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Title: Dead Man Walking
Pairing: Connor Murphy x Reader
Fandom: Dear Evan Hansen
Requested: Yes! I had two different requests for this one
Summary: You and Connor Murphy aren’t friends, but you do have a business plan worked out. You give him the money, Connor gives you the weed, and you make a day of it. Connor’s a little pent up tonight (and a little black and blue from an incident he won’t tell you about), but you’ve got a proposition.
Warnings: Connor’s potty mouth | physical abuse | Mentions of depression | a really poor way to treat people with depression | a really poor understanding of mental health from both sides | drugs | heavy kissing | First person reader | not proof read | confident Connor Murphy
A/N: sorry this took so long! Hopefully everyone likes it! Fair warning again (stated above) heavy physical abuse and mental abuse–I don’t believe some of the things I have Connor and the reader say below, I just believe realistically it’s how their characters would respond. Thanks so much for 1100 followers! Thanks so much for all the love and support from everyone! Hope you like this♡ More notes at the end
To say Connor Murphy was a friend would be a lie.
From: CM 9:36 pm U home?
I was glad my parents didn’t ask whose number it was that showed up all over our phone bill, and that they never questioned cryptic whispers I sometimes gave into my phone when he called late, answering despite the fact my parents were just across the table.
He was brief. He was curt. He didn’t talk too much, so there was no worry of my parents overhearing. Not that they’d care.
I stared at my phone screen for longer than probably necessary–I knew Connor, and if I didn’t respond quickly, he’d give up and reschedule for whenever he felt like it. Still, the familiar jolt of anxiety bolted through me all the same.
I was in my room, spread across my bed in one of my uncle’s hand-me-down sweatshirt and a pair of pajama shorts my mother didn’t like me wearing when I had guests over. She wasn’t here to change that, though.
9:41 pm ya. U have my bio book?
Plot twist: “bio book” did not actually mean bio book, in case you haven’t caught on yet.
9:41 pm Yeah
9:42 pm Come over
He sent a quick confirmation, letting me know he was walking over, making anxious for a few reasons, the head of which being him walking around in that hoodie in my neighborhood wouldn’t go over too well, and the last thing we needed was the cops barging in. I texted him to use the back door.
I brushed through my hair, frowning at the fact there was no time to do my makeup. It was Saturday, and I hadn’t bothered to put any on today anyway, but it didn’t make me any less uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure Connor had ever seen me without makeup on. I scrubbed the toner on my cheeks a little too harshly.
Connor and I had a deal–a system we’d developed late Sophomore year, when highschool hadn’t lived up to any of the expectations we’d had for it. I didn’t really know Connor–sure, he lived two streets over and we went to the same elementary school, but it didn’t change the fact that I was a fairly popular person, by no means at the top of the food chain, but still involved, and Connor, well.
Connor was the stoner. The first in our class. He didn’t even hang out with the other stoners, he just sat at the edge of the lunch room at the end of the table where the anime club sat by himself, staring. It had been pretty safe to say our lives wouldn’t cross, ever.
If we hadn’t made a deal.
I still don’t know why I did it, and part of me wished I never had, because now we couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t stop giving him money and he wouldn’t stop coming over with joints and we’d smoke and shit talk and fuck if I didn’t like it.
We didn’t talk at school. We didn’t talk once the joint fizzled out and we both fell asleep, Connor leaving wordlessly at some point around three am, walking anywhere but home.
I knew the feeling.
I warmed up the Nintendo, sitting in the floor–I’d already drug all the blankets from my bed (Connor never sat on the bed, ever. It made him uncomfortable, I think) onto the floor in front of the television, piled it with ample snacks. Connor ate like a bird.
I was already sleepy. I wished I’d told him to just go home, let him take his joint and leave–that was our deal. I’d pay for the weed (his parents had cut him off long ago) and he’d keep half of it, and deliver the other half to me. Sometimes we smoked together, sometimes we didn’t. My parents were gone for the week, and he knew that. Everyone knew that. He wanted to hang.
I didn’t mind, not one bit.
Connor let himself in, surprising me by entering my bedroom unannounced, shutting the door behind him and locking it. From my position stretched across the nest of blankets on the floor, Connor looked like a giant. He paused in the doorway, his face expressionless as he took in the sight of my setup. He would’ve been funny, standing in my pink bedroom, his backdrop a Jonas Brothers poster and a mountain of teddy bears. Would’ve been funny, if he didn’t look like shit. The purple bruising under his eyes and across the bridge of his nose was concerning, but I knew better than to bring it up. His lips were puckered tightly, almost like a sardonic duck face. I held out a package of twizzlers.
“You lock the front door?”
He nodded. “Back door.”
“Hm,” I agreed, letting him slide out a single red twine and pop it between his teeth as he fumbled in the back pocket of his jeans, his lithe fingers twisted as he threw a bag at me.
“Just one?” I said, a little upset. I’d given him more than enough for two.
“Prices hiked,” he said, digging around again and handing me a crumpled wad of twenties, which scattered on the hello kitty blanket we were sitting on. Connor folded himself neatly beside me, careful not to take up too much room or to tower too close.
“Keep it,” I told him, pulling the blunt from the bag. “Use it for next time. Or spend it, I don’t care.”
“No,” he grumbled, voice void of inflection, eyes staring ahead at the tv screen. “Not the deal. Wanna smoke.”
“Hulk smash,” I agreed sagely, earning a glare from him. “No, got it, not in the mood.” I sighed.
“It’s so annoying to pass a blunt back and forth,” I groaned, lighting anyway and taking the first drag. Calm thoughts, calm thoughts were the key to a good trip. Being anxious to start just made you paranoid. Connor’s lithe fingers brushed mine as he stole it from me, placing it between his own lips.
“Your fingers are freezing.” I pushed the blankets toward him, building a small nest around your legs. “And take your jeans off if you wanna get comfy.”
He didn’t, his loss.
I flopped back against the nest, feeling my hair fan out around me, and sighed. I didn’t really wanna smoke tonight–it was already late, I was already tired. Connor made me uncomfortable to the nth degree, I definitely couldn’t fall asleep with him here.
When I glanced back at him, his expression was unreadable thanks to his downcast curls and the cloud of smoke that had begun to twist around him. He held out the blunt to me.
“You’re quiet,” I noticed, taking the blunt and inhaling, watching the patterns the smoke made as it curled in on itself over and over.
He shrugged, his shoulder catching his curls and dragging them back a little to reveal a bit more of his face to me. The pinpoint freckles across his cheeks seemed paler under the outline of the bruise, just across the edge. I bit down on my tongue to keep from asking. His lips were pouted, as if he was upset.
Connor wasn’t usually like this–stoic, sure, but calmer. I wondered for half a moment if he’d gotten mugged on his way here. The blossoming bruise, still obviously new, the apples of his cheeks slightly swollen–I doubted he’d simply run into a wall.
We weren’t friends, so I didn’t ask.
“Don’t have much to say,” he muttered. “Not much to talk about.”
I just hummed, stealing another drag and handing him another twizzler. “Wanna play MarioKart before this stuff kicks in?”
I might’ve imagined the corner of his mouth ticking up from where his lips were wrapped around the licorice, but regardless he muttered, “Sure.”
It took less than fifteen minutes for the weed to hit us full force. Connor had destroyed me at the game, so we’d abandoned it in lieu for muted cartoons neither of us were watching.
We were stretched across the nest of blankets, me facing him where he stared listlessly at the ceiling–at some point he’d forgotten to pass blunt, letting it hang limply between his lips. I nudged him with my knee as a reminder.
“Your fucking lipgloss is all over this thing,” he groaned bitterly, wiping his hand on his knee before lowering it back to the blanket. He’d taken off his shoes at some point, and his socks had Courage the Cowardly Dog on them. I pretended not to notice–even when I thought they were pretty cool.
“It’s chapstick,” I said, rolling up onto my elbow to get a better look at him, the smoke trailing across the plains of his hoodie like fog.
“It’s got glitter on it,” he shot back, still staring at the ceiling. “I don’t want that shit on my mouth. My dad would have a fucking field day.”
I just laughed, and let his eyes roll over to glare at me. There were one or two sparkles at the corner of his mouth, I saw, but nothing that couldn’t be wiped off. I wondered briefly where his parents thought he was.
“No more for you then, I guess,” I giggled, rolling into a sitting position and taking another drag. His eyebrows furrowed comically, his slim body rolling up.
“Nuh-uh, no fair. Without me you’d have no weed.”
“Could say the same for you,” I sighed, leaning my head against the foot of my bed and staring at him. His hair was away from his face now–once calm, I supposed, he’d forgotten all about the blemish on his face. He wasn’t hunched or hiding anymore, the sleeves of his hoodie pushed up to reveal his bare forearms. He smiled, startling me–it wasn’t much, just a quirk of his lip, but it was pretty nonetheless. He looked like the thumbnail for a Charli music video.
“I’d find another way to get the money–you’re just the easiest.”
I gasped, mock offended, earning a smile with teeth from him. He ducked his head to his chest, his hair eclipsing the smile.
“Connor Murphy thinks I’m easy!” I cried in mock horror, slamming my palm dramatically against my forehead. “Oh God, my reputation is ruined.”
“If I so much as mentioned your name at school, your reputation would be ruined,” Connor chuckled darkly. “They’d kick you out of student council until you pled ‘charity case’.”
I smiled, deciding not to call him on out on the self deprecating jokes lest he return to his catatonic state. I was just pleased he’d begun to forget about whatever had made hum enter so sullen.
I snorted. “Yeah, they’d believe that for sure. Instead of, ya know, the obvious.”
He raised an eyebrow, his smile fading slowly. “What’s the obvious?” He asked grimly, suddenly angry. I forced a laugh to diffuse the tension.
“You know,” I said awkwardly. “You’re a boy. I’m a girl.”
He stared blankly at me, and despite the fact I knew he fully understood what I was getting at, I also knew he wanted to hear me say it.
“Can I make it anymore obvious?” I crooned in a poor monotone, nudging his knee with my own. He licked his lips, coming away with a thin smile.
“What? People would think you’re slumming with the loner?”
I rolled my eyes. “I doubt anyone would call it slumming–girls like bad boys, Connor.”
I watched his slate eyes widen, his whole face expand as he barked a laugh, startling me to press back against the bed as he crumpled with laughter. It was shocking, and I let out another anxious laugh to echo him–I’d never seen Connor with so much expression on his face. He’d smiled so wide I could’ve seen his tonsils, and he was still bent over, his face hovering over my lap as he choked for air between heavy stomp of laughter, which sounded more akin to wheezing than any laugh track I’d ever heard. In the back of my head, it sort of reminded me of that one SpongeBob episode where they describe Squidward’s laugh box as “shriveled and unused”.
God, Connor was such a Squidward. I’d tell him after this.
“Is that what you think I am?” He practically giggled, his wide and manic eyes rushing up to meet mine. “A bad boy?”
I shifted uncomfortably, realizing the question had become about me. He’d been laughing at me. I felt my whole expression fall and shatter in my lap. “I mean–yeah? What, haven’t you read a YA novel? Hoodie, drugs, sarcastic and witty jokes, plus your looks–you’re the recipe for a good bad boy trope. You’re probably mushy on the inside. I bet you write poetry.”
Connor’s thin eyebrows shot into his hairline, his face still amused. “My looks?”
Flushing, I started down at my bare knees, which had turned pink–I suddenly felt too hot. I don’t remember weed usually doing that.
“God, Connor, don’t make me say it,” I grumbled, going to take a drag, surprised when he reached out to catch my wrist to prevent me. He was too close–I could see every freckle against his brusied cheek, the violent purple seeming almost pink around the edges. He was smiling softly, eyebrows raised. “You’re cute,” I admitted softly, relieved to see him laugh it off and let me go, rolling again onto his back. He pulled a teddy bear from the pile and held it front of him, smiling down at it.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” he snorted.
“Oh, fuck you, Murphy.”
“Buy me a drink first.“
"Ugh!” I groaned, falling face first beside him onto the nest, feeling the plush blankets brush against my cheeks. I had a headache coming on–there was always something about weed that left me prone to sensory overload. “It’s too bright. Turn off the lights.”
It felt immensely better after Connor hit the switch and engulfed us in darkness, the only light coming from the television and dying the room a soft blue hue, and the flush that had felt like an awful itch across my skin fell away.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Connor hold out the blunt to me. I hadn’t realized he’d taken it. I thanked him and took a long drag.
“You’re quiet,” he said in a gruff voice, more sardonic than thoughtful. I snorted.
“You’re one to talk.”
He chuckled–it twisted my stomach in a decent way to see him in a such a pleasant mood. Sneaking a look at him, I realized it suited him well, that crooked smile he sported, revealing a bloody crack in his lip to match the blossoming bruise across his face.
“You wanna talk about that?” I murmured, pointing to him with a knuckle and then tracing my own cheek. He quirked an eyebrow, as if he didn’t understand. He’d forgotten, I realized. I sat up to face him, blunt still dangling between my lips, and traced the underside of the bruise with my thumb. He pulled away quickly, as if it had hurt.
“No. I don’t. We were talking about you.”
“Were we?” I asked, genuinely trying to remember. The best and worst thing about pot was the pleasant fog it left your brain in.
“Yes,” he groaned forcefully. “We were. You were talking about your parents.”
“I was?” That sounded false. I knew it was a bad idea to have Connor over when I was so tired and suggestible–it made us both open to conversations I didn’t want to have.
It was always scary. It wasn’t like we hadn’t had deep talks before, but that just meant it was that much harder to ignore him at school. Ignore him when he lashed out in class and keep quiet when my friend Josh talked shit behind his back. It was harder.
Because when we listened, it meant we cared.
“Yes,” he sighed again. “Do you need to sleep or something? I’ll finish the blunt.”
“Nope,” I said, smacking his hand away and keeping the blunt. “This one’s mine. You only get secondhand smoke. Sorry.”
He glared at me. “You’re funny.”
“You complained! Complaining means no blunt. You can shotgun filter-feed, a la Spongebob.”
He laughed, his hair swishing lightly around his shoulders. He looked nice.
The weed was definitely making me suggestible.
“Um, yeah, that’d get me super high,” he replied dryly, picking at his nails, glancing at me out of the corner of his eyes.
“Not from over there,” I sighed, leaning against the foot of the bed and blowing smoke in his direction, watching his hair fall over his shoulders, and his eyelids slide down as if he’d suddenly become drowsy. As painful as the bruise looked, it also gave him a sort of dreamy aesthetic that made me feel sort of disgustingly protective.
“That your way of asking me to scoot closer?” He sighed, sliding a bit closer across the nest of blankets so his thigh was flush with mine, making me suck in a sharp breath.
“This is out of character for you, Murphy,” I breathed, trying and failing to sound braver than I felt. My foggy brain was flashing warning lights over and over, why this was an awful idea. Pro: my parents would hate it. Con: this was Connor Murphy. Pro: he’s cute. Con: he’s Connor Murphy.
“Don’t wanna get anymore glitter on my lips,” he grinned like a shark, his smile blinding in the cyan light from the television.
“Think that’s gonna happen regardless,” I muttered nervously, daring to make eye contact with him and finding that he was smirking sharp enough to knock the air out of me. Oh God, it was gonna happen.
“You can use your hand, dumbass.”
I nearly screamed, jumping back and cracking my head against the bed frame, staring at him with wide eyes. “What?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You haven’t shotgunned before?”
I felt myself deflate, leaning forward again, and I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed. Of course Connor Murphy wouldn’t kiss me. Connor Murphy didn’t like me. We were barely friends. I just paid for his weed.
“No, actually,” I grumbled, looking sheepishly up at him. “I haven’t.”
“You’re such a goody two shoes,” he chuckled, taking the blunt from me, and replaced it between my lips a little tighter. “I’ll show you.”
He stole my hand from my knee and rolled it into a fist. “Keep this tight. Take the drag, then blow into this, okay?”
I did as he said, holding the smoke in my lungs and bringing the fist to my mouth, only halfway surprised when he surged forward to press his lips against the opposite side of my fist, the smoke escaping quicker from my mouth than it should’ve. I flushed deeply at his annoyed gaze.
“I got like, none of that.”
“Sorry,” I muttered. “You just surprised me.”
He rolled his eyes, pushing his hair back out of his face frustratedly. He didn’t have a hair tie on his wrist–I should probably offer him mine, but he was still too close, and I could smell him past the scent of the pot. I was warm again.
“Tighter,” he grunted, slapping my fist and reattaching his lips to the other side, his nose brushing my knuckles, his eyelids closed softly like he was kissing me. My stomach flipped, and I quickly blew the smoke through, and his face was so close I could feel his bangs brush my face.
“Missed again,” he grumbled, softly, eyebrows furrowed in thought. He tapped the pad of my thumb with his index finger. “See this space. It’s always gonna be open here. My mouth isn’t that big, and you pulling away isn’t helping.”
He was right–there was a large gap between my pinky and the pad of my thumb, simply because of the direction my fingers curled. Too much smoke was getting out. Connor’s high was starting to wear off, I could tell he was getting frustrated.
I leaned back against the bed, taking another drag.
“If you’re gonna complain, literally just take a hit from the source and deal with the glitter, and next time buy two blunts–”
He waited until the smoke had started to curl out of my mouth before he surged forward, taking hold of my jaw between his lithe fingers, making me yelp before drawing his own face close.
I thought he was trying to kiss me, so I sealed my lips tight, but his hands worked my jaw open, and I realized quickly as he positioned his mouth over mine, his lips barely brushing my own, that he was simply inhaling sharply, eyes closed.
He leaned away slowly, leaving me still gasping for fresh air that the room was now void of, leaning back onto the palms of his hands and tilting his head back so that the pale column of his throat was silhouetted in front of the tv’s blue light, eyes still closed blissfully as he got his first successful hit in an hour.
“Thanks,” he whispered, his voice gravelly and sending a jolt through my stomach.
“Warn me next time!” I growled, wiping my mouth dramatically despite the fact his eyes were still closed. The blunt had burnt out, fallen amidst the pastel blankets. Connor’s hands were gripping one of my teddy bears tightly in his lap, smiling down at it with a smirk.
“You thought I was gonna kiss you,” he chuckled, playing with a paw.
“You’re such an asshole.”
“You were gonna let me kiss you,” he said, almost surprised, still not looking at me, but at the little bear. “Me. Connor fucking Murphy. The quarterback would have a field day. Aren’t you in the running for study body president or something?”
“I get it, it’s funny. You’re such a ladies man, I’m sure,” I spat, knowing it was gonna strike a nerve. His head snapped up, making my stomach lurch, his slate eyes connecting with mine in a glare.
“You know, it’s not like I don’t hear them try to convince you to have parties here,” he began so slowly that I had to look away. He could see me. He could see too much, his angry eyes bloodshot. “Your parents are never fucking home. Trust me, there are loads of boys who’d love to get their rocks off with you in this Hello Kitty hell hole,” he gestured around to the room, throwing the teddy bear back onto the pile, making me flinch. I heard him suck in a breath. His voice was so soft, I was shaking.
“You lie. You tell them you’re gonna study, or you’re gonna binge watch some stupid fucking rom com all your girlfriends are obsessed with, and then you fucking call me every fucking weekend. What’s the point? Your soccer star buddies couldn’t share some of their pot? Why me?”
“Because,” I screeched, pulling my knees tight and ducking my face into them, my hair falling like a curtain around me to eclipse him from sight.
“Because I don’t wanna owe them anything and I don’t wanