he could touch the moon. He closes his eyes and relaxes in his seat. For a second, he does touch the moon.

#clone high #jfgogh #clone high van gogh #clone high jfk

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artificialqueens · 4 years

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we might be hollow (but we're brave) [jan x jackie] - pinkgrapefruit

A/N - hey! incase you hadn’t noticed i’m in love with this ship and I had these lyrics and timestamps in my google docs for months with branjie but it just wasn’t fully fitting. thanks to Alex for betaing and i hope you enjoy it! let me know what you think <3

we might be hollow (but we’re brave)

We’re never done with killing time

Can I kill it with you?

‘Til the veins run red and blue

1 7 0 7 - 0 3 - 1 5 - 2 0 0 9

The car hums, low and hoarse as Jackie waits in the school lot. She’d offhandedly promised to pick up her english partner and all of a sudden she’s regretting it, twenty minutes late and low on fuel. She switches it off, flicking the key, and then back on again, hoping not to burn out the fragile engine.

She runs out of the school sweaty and flustered, gym bag slung haphazardly over her shoulder and for a second Jackie is fixated on the way Jan’s baby hairs have plastered themselves across her forehead. The smaller girl slings her bag through the open back window, watching with a smirk as Jackie cringes - sending a warm smile in gratitude.

They play the music loud and keep the air con on low, just cool enough to dry Jan’s hair without the native New Jerseyan complaining about how it’s warmer in the arctic. Jackie’s from Canada, she doesn’t really care.

Jan gives vague directions to her home as and when she sees fit, often directing Jackie to take turns she didn’t even know existed when they’re already almost past them. It drives the brunette mad as she abuses the car’s delicate steering, all to navigate the New Jersey suburbs.

What she does notice is they end up barely two streets over from her own house. A standard three bed, two bath, decent garden house that looks just as identical as every other one in the neighbourhood.

It’s painted blue. Jackie thinks it fits.

They spend the early evening reading excerpts of Romeo and Juliet to each other on Jan’s porch. The blonde reads on the porch chair as it swings aimlessly in the warm early spring breeze. She’s still in her cheer uniform and Jackie doesn’t have a chance to ask how she manages both cheer and soccer. Jackie barely manages hockey.

They eat homemade ice cream sundaes and watch the sunset over the eerie glow of the street lamps until Jan complains she can’t see the pages anymore and Jackie has long since stopped making notes on prose and characters.

They don’t talk about school tomorrow because they won’t see each other. Jan asks if she will pick her up. Jackie says yes.

We come around here all the time

Got a lot to not do, let me kill it with you

0 7 3 2 - 0 4 - 0 2 - 2 0 0 9

Jackie gets a text at half past seven telling her quite emphatically that Jan is running late. There is no question posed that Jackie can discern on the Nokia n95 screen - the glare from the early morning screen compromising her vision anyway - but she grabs her rucksack and the keys to the car and swings round the corner anyway.

She rationalises it by telling herself that it’s on the way to school anyway. It is.

She pulls up and Jan is sat on the porch steps in a pastel pink denim miniskirt and a glittery letterman jacket. She skips to the car and slides onto the front seat with a telltale squeak of bare legs on leather, throwing her bag onto the backseat in a way that still makes Jackie cringe even after two weeks. She smells of lemongrass and vanilla.

The blonde giggles and Jackie catches her mouth curving up in the reverse mirror, so she lets Jan pick the music and just focuses on the gear stick and anything else in her control.

She watches as the blonde sways to Fifteen by Taylor Swift, belting out the lyrics like she can feel them in her soul. They’re sophomores but they were freshmen last year and to be honest, from what she knows of Jan, she wouldn’t be surprised if that was her life.

They pull into the school parking lot to the sounds of Fearless and even Jackie cracks a smile at the way Jan is beaming. They have five minutes before they need to be in school and Jackie averts her eyes as Jan twists awkwardly to grab her bag from where it ended up on the floor, skirt riding up so the brunette can see the plum lace of her panties. She gulps and pulls out her well worn copy of Little Women instead. Not watching as Jan quickly reviews her AP Biology textbook.

“Thanks Jackie! You’re the best,” Jan calls as she slams the rickety car door on the third attempt.

“Anytime Jan.” And Jackie finds she means it.

You pick me up and take me home again

Head out the window again

We’re hollow like the bottles that we drain

0 1 2 5 - 0 7 - 1 7 - 2 0 0 9

Jackie’s phone vibrates under her pillow at one in the morning on a friday. They’ve been on summer break for a month and Jackie hasn’t really done much but she’ll admit she’s missed Jan. Until she woke her up that is.

She answers it with a defeated sign, tugging on her oversized Van Halen t-shirt until it feels decent even though no one is going to look into her tiny bedroom. The light filters through the window in a way that makes it feel like she’s in a weird horror film and she remembers why this is called the witching hour.

“Come over Jack, I’m bored,” comes the whine from down the phone and Jackie has to stifle a laugh even though she knows how much trouble she could get in for this. She sighs. She can’t really argue - doesn’t want to. She’s always been called boring. She doesn’t want to be anymore.

“I’m coming Jan, gimme five.”

She tugs on an oversized jacket and pulls a pair of gym shorts under her shirt, grabbing the running trainers from the bottom of her closet and spritzing a couple of squirts of sandalwood and shea from her almost empty perfume bottle. When she’s pretty sure she looks okay, she pushes up her window and thanks the gods she’s over the porch. It’s well structured and surprisingly easy to climb both up and down (her brother proved it to her last week) and she slides the window shut behind her as she shimmies down stained wood into the crisp summer night.

It’s not cold and the summer moon means it’s not dark either so she manages the walk quite calmly, feeling a freedom she sometimes forgets she has.

Jan’s sat on her porch steps in a pair of grey joggers and a black sports bra, draped in a tartan blanket and with what is unmistakably a bottle of wine gripped between her thighs.

They don’t actually talk for a while, just pass the bottle between themselves taking swigs of it like it’s water until Jan is giggling at a sparrow - the moon making her blonde hair glow in a way Jackie deems completely unfair. She’s ethereal, godlike in this light and Jan wants to tuck some of the escaped strands back behind her ear so she can watch the shadow in the curve of her upper lip.

She wants them to talk about boys, or talk about girls - to delve into who they are because surely that’s how you should spend wine time at two a.m but the wine is all gone and Jan’s cheek is soft on Jackie’s padded shoulder and somehow their fingers intertwine.

She starts humming something under her breath, something old - a song her dad used to sing her to help her sleep and Jan tugs at her hand to make her sing it louder until Jackie is serenading the sleepy neighbourhood with Mama Cass.

She shakes Jan awake just after four as the sun rises down the wide street. Their knees are stiff but Jan stands up, tugging Jackie by the hands into a hug. She’s not sure what it’s for but it’s welcomed and when Jackie clambers back through her window she can smell vanilla.

You drape your wrists over the steering wheel

Pulses can drive from here

We might be hollow, but we’re brave

0 5 0 2 - 0 1 - 0 1 -2 0 1 0

She’s clad in a hoodie and leggings when she pulls up to the big house. The party she was at finished hours ago but she’s told Jan to text her if she needed her and apparently she needs her so she’d put the heating on full blast and grabbed a blanket out of the trunk to wrap the smaller girl in when she came out.

She watches as she walks carefully out of the house, feet bare and stiletto heels in her hands. Jan slides into the front seat quietly. She carefully drops the heels into the foot-well and puts an awful lot of effort into fastening her seat-belt just right until she looks up at Jackie and something snaps.

Her eyes are red and raw and her lipstick is smudged across her chin and she looks so tired Jackie wants to bundle her up, hold her close and never let her go. But she doesn’t.

She places one hand in her lap and drives calmly to an empty house down the road, pulling into the drive and turning the engine off.

Jan is gripping her hand like a lifeline, clammy fingers twisted around soft flesh. In the light of the streetlamp, there are scratched on Jan’s bare thighs and Jackie gulps on reflex - choking back something that could have been a retch if what she’s thinking is true.

She takes a second to compose herself, brushing through Jan’s hair with her free hand. “You okay baby?” She asks quiet and still - trying to keep the situation as tranquil as she can.

Jan takes a huge snotty inhale, broken by sobs, and shakes her head. She tries to speak but she isn’t breathing enough to form words and all that’s coming out is a choked whimper.

“Hey, Jan honey, you’re safe,” she murmurs, “look at me babe.” She repeats it until the blonde will look her in the eyes, her cerulean orbs pooling. “Can I touch you?” Jackie asks, her tone soothing, and Jan nods slowly.

Jackie places a cool hand on her shoulder and feels the sticky sweat against her dry skin. The smell of cheap vodka, beer and mens cologne is filling the car and it makes her feel sick. She’s not a partier or a massive drinker but by the smell alone she doesn’t understand the appeal. She moves quickly, whipping her head around as she remembers the water bottle she keeps in the door. She places it in Jan’s lap and gently coaxes her to take a sip.

After a little while longer Jan rolls her shoulders back and squeezes Jackie’s hand appreciatively. She nods to herself while trying to find her words and Jackie rubs slow circles on her back.

“It, it was twelve and everyone was cheering,“ she starts, slowly, methodically. "And he- he wanted a kiss, which was fine because everyone was kissing and I’d joked last week that I’d kiss him so it was okay,” She pauses, justifying things that don’t need justifying, setting off alarm bells in Jackie’s head to the point where she’s mentally screaming and the story hasn’t even begun.

“But then,” she continues after a sip of water, “at like three, he pulled me aside while Jaida and Gigi were dancing and asked me for a kiss and I said yes because it seemed like the right thing to do.” She’s got silent tears running down her face again and Jackie wants to tell her she doesn’t have to keep going but she’s frozen in place. “But then it, it took a while and he took my hand and he put it down his trousers and he started kissing down my neck.” The words aren’t given tone anymore. They’re cold hard statements of fact that are rattling through Jackie’s ribs, making her fight every urge she has to vomit because Jan’s become her best friend.

“And I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t like him like that and I just wanted a fun kiss. But he made me touch him and I didn’t want that at all.” Jan starts to shake so Jackie pulls the blanket back over her, Keeping one steadying hand on her knee - steadying for the both of them. “So I pulled away and he called me a whore and then I trapped myself in a bedroom and then I texted you and it was awful Jackie. It was terrible and the worst part was I just wanted you.” She sobs openly but the tears run clear now - the mascara washed off her face and she seems lighter and that’s all Jackie could ask for.

“You are so brave Jan,” Jackie says with as much confidence as she can muster. “You are so brave and that man is a coward and a dick if he thinks he can do that to a woman and you are the strongest person I know, don’t you forget that.” She leans her forehead on the side of the blonde’s head and sighs.

“I’m so sorry baby."

“Me too,” Jan murmurs. “Me too.”

I love these roads where the houses don’t change (and I like you)

2 2 5 6 - 0 5 - 2 2 - 2 0 1 0

“Oh God, Oh God, Oh God,” mutters Jackie, knees bouncing, clammy palms on the leather seats.

They’re racing down the empty street, lamps flickering as they pass. If it was any lighter, neighbourhood watch would have caught them out by now because this is almost certainly not within legal speed limits for the suburbs. Jan passes house after house as they try frantically to make it for Jackie’s eleven pm curfew, the wind low and whistling as it cuts the car. They know the stakes.

Jackie’s face has turned a pale shade of white in fear of the reaction she will face, scraping in just under the time agreed. How her mother will react to Jan driving the family car back home, kissing her gently on the cheek and walking two streets to her own home.

They pull up at ten fifty-nine and Jan almost bursts into tears.

“See you tomorrow?” She asks softly, wistfully.

“Yeah,” Jackie exhales, tomorrow.

Where we can talk like there’s something to say (and I like you)

2 3 5 8 - 1 2 - 3 1 - 2 0 1 0

Jan makes Jackie pull over when she notices the time. They’re both too drunk to be driving and too sober to be alone and they’ve got the windows down as the sea breeze tunnels through the car. It smells of sunsets and saltwater and ice cream sundaes and Jackie’s hair and Jan is hooked.

The old car clock ticks quietly above the hum of the engine and the barely-there sound of the waves and Jackie finds pleasure in watching Jan’s eyes fixate on the hand. It swings around, red against the clock face.

Jan catches her staring and her eyes burn blue into Jackie’s deep brown. It’s a cold night but they’ve both pulled the blankets from the back seat and suddenly the blonde is aware of how small the vehicle is because there is not enough room between their faces and-

Their lips touch. Spark. Flicker. Ignite.

And then she’s warm and intoxicated and just a little bit in love but she thinks the dopey smile suits her - heads lolled back on the headrests, hands intertwined.

I’m glad that we stopped kissing the tar on the highway (and I like you)

1 6 2 4 - 0 2 - 1 4 - 2 0 1 1

Jackie drives them to the beach at sunset. They sit in the boot of the car on a picnic blanket in a parking spot that overlooks the crashing waves and it’s an illusion of stillness Jackie struggles to find anywhere else.

They hold hands because no one can see them - drink a bottle of champagne stolen from Jan’s Mom’s wine fridge. The blonde is bundled up in Jackie’s chunky knit cardigan and she looks warm and cosy and just a little bit like home.

“Hold me,” Jan asks, with eyes like saucers and a tone rolling in sugar. Jackie blinks slowly - capturing the image of her girlfriend in this moment before reaching to pull her into her arms. They don’t have much room but Jan somehow manages to straddle her - a hand on each cheek as Jackie grips her hips. The brunette bites her own lip softly and suddenly their mouths are pressed together and she’s not sure if it’s the sea air, the girl or a little bit of both but it tastes like magic and she doesn’t ever want to let it go.

“I love you,” she exhales into her hair - just above her ear.

“I love you more,” Jan whispers onto her collarbone.

“Sure Jan,” Jackie giggles, pulling Jan closer, burying her face into her hair. “Happy Valentine’s day baby.”

We move in the tree streets

0 8 3 5 - 0 8 - 2 8 - 2 0 1 1

“We’re only gonna be four hours away,” Jan mumbles, fingers finding Jackie’s with ease. “Why does that feel like the whole universe?”

They’re sat on Jan’s front steps - she has to leave in an hour if she’s going to make it to NYU for move-in but she’s not quite sure how to put one foot in front of another. Her life is packed up in boxes behind her but her world is holding her hand.

“Four hours baby. That’s all,” Jackie coaxes, “we can do it.” She says it with so much confidence but her bottom lip is trembling frantically. She got a place at Penn State and she’s happy. It’s what she wants - to be away from her family - to grow. Unfortunately that means being away from Jan too.

“Will we make it?” Jan asks - and it’s so earnest it breaks Jackie’s heart.

“Yes.” Jackie says. And this time her lip is still.

I’d like it if you stayed.

#rpdr fanfiction #jackie cox #jan sport #jankie #lesbian au #coming of age #song fic #fluff #s12 #pinkgrapefruit #tw noncon with unnamed side character #tw mild panic attack #still fluffy though #jackie comes from a strict household #jan reads shakespeare #hi i hate trying to make sense of your fucking tags. -v

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lonely-pages-of-ink · 4 years

Text

Four Leafed Clover

Feet tapping on the ground to the rhythm, my head bounced in time as I waited for the bus.

I leaned against the bus stop sign with my hands in my pockets, headphones pressing against my skull as music tied itself into my thoughts. The ground was dark blue and a young boy hummed as he skipped by, leaving yellow footprints on the ground that faded moments after he moved on. A lavender colored individual sat on the bench a few feet away, eyes closed as a song slammed into their ears.

I turn away to keep waiting, foot changing tempo as the next track played.

On the bus, I placed my head against the window and watched the world blur. Flashes of bright and dark colors sped by. Grays and pinks and clementine orange, my eyes blurring from it all.

I was used to it by now, instead closing my eyes to focus inward.

It wasn’t strange to see so many colors so early in the day, sometimes they were duller in the mornings but some people always had a melody in their mind. Sometimes a simple hum can explode with feelings, with colors and shapes I was subjected to.

The colors were manageable, once I’d stopped complaining to my siblings or parents about it they stopped asking and I simply pretended I was normal. Being diagnosed as color blind at an early age and then later diagnosed with CBS could alienate you from your peers.

I pushed up my glasses and squinted down at the message on my phone, ignoring the bright red and neon yellow polka dots seeming to shimmer on my phone case.

I had to get to my job where dozens of hours are spent wasting away and it colors everything black. It was difficult to focus sometimes, between running an underpaid job and juggling college classes, I often found my brain melting in my head.

Laying in bed as my stereo crooned into the quiet room was the only cure.

Snakes of mustard yellow confetti wiggled from the speakers on the ceiling of the cafe as I stepped inside. My coworker’s skin was midnight black and their eyes were only a watery shade of wispy silver.

It was only a fleeting moment I saw each customer's color that kept me entertained.

One bored looking man burned ruby red while a smiling teen gazed out the window with sea green streaks bled from their roots. A blue handprint on the side of their coffee cup or an ink-like blotch peeking out from their collar were all seen and disregarded.

Interesting enough to keep me alive, not interesting enough to harass strangers.

Then someone came through the door with a flood of colors.

Her hickory hair was tipped a vivid orange, painting a sunset up her neck. A zebra striped letterman’s jacket hung off her shoulders, a cropped moon tee shirt peeking out. Her eyes didn’t dart around or waver, they were pastel pink and when we locked eyes I felt my stomach jolt. Her fingers were a faded silver and a cloud of indigo hung off her arms like a shawl.

And I’d never seen someone I’d wanted to know so badly.

She had so many different things happening, colors vibrating under her skin and hues spilling from her mouth. The cafe was quiet but she seemed to make the murmurs die into a hazy silence as bouncing lights blinded me from behind the counter.

She ordered a blueberry muffin and iced tea.

Her name was Clover.

Complex emotions were stained all over her, switching so suddenly or writing an entire story before scrapping it and starting fresh right before my eyes. The sweat that gathered under my armpits and on my palms were embarrassing reminders to my social ineptitude.

I thought of Clover twice a week from then on.

I always hoped to see her weeping aura as I walked through crowds, no longer staring only at the ground as I scanned the sea of people with one-word feelings. I paused at every Clover I heard and looked into any look-alikes I could find. I social media stalked for weeks before giving up, before deciding that she wouldn’t ever enter my life again.

Dull grey bus with dull brown seats.

An aquamarine stain across a tabletop I was wiping down.

Maroon thoughts.

I ran right into someone almost a month later.

They didn’t move as I stumbled back and almost landed on my bum. I grumbled loudly and yanked down my headphones to chew them out for not watching where they were going, when a silver dipped hand gently took mine.

“Are you alright?”

Clover smiled down at me kindly.

#short story #inky writes

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creative-nightmares-37 · 5 years

Text

How to become punk

This is 4000+ words so it's a very long shot, and i made this a longgggg time ago but I hope you like it, at the bottom ill post his transformation!

"I don't understand it!" I sighed to myself angrily as I watched Patton blush.

What's so great about Virgil?! I mean I could be like that!

"Anyways Patton, I gotta go." Virgil says giving him a two fingered salute as he turned his back and walked away.

"Oh my goodness Logan did you see him?!" Patton exclaimed. "I can see it now, we're going to own four dogs, and our house it gonna be mag-" He starts as I interrupt him.

"I wouldn't look to far into the future Patton, your not even sure if you two at compatible ." I state feeling my heart break slightly.

"Plus he's no good for you, he's got a bad reputation in the school, and previous schools."

"Maybe that's why I like him..." Patton mutters to himself as he stares lovingly in the direction Virgil walked in.

Patton, the school most innocent kid, has fallen for the 2nd most bad boy in ringwell high.

And his best friend has to watch.

"His hair is soooo purple now, it's a great color on him!" Patton smiles growing red in the face.

"You know if you like him so much why don't you talk to him." I suggest putting on a fake smile.

"But I couldn't!" Patton starts.

"Yes you can, you've been swooning over him for the past two months." I say rolling my eyes.

"Will you come with me then? I need a wingman." He pleas

"If it will make you happy." I say knowing he doesn't know the double meaning to that statement.

"Awe thank you Lo!!" He says as I lead the way to Virgil.

"Hey teach, hey pat." Virgil states leaning back against the wall.

"Hey Virgil!" Patton smiles, as they quickly start to talk.

Soon I see a tall figure, covered with tattoos, hair in a Fo-hawk. Wearing a jean jacket with the arms ripped off combat boots and ripped jeans. Devan, the reason why Virgil is the 2nd biggest bad boy of the school.

"Hey Virgil." He says voice deep. "who's this?" He asks raising a brow at Patton, and I can see his heart skip a beat,

"I'm p-Patton." He states flustered

"And I'm Logan." I state as Devan nods his head.

"Well do you want to ditch next period. Virgil?" He asks as Virgil nods.

"Sure thing Dee."

"I'm going to get a new tattoo, I'm thinking snake scales right here." I says turning his head and pointing at his neck.

"That's sweet! I think imma get a thunderstorm, or something" Virgil states as he licks his snake bites on his lips.

"Well I'll see you two around." Devan says giving a wink to Patton and I can see his breathing quicken.

"Sure thing." He blushes as the other two walk away.

"He was sooooo hot! I would let him fu-"

"Don't finish that sentence" I sigh trying not to sound sad as I fix my glasses.

So Patton as a thing for bad boys huh, well I guess that is do able.

"He Logan, I'm gonna be gone next week, my cousin is getting married!" Patton smiles as my heart explodes.

"That's fine, I'll pick you up when your back." I state as he nods happily.

(Next week)

"Virgil I need your help." I state as he glances up at me.

"With????"

"I need to be more like you, Patton has a thing for bad boys and-" I start but get interrupted

"You have a thing for him, and trust me I can tell he likes bad boys." He laughs "but don't worry I got you covered." He states as relief washes over me.

"But under one condition." Virgil states as my stomach sinks. "You need to help me with Mr. popular over there He states pointing over at Roman Prince.

"Why that moron?" I think out loud as Virgil blushes.

"I don't know, maybe it's because he's a moron, but you get him to at least befriend me, and I'll give you a free ride into Patton's heart". He states before mumbling "since h- a- does"

"What did you say? Ya know nevermind, you have a deal." I say as Patton's smile flashes through my mind. "I bet I could do it within 30 minuets." I state confidently as Virgil stares at me strangely

"If you can I'll even teach you how to build and ride a motorcycle." He laughs not believing I'm my capability's and Romans arrogance with his overwhelming lack of common sense.

Oddly enough I'm pretty good friend with Roman, although it's safe to say I'm probably the Biggest nobody in the school, and he's the one who's got everyone around his finger, we make a pretty good team.

I make my way over, as a smile grows on my face "oh Mr. Popular." I say in a goofy voice as he turns around with a smirk.

"Oh great it's Einstein himself." He says putting on a face of disgust and I laugh. "What's up lo?" He asks.

"Can I talk to you for a bit?" I ask as he nods his head and waved goodbye to his friends.

"You good?" He asks In a soft voice as I nod.

"I just got a few questions for ya that's all." I shrug "first what's your favorite color

"Purple? Why?"

"Do you like guys?" I ask

"Wow big jump okay..."

"Oh shut it, i think i know the answer." I state slapping his arm as he chuckled under his breath.

"and uhh yeah I've been openly bi for a few months, I can't believe I didn't tell you." He laughs awkwardly.

"What do you think of Virgil August?" I ask

"I've never talked to him, he seems kinda Unapproachable." Thats what he says about everyone he likes, he uses it as an excuse, even tho he knows he cab talk to anyone.

"Hmm, what about look wise." I ask knowing he won't catch on.

He turns around full 180° and checks Virgil out in the least subtle way possible. "He's a cutie, I guess. But I adore his piercings."

"Wanna meet him?" I say alittle surprise on how he hasn't even guessed why I'm asking all of theses questions revolving around the angsty bad boy.

"Alright." He shrugs as we make our way over to the dark dressed teen.

"Virgil this is Roman, Roman, Virgil." I state as he looks at me surprised.

"Hey, your the receiver on the football team right?" Virgil asks as he doesn't know.

"And your the kid who plays the guitar before and after school." Roman says giving his, what the girls call it 'heart stealing smile' and I can tell it worked on Mr. bad boy over here.

"Uhh yeah." Virgil blushes. "I didn't think anyone heard that." He states bringing his hand to his neck and rubbing it nervously.

"Your really good, Is love to hear you play sometime." Roman claims casually as Virgil shrugs

"Roman! Come here!" I hear josh call as Roman holds up a finger telling him to wait.

"Here." Roman says pulling a sharpie out of his letterman's jacket as he grabs Virgil's hand and taking off the lid.

"Give me a call, maybe we could see a movie sometime." He smiles as he finishes writing his number and just as he leaves he turns around waves us goodbye and gives Virgil a wink.

"Holy shit you did it. Holy fuck I have his number, holy damn he wants to take me to a movie." Virgil fangirls

"Holy hell, can you say holy one more time?" I laugh as Virgil rolled his eyes.

"Well, lets make Patton fall for you harder than I can fall down the highschool stairs."

I laugh as I remember Virgil staring at Mr. Royal pain, not paying attention to the snow covering the steps, as be sails down the stairs spraining his wrist as be almost manages to do a hand stand only to flip over the rail to the other half of the stairs. And somehow I was the only one who saw it.

"Alright Logan, now that you've built one, now you need to learn how to ride one." Virgil sighs as I look at my hands covered in oil and other substances.

"Can I you know, wash up first?" I ask wiping my hair out of my face.

" No you gotta learn now dammit." He states with a smile.

"Uh alright." I state akwardly. "Ohhh you were using sarcasm weren't you?" I say as it clicks.

"Yes, yes I was." He says shaking his head, but once you've learned how to ride, we will do something about this." I states pointing me up and down.

"I'm thinking electric blue." He mumbles outloud.

"You know if it makes patton, share similar, feelings I'll do it." I sigh

"You do know you shouldn't have to change for him, he should like you for you." Virgil states uneasy.

"That's the thing, no one is going to want to date a super computer with no style." I state.

"Well, I'll do this for you, but I'm not going to have you do the permanent stuff, just in case you ever want to go back." He states as we make our way inside to get washed up.

After an hour of relaxing I hear Virgil call my name.

"Let's teach this nerd how to ride!" He laughs as I walk into the living room rolling my eyes, knowing full well he's just teasing.

I follow him out side to see the motorcycle I built, and his.

"So what have you driven?" He asks

"A car and a Moped" I shrugged as he lets out a snicker

"So you've driven a gay motorcycle?" He laughs." As I nod laughing with him. "Don't worry I've driven one too, but atleast you should be decent at riding this bad boy."

"If you say so." I claim as I climb onto my bike."

"So when riding your right hand is responsible for two crucial functions, acceleration and braking." He begins to explain "remember that a little twist on the throttle goes along way, you'll find that out when you find your ass on the pavement."

"You have to be smooth when pressing the brakes, if not you can and will skid and cause an accident if you push the brake to quickly." He states moving over to the other side of the bike "but if you are going to use your rear break right here, you are going to have to multitask and use your foot, this is the most effective way of stopping." He explains while I make a mental note to use that one more often.

"The clutch on the motorcycle is very similar to a car." He starts pointing at it. "You must brake slightly when switching gears, so your bike won't rattle. But finding neutralwitg your left foot will get some getting used to, make it a habit to clutch every time you switch." He stated as he grabs the clutch and puts it in neutral.

"That about it, now go to first gear and ride."He states walking over to his bike.

I take a deep breath in as I slowly let go of the break, hold down the clutch as I make it into first gear, and I start off down the dirt road.

Slowly it becomes more natural, me using my left foot gets easier and I'm learning how to use the brakes without almost flipping the bike. After a few hours of riding around me and Virgil decide to call it a night.

"You did good," he stays with surprise In his voice "better than my first go."

"Thanks!" I smile at him as I walk inside and flop on the couch.

"I say when we wake up in the morning, we go get some bleach and box dye, and mix up your wardrobe alright." He says throwing me a few blankets and pillows.

"Thanks Virgil, really."

"Anytime, plus you got me a date with Mr. Roman Prince so I might as well." He laughs slightly, " if ya need anything holler, I'm probably gonna be awake till, three."

"Alright But you should sleep more, really." I state

"Oh god your beginning to sound like my mother." He scoffs lightheartedly as he walks into his room.

I pull out my phone to see a text from Patton,

Hey lo, my flight will be here at 10:30am on Thursday, I know your going to be at school. But I'm hoping you can still pick me up

Yeah that should be fine, and you know how you were telling I should change up my style?

Yeah! Omg did you do it,? What are you going for?! I think you would look fantastic with a piercing or two!! Or like a jean jacket!!

You'll see, let's just say I've picked up a few tips from our neighborhood edge lord.

Omg I'm so exited, I can already imagine what your going to look like!!

Yeah anyways I'm gonna head to bed I'll see you in a few days, goodnight Patton.

Goodnight lo, I have something ive wanted to tell you, but since your suprising me, I can wait.❤️

Strange he normally doesn't send hearts to me. I think as I feel my heat rate increasing. he's probably is just excited to see me all 'punked up' I think to myself as I plug in my phone and allow myself to fall into a peaceful sleep

I wake up at a semi reasonable time, later than I normally sleep.

I sit up and rub the sleep out of my eyes before realizing that I slept in my clothes from before.

I stand up, and make my way into the kitchen to see a note.

I'm guessing you wake up early so if you so eat what ever, I'll be up around one, if you want you can continue practicing riding

-V

10 isn't early. I think to myself shrugging as I open the fridge and decide to make myself some egg toast. I'll make Virgil some before he wakes up.

After about 15 minutes it's done yet food isn't really on my mind. All I can think about is patton. His smile, his laugh, his very sexual innuendos that are actually funny, how he's been by my side since day one. I love it how his curly hair springs back up when he pulls on them. The freckles that line his glasses, his dimples. He bright emerald eyes. He, in my eyes is the definition of perfect. But I'm worried he won't like me, even after I change for him, after all I'm just... me

My hair is a taupe brown, messily combed back, so strands naturally fall in my face. Brown eyes, they sometimes look gold but they aren't anything impressive. I'm tall, lanky, boring. My smile doesn't light up a room. My laugh isn't the best. Patton is everything I'm not, so why am I trying so hard to 'win him over?'

I sigh as I push my plate to the side, I know I'm in too deep, plus Patton already knows that my look is going to change so I might as well.

I sit in the same spot at the breakfast bar, pondering, the 'What ifs' and all the possible endings if we got together, having some be a magical fantasy others, heart breaking friendship ruining endings . Apparently I was sitting here for a long time since Virgil stumbled into the room pulling out the milk from the fridge.

"Logan I can feel your doubt in my sleep, what's up?" He asks with purple hair flying every which way.

"I don't know, I feel like even after I change, Patton's still not gonna like me." I explain as Virgil laughs slightly

"Are you Fucking me right now? Patton only ever talks about you!" He exclaims. "He May not know it but I can see that he is head over heals, believe it or not Patton is always happier when your around. He blushed when he retells the adventures you've been on, like I said were not doing anything to permanent, just making you pop, so everything clicks for him." Virgil says trying to lighten my mood.

"But how do you know, all we know is he loves me platonically, Patton likes bad boys, and guess what I'm not." I huff as Virgil rolls his eyes as the doorbell rings.

" Uhh I'll be right back, but this conversation is not over." Virgil states as he stands up and swings open the door to see Roman standing confidently, hair styled to his perfection, while Virgil is standing embarrassed, hair like a train wreck, purple pajama bottoms with storm clouds, and shirt less.

"Uhh her Roman!" I hear Virgil squeak out "I didn't know you were coming."

"Well I wanted to surprise you!" Roman laughs as Virgil pats down his bed head. "Trust me you look great." Roman complements as Virgil opens the door letting the taller In

"Hey lo! What's up?" Roman asks as he slides into the chair next to mine.

"The ceiling." I shrug. As he give me a small smile and shakes his head.

"You ready for your hair transformation?" He asks giving me wiggly eyebrows, like the goofball he is.

"Actually, I am."

"Great! Cause I already got the dye!" Virgil says shaking two boxes, one is bleach the other a bright blue dye box.

"I thought we were getting those today?" I ask aloud

"Yeah but i was bored last night, sooo." He laughs while he stands on the other side of the breakfast bar.

"When did you go out?" Roman asks.

"4:30 I think maybe 5ish" He states already mixing the bleach.

"Good god! No wonder why you sleep in so late." I claim surprised.

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard it allllll before. Now come over hear and imma make your hair look hotter the Dee's. I glance over at Roman and I see a look of jealousy that's covered with a smile.

"Is it supposed to feel it itchy?" I yell going into the shower for the second time.

"Yes!" I hear the two yell

"Just like last time!" Roman adds as I watch the blue run down the white tile

"It looks like I killed a smurf!" I yell and I hear laughing.

After the color fades in the water I hop out and get dressed.

"Holy fuck" roman states with a giddy smile.

"Your hair took the dye so well!" Virgil complements, well I think it's a complement. "Now let me style it!" Virgil says as I sit in the familiar chair, that I've been sitting in for 2 and a half hours.

After fifteen minutes I hear the blow dryer get turned off and the combing stops.

"Well go see your luxurious hair." Virgil's says pointing at a mirror and I'm met with the brightest blue hair I've ever seen.

"Wow..." I say running my hands through my fingers speechless.

"Now how do you feel about contacts?" I hear Roman ask.

"I have some, but I normally don't use em." I explain as Roman pulls some out of his letterman jacket.

"I stole theses from your house last night." He shrugs handing them to me and I take them rolling my eyes.

"You mean my landlord let you in?" I state raising an eyebrow as Roman nods and laughs with a cheesy smile.

I get up close and personal to the mirror in front of me, and put them in with ease, while I can feel Virgil cringing.

I blink a few times as it shifts into place. I look over at the two smiling like idiots.

"Hey Virgil?" I start. "Do you know how to do any piercings?" I ask as he cocks a brow, smiles.

"Yeah, I can do snake bites, ear piercings, tongue and eyebrows." He states,

"I want all, except the tongue one." I state. If I'm being completely honest I've always wanted piercings but I've never had the means or courage to get them.

"You sure? I mean they are a pain to clean." He states making sure this is what I really want.

"Yeah." I state confidently as he leaves, and returns with a box."

"I'm starting with your ears." He starts. "They are the easiest to do." He claims as he pulls out a lighter and a needle.

"Roman go into the kitchen and find me a potato." He states as Roman stands up and leaves and Virgil starts lighting the needle.

"Roman what's taking you so long?!" Virgil yells? After at least five minutes of waiting.

"I'm coming! Calm you horses." He Roman sighs dramatically as he tosses Virgil the potato. And before I know it my ears and my lip is pierced twice.

"Your right! This didn't hurt at all!" I say surprised as Virgil nods concentrating intensely as I feel his hands pinch my left eyebrow.

" be still." He grunts as he gets a bigger needle with a piercing connected to the end."

I feel the needle go in and this time it's painful.

"Fuck." I mutter, as Virgil freezes in fear

"Your lucky." Virgil states as he starts to clean up his gear.

"Why?"

"I normally don't do eyebrow piercings because there's a vein near there where it could permanently paralyze you, unless your lucky." He says

"And your only now telling him?!" Romans gasps and I nod along.

"Trust me, I know my Shit, I'm trying to be a professional."

"But your not." I state as he gives me a playful glare.

"Alright nerd, well I guess i cant call you that anymore, anyways lets go shopping."

"I love shopping!" Roman smiles happily as we all head out the door

We come back with bags upon bags of grungy/ punk outfits that I personally like, and will make me look 'cooler'

"Well that's been enough shopping for me, my children and my grandchildren." Virgil says flopping on the couch.

"Are you serious?" Roman gasps. "It was only 2 and a half hours!" He says

"Well how long do you normally shop, Mr. Flamboyant over there?" He asks lifting his head from the cushion, just to let it fall back down.

"I normally go out, and wander around all day, then go home with all my Goods." He states holding his few bags.

"I'm so happy I'm not you" Virgil stare muffled as I get a call by the one and only Patton.

"Hey Patton? What's up?" I ask and I hear a weak voice respond

"Um, are you alone right now?"

"Uhh." I state walking into Virgil room and locking it behind me. "I am now, what's wrong."

"So uh, my cousin slipped up that I liked guys at her wedding, and my parents didn't take it well." He states voice cracking.

"I'm so sorry Patton." I sympathize as my heart breaks for him.

"It's alright." He sniffs. "But they made me come home early, and I know it's all of a sudden but I need a place to stay, and a ride, and I know that you just got your own place and I don't want to intrude but I-"

"You can stay with me Patton. Where are you right now?" I say understandingly.

"I'm out side the airport."

I'll be right there, luckily for you, I just finished shopping so you can see my new style." I say trying to lighten the conversation.

"I can't wait." He says and I can hear the soft smile on his face.

"See I'm a few." I state.

"Thank you so much Logan, really, and I've been thinking a lot, and I've decided that I got something important to tell you once your here."

"I can't wait." I say just as he did to me as he hangs up and I open the door to clothes thrown at me."

"Go to your lover!" Roman squeals as I stare at him and shut the door.

"I get dressed in a long green shirt with a flower print on it, black skinny jeans and boots as quickly as possible, and I freeze at the door.

"Do you think i can drive all the way to the airport?!" I panic.

" Of course you can! Your a natural, just go on the back roads." He states worring a little since we didnt practice much.

I soon arrive to the air port where I see Patton with a back pack and I pull up beside him.

"Hey patton." I smile as I see his jaw drop slightly.

"Holy fuck." He whispers but quickly turns pink.

I open my arms as he clings on to me.

"What was the thing you were going to tell me?"

"I Uhh... I've thought... um." He starts as he pulls away.

"So, I was talking to Virgil and he made me realize that Ireallyreallylikeyou! Butnowyoulooksogreat! Andidontknowwhattodowithmyself!" He says quickly as my heart speeds up.

And I do something the nerd I was would have never done. I grab his face and kiss him, and he quickly melts into the kiss. And we break apart smiling.

"You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do that." I gasp as Patton blushes.

"I liked your nerdy style, but I love this one." He states.

"That's why I did it."

I watch as his eyes grow wide as he runs his fingers through my hair. "Logan! You shouldn't have changed for me! I was going to ask you out anyway."

"But I like the style too, so don't worry about that." I reassure him and he stares skeptically.

"If you say so." He states as I take off his back pack and put it beneath the seat the I get onto my bike.

"You coming?" I ask as he nods happily and climbs on the back seat, his arms snaking around my waist and as I begin to ride I feel his head lean against my back and I can truly say that this is the happiest I've ever been.

@dailypattondoodle @ashstormfall @loki-god-of-soap

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hvndcvffed · 5 years

Text

s u r v e y : g r i z z v i s s e r .

he slides it into the submission box late, because he kept lending people his only pen. whoops.

basic information

FULL NAME: gareth paul visser PRONUNCIATION: GAH-reth VISS-er MEANING: gentle. REASONING: his parents named their son after the most important trait they wanted to nurture in him: kindness. his middle name is paul after his paternal grandfather. NICKNAME(S): gareth paul ( only his mother, when she’s angry ), grizz, grizzy, grizzly bear / grizzy bear ( parents ), kiddo ( his dad ) visser, bear ( blue ), jizz ( unwarranted, miles ), babe ( tess, retired ) PREFERRED NAME(S): grizz. don’t call him gareth, please. he’ll just... smile uncomfortably and act like it doesn’t bother him, but it really does. BIRTH DATE: july 26, 2000. 3:23am. during a rainstorm. AGE: 18. ZODIAC: leo. GENDER: cismale. PRONOUNS: he/him. ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: demiromantic ( sexual attraction stems from emotional connection. ) SEXUAL ORIENTATION: homosexual ( closeted ) NATIONALITY: american. ETHNICITY: american very far back. dutch and polish ancestry.

background

BIRTH PLACE: west ham, connecticut. HOMETOWN: west ham, connecticut. SOCIAL CLASS: upper. FATHER: keith visser. one of the lead police detectives on west ham’s police force. 48. jewish. avid outdoorsman, and can often be found hiking, kayaking, or rock climbing on the weekends. has a habit of cleaning off lisa & grizz’s plates, if they leave behind some peas or mashed potatoes. snacks on leftovers for breakfast, but can make a mean frittata. the secret’s all in making sure you’ve got a super hot pan. cautious, mindful. grizz gets a lot of his serene disposition from his father. unaware of his son’s sexuality; still thinks he’ll wind up marrying tess, or maybe hannah, or even cassandra. gets a kick out of becca when she comes around the house, because she’s so little. calls her shortstack, but only when pancakes are around to make the pun stick. MOTHER: lisa “lees” visser. 46. editor-in-chief for the west ham chronicle. freelance landscaper / gardener on the weekends, for fulfillment more than the money. religious, catholic born-and-raised, but she now attends the unitarian church in town. the switch happened once she married keith and they reasoned they wanted their child to have a composite world-view, one they could interpret and internalize free from categorical restraint. very in touch with her emotions; likes facilitating family discussions. made the executive decision to pull grizz out of dance classes after one year of lessons, because her 4-year-old son donned a sparkly feather boa and she didn’t like what she saw. primarily motivated by maternal and protective instinct. wants what’s best for her son: safety. supported grizz’s relationship with tess through and through. mentions her from time to time, because she’s still unclear as to why they called it off. she wants grizz to be happy. tess made him happy. SIBLING(S): none. his parents never told him, but they lost a child in infancy about 2 years before they had him, and suffered a miscarriage when they tried for another child when he was 5. his parents don’t talk about it, and they see their lives as very full with just grizz. they considered adopting when he was around 8, but ultimately decided against it. one child fills their hearts plenty. they’ve practically adopted all his friends ( especially blue, becca, hannah, and tess ) as part of the family anyway. BIRTH ORDER: only child. PET(S): grew up with a tabby cat, doobie, who lived to be 14. as a kid, he always dreamed about having a pet kimodo dragon. gets a real kick out of chinchillas, but the visser family’s rarely home: they’re always out and about, going on hikes, exploring connecticut and the northeast. they travel often. so it wouldn’t be fair, having to leave any pet at home alone. OTHER IMPORTANT RELATIVES: his uncle james lives on the edge of town and works under peyton pellegrino’s dad in the fire department, so the families are close. they get together each year for christmas eve. his younger cousins live down by the sea in mystic, kipp ( age 4 ) & rebekah ( age 7 ). they facetime often, and the family makes annual trips to mystic seaport. they pile onto grizz’s back and have a blast running around the docks. PREVIOUS RELATIONSHIPS: tess de luca ( freshman year - end of junior year ). ARRESTS?: none. but he does make frequent trips to the station to drop food off for his dad and his buds. PRISON TIME?: not unless you count the one time his dad played an april fools’ joke on him and placed him in a jail cell for 10 minutes for, “ bringing the wrong flavor cookies. the biggest crime of ‘em all, kiddo. ”

occupation & income

SOURCE OF INCOME: he works as a summer camp counselor at an adventure camp during school intersession, leading hikes & nature trips. during the school year, he’s too tied up with football to hold a job. he’s grateful that his parents are willing to help him out for major expenses, but he’s definitely the saving type, so most things he can cover on his own. he helps his neighbors out with taking care of pets & gardens as needed, so that’s a way to earn some fast cash. even though he always insists he can’t take their money. CONTENT WITH THEIR JOB (OR LACK THERE OF)?: yes! granted, working with phone-addicted kids in the wilderness can be difficult, but he’s thankful to get the breather from west ham. PAST JOB(S): he used to deliver papers on his bike, when he was younger, since his mom had the connection. SPENDING HABITS: frugal. more likely to spend on experience than material. MOST VALUABLE POSSESSION: his dad’s collection of original-release vinyls by the beatles.

skills & abilities

TALENTS: writing, but he won’t admit it. football. wood-whittling. gardening. whistling. navigation. knot-tying. making sumptuous drip coffee. SHORTCOMINGS: sells himself short, a lot. his sexuality. can be impatient at times, when other people are slower to pick things up. will often take over getting something done ( i.e. a group project ) if he feels people aren’t doing it the most effective way. LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN: english, french. a tad of latin. he wants to learn more hebrew, especially since he’s from a blended household, but that shit’s difficult and he never had time to enroll in hebrew school full-time as a kid. DRIVE?: yes. he has his own car, for ease of getting to/from games, etc. but prefers to ride his bike around town. JUMP-STAR A CAR?: yes. CHANGE A FLAT TIRE?: yes. his dad taught him how when they had to call aaa on their way home from hiking the adirondacks, a trip they gave him for his twelfth birthday. RIDE A BICYCLE?: yes. he goes everywhere on that thing. need a ride? hop on. SWIM?: yes. the visser household has a very nice in-ground pool, heated. PLAY AN INSTRUMENT?: not really. grizz appreciates music and loves listening to it, but never really learned how to make it himself. unless you count a year or two of required band in elementary school, during which he ( very badly ) played the clarinet. PLAY CHESS?: yeah. he played a lot with his maternal grandfather growing up. big glasses of chocolate milk, classic rock, and chess. BRAID HAIR?: yes. it’s all very simple, once you learn how to tie all the scouting knots. TIE A TIE?: so many. thank you, boy scouts of america. PICK A LOCK?: he’s read up on it, but never actually done it. the closest he’s gotten is cutting his own padlock off his camping locker during his 7th grade boy scouting trip to maryland, when he conveniently forgot the combination.

physical appearance & characteristics

FACE CLAIM: jack mulhern. EYE COLOR: hazel, a murky blend of gold and forest green. depending on the lighting, they look different: in bright sunlight, they look like a faded jade green. sometimes, when the room’s darker, they look more gold. reference. HAIR COLOR: deep, russet brown. HAIR TYPE/STYLE: jaw-length, straight with some wave to it. typically worn down, tucked behind one ear, or up in a tiny little man-bun. reference one. reference two. reference three. GLASSES/CONTACTS?: he’s blessed with 20/20 vision! but he’ll still try on your glasses, if it’ll make you laugh. there’s a photo of him on the visser fridge wearing his mom’s readers and holding a tray of fresh-baked cookies. he looks like a friendly neighborhood grandma. DOMINANT HAND: left-handed. but he’s worked for years to become ambidextrous for most tasks. he can’t brush his teeth with his right hand, though. it feels funny. HEIGHT: 6′2. WEIGHT: 158 lbs. BUILD: broad-shouldered. lean waist. chiseled core, strong legs. he’s got an athlete’s build for sure – he’s perhaps not as heavy as other guys on that football field, but it takes some serious force to knock him down. tall. but he kind of hunches, just slightly, to not take up so much space. EXERCISE HABITS: varsity football team. lots of morning and night runs. crunches, push-ups, pull-ups: he’s got one of those bars in his doorway. weight-lifting with the team. yoga, sometimes. SKIN TONE: light, but he spends a lot of time outdoors. no freckles. TATTOOS: none. but would love to get a walden quote, or a simple pine tree. someday. PEIRCINGS: none. but maybe once he gets to college he’ll get his ear pierced. MARKS/SCARS: some miscellaneous scars on his hands from whittling incidents growing up. a faint line across his arm from stitches, when he broke it in the peewee football league in fifth grade. he has a barely-there scar just to the right of his left ear, along his hairline, from a camping incident. NOTABLE FEATURES: his hair. his eyes. people have drunkenly said he’s got kissable lips. USUAL EXPRESSION: inquisitive, collected. he’s always thinking. CLOTHING STYLE: letterman jacket. jeans. tall socks, boots. pants tucked into socks, because why the hell not? flannels, hoodies, utility jackets layered over plain white tees. pendant necklaces, leather bracelets. occasionally he’ll wear a statement button-downs that looks like your grandmother’s upholstery, but somehow it’ll work really well. varsity t-shirts. hats of all varieties. if he could, he’d showcase some edgier styles. but he’s paranoid. he’s got a stanford hoodie buried in his closet. and a yale one, too. JEWELRY: leather bracelets. a silver ring strung on a chain, engraved with “ for sylvie, with love ”. he found it on a hike, and… figured he’d be sylvie for a day, or something like that. ALLERGIES: sulfur-based antibiotics. bullshit. idiocy. BODY TEMPERATURE: runs hotter than most. probably the first to offer you his jacket or sweater, if you look cold. DIET: grizz’s mom loves to cook, so they’re always trying some new paleo trend. some of it’s awful. but he’ll try to eat it and if he can’t, he’ll sneak a granola bar later. he’s bad at pretending disgusting shit tastes good. his nose will wriggle up involuntarily and he’ll sniffle. if the school’s serving smiley face fries, he’ll have those. he really likes green apples and those little clementines. cajun fries are some of the best things ever invented. PHYSICAL AILMENTS: nope. he’s quite able-bodied and he’ll use it as a way to take the burden off of his parents. grizz knows how to do most things around the house: fix a faucet, replace bulbs, work on pipes, etc. because his parents are getting older and he doesn’t want them to hurt themselves doing something he’d barely even break a sweat at. he’s always volunteering to help out his neighbors with heavy packages, retrieving their mail, tending their gardens, etc. it’s no hassle. so why not?

psychology

MORAL ALIGNMENT: neutral good. he’s all for what’s morally right. sometimes laws and rules leave that out. TEMPERAMENT: melancholic. ( analytical, wise, peaceful. ) ELEMENT: water. MENTAL CONDITIONS/DISORDERS: mild insomnia, sometimes. but he’ll usually just throw on some music and yield to it. guzzle a few redbulls the next day to keep alert for practice. SOCIABILITY: grizz is never the type to turn anyone away, but he does have a fear of compromising his one secret: so... if someone shows signs of seeing through him? he might distance himself a bit. but he’s often compared to glue that binds. he has a real capacity for leadership ( though he’ll never see himself that way ), and tends to be the driving force in maintaining healthy friendships and friend groups. he looks out for his friends. EMOTIONAL STABILITY: very stable. which is why when things go awry and he can’t rationalize his feelings, he gets... scared. vulnerable. PHOBIA(S): irrelevancy. being outed. loss. ADDICTION(S): good literature. DRUG USE: marijuana, but that’s it. ALCOHOL USE: what you’d expect from a popular jock. though he hesitates to think of himself as just a jock, because there’s so much more to his life than just football. PRONE TO VIOLENCE?: no. grizz doesn’t believe in using violence to manipulate or express emotion. but he will punch someone if there’s no other way.

mannerisms

QUIRKS: rarely settles his gaze on anything for more than a few seconds, except for other peoples’ eyes. eye contact is probably one of grizz’s biggest conversational strengths. probably why he makes such a good liar, when he needs to. he’ll finish a pint of ice cream and just sit there for over an hour sucking on the spoon, lost in thought. licks his lips when he’s nervous. plays with his hair a lot. you know he’s anxious when he keeps tucking his hair behind his right ear. chuckles to himself, even when things are the pure opposite of funny. laughs quietly so the skies have to lean in to hear it. dog-ears pages of books; stencils in his thoughts. his bookshelf is a catalogue of interiority: so if he lets you borrow any of his well-loved copies ( becca, cassandra, tess ), you know you’ve got his trust. burns marshmallows, but it always seems like he’s waiting for the perfect brown before he lets the thing catch fire. sneaks peanut m&m’s into the house because his mom’s on another big health kick; he munches on them in the basement theater with his dad, mischief aplenty. stole HOBBIES: jotting notes in book margins. he dabbles in poetry but feels like his shit is too beat-generation to be that cool. wandering through the woods and attempting to generate his own maps, then checking them for accuracy. lighting matches in the cold, mid-evening air just to watch them burn. watching minimalist apartment tour videos. whispering poetry out loud to himself with his eyes closed, to feel the words shape his lips. HABITS: standing in front of the mirror and trying to let the word gay escape his lips without panic setting in. asking others how they are instead of answering when it’s asked of him. when he goes to bed later than his parents, he’ll peek in their doorway to make sure they’ve gotten into bed safe. setting up the french press before he leaves for his morning runs, so coffee’s ready for his parents when they wake up. bringing donuts to the station, just to make his dad’s coworkers laugh. getting drunk and tossing finger guns around like free candies. NERVOUS TICKS: pursing his lips. biting the inside of his cheek. rocking back and forth on his heels. avoiding eye contact. growing quieter than usual. choppy focus. leaving text messages unanswered for days on end. DRIVES/MOTIVATIONS: make it to graduation and get out of west ham. live this lie a little longer. protect his friends. nurture his family. make sure his dad eats: he tends to forget, when he’s on duty. look after his teammates. keep everyone else grounded. FEARS: time. losing his family: too many people in this town have experienced that kind of loss for him to indulge in the illusion that he doesn’t run that risk. cassandra’s health might decline. when he comes out in college, people from home might hear. people might hate him. blue’s not really okay, and there’s nothing he can do about it. becca’s having a hard time, and he doesn’t know how to fix it. does he really think sam eliot could ever like him back? what if he made a mistake, breaking it off with tess? what if he doesn’t know himself as well as he used to? he’ll experience firsthand death someday. he’ll lose people, too. he’s so used to picking up everyone else’s pieces. how’s he supposed to do that if he’s the one bleeding? what if he can’t help people as much as they need him to? will his parents hate him for lying about yale? will they hate him for giving up on football to pursue literature & philosophy? fear. that one’s ironic. POSITIVE TRAITS: charismatic, introspective, pacific, quick-witted. NEGATIVE TRAITS: self-contained, reckless ( with himself ), careless ( with himself ). SENSE OF HUMOR: dry, witty. facetious, but never ill-intended. lots of eye rolls and light laughs. DO THEY CURSE OFTEN?: ask his parents, they’ll say no. but hell yeah. CATCHPHRASE(S): uno. dos. tres. & a bonus: “ what the fuck ? ” & “ i’m surrounded by idiots. ”

favorites

ACTIVITY: reading. writing. gardening. football. ANIMAL: fish. they’re so graceful and they don’t bother anybody. BEVERAGE: half-oreo half-chocolate milkshake. extra whipped cream. two cherries. please. BOOK: le petit prince by antoine de saint-exupéry. it was the last book his grandmother ever read to him, on his fifth christmas eve. he can recite the first and last lines by heart, in english and french. CELEBRITY: young johnny depp. emma watson. COLOR: a nice, deep forest green. he also likes burnt reds and browns. DESIGNER: i mean... he knows his way around adobe creative cloud? FOOD: cajun curly fries. ugh. FLOWER: there’s something really beautiful about forget-me-nots. his grandmother used to pick a few of them with him in her backyard. she was big on those kinds of things. and all those silly sayings like: tickle tickle on the knee. if you laugh, you don’t love me! grizz always faught so hard not to laugh. his toddler self would puff out his cheeks and hold his breath until the twenty-second window was up. GEM: any kind of geode. HOLIDAY: halloween. boo. MODE OF TRANSPORTATION: biking! MOVIE: mr. nobody. eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. the first time little grizz saw alice in wonderland, he wouldn’t shut up about it for two weeks MUSICAL ARTIST: the divine comedy, radiohead, pink floyd, the beatles, the rolling stones, the kooks. the avett brothers. belle & sebastian. he envies bowie, prince, and mercury for like... living their truths. QUOTE/SAYING: “ if you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need. ” SCENERY: mountain ranges. the view from the top of difficult climbs. snow-dusted treetops. SCENT: the connecticut homesick candle. it smells like cinnamon and nutmeg and vanilla and fireside bliss. and pine trees. yum. SPORT: football. SPORTS TEAM: “ centurions on me! centurions on three! ” TELEVISION SHOW: he grew up watching wallace and gromit. he’s still got a soft spot for it. he also really likes travel channel specials. WEATHER: gentle rain. VACATION DESTINATION: he doesn’t know this, but his parents were planning a month-long backpacking trip through new zealand as his grad gift.

attitudes

GREATEST DREAM: live his truth, fearlessly. get to yale and just... be himself. whatever that means. GREATEST FEAR: people in west ham will find him out. he’s not ready. MOST AT EASE WHEN: he’s with tess. the visser family has relaxed nights in, or firepits in their backyard. when he’s neck-deep in a good book. reading dickinson. listening to the beatles. on the field, where none of his demons can touch him. LEAST AT EASE WHEN: people ask difficult questions, questions he doesn’t have the answer to. you’re gay, aren’t you? BIGGEST ACHIEVEMENT: his boy scout eagle scout award. he constructed and taught faculty how to maintain a sustainable farm-to-table garden at each of west ham’s three elementary schools. BIGGEST REGRET: not getting to know his grandmother more before she passed. not... telling blue the truth. telling himself the truth. breaking up with tess. he had to free her. but it still stings. MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENT: he cried at endgame in theaters. jason hasn’t lived it down for weeks. BIGGEST SECRET: he’s gay. he thinks he’s gay. he’s... he’s not as self-assured as people think. not as strong. he committed to yale without telling a single soul, except cassandra. his parents still think he’ll be going to uconn or southern for hockey. TOP PRIORITIES: looking after his loved ones. making sure everyone’s okay. securing the centurions’ top season record. helping blue, somehow. how can he ease tess’s pain? get to graduation. get to graduation. leave west ham behind.

#ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴ ɪ ᴀᴍ ! ɪꜱᴍꜱ.#newhamhq: task

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kurokoros · 6 years

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Black Eye Syndrome | Part 1 (eventual sweet pea x oc)

Title: Black Eye Syndrome

Rated: M | Warnings: violence, domestic abuse, language, alluded/mentioned rape (one of chapter)

Words: 5,588

Pairing: (eventual) Sweet Pea X OC (Rosie O’Malley); (initial) OC X OC

Summary: “And for a moment Rosie wonders when love began to sound like a sudden gush of vitriol and her favorite lamp shattering against the wall behind her head, when it started tasting like bourbon and blood in her mouth from where she bit her cheek. She wonders when loving Matt became a one-sided screaming match and bruises around her wrists, dark marks dotting her thighs from where fingers squeezed to wound, backhanded comments breathed against her collarbones. She wonders when love started to hurt.

More than that, she wonders when she started thinking that was okay.”

AN: I’m still nervous about posting this, because the topic. This story is about domestic violence. I’m open to feedback with this one because any advice for writing this is helpful. All warnings will be tagged at the beginning of the chapter, but please know what you’re getting into with this. It will get graphic at times.

Leave me an ask/reply if you want to be in the tag list I’m making specifically for this fic.

Special thanks to @starryeyedauthor, @sweetfogarty, and @rosiethequeerlesbian for their encouragement! I really appreciate it and probably wouldn’t have finished this without your positivity!

It was her fault.

He just wanted to spend the day with her on her one day off this week, wanted to take her out on a proper date because they haven’t been on one in weeks. He wanted to surprise her, but all she wanted was to go to the Wyrm and see Toni and Fangs and Sweet Pea because it’s felt like months since she last saw any of them. And maybe it has been. She hasn’t been keeping track of time lately. Matt only wanted to spend some time with her and all she’d done was piss him off. And that was her fault.

He’s always had a temper, but that was nothing she ever worried about. Growing up on the Southside meant most people had a temper and knew how to use it, channeling their anger into their fists. She’s been best friends with Sweet Pea for as long as she can remember, and his anger is practically infamous around Riverdale, so no, a temper was never anything she worried about, though maybe it should have been.

Matt’s temper has always been different from Sweet Pea’s, or anyone else she knows from the Southside. Instead of righteous fists and a short fuse, Matt was a switch just waiting to be flipped. His temper came and went without warning, sometimes without provocation, and it would be the smallest things that set him off: she didn’t kiss him goodbye, she missed his phone call, her makeup was too dark around the eyes, her skirt too short.

She’s always had a knack for pushing all of the wrong buttons.

So really, it was her fault.

Rosie isn’t sure exactly how the fight started. Not the first one anyway. She’d made a comment about redecorating the old house, the one that used to belong to her grandmother. The wallpaper started peeling and the entire place wasn’t as homey as it used to be, feeling more tired than anything. Something in the house started feeling off and Rosie needed to fix it.

He didn’t like the color scheme she was thinking of using, and she refused to pull up the carpet, and it was normal banter, barbed, but harmless.

And then Matt made a grating comment about the lamp in the living room, asking if she was finally going to get rid of it, and it bothered her more than she’d care to admit, because he knew how much she loved that lamp. And really, she should have just let it go, but after a full week of work, she was tired and stressed, and something sarcastic had slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it.

The fight was over before it really started: a handful of snippy remarks and a bruising kiss that left her stomach in knots. That was it. It was nothing serious. Nothing they would remember by the end of the day, and that was fine.

The second fight was worse.

He was just trying to be sweet and she’d picked a fight over it. Rosie didn’t mean to act like a date night wasn’t important to her, hadn’t meant to make it seem like she was choosing her friends at the Wyrm over him, but she did.

She hadn’t meant to snap at him either, but after a long week, all she wanted was to find Toni and complain about long hours and shitty customers and horrible bosses. Matt never cared about those kinds of problems. He never wanted to listen to her whine about them. And that was okay. He didn’t have to, but she still needed to let the words spill out to someone.

Matt took it the wrong way when she told him that, asking if she thought he didn’t care about her. She tried to backtrack but it only made things worse.

He was trying to do something nice and she ruined it, just like she always does.

The shouting started before she knew what was happening, Matt hurling words at her, blaming her for the fight, accusing her of something she can hardly remember, and then the lamp was shattering into pieces beside her head, glass splintering into pieces and piling on the floor, nicking at her skin. She doesn’t remember trying to walk away, but she must have, a firm hand wrapping around her wrist and squeezing until it hurt. And maybe she told him to let go or maybe she didn’t, but when he leaned in to kiss, she’d turned away.

That way the wrong thing to do.

He let go just as quickly, storming out of the house without another word, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving her standing in the middle of the room unsure of what happened, the lamp broken on the floor and the sound of glass shattering ringing in her ears, her hands trembling at her sides, heart practically crawling in her mouth.

And Rosie cleaned up the glass.

That was hours ago, or maybe not. She hasn’t checked the time and the blinds have been drawn shut since Matt stormed out, Rosie unable to bring herself to stand from where she’s curled into the couch.

Matt only wanted to go on a date like they used to. It was the one night they both had off and they were in desperate need of a night out. And she’d picked two fights in exchange and made him storm out the door.

Obviously it was her fault.

So why is she the one curled up on the couch, sick to her stomach and shivering, alone and feeling like her bones are crumbling into dust inside her?

The click of the front door being unlocked makes Rosie’s head snap up, her pupils blown wide. She hugs her knees tight to her chest, tucking them beneath the sweater she must have stolen from Sweet Pea at one point, the loose fabric several sizes too large for her frame, practically swallowing her whole. Despite the fabric she’s drowning in, a desperate ache to make herself even smaller settles deep in Rosie’s bones, a sick feeling twisting at her insides. Her chest goes cold and for a tense moment she forgets how to breathe.

Rosie’s heart lodges in her throat as the door is edged open, old hinges creaking loudly, the soft squeal of the front door making her skin crawl. Matt keeps telling her to fix the hinge, keep the door from making so much noise, but she can’t bring herself to do it. The door hasn’t been fixed since she was a child and it was just her and her grandmother living in this house, one of the few on the Southside. The house is warm and cozy and creaks and squeaks and that’s not something that she wants to change.

It has nothing to do with Matt and the few seconds of warning it gives her when he comes home at three in the morning, piss drunk and looking for an argument.

“Rosie, you home?”

But it’s not Matt that comes through the door. It isn’t blond hair and blue eyes the same color as his letterman jacket. It isn’t stark white sneakers and a thin-lipped smile that cuts through her like a knife. It isn’t unblemished hands that grip too tight and pull too hard. No, it’s dark hair and eyes, a leather jacket with an angry snake twisted across the back, motorcycle boots and a crooked but all too familiar smile, calloused fingertips that have never been anything but gentle with her.

She doesn’t realize she was shaking until she stops, the reaction instantaneous. “What are you doing here, Sweets?” she murmurs from the couch, pulling at a loose thread in her sweater, the soft gray fabric making her red hair shine just a little bit brighter. The smile that pulls at her lips is small, a little sad but more genuine than it’s been in days.

Rosie practically lights up when she sees Sweet Pea standing in the doorway, even if it isn’t nearly as bright as it used to be.

He grins back at her, rolling his shoulders as he shuts the door behind him, that awful squeal splitting through the room. “A little bird told me it was your day off,” he jokes, eyes crinkling at the edges in good humor. “Said you might swing by the Wyrm.” He leaves the sentence hanging in the air, unfinished, but the implication glaringly obvious.

But she didn’t come by. And he hasn’t seen her in weeks. And he’s been worried about her. There’s no accusation in his eyes or his voice, but it still makes her curl tighter in on herself, Rosie’s stomach twisting into knots as Sweet Pea sends her a look so filled with open concern that she might suffocate under it, because Sweet Pea never looks at anyone like that.

Rosie practically shrinks under his gaze and something in his eyes flickers, but it’s there and gone before she can tell what it was. Before she can say anything, Sweet Pea continues, leaning sideways against the wall, expression soft but unreadable. “We’ve missed you down there. Some of the younger boys keep asking where you’ve been.” Again, there’s something unspoken in his words, his voice low and rough.

He hasn’t been able to give them an answer, which is something that hasn’t happened in years. They’ve always known where to find each other, ever since they were kids, but in the last few months things have shifted, just enough for things to seem off, wrong.

Rosie isn’t a Serpent. She never has been, probably never will, but she might as well be. They know her name and her face down at the Wyrm. They know she has a lilting voice like some kind of siren and a mean right hook for someone five foot nothing and how she’s the only one that can stop Sweet Pea when he goes looking for a fight. The Serpents know she’s as much Sweet Pea’s as he is hers, that she wears one of his rings on a chain around her neck and that he has a rose tattooed on the inside of his left arm where no one can see it.

The two of them are practically attached at the hip. It’s been that way since they were seven years old and Sweet Pea pulled at her curls, awestruck by her wild copper hair, and she retaliated by punching him square in the jaw. He lost a baby tooth and her knuckles bruised and it was in that moment that Sweet Pea knew he would do absolutely anything for her, to keep her safe.

She’s always been wildfire. Bright and raging and all-consuming, burning through people in the best ways.

And six months ago that fire was put out, even if it doesn’t seem like it.

That’s when things started to change. It was so gradual that she didn’t even recognize it was happening at first. It started slow, a few missed movie nights with Toni and the girls because Matt wanted to stay in, abandoning her late night talks with Fangs because Matt didn’t like it when they were alone together, not visiting the Wyrm as much because Matt didn’t like the crowd and didn’t want her going alone, not seeing Sweet Pea nearly as much because Matt said he didn’t like the way he looked at her. Matt’s grip turning bruising whenever Sweet Pea was mentioned, his smile thin and his eyes angry.

Rosie catches her lower lip between her teeth, biting down hard but being careful not to break the skin, aware of Sweet Pea watching her. She can practically feel his gaze washing over her, but where it would usually feel comforting all she can feel is an itch under her skin, her stomach in knots. “I didn’t feel like going out today,” she tells him, because it’s as close to the truth as she’s willing to give. After her fight with Matt she really didn’t want to leave the house. It would only make him more upset later. “Besides,” she continues, sending him what she hopes is an easy smile, “I’ve been busy. And so have you, from what I’ve heard.”

FP has been giving him more jobs lately, slowly passing the mantle to the younger generation. It kills her a little that she hasn’t been there for him, to patch up his bloody knuckles and tell him how damn proud of him she is, because the Serpents are going to do great things because of him.

Sweet Pea snorts, but his smile is fond as he finally pushes away from the wall, a familiar teasing glint in his eyes. “Your boyfriend steals all your time,” he tells her, kicking off his boots as he steps further into the house.

It’s meant to be a joke, the same kind of friendly ribbing they’ve always had, but it cuts deeper that it’s meant to. Rosie doesn’t mean to flinch but she does. And Sweet Pea catches the motion. He goes tense, straightening to his full height, on edge because she is.

Brushing her hair over her shoulder, Rosie stares down at her bare toes, avoiding his eyes. Her sweater slips lower on her shoulder with the motion, the newly bared skin going cold. “Yeah, well, that shouldn’t be a problem today,” she replies, somewhat strained, still not looking at him.

The air in the room grows cold, both of them silent for several heartbeats to long. Sweet Pea shifts from one leg to the other, his eyes narrowing just a tick. “You two get in a fight?” There’s something off about the way he says it, an edge to the question that she doesn’t want to think about.

Because it wasn’t that bad. Not really. And it was her fault anyway.

“Something like that,” she concedes, knowing she can’t tell him a blatant lie. “But it doesn’t matter.” She finally looks at him again, a small smile pulling at her lips. Sweet Pea’s stance doesn’t slacken, his gaze still sharper than a knife, and she unfurls herself from the sweater she’s drowning in, toes curling into the couch cushion. “It’ll blow over. Nothing major. You know how it is.”

He doesn’t. And she hopes he never does.

It takes a moment, but he softens, deflating just as quickly as he went still, the tension slipping from his shoulders. Sweet Pea takes a step towards her and Rosie looks down at her hands, her fingers curling around the sleeves of her sweater.

“Your lamp is gone,” Sweet Pea says suddenly, causing Rosie to jolt from her spot on the couch. Her gaze immediately flicks to the empty spot on the other end of the couch, the side table bare where the lamp was this morning. It’s almost as if it was never there at all.

There’s an edge to Sweet Pea’s voice that’s thicker and rougher than before and it makes her stomach twist sickly. The way he says it makes it seem like a bigger deal than it really is. And maybe it is a big deal.

She fought tooth and nail for that lamp. It was an ugly little thing, oddly-shaped and lumpy in all the wrong places, a putrid yellow color with a bulb that never gave off enough light for the lamp to be put to any use. It probably wasn’t worth half of what the thrift store was selling it for, but god did she love it. It looked exactly like the one her grandmother used to keep in her house. Maybe it was the same one, she doesn’t know. After seeing that thing in the window of the shop for months, she finally brought it home one winter night when she was sixteen.

It was an eyesore and her friends all teased her about it, but they were careful when it came to that lamp, as if it were a baby bird, because they knew how much it meant to her.

The side table where it sat looks bare without it, a thin layer of dust coating the surface around the lamp where she hasn’t cleaned it for a week. It looks wrong somehow without her lamp, out of place, and the way Sweet Pea stares at the naked space where it used to be unsettles her to her very core.

“Matt didn’t like it,” Rosie says breezily, shrugging, and Sweet Pea’s gaze snaps to her face, his eyes narrowing in a look she’s entirely familiar with, but she chooses to ignore it, curling in on herself and playing with the worn sleeves of her baggy sweater. He looks at her like he can see right through her, as if he can see the dip in the wall behind her where that lamp shattered inches from her head, as if he can see the shallow cut on her shoulder from where a shard nicked her skin or the way Matt grabbed her when she tried to walk away. And maybe Sweet Pea can.

Her breath catches in her throat, her hands beginning to tremble. She refuses to look him in the eyes, fiddling with a loose thread on her sweater. He’s always had a way of just knowing what’s going on in her head, even when she wished he couldn’t. There’s a certain vulnerability that comes with the way he looks at her, like he’s peeling back her skin and seeing all the little things that make her tick, and she can’t have that right now.

And it’s not a lie, not really. Matt really didn’t like the lamp. He never has. Hell, he practically hated it. He always said it was a bad color, that it was too bulky in the room and that it wasn’t worth keeping around. It was only a coincidence that it was the closest thing within reach at the time. Or maybe it wasn’t. She can never be quite sure. There have been so many accidents that she doesn’t know when exactly they started being on purpose.

“Besides,” she continues quickly, noticing the dark flicker in Sweet Pea’s eyes, “it was time for a change.” Her smile feels too bright, too forced, unnatural in the way it pulls at her lips, and she hopes he doesn’t notice it. “I’ve been thinking about redecorating,” Rosie tells him, “and it was hard to do with that lamp it here.” Her smile dampens into something a little sad, a little bitter. “It really was an ugly thing.”

He’s quiet for a long, tense moment, and then, “you love that lamp.”

“Yeah.” And that’s the end of it. She’s clammed up and Sweet Pea knows her well enough to know that’s all he’ll get out of her even if he doesn’t like it.

He hesitates, still halfway across the room, and Rosie thinks he might press the subject, but then Sweet Pea sighs, seeming to deflate entirely, the tension draining from him like water. His footsteps are loud against the floor, and as he gets closer she’s overtaken by the smell of gasoline and wood smoke and the cologne he always wears that she can’t remember the name of, but has branded in her memory regardless.

“All right, Sweetness,” he murmurs, voice low and softer than usual, “move over.”

Rosie’s head snaps up, her eyes narrowing in confusion. “What?” She barely gets the word out before he drops onto the couch next to her, nearly on top of her. Rosie shrieks softly in surprise, barely moving her feet out of the way in time to not be squished by him. “Sweet Pea!” He only grins in response and it startles a laugh out of her, Rosie’s shoulders shaking with the force of it.

He reaches out to ruffle her hair, making the curly strands an even bigger mess, and she swats him away playfully, leaning into the familiar contact and making him smile wider. Sweet Pea’s hand leaves her head, instead falling to her bare leg, his hand on her calf. “You still have your trashy musical stash?” he asks, giving her a gentle squeeze.

“They aren’t trashy,” she scoffs, nudging his thigh with her toes in a halfhearted kick that only makes him laugh.

Sweet Pea ignores her comment, giving her leg a pinch that’s more surprising than painful. Rosie jerks her leg away, shooting him a playfully sour look, the two of them falling back into a natural rhythm together, one that a few months of distance can’t break them from. “Go grab it,” he tells her, knocking his leg against hers and jerking his chin towards the stairs.

Her head cocks to the side, eyes narrowing in slight confusion. “Why? You don’t like musicals.” He never has, though he’s begrudgingly suffered through movie musical nights, outnumbered by Rosie, Toni, and Fangs.

The look he sends her is almost surprised. “You do,” he replies, as if it’s that simple. One of his shoulders tilts up in a half-shrug, his eyes locked with hers.

The easy answer cracks something inside of her.

The next few hours drift by, slow and warm and more at ease than she’s been in days. The two of them slip into a comfortable silence, a musical neither of them are really paying any attention to playing on the old TV. Sweet Pea has his gaze on the screen, the flickering lights casting shadows across his face, his eyes so much darker in the low light. He isn’t watching the movie though, and they both know it, but he pretends to be sucked into the characters on screen anyway.

And Rosalie pretends she isn’t glancing at the clock every few minutes, worried that Matt might come home and catch her wrapped up with Sweet Pea on the couch. It’s not that they’re doing anything inappropriate. They’re barely touching aside from her legs tossed across his lap and the fingers he has curled around her ankle, anchoring the two of them together with a loose grip, but Matt would pick a fight over it anyway. He’s always hated how close she is with Sweet Pea, how well he knows her and how easily the two of them fit together, slotting against each other like it’s right. And maybe they are too close, but he’s always been home to her. She couldn’t cut him from her life if she wanted to, not without losing herself in the process.

Sweet Pea’s thumb traces slow circles against her ankle as they watch the movie, and slowly, hesitantly, she relaxes against him, letting out a breath she’s been holding since Matt threw the lamp. She presses tighter against Sweet Pea’s side, just enough to curl her fingers around the sleeve of his jacket, the leather familiar beneath her fingertips. Maybe he doesn’t notice, or maybe he just pretends not to, but he doesn’t react to her movement, letting her do what she needs to.

He’s always known when she’s needed words and when she doesn’t, and right now Rosie is content to just sit here with him, to not be alone.

She doesn’t notice when her sleeve rides up, her wrist dark where Matt grabbed her earlier. Sweet Pea does.

He goes still against her side, inhaling sharply through his nose. The sudden sound draws her attention, and she glances at him, only to find his gaze drawn lower, his eyes wide with a confusing mix of emotion. “Rosie, what the hell happened to your arm?”

She doesn’t flinch. Barely breathes. Tries not to let her hands tremble. “It was an accident.” It tastes like a lie on her tongue, and her throat grows tight, but she swallows it back, not wanting to worry him. “I must have bumped into something.”

He doesn’t look convinced, his eyes narrowing further. “And you didn’t notice?” He snorts softly, shaking his head, and lifts her wrist closer to his face, his hand gentle as he cradles her wrist in his much larger palm. “You don’t bruise that easy,” Sweet Pea mumbles, more to himself than her, and for a horrifying moment she thinks he might recognize the faint lines around her wrist as being from fingers, but he only smooths his thumb across the bruises that decorate her skin like an ugly bracelet, attached so neatly to her skin that she can’t rip them out.

“Maybe I need more iron in my diet,” she jokes, shrugging. Gently, she tugs her wrist free from Sweet Pea’s loose grip, letting her hand drop back into her lap.

His brows furrow, his thumb still tracing circles against her ankle. “I keep telling you that kale isn’t a meal.”

Rosie huffs a laugh. “Sorry I don’t eat three burgers in one sitting like you do.” She nudges his ribs with her knee, poking at his soft spot and making him jerk away from her. She’s watched him put away more food at once than she would ever know what to do with, and she’s never sure if she should be impressed or disgusted by it.

Sweet Pea snorts, fingers squeezing around her ankle just enough so that she can feel it. “Oh please,” he scoffs back at her, rolling his eyes in amusement. “I’ve seen you put away enough fries to put Jughead to shame.” He bumps his shoulder against hers, eyes bright with amusement. “You only started eating like a lady when you started dating The Northsider.”

She prods at his side again, squirming against his lap and making him release his grip on her ankle. “I’ve always been a lady, Sweet Pea,” she argues, clicking her tongue at him and shaking her head, unable to hide the smile growing on her face.

“You keep telling yourself that, Sweetness,” he says, patting her leg to placate her, “but I’ve seen you make grown men cry before.”

“If they cried they deserved it.”

Rosie can feel his laughter echo through her bones.

She wakes up to a heavy hand shaking her shoulder roughly, the smell of whiskey thick in the air, and Matt’s voice low in her ear. “Rose,” he slurs, shaking her again. “Rosalie. Wake up, Baby.” The hand on her arm is incessant, grip too tight as she’s dragged out of sleep.

“Matt?” she murmurs back to him, shifting on the couch until she’s facing him. “What time is it?” Dimly, Rosie is aware of Sweet Pea leaving at some point after the sun had gone down, the sky black and the house quiet as he shut off the television. The entire room was dark, a thin sliver of moonlight creeping in through the blinds, just enough for her to catch the outline of Sweet Pea’s body as he slide out from underneath her, laying her legs down gently against the couch. She was only half awake, exhausted by the days events, and a part of her wanted to ask him to stay with her, not wanting to be alone in the house, but her thoughts were slow, her tongue heavy in her mouth.

Sweet Pea mumbled something she didn’t catch, brushing the hair from her face with a gentle hand, his fingers lingering against her cheek for a heartbeat too long. Something warm and heavy was draped over her frame, covering her like a blanket. Then he was gone, slipping out of the house without waking her.

She can’t help but be relieved that he left before Matt came home.

“Hey, Baby,” Matt repeats, tugging her around to face him. “I’m sorry it’s so late, but I didn’t want to leave this until morning,” he tells her. There are roses on the table, a dozen of them, and she never has liked roses much. Matt continues before she can say anything, forcing her to sit up as he speaks. Something slips from her lap onto the couch, but she doesn’t pay it any attention. “I shouldn’t have broken the lamp. I shouldn’t have thrown it at you, but god, Rosie, you just make me so damn angry sometimes,” he tells her, and something about the words makes her sick, but she’s caught in his blue gaze and it paralyzes her. “I never mean to hurt you, Baby,” he continues, practically cooing. His hands come up to cup her face.

She sends him the best smile she can manage, nodding her head. “I know,” she whispers, allowing him to pull her to her feet, her mind still foggy with sleep, everything slow.

He continues, but she’s only half listening, already knowing what he’s saying. That’s he’s sorry. That it won’t happen again. That it was her fault. That if she would just stop making him mad, they wouldn’t have to fight. “I just… what the fuck is that.” The break from the routine makes her jump, Matt more angry than she’s ever heard him before. He sucks in an angry break, his hand on her chin gripping tight enough to leave a mark. She thinks she asks what’s wrong, but she can’t be sure if her mouth forms the words with the way he’s squeezing her jaw. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he sneers, “what the fuck is this, Rosalie?”

She’s confused until he forces her head around so quickly she hears a crack in her neck, the leather jacket resting on the couch the only thing that could be out of place.

Rosie lets out a breath, not understanding the severity of it when she’s only just beginning to wake up. “Matt, it’s just a jacket,” she mumbles back to him. She stiffens as soon as she says it, snapping awake as she realizes what’s wrong, realizes that Sweet Pea left his jacket behind, either on purpose or not.

The angry green snake patch glares back at the two of them, and Rosie wishes it would leap off the fabric and swallow her whole.

Matt jerks her back around to look at him, blue eyes a hurricane as he glares down at her, a storm swirling in his eyes that promises nothing good. “You screwing a serpent now, Rosie?” he sneers in her face, breath thick with alcohol. He’s drunk.

“No,” she gasps back. “No! God, Matt, it’s Sweet Pea’s!” She realizes it’s the wrong thing to say just a moment later.

Matt goes still, so still she’s not even sure if he’s breathing anymore. His grip on her goes slack and she stumbles backwards away from him, nearly tripping on the edge of the couch as she backs up against the wall. Matt only stares down at the leather jacket on the couch, expression blank. “Sweet Pea was here.” It isn’t a question and they both know it.

Rosie wets her lips, arms curling tight around herself. She bunches her sweater in her hands, trying to keep her fingers from shaking. “He stopped by earlier,” she whispers, unable to look Matt in the eye. Maybe it’s because he’s drunk or maybe it’s because he isn’t yelling anymore, but there’s something unnerving about him, like a single word would set him off.

Something that isn’t quite a laugh spills from his lips. “What,” he mumbles, “so we get in one fight and you…” he doesn’t finish the thought, but the implication is there.

“We’re friends, Matt,” she spits back, straightening and forcing herself to look at him, all wildfire. Something about Sweet Pea being here earlier makes her feel braver than she should. “He’s allowed to come to my house.”

Matt’s eyes snap to hers, his gaze just as intense as hers. He straightens to his full height, barely six feet tall, but still towering over her. He doesn’t say a word, barely blinks, and then suddenly she’s shoved back against the wall and his mouth is on hers in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue, lips practically bruising against hers. He lifts her straight off the ground, forcing her legs to lock around his hips, and his hands are everywhere: her thighs, her hips, around her throat and squeezing. And maybe she tries to push him away once, but when he doesn’t budge she relents, and then her hands are being held above her head and she’s too lost in the sensations to think that something isn’t right.

The sex that follows is bruising, less make-up and more make-a-point. His hands are careless and bruising, containing none of the soft wandering as usual, and he practically hisses in her ear: possessive things, humiliating things, snarls of “do you think Sweet Pea could make you moan like this?”. And in the morning he’ll chalk it up to rough sex, like always. And he’ll give her a look that would make her feel stupid and small for even mentioning it, because she always had liked it rough, hadn’t she? And she’ll never be able to find the words to address the satisfaction that would flash in his eyes whenever she’d wince in pain, like he wants to hurt her.

And for a moment Rosie wonders when love began to sound like a sudden gush of vitriol and her favorite lamp shattering against the wall behind her head, when it started tasting like bourbon and blood in her mouth from where she bit her cheek. She wonders when loving Matt became a one-sided screaming match and bruises around her wrists, dark marks dotting her thighs from where fingers squeezed to wound, backhanded comments breathed against her collarbones. She wonders when love started to hurt.

More than that, she wonders when she started thinking that was okay.

#riverdale #sweet pea x oc #sweet pea imagine #sweet pea fic #blackeyesyndromefic #riverdaledrabbles #my fics #tw abuse #OC: rosie o'malley

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hotcocoandmarshmallows · 6 years

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Redtinch High School Headcanons

Finch is the President of their class/a star wars geek

Tommy is the resident bad boy

And Albert is a jock

They're three tropes bundled into a relationship and sometimes they play it up for fun

Like Tommy will wear his black jean jacket, Albert will wear his letterman, and Finch will wear a hoodie

And by the end of the day they’ve switched several times

Tommy proudly has the pan and poly flags stitched on his jacket

Albert has a necklace with a pendant with the poly flag

And Finch has a ace pin and a poly pin on his backpack

On game days Finch gets the letterman

Tommy claims it messes with his look (He actually thinks Finch looks adorable in it, Albert agrees)

They have sleepovers a lot

The three of them pile onto a couch in Albert's basement and watch movies and fall asleep on each other

One time someone beat Finch up on the street because of his pins

The next morning Albert and Tommy had to ice their knuckles

And Oscar Delancy had a nasty black eye

Tommy usually stays at Finch or Albert's houses

His own living situation isn't good

Neither of them mind

Finch usually ends up in the middle when they sleep together because he's the most cuddlable

Albert is protective of his boys

So he always sleeps closer to the door

Tommy likes burying his face in Finch’s neck while he sleeps

Albert ends up curled up against Finch’s chest

Finch wakes up first most of the time and he loves it

#redtinch headcanons #redtinch #newsies #high school au

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fantroll-purgatory · 6 years

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Aestiv Tillan

@persephoneanmystery

(Time for the boys. I had forgotten just how fun it is to design fantrolls until I started back up with these dancestor trios! As with most of my Beforan trolls, this guy’s gonna be a thematic mess, but once we get the foundation down, the Alternian troll will come easy.)

Universe: Beforus

Name: Aestiv Tillan

“Aestiv” is a shortened form of “Aestival” which is the word for things relating to summer (similar to the other name I debated, Vernal “of spring”), which is a reference to the fact that looks at life like it’s the dog days of summer vacation. “Tillan” is a shortening of “Tillandia, which is a genus of bromeliad plants commonly known as “Air Plants”, a sly reference to his Aspect.

Haha, I do like this. Though if we do end up switching from Breath, the Tillan reference… Eh, it’s fine, it’s still a nice enough reference to his general attitude to work. They’re also really hardy and survivable plants that can take a lot of abuse before dying, so it makes sense for his… general being.

Age: Roughly 7 Sweeps

Theme/Story: As the third angle of a hellish quadrant-facilitating Love Triangle, Aestiv has always found himself caught in the middle. Culled practically after birth due to an accident that caused him to cease feeling pain, Aestiv has never wanted for anything, and was raised in the heart of the Blueblood aristocracy. For someone who’s lifespan is so short, he seems relatively relaxed, too relaxed even. Life is just a crazy ride, and he wants to enjoy every second it has to offer, even if means alienating his friends, shortening his lifespan, or leaving a path of broken hearts and bodies in his wake. Really, if Troll Ferris Bueller (Bueler?) wasn’t already a thing, he would be it.

Pain asymbolia is definitely a thing, and can result from injuries, but… I’m almost tempted to give him an inherited disorder instead? He could be culled not after an accident that Resulted in his condition, but rather could be culled after his Condition caused an incident. CIPA. Congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis. It’s a particular form of neuropathy where the afflicted individual can feel neither pain nor temperature (nor a few other sensations) and cannot sweat because of their body not perceiving heat. I thought of this because of the idea of the phrase “don’t sweat it.” Aestiv is so laid back he quite literally Physically Cannot Sweat It. A severe cut or Burn he received when he was younger and failed to notice, almost leading to his death, could’ve easily tipped the highbloods off and resulted in him being culled.

Strife Specibus: Canekind

While not much help in a fight, when it comes to it, Aestiv brandishes one of his foster-mother’s ornate walking sticks. [This is weak and I’m a bit stuck on this one.]

Okay this could be possibly the most random reference ever but you could give him gunkind and have him use a Smith and Wesson Model 64, because…

The police officer from Ferris Bueller is carrying that model of gun. And it’s a ranged weapon, which reduces the risk of him getting hurt.

Or you could do like… Carkind, since the car in Ferris Bueller is used as a way to obtain freedom and as a symbolic piece centering around Cameron’s controlling father. Plus breath is all about Direction and literal driving is a good way of showing that (see: John’s car adventure).

Or you could use phonekind, since Ferris’ “weapon” of choice in the movie is phones, which he frequently exploits to get what he wants. If he can’t be right in on the action, he might as well try to direct the flow via phone! Steer that course, passively, sir!

Fetch Modus: Rube Modus

Named for the famous creator Rube Goldberg, Aestiv is stuck using the other items currently in his modus as parts to create a stupidly complex machine to try and knock the item he wants out of his Modus so he can use it.

You… are a genius.

Blood color: Rust

Aestiv takes the Rust love of adventure and spins it, turning it into a endless quest for excitement and adventure. Partially due to not feeling pain, anything and everything is fair game for him, no matter how dangerous or reckless it may seem. He won’t feel the consequences of whatever it is anyways.

Symbol and meaning: As (for the moment) a Breath Prospit Rustblood, Aestiv claims:

ARUS, THE WANDERER!

Trolltag: [AT] absonantTellurian

Aestiv gets a little self aware with his trolltag, but in a tongue-in-cheek kind of way. “Absonant” means “discordant or unreasonable”, of which can be both when he wants to (which is always, of course). “Tellurian” is “someone from the earth” which is a twofold reference. Firstly to his telekinetics, which he uses to literally float off of the ground, but also his bottom of the barrel blood caste status. From the earth he came, and to the earth, soon, he will return.

God I love this. As always, I’m already loving this character.

Quirk: Like, far out, dude! Aestiv’s dialogue is kind of juuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuust a mess of like, weird stoner dude clicheeeeeeeees maaaaaaaaaan, he really likes holding vooooowels too, but only certain ones, y’know? [I have no idea if I’m conveying this correctly]

I think you’re definitely doing it right. I know I’m calling back to Ferris Bueller a little too often here, but maybe you could have him ‘break the third wall’ a little. Like, jokingly narrate his own experiences to a “nonexistent” audience for funsies. Like he’s on the stage, running the show, here he is.

Special Abilities (if any): As apparently revealed in Hiveswap (?) all Rustbloods can speak to the dead. Aestiv uses this mostly to try and up his game, getting information about things he can’t see himself, or stories of crazy things other trolls have done. Rustbloods tend to have Telekinetic abilities, and Aestiv is no exception. Using what he dubs his “ghost hand tricks” he can grab things without touching them, float around in the air, and sometimes even throw himself with great force!

Pretty great way to learn how to do some death-defying stunts, if he talks to the dead stuntlie. I’m sure that Xtreme Hardcore Deathly Sports are a big thing on Alternia, but I wonder how big they are on Beforus? Not huge, I imagine. So dead people is probably his BEST resource for that kinda shit. I love the ghost hands, too. You know that vine smack cam thing people do? Imagine him doing that with his ghost hands.

Lusus: Due to being Culled, Aestiv’s never had a lusus to call his own. His foster mother’s lusus was some giant kind of beast, iron plated and fierce, back in the day. She’s been dead for much of his life, so he doesn’t have any kind of connection to it. He lives in his foster-mother’s Hive in the center of Beforan high society, though her penchant for blue decor often makes him stand out like a sore thumb.

Interests: Cheesy Heist Movies, Even Cheesier Teen Movies, Being Incredibly Dramatic, Really Obnoxious Pop Music, The Latest Fad, New Troll Recreational Drugs, Daredevil Stunts

Give him an interest in FLARP. Not because he’s actually invested in roleplay or anything, but because FLARP’s fatal. You know how people like… create meme characters that defy the rules and are stupid bullshit on purpose to piss off really dedicator roleplayers? Well, he should. He should do that.

Appearance: Aestiv’s wardrobe is taken right from his favorite slice of life movies, white shirt proudly displaying his symbol in red, blue and red letterman jacket (from what school he attended, nobody can say), blue jeans and sneakers. He’s gone through varying stages of trying to dye his hair blue like some of the real bluebloods he associates with, but the most he has ever gotten to stick were the tips of his hair that he’s always trying to style between his proportionally large horns.

Personality: Partially due to his highblood, coddled upbringing, partially due to not feeling anything in the way of pain, Aestiv is something of a spoiled, rich playboy. Which means that at all times, he is incredibly bored. The Rustblood penchant for excitement and adventure lives even in the laziest of them, and Aestiv is no exception. Instead of doing something productive with that impulse, Aestiv does his best to just… mess with people. He’ll disappear for days on end, just to end up being hidden in the kitchen cabinets, observing the rest of the house, falling to the floor in a fit of belly laughter when his clever ruse is discovered. He’ll sneak out at night (often scaring his poor foster-mother half to death) with an elaborate series of tricks and overly complicated machines just to see how long it takes someone to notice he’s gone. He’ll just appear at friends’ Hives out of the blue and blare bad troll pop music just to see how they react. Aestiv isn’t a trickster because he’s a coward, he’s a trickster because he wants to be noticed. Testing the limits of everyone and everything around him is just a natural way of doing it, really. When push comes to real shove, Aestiv is a surprisingly dedicated friend, despite his laziness. When he channels that restless energy of his into something productive, it often goes his way, which he is endlessly smug about. It’s that kind of effortless cool that draws people to him, but also aggravates them when they try to get close to him. An endless smile is impossible to read if it never falters, after all.

I… Adore him.

Title: Rogue of Breath (????)

Once again, I am stumped. I am defaulting a bit on Breath, which is what I had in mind when I nailed down his concept, but I’ll go into my thought process for that. I tend to base a lot of a character’s flaws on their Aspect, so here we are.

Aestiv is kind of the worst elements of a Breath player all in one. While he could (and really, should) grow into a better, more determined person, he allows the the breeze to stagnate around him, and become a miasma, sickening anyone he comes into contact with. While Ferris Bueller (who Aestiv owes a little inspiration) could be considered a more chaotic Breath figure, Ferris’ aim is to take his friend out of his comfort zone and make him appreciate living a bit more- a lesson in camaraderie that Aestiv could stand to learn. At his current personality, while not necessarily so gullible (maybe a little deaf to the ways of the world) he certainly is “avoidant and volatile”.

Blood almost seems like too much of a cop-out, of course the guy who wants to just flow through life would be challenged by Blood, the Aspect of unity and bonds. But Aestiv at his best likely isn’t a real leader- he doesn’t possess Karkat’s quadrant skills or Kankri’s obsession with social justice. Sometimes a man just really is that shallow. [Arcer, The Officer]

Time is traditionally the aspect of the Red, and his kind of “aloof trickster asshole” mien certainly fits the Time mold of “scary competent when they wanna be, self propelled, go getters”. Time could force Aestiv into being a better person by sharpening his good traits instead of dulling his negative ones, but is eternal struggle really something he can handle, or should handle? I don’t know. [Arist, The Headstrong]

And then, of course, everyone’s favorite chaos Aspect: Rage. Rage is the breakdown of order, the destruction of the mundane, and ideally, the building blocks for something else. Rage players tend to wreak havoc on pretty much anything that ends up in their path. The focus on raw, brute strength doesn’t fit Aestiv’s playstyle. [Aricorn, The Runaway]

Currently, as a character focused on trickery and slyness I wanted to go with one of the “Taker” classes: Thief and Rogue. As a Rogue of Breath, Aestiv would be forced to try and use that wind that always seems to be under his feet to aid his team, allowing him to take them along for the ride that he always seems to be on. Thief (especially of an Aspect like Breath) might make him… worse than he already is, taking his team’s momentum for his own.

God I’ve been stumped about this since the second you sent him in. I DEFINITELY think he needs to be a rogue. That kind of responsibility and taking-on role is something that is absolutely necessary for a character like him. I think… I think I DO want him to be a breath player. A Rogue of Breath. Because breath can be used for such good, he just needs to learn a little responsibility.

And his inverse would be Knight of Blood, which means he could easily experience a brief inversion where he becomes overwhelmed by these bonds… these responsibilities… And learns a little more about himself and how he should treat others.

Though god I think Time is also a good one for him, because he does show some space tendencies. That Enjoying the Journey and not caring about the Destination tendencies. Time is this constant wheel of struggling and fighting and that kind of is what he’s doing in a way- he’s just fighting something a little more theoretical and a little more lackadaisically? In a lot of ways, he really is quite literally fighting the clock. Fighting the measures of safety put on him. Fighting his body’s necessary need for strictness and safety.

And him learning to see a little more value in a GOAL might be good for him. Taking his natural ability to accomplish anything and tying more strict responsibility onto it could be really good for him. It could also bring him face to face with his mortality in a way that might act as a wakeup call.

And him passively redistributed time could be… A good metaphor. Like him fighting and being killed by Scoria on Alternia Timeline being quite literally him Giving Up his time as an act of responsibility. Though I guess that could be read as a passive allocation of movement based upon the bonds he feels to others, too…

My conclusion here is Breath and Time are probably equally good choices for him, but I’m leaning a little (.05%) towards Rogue of Breath just because THEMES.

Land: Land of Gales and Glitter

The wind almost whips the jacket right off of Aestiv as he steps out onto his land, an initially featureless expanse of golden sand. But that’s no sand, that’s glitter- shiny and raining down from above. Buried beneath his feet are the remains of a thousand civilizations, a million lifetimes.

Something is robbing each attempt at civilization on this planet from being able to spread their wings and fly. Even if they crash, it would certainly be better than this. An attempt can be learned from, destroying it leaves no room for further growth. Only by sifting through the sand, finding the pockets of Consorts still eking out an existence here, can Aestiv try and take back the things the Denizen has stolen.

As always I Love your planets… so much… And it cements my feelings about agreeing with Rogue of Breath a little more.

Dream Planet: Prospit

Aestiv lives in something of a rose-tinted summer daydream. To him, everything is warm and sunny and flows nicely. Why bother fighting the river when it’s going to sweep you away regardless? While not really a believer in Fate, Aestiv is a believer in letting things go and letting the universe deal with it.

Very prospitan!

Okay okay design time:

Horns: I took them from the top symbol, really. I wanted to make them big and fun and dangerous.

Hair: I absolutely based the front parts off of Ferris Bueller’s hair. But nice and spikey. I tried to get the blue tips on there but I just couldn’t get it to look good, so regular color it is.

Eyes and mouth: I edited the eyes and mouth both from Tavros. I thought they had the kind of mischevious look that a guy like this needed. I added the light in his eye because Matthew Broderick just has these noticeably twinkle eyes. We just couldn’t have troll Ferris Bueller without shiny eyes.

Jacket: Life is hard and so was drawing this jacket but I think it looks alright. I can’t tell if it looks more like a varsity jacket or a windbreaker, but either way it’s fitting so that’s fine.

Pants: They’re just Karkat’s, but light blue.

Shoes: I just stole Jake’s and added a grey line between the outlines instead of white, because this really is what Ferris Bueller’s shoes look like.

As always I… absolutely love this guy. I think he’s pretty themeatically solid. I almost recommended giving him a little more internal conflict? But really sometimes you do need a character who just starts off without that kind of thing over them. And he’s a Beautiful menace.

-CD

#persephoneanmystery #aestiv tillan #aestiv #tillan #rustblood #maroonblood #review #redesign #cd review #submission

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starlightafterastorm · 6 years

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11 Questions Tag!

I was tagged by the lovely @theheavycrown. Sorry for getting to this days later!

💛 💙 Riverdale themed questions! 💙 💛

My 11 questions for you are…

1. If you could see Cole & Lili act their parts of Bughead in any movie AU, what would it be?

This is a tough question because that is exactly the plot of my next Bughead AU fic “TOP SECRET TITLE HAS BEEN REDACTED FOR SECRECY”

I will say that it is a movie that has been featured heavily on my blog before and is one of my favorites of all time.

OTHER THAN THAT. I’d love to see Cole and Lili/Betty and Jughead in a real noir classic. Casablanca or The Big Sleep. I’m also very partial to Key Largo. Something with Bogie and/or Bacall in it.

2. If you could switch two characters positions in Riverdale, while maintaining their personality, which switch would you want to see?

I think I’d love to see any of the Core Four switch. How interesting would it be to either the girls or the boys switch roles in terms of economic status and circumstance? Or all four of them switch around?

Also, an interesting switch would be Kevin and Reggie. Can you imagine sassy, cocky, and not the brightest bulb in the box Reggie as Betty’s closest guy friend and confidant vs Kevin, totally out of the closet and peppy but slightly antagonistic and Archie’s football rival?

3. Bughead is getting married - describe the wedding. (Colors? Flowers? Theme? Cake? Decor? Readings? as ideas)

Here’s the thing. Betty and Jughead wanted to elope. They TRIED TO ELOPE. Multiple times. But something happened every single time. When Veronica found out she immediately demanded she be allowed to throw them their wedding. And Veronica goes all out.

I’m thinking a sky blue color scheme matched with soft peaches and cool pastels. It’s held in a garden and Betty has some peach colored roses, so pale they’re almost white, wrapped with a blue ribbon and dotted with crystals as her bouquet.

Everything is all delicate white lace and rose petals and Betty has flowers weaved into her hair.

The cake is a giant 7 tiered monstrosity Veronica had ordered from a famous chef with chocolate layers and vanilla layers and a strawberry layer and even a lemon layer somewhere in the middle. It’s decorated very simply with sugar flowers tumbling down the side and golden crowns and stars mixed in.

4. What is Jughead’s favorite food that Betty makes?

French toast with berries and powdered sugar and syrup. It’s the kind of breakfast Alice would make but then monitor Betty’s portions. The kind of breakfast that Jughead only ever got if he had enough cash to spare at Pop’s or if Fred was feeling fancy after Jughead slept over. It’s not super elaborate but it’s fiddly enough that it’s not an every day kind of breakfast. French toast is for luxurious saturdays or lazy sundays. French toast is for pampering sick days or silly breakfast-for-dinners. French toast means sharing a plate piled high and fighting over the last berry and sweet kisses that linger for hours.

5. If Jughead could have any superpower, what do you think he would choose?

I think Jughead would choose telekinesis. So often Jughead has so little control over his life that I think he would choose telekinesis, a power that allows you to physically control the environment around you.

6. What do you think Betty’s favorite romcom would be?

Legally Blonde. Betty has a weakness for Reese Witherspoon in general. Sometimes it’s a “Just Like Heaven” night. Sometimes she feels like “Sweet Home Alabama”. (Jughead complains but he honestly really loves Sweet Home Alabama too. He uses the “So I can kiss you any time I want” line all the time. Also he sulks when Betty won’t let him try to make glass sculptures during thunderstorms)

7. Bughead is going on their honeymoon, if price was no object, where would they go?

They’d go on a food tour through Italy. Sitting in the sun, walking through the vineyards, and eating all the pasta they could possibly stand.

8. If Betty had a tumblr, and she could have any url, what would it be?

nightmarewithlipstick (which is actually a real tumblr though it seems to be empty?)

It’s based off of the Toni Morrison quote “A dream is just a nightmare with lipstick” from her novel “Love”. I’ve not read it but I plan on it and I have no doubt Betty has read it. Something about that quote just jumps out at me and I love the phrasing of it and the darker hints of duality that I think would appeal to Betty

9. If you could hang out with the Core Four for the day, what hang out activities would you want to do?

Eat at Pop’s. lol. Do they ever do any other hanging out activity? Watch a movie at the Drive-In probably. Somehow convince Veronica and Betty to go all out in a shopping spree complete with spa treatments afterwards. (No seriously what other normal teenage hanging out activities are they allowed to do?)

10. What do you imagine the first song Archie attempted to learn on guitar was?

Ok bear in mind I never played guitar but I did play piano and my best friend plays guitar. I think Archie would have chosen something super simple like a children’s song. Mary Had A Little Lamb. (For the feels: It also reminded him of his mother, Mary, and how she used to sing that song to him as a kid)

11. If a theme song played whenever Veronica entered the room, what would it be?

I thought I had the perfect song for this and then I realized that song would actually be more perfect for Cheryl. For VERONICA, I would have to say either “Barracuda” by Heart or “The Wicked Ones” by Dorothy. I love me that classic rock feel and I feel like Veronica needs something with some edge. (tbh I’d pick something with some rock feel for all the girls)

Thanks for the tag! Gonna tag @raptorlily, @burberrycanary, @lusterrdust, @createandconstruct, @smoochmejuggie, @jugandbettsdetectiveagency, @lizzy92rc, @somebooksmakeusfree, @coledemort, @writing-as-tracey

My 11 Questions for you are

1. If you could change one thing (and ONLY ONE THING) about season 2, what would it be?

2. If you could steal one thing from a character’s closet what would it be? (ex. Veronica’s pearls, Jug’s beanie, Cheryl’s spider brooch, any of Betty’s sweaters, Archie’s... letterman jacket?)

3. Would you rather take a ride on Jughead’s motorcycle or have Archie serenade you with a song he wrote himself?

4. Who’s your favorite secondary/minor character? (Trick question. The only correct answer is Pop) ;D

5. Favorite song they’ve used on Riverdale so far?

6. What would you have named Polly’s twins? (Juniper and DAGWOOD? Really Polly?)

7. Favorite line from the whole show?

8. What song do Betty and Jughead choose for their first dance at their wedding?

9. What are Betty and Jughead’s patronus’s?

10. What is Jughead’s guilty pleasure movie? What is Betty’s?

11. FMK: Reggie, Sweet Pea, Hiram Lodge.

#riverdale #tag meme #bughead #betty cooper #jughead jones

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hellyeah-bb · 7 years

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Milkshake Date

ARCHIE/READER

Summary: Y/N meets Archie at Pop’s. They go over what recently happened to his dad. Pure fluff featuring Archie being an angsty teen by thinking he has to save everyone.

Word Count: 1,052

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Y/N sat alone in an empty booth at Pop’s diner. The place was practically empty, besides the occasional customer coming in to pick up an order. Beside Y/N was two large milkshakes. One chocolate and one strawberry.

She glanced at her phone between sips of the chocolaty drink in front of her. Scrolling up, she stared at the texts she had sent not long ago.

Y/N

“Couldn’t sleep. Come to Pop’s if you’re awake.”

Underneath the message, in a small font, were the words, ‘Read 10:43′.

Every time the small, silver call bell rang above the front entrance, Y/N’s eyes would quickly shoot upwards, hoping to greet the familiar redhead.

Pop would give Y/N worried glances, sometimes asking if she needed anything. Her answer was always something along the lines of ‘No; I’m waiting for someone, but thank you.’

At one point, he asked her, “Are you sure he’s coming, dear?”

Y/N chucked dryly. “Not really, but I have faith in him.”

Y/N and Archie had been friends for the longest time, and only recently started dating. He was always there for her when she needed it, as she was for him.

After half an hour of sitting alone with a now-empty glass and one melted shake, she gave up. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he was half asleep when he saw her texts. There were countless possibilities.

Right as Y/N began to slide out of the booth, the bell rang again. This time, a tall redheaded boy, donning a blue Letterman jacket, stood beneath it.

“Arch!” she beckoned him over. His eyes immediately lit up when they met hers.

His smile was quickly morphed into a solemn frown when he realized where he was. As he made his way towards Y/N, he stared at the floor, remembering the horrific event that took place just days before.

“Arch?” Y/N repeated, staring at him.

Archie slowly looked up at her, suddenly being pulled out of his trance-like state, “Hey, Y/N.”

“Are you okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” he stammered, sliding into the seat across from her.

“Well, you’re late. Your milkshake almost melted,” she huffed and crossed her arms in faux distress.

Archie ducked his head down, chuckling, “Yeah, sorry.”

Y/N smiled, “It’s alright,” she reached across the table to intertwine her fingers with his.

Archie’s rough fingers brushed across her knuckles before bringing her hand to his lips and planting a kiss on the back of it.

“What’s on your mind, Archie?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure?” she hummed, distracting herself by playing with his fingers.

He didn’t say anything but poked at what once was a milkshake with his straw.

“Archie, look at me…” she pleaded, reaching over the table and tilting his chin upwards to face her.

“I’m fine, I promise,” he smiled reassuringly, “I just- I haven’t gotten much sleep since… you know…”

“Babe, what happened, happened. Even though you can’t change that, you shouldn’t beat yourself up over it.“

"I-I know. But every time I try to sleep, all I can think about is if something happens, I won’t be there to stop it.”

“It’s not your job to protect anybody, Archie.”

“People will die if I don’t.”

“They’ll be fine, trust me.”

“N-No, no they won’t. Th-That hooded guy is out there and he’s attacking the people I care about,” His voice was raised a bit, clearly having strong emotions about the situation, “I see him everywhere I go, it’s like I’m going crazy.”

“You’re not going crazy, trust me,” Y/N paused, giving him a comforting smile,”I understand you want justice for your dad, Arch, but I worry about you.”

“I love you,” she added.

Archie began to space out, he wasn’t sure how to comprehend what she just told him.

Y/N noticed how quiet he was being and decided it was a call for a subject change, “Just promise me you won’t take it too far. Losing sleep over it is one thing, but going out and hunting for the guy is a whole ‘nother story.”

“Of course, yeah,” he replied, still sounding distant.

“Archie I ju-”

“I love you, Y/N…” he decided, cutting her off.

“That- okay. I mean, that’s good. It’s good,” she stumbled over her words. Frankly, she wasn’t expecting him to return the confession.

“…but I have to do this. Not for my dad, not for Grundy, but for me,” he finished.

“All I’m asking is that you stay safe.”

“I’m just tired of being afraid…”

Y/N stood up, moving to Archie’s side of the table, “It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

He rested his head on her shoulder. They both wrapped their arms around each other and said nothing. Tears welled up in Y/N’s eyes. This really was something out of a story book, but not the ‘happily ever after’ type. It was more like ‘happily for now.’

Y/N had head home with Archie. He didn’t want to be alone for the night, and that was understandable.

“So, this is where our small-town hero, Archie Andrews, spends his nights?” She joked as she entered the small foyer.

“Yeah, sort of,” he smiled, taking a seat on a chest that was tucked away in the corner.

“How are we gonna do this? Take shifts every hour?” Y/N eagerly asked, taking the baseball bat and swinging it around playfully.

“Wait, what? You seriously want to help me with this?”

Y/N seductively grabbed both ends of the bat, snaking it behind Archie’s head. She stood between his spread thighs, looking down upon him. The dim lighting in the room made everything stand out to her. The dark circles under Archie’s nervous eyes, his newly slouched posture, and most importantly: his messy hair that probably hadn’t been brushed in weeks.

She felt bad for him. He shouldn’t have to face this alone.

“Of course I do,” She whispered, “Anything to get my boyfriend some peace of mind…”

She planted a kiss on his forehead“…or some sleep, for that matter.”

Archie furrowed his brows, giving his trademark half-smile. He grabbed the bottom of Y/N’s thighs, pulling her up to straddle his lap.

She gazed at the pair of soft brown eyes beneath her, then at his pink lips, wanting nothing more but to kiss them.

So she did. She craned her neck down, dragging him into a passionate kiss.

#archie #archie andrews #riverdale #fluff #angst #smut #kj apa

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fanficimagery · 7 years

Text

Anonymous said: A jeffxreader where she sits with the jocks at their lunch table bc she recently broke her arm and they are rlly protective of her especially jeff bc he likes her and just include silly banter amongst all of them and maybe later jeff finally gets the courage to ask her out and she happily agrees and fluff thnx <3

Author’s Note: Dear requester, I had to switch arm to ankle because I royally screwed up. Sorry!

JEFF X READER

"Seriously, Jeff, you don't have to keep driving me to school," you chuckle. "I’m plenty capable of doing things on my own still.”

Shaking his head in refusal, Jeff parks in the student parking lot of the high school before turning towards you. "If it wasn't for me goading you, you wouldn't have been playing flag football with us, Y/N. I sometimes forget just how rowdy those idiots can get."

"It's not your fault."

"It kind of is."

As you grin at him, your mind takes you back to the previous weekend when Jeff goaded you into playing flag football with him and the other jocks. It was meant to be fun and it was, but then they divided up the teams into shirts vs. skins and while you were ogling Jeff who'd been on the skins team.. Monty and Justin got a little too rough, and pulled you down into their playful scuffle. Only it wasn't so playful and you're the one who ended up being injured.

You wrinkle your nose at Jeff. "I take it back. It's totally your fault," you mumble.

He laughs, oblivious to the real reasoning you were distracted that day on the field. "I'm glad we agree. Now come on, lets head to class."

For some reason, however, today is just not your day. You've managed before to go from class to class without any problems, but it's like someone jinxed you. Your ankle is suddenly bothering you, you keep losing your balance, and every single person who comes up to you with pity in their expressions just grates on your nerves.

But it's Tyler who really pushes you over the edge. Tyler who, if he doesn't have his camera in your face, is waiting around the corner and shooting candids after you’ve told him numerous of times to leave you alone.

And then by some miraculous decision the following day, you find people backing off as the jocks take point. First it's Jeff walking you and carrying your book bag the first two class periods, then Zach shoots that puppy smile at you to distract you so he could steal your belongings and carry them for the next class period, Justin somehow figures that taking notes for you fourth and fifth period will help you out, and Monty just scowls at anyone who tries talking to you in sixth. Bryce chats you up in seventh and even offers to drive you home after school, but Walker's always given you a weird vibe that you politely decline and mention you'll just wait for Jeff.

They keep it up for a whole two weeks and apparently aren't going to let up anytime soon.

"Seriously, man, just ask her out," Monty grunts, lifting weights at Jeff's side. "Since you've appointed us her body guards, everyone tends to steer clear. You have no competition."

Jeff shakes his head. "It's not that simple. We have a good thing right now and I don't want to ruin it by putting her on the spot. I'm not even sure she likes me," he grunts. "If she doesn't like me, I make things weird and I lose my friend."

The weights drop from Monty's hands with a loud thump! "You're joking, right?" He comes to stand in front of Jeff, a look of disbelief in his features. Jeff shrugs and gently places his own set of weights down. "Dude. The reason Y/N ended up with a broken ankle is because she was too busy staring at you prancing around half naked to see the scuffle heading straight for her."

"What?"

This time, Monty laughs. "Atkins. Bro," he shakes his head in amused disbelief. "I just- I can't with you right now."

As Monty turns to head out of the lifting room, Jeff jogs after him. "Wait! What do you mean? Come on, Cruz, don't be an asshole!"

Jeff's stacking food onto one lunch tray for the both of you when you feel someone yank your crutches from your hands. You mutter curses at the idiot who dare take away the only thing helping you walk, but as you try to hop around and tell off whoever's taken them you feel an arm at your back and the person bends just low enough for their other arm to cradle the back of your knees.

Scooped up in a bridal carry, you soon come face to face with a beaming Zach. "Dammit, Gigantor! Put me down."

"No can do, Y/L/N. We're eating outside today and you take forever to hobble down a few steps."

You want to argue back with him, but you know he's right. You still haven't mastered taking the stairs with crutches, but being carried draws attention and that's the last thing you want. So instead of arguing a pointless argument with Zach, you look to Jeff. "Jeffrey, tell the Giant to let me go. I'm plenty capable of walking. Or hopping."

"Sorry, babe. He does have a point."

Babe? You blink in surprise and your mind blanks.

Not a single word leaves your mouth, what little processing your brain is capable of still stuck on the word babe and how it effortlessly fell from Jeff's lips. Zach, too, seems rather amused, but more by the blush slowly staining your cheeks as opposed to Jeff's sudden realization of what he's just said. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out and Jeff sheepishly smiles at you before busying him by putting your favorite foods on the tray. Zach snorts and as you wrap your arms around his neck to help stabilize yourself, you pinch one of his earlobes.

"You know, you do complain an awful lot for being carried by one of the sweetest guys in school." You turn towards the voice and Jessica smiles impishly at you, she being the one to carry your crutches as Justin loads up a lunch tray for himself and her. It's awfully cute how Justin tends to his girlfriend and you try not to think too much on how Jeff's doing the same for you. His friend.

But you put that on the back burner for now and shrug at Jessica. "I know he means well, but I don't like being so high up. I'm afraid of heights."

Jess giggles and Zach rolls his eyes. "We can't all be fun-sized like you, Y/N."

You glare halfheartedly as he starts walking, easily maneuvering around the cafeteria and out the side doors. Jeff follows behind him, winking at you when you pout at him in defeat, and behind him follows Justin and Jessica. Monty brings up the rear, a tray loaded with enough food for three people and you guess that that's why Zach didn't seem too upset about carrying you. Monty was getting his food for him.

You have lunch with the jocks outside as you’ve recently been doing, Jeff nearly sitting thigh to thigh with you. Zach and Monty bicker in front you and to your left sits Justin and Jessica who seem in their own little world.

Halfway through lunch, Monty and Zach start to get a little loud for their friendly banter, and you throw a half eaten french fry at them. "Cool it, Twilight!" You direct at Monty. "The last thing I need is you to start a fight and break something else on me. Again."

Monty scowls. "Twilight?"

"Yeah." You shrug as Jessica snickers, she and Justin now tuned in to what you're saying. "You remind me of that werewolf guy with the anger issues. Always quick to be offended and just itching for a fight."

Zach starts laughing now and Monty quickly punches his arm. Then he turns his attention back on you. "I don't know whether to laugh at the fact you actually watched those movies or be offended you compared me to a mutt."

"He is a hot mutt," Jessica muses and then shrieks when Justin tickles her in retaliation.

You, however, you just smirk and shrug. "We all had our phases. I'm not ashamed to admit I watched the movies."

"Uh huh." His eyes narrow on you and he looks seconds away from retorting with some stupid remark, but his gaze darts to Jeff instead. "Atkins, get your girl under control. She's being a dick."

You laugh at his assessment, but your heart's pounding and you're praying your laugh doesn't sound as nervous as you feel.

Your girl. Monty called you Jeff's girl and so far, Jeff's not denying it and no one at your table looks like it's a big deal when it should be a big deal! You and Jeff are friends, nothing more. Nothing less. Although you wouldn't mind if it was something more.

A few more seconds pass and all Jeff does is laugh, and you figure that if Jeff's going to play it cool, then so can you.

So you scoff. "His girl?" You muse, raising an eyebrow at Monty while casually leaning your head on Jeff's shoulder. "Do you see me wearing his Letterman? I'm no one's girl, Montgomery."

"Is that all it takes, Y/L/N?" Monty grins. "You're easier than I thought you'd be."

Despite the double meaning behind his words, you let it slide. "That and a peanut butter cookie. You boys don't realize that us girls like to be fed, too. Food makes all the difference. You should takes some notes."

A cookie lands in front of you before Monty can retort and your teasing smirk falls. Your head swivels to face Jeff on your right, the same direction the cookie came from, and you gape at his sheepish smile and studded ears glinting in the afternoon sun.

"So a cookie and my Letterman, huh? I'm pretty sure that can be arranged," Jeff says, already shrugging out of his jacket.

"Wait, what?"

"Finally," Monty groans as he pushes up from his seat.

"Finally? What do you mean by finally?" You ask him, but Monty's gathering his trash and walking away. Zach laughs and you look at him. "Dempsey?"

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. "This is between you and Atkins. Have fun." He's quick to follow after Monty and as you look for Jessica, she and Justin are long gone.

What. The. Hell.

"So a little birdy told me," Jeff starts off nervously, then gaining some confidence as he goes on when you hesitantly give him your attention, "that you were ogling me that day we were playing flag football and that’s why you ended up with a broken ankle. That true?"

Your mouth opens and then clicks shut. Your shoulders slump in defeat. Fuck you, little birdy.

"It is," he chuckles in realization. You blush, but he's quick to turn and straddle the bench so he's facing you. "Funny thing is, I don't mind. Not at all." Leaning in to make sure you make eye contact with him, he says, "I'm being serious with that cookie throw-down. And my Letterman. I've liked you for a while now, but didn't know if you liked me more than a friend until Monty pointed it out. I had to work up some courage and then you gave me the perfect opening."

"You're being serious," you finally realize. Holy shit! "You really want this."

"Yeah. I do. So what do you say, Y/N? Wanna be my girl?"

Your lips twitch into an infectious smile. "Yes, Jeffrey, I'll be your girl."

#imagine #jeff atkins #jeff x reader #th1rteen r3asons why #13RW #montgomery de la cruz #zach dempsey #jessica davis #fanficimagery

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virtueangel · 4 years

Text

limitless.

chapter five.

wc: 2,792. original publish date: october 8, 2020.

JFK sits up in bed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with the back of his wrist before subjecting himself to the daylight's chemical burn. He swallows, his tongue rolling around in the stale taste of his mouth. He blinks, the artificial buzz of the unwelcome morning light hitting the backs of his eyes. Kennedy blinks more vigorously until the fog is out of view and he can fully open his lids against the harsh light.

Van Gogh is still asleep on the other bed. He's turned away from Kennedy, a pillow bunched up in his arms and pulled against his chest. The bandage is slipping off of his head, his fiery hair consuming it. JFK looks away. He knows Van Gogh is self-conscious about his ear stub. His sketchbook sits at the foot of the bed, only its corner poking out from beneath Kennedy's old letterman jacket.

JFK moves the jacket aside. He's secretly always been curious about what's inside the journal, but Van Gogh's never actually shown him anything in it. Sometimes Kennedy will see him drawing during lunch, sitting at a table in the back of the cafeteria all by himself, with an earbud in and a pencil gripped tightly as he slouches over the book. JFK tries to sneak up behind him, to watch him draw without his knowledge, but Van Gogh's always been high strung and notices Kennedy before he can even catch a glimpse of the sketchbook.

The sketchbook isn't closed. In fact, it's open to the very page that Van Gogh had been working on last night before falling asleep. There, in dull, shiny graphite, is the outline of a sixteen-year-old boy. But it isn't just any sixteen-year-old boy -- it's JFK. His grey Harvard t-shirt is falling down his neck to expose his collarbones and there are heavy bags beneath his tired eyes. He's caught in motion in the drawing -- his hand is at his forehead, busy pushing back the floppy mound of brown hair that falls over his eyes when he doesn't have any hair gel to keep it in place. Kennedy hadn't noticed Gogh drawing last night -- he must've been too tired to register the sound of the pencil scratching the paper or the way Van Gogh had been hunched over something, an eager expression lighting up his face. Kennedy doesn't know what to make of the drawing -- should he be flattered or offended that it's of him?

The bedsheets start to rustle and JFK hastily hides the sketchbook underneath the letterman jacket again. He crosses the room to the wall with the window on it and kneels down next to the space heater, trying to make himself look busy as Van Gogh sits up in bed. Kennedy can see the boy out of the corner of his eye: the first thing he does, even before rubbing his eyes, is adjust the loose white bandage around his head. He curses to himself under his breath. He'll have to switch it out.

Van Gogh finally registers JFK sitting on the floor and jumps a little bit, almost like he'd forgotten he had company at all.

"Good morning," JFK says, stepping away from the space heater.

"Hey," Van Gogh yawns, his throat scratchy with sleep.

"Sleep okay?" Kennedy asks with a smile. He chooses to be flattered by his best friend's drawing.

"No," he replies in his cutting-edge voice.

JFK laughs goodheartedly. "Me neither."

"It was too cold," Van Gogh continues. "My collarbones are all tight and achey. I should've brought more clothes to sleep in." He flips the comforter off of himself and swings his bare knees over the side of his bed. He'd only slept in his boxers and a t-shirt because he'd forgotten to pack real pyjamas. Jeans aren't appropriate sleeping attire, by any means.

"Are you cold now?" JFK snickers, eyeing the boy's pale legs.

He's too tired to be embarrassed by the boy's scrutiny. "A little."

"Put on my sweater. It'll cover your legs."

"But then won't you be cold?" Van Gogh asks, crossing the room to where the boy's sweater sits at the foot of his bed.

Kennedy shrugs. "I run hot."

Van Gogh stops to give him a once-over. He smirks. "I can tell." He picks Kennedy's red and white striped sweater up off of the bed and pulls it over his head. JFK's cheeks dust pink when he realises he'd been watching, his jaw slack and his eyes wide. Van Gogh, thankfully, doesn't notice.

"What's the plan for today?" He asks, walking into the bathroom. He leaves the door open as he splashes water onto his face, but pushes it closed once it's time to switch out his bandages.

"I say we should go to that creepy town," Kennedy calls back, raising his voice to carry it through the bathroom door.

"Marshtown?" Van Gogh clarifies.

Kennedy nods.

"What?" Gogh asks from the bathroom.

JFK giggles at himself, feeling stupid. "I nodded. Yes, Marshtown."

"What do they even have there?" Van Gogh opens the bathroom door again. His bandages are violently white. He squeezes some paste onto his toothbrush and runs it under the water from the faucet before sticking it into his mouth.

"Fog?"

Van Gogh spits. "It could be kind of fun..."

"Really?"

Van Gogh watches himself in the mirror, his quicksand brown eyes staring back at him. He shrugs, leaning forward to inspect one of the textured spots on his face. "I thought you had a sense of adventure, Kennedy."

JFK frowns, suddenly feeling challenged. "I do! You're the one I was worried about."

The faucet runs again and Van Gogh steps out of the yellow-speckled bathroom, turning off the light and the fan behind him. "I can handle it."

Kennedy smiles despite himself. "Then. Let's. Go."

Van Gogh is standing so close to JFK now that he can smell the taller boy, and not only because he's wearing his sweater. "Fine by me."

Kennedy looks the boy up and down. "Put some real clothes on first."

"But wouldn't you be sad to give all this up?" He gestures to his bare legs.

JFK's eyes narrow. "I think you're stealing my brand, Gogh. There's only room for one notorious flirt in this relationship."

Kennedy brushes past Van Gogh to retrieve some day clothes from his suitcase, but Van Gogh is frozen still from his use of the word "relationship".

***

"No, I swear this is the way I came in," JFK says, slowing down the car and peering over Van Gogh's shoulder to see the map in his hands. The black circle around Marshtown seems thicker in the daylight. The circle seems more ovular.

"Yeah, but it was nighttime. And I know you weren't looking at the GPS. It's our first time here. Of course it looks different in the day," Van Gogh snaps, waving his hand in Kennedy's face so he'll look at the road.

Kennedy sighs. "Maybe this trip was a bad idea."

Van Gogh doesn't respond. A couple seconds pass, and he points to the statue. "There!" He exclaims.

Kennedy jumps at the sudden noise and the car swerves. His arms pump with adrenaline. "What?"

"That's the statue I was telling you about when we first drove in," he explains.

JFK glances at his passenger. "The one that's made to look like marble but is really just concrete?"

Van Gogh looks up at Kennedy, scrunching his noise and smiling pleasantly. "Yeah." He looks back out the windshield. "You remembered."

JFK opens his mouth to say something and Gogh turns to him in anticipation, but nothing comes out. He closes his mouth. Van Gogh looks away, an unfamiliar twinge of disappointment welling in his chest.

Kennedy shakes his head, like he's reentering reality. "Oh, I remember this now." They pass the gas station. There are still no cars and the convenience store has the "closed" sign in the window. The buzzing yellow lights are off. It somehow looks less welcoming in the day -- if it had ever looked welcoming in the night.

The red convertible glides through the intersection and they enter the highway, and just like that, they leave Blackbox behind them.

"What a silly name for a town," Van Gogh whispers, craning his neck to watch the welcome sign he hadn't noticed the night before fade farther and farther into the distance.

"It's fitting, is it not?" Kennedy replies, eyes glued to the empty highway. Still no cars in sight.

Van Gogh turns around to face the driver. "I guess. But who wants to live in a town called Blackbox?"

JFK shrugs. "Maybe they don't want people to live there."

"That girl totally looked like Joan."

"Who, the counter girl?"

Van Gogh nods. Kennedy can just barely sense the movement out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah, she did. She was Joan but somehow... sadder," Kennedy agrees.

"I don't know if that's how I'd put it, but... off. Like an altered-reality version of Joan."

A few seconds go by. The car fills up with silence as the wind rushes by outside. Kennedy is in the far left lane, but the engine doesn't wail the way it usually does when he drives over the speed limit.

"All the houses looked the same," Van Gogh says after a minute.

"I hadn't noticed. I wasn't paying as much attention as you were." He turns to the boy. "You're fascinated by them."

Van Gogh nods without making eye contact.

"Why?"

Gogh shakes his head. A lock of traffic cone hair falls between his eyes. He angles his lips upward and blows. "It reminded me of Exclamation!."

"You hate Exclamation!," JFK replies, raising an eyebrow at his best friend.

Van Gogh looks up at JFK, his eyes swollen and sinking with innocence. "But this neighbourhood was pretty."

"I thought you didn't want things to be pretty."

"No, I just said pretty doesn't equal girly. And it doesn't."

The car falls silent again. Van Gogh unties and reties his Keds anxiously. He balls his fists up in the cuffs of Kennedy's -- his -- letterman jacket. He pulls his feet up onto the leather seat. He turns to JFK, waiting for the boy to scold him for getting his car dirty. He doesn't.

"I can feel you looking at me, Van Gogh."

"You're not gonna tell me to get my feet down?" He asks dubiously, a thread of concern roping itself into his voice.

Kennedy shrugs. "You're not most people. The bottoms of your shoes aren't caked in mud."

"How do you know that?" Van Gogh challenges.

"Because I've seen the way you take care of your possessions, Gogh. You don't get dirty like that."

If it had been anyone else, Van Gogh would've taken offence. He would've defended himself, read into their words to find an artificial threat. But it's Kennedy. He lets his guard down.

"You've... noticed that?"

Heat climbs up the back of JFK's neck. He clenches his jaw and keeps his vision fixed forward out the windshield. "Sure."

Van Gogh opens his mouth to say something else, to venture further into the topic. Kennedy speaks instead.

"Are you hungry? We didn't eat breakfast and I doubt you ate dinner yesterday."

Van Gogh drops the conversation. "Sure. Hey, you know what would be fun?"

Kennedy grins in anticipation. "What would be fun?"

"Let's go to some shitty all-American diner. That's a perfect road tripping activity, right?"

JFK relaxes in his seat and lets his smile run free across his face. His lips part to reveal his mouth of perfectly white teeth. Van Gogh thinks he could be in a toothpaste ad. He always has.

"Look on that map. Did Weird Joan circle any diners somehow shittier than Denny's?"

Van Gogh laughs, but he's not sure if it's at something the boy said or if he's just happy. "If Weird Joan is anything like the real Joan, she'd have no idea where to look for something like that."

"Oh, I beg to differ. Abe's all about shit like that. And you know Joan's so far up his ass she's practically in his throat."

Van Gogh slams his head back into his seat in laughter. The sound starts in his stomach, climbing up to his chest and exploding up his throat. It fills the whole car, and he slaps his hand over his mouth, embarrassed by the sound. JFK laughs too, and it's in unison rather than in solidarity. Van Gogh lets himself laugh again, admitting that sometimes, just sometimes, John F. Kennedy is rather funny.

***

JFK pulls into the parking lot of a clearly unloved diner, complete with graffitied windows and broken plastic signage. "This shitty enough for you?" He asks as he stops the car.

Van Gogh unbuckles his seatbelt and hops out of the vehicle. "Oh, yes, absolutely."

Kennedy smiles. "Good, because I'm pretty sure this is the only one we're going to be able to find for the next, like, four hours. Which is embarrassing. I can't believe we're on a road trip in America and we've only come across one unmapped town and some secret diner."

"Ooh, call it secret again. Like it's our diner or something."

Kennedy turns his head to look at Van Gogh, a silently affectionate expression painting his face. "It can be."

"It is."

Bells chime as JFK and Van Gogh push through the door. The air is stale and heavy with mildew, but the tables and floors are relatively clean.

"I'm surprised this place is still in business," Van Gogh whispers to JFK.

He stifles a laugh. The comment itself isn't inherently funny, but he's in a sunbeam mood.

"Sit anywhere," a hostess smiles at the boys. She has tan skin and wavy brunette hair -- Van Gogh is relieved that she doesn't look like anyone he knows.

"This booth okay?" JFK asks, leading Van Gogh to the corner farthest from the door.

Van Gogh slides into the cushy leather seat in affirmation. JFK sits down across from him. He plants one foot on the floor and bends his other knee, resting his calf across his other thigh. Van Gogh rests his elbows on the table and laces his fingers, cracking his knuckles and looking out the window so he doesn't have to stare at Kennedy. For once, he has nothing to say to the boy. They're still learning how to sit in unoccupied silence.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" A handsome young waiter asks. He can't be much older than the boys -- seventeen, eighteen at the oldest.

"Just some water," Van Gogh says, and JFK nods in agreement. The waiter smiles at them both, looking a bit over-eager.

"What time is it?" JFK asks.

Van Gogh glances at his watch. "10:19."

"What time did we wake up?"

Van Gogh shrugs. "Dunno. Probably around 8:00, 8:10."

The small talk is strangling. Kennedy holds his hands in his lap and plays with his fingers, tracing his nail beds and picking skin.

"You're a really good artist, Van Gogh," he says to his lap.

Gogh sits up straighter in his seat. His elbows retreat to his sides.

"You look like," JFK stops himself and sneaks a quick glimpse at the boy. "You look like your dad."

"Which one?" Van Gogh asks, speaking to his lap as well.

"Your clone father. The real Van Gogh."

Van Gogh's stomach does somersaults. A genuine compliment from Kennedy? Interlaced with no vanity or backhandedness? What's the catch?

"Thanks, um, that really means a lot," he smiles, the expression barely visible by the boy sitting opposite him.

"I mean, you look like a teenage version of him. I've never actually seen pictures of him as a teenager, but you have his bone structure. And, um, his intellectual and creative capacities."

Van Gogh looks up, his eyes collecting the fluorescence of the ceiling lights and throwing it back onto Kennedy.

"They did a good job with you."

"John," Van Gogh starts in a soft voice, and suddenly he doesn't remember what he was going to say. He clamps his mouth shut and his eyes widen, the quicksand thicker and trickier than ever before.

Kennedy's eyes widen as well, and his jaw drops.

"V--" he stops himself, not sure whether to address his best friend by first name or last name. It's been strictly last name basis since they were ten and Van Gogh's parents started dropping him off at the Kennedys', but suddenly, he can't remember why it started or why it stuck.

He doesn't have to make up his mind, because the saturatingly positive waiter sets the boys' glasses of water down in front of them.

"Ready to order?" He asks, flipping open his order book and clicking his pen in anticipation. The smile tugs at his muscles. Van Gogh wonders if it's stuck there.

Kennedy opens his mouth.

"We need a few more minutes," Van Gogh says instead, his voice small and drowned in phlegm.

#clone high #clone high jfk #clone high van gogh #jfgogh

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saltandlimes · 7 years

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13 reasons why I’m not so sure about 13 Reasons Why

1. It’s been called one of the best school dramas of the 21st century (IGN) and emotionally hard hitting. And sure, 13 Reasons Why leaves you sobbing, clutching at your seat, desperate. It’s a show about suicide. What did you expect? Is it one of the best high school dramas of the past 17 years? Well given that we’re picking between 13 Reasons Why and High School Musical or Glee, sure. The acting is impeccable. The characters are well drawn. The stories are compelling.

Click the read more to hear the rest of my critique. But heed the tags and the subject matter. The show is a heavy one, and I’m gonna talk about it, and discuss a few of the other issues I had with it. (some spoilers)

2. But is it really a drama about high school? Maybe I’m just out of touch, but I had to actually sneak out of my house to go wandering around like the students in 13 Reasons do. My parents weren’t letting me go off to parties and ignore homework. They weren’t constantly disappearing out of town and leaving us to party it up. In many ways, 13 Reasons feels like a set of 1980s teens given cellphones and let loose in the 21st century. This is not a post 9/11 world. This is not a post 2008 world, and it shows.

3. The carefully chosen diverse cast and casual acceptance of lgbt issues is clearly designed to please the target audience. And that’s lovely... except that it completely erases race and class issues. Sure, Tony, our latinx main cast character, talks about how his neighborhood differs from middle class protagonist Clay’s, but that’s about all we get. Another single throw away comment about things being harder for the black student body president than for the white sports star. But where is the depth of story behind a black student body president, an Asian-american vice president? Where is the commentary on how these people all ended up friends?

4. Why are all the people of color we see in the film people who have done something wrong (with the exception of Tony, again)? Why is the only one of the “culprits” in Hannah’s suicide with a broken home life and a sympathetic backstory white? Why is our main protagonist a white boy who is “not like the rest of them?”

5. Don’t get me wrong, Clay Jensen is an appealing character. Of course he is. He’s exactly the kind of character we are programmed to like and to sympathize with. A white man, one who is misunderstood, a sensitive white man who is also attractive, just popular enough not to get seriously picked on, and does wonderfully in school. Sometimes he makes me want to scream.

6. Speaking of things that make me want to scream: the costuming. Delightful, the way that 13 Reasons is populated by every stereotype of clothes typical to high school dramas. Who went to a school where the jocks all wear their letterman jackets in the 21st century? Who went to a school where the school could afford to provide those jackets?

7. Speaking of caricatures, I’ll spare a single moment to talk about lgbt issues in the series, even though this deserves an entire post. As much as Courtney’s fathers are about as stereotypical as one could imagine, there is something well done about this particular stereotype. Courtney’s desperate desire to shield her fathers from the backlash if her own sexuality becomes public is one of the only truly unexpected motivations in the show, and it’s genuinely well done.

8. Another well done moment, or series of them: Hannah’s discussions of depression. She never names what she experiences. She never gets diagnosed. But through Hannah, the show puts into words the experience of being depressed better than any other fiction I have ever encountered.

9. That out of the way, let’s switch gears, or should I say sides of the tape? Let’s talk about the rest of the actual subject matter. Suicide. Rape. Potentially a mass shooting next season? They’re really heavy, really serious. One of the things that is fantastic about 13 Reasons is that it doesn’t treat them lightly. It doesn’t shy away from them. But it does put them on display. It makes them a spectacle. It makes them a part of a mystery that you, as a viewer, are desperate to find out.

10. Why? It’s not because you care about Hannah Baker. No, Hannah’s dead and gone, and even in her own memories, colored as they are with depression, she doesn’t come out looking as good as she could. No, it’s because you desperately want to know what Clay, sweet, good Clay could have done to her. You have to get to that tape. You have to see how he falls, hear why he hurt her. It’s almost scopophilic.

11. Did I say almost? I meant, it is. We watch as Hannah tears herself to pieces. We watch as Clay falls apart at the seams, half avenging angel and half confused teen. We watch as Alex follows Hannah’s footsteps. We desperately want to know if Justin will escape his abusive home. We need to hear if Courtney will own up to what she is hiding. We have to find out if Jessica was actually raped. We are the voyeurs, and they suffer for our pleasure.

12. Many people suffer for our delight in fiction. The greatest tragedies are greater than the greatest comedies, after all. Human feeling is strongest in empathy. Yet, do we need to see women raped on screen continually? Do we need to see graphic depictions of suicide, so graphic that I could not watch it, me, who has watched some of the goriest horror films ever made?

13. I will fight forever for it to be legal to produce those images, to create art like 13 Reasons Why. I will never argue they should be prevented. Yet I will critique whether they are there just to shock and distress the viewer. I will ask why Hannah’s dying body is anything other than a perverse monument to the voyeur’s eye.

And in honor of Clay:

14. Clay didn’t kill Hannah Baker. Neither did Justin, or Jessica, or Alex, or Zach or Tyler or Courtney, or Marcus, or Ryan, or Sheri, or Mr. Porter. Not even Bryce. He raped her. He didn’t kill her.

In the end, Mr Porter is right. In the end, while every single one of them failed Hannah, and failed Justin, and failed Jessica, and failed Alex, they did not kill her. And after thirteen hours, and thirteen reasons, and thirteen tapes, and endless heart stopping moments, 13 Reasons Why still fails to show that. It still misses its mark. In all its heartbreakingly beautiful social commentary, it never remembers to remind us that we watched, but watching, while wrong, is not the same thing as wielding the knife.

#13 reasons why #thirteen reasons why #13 reasons spoilers #meta #suicide//#rape//#theres a readmore #my meta

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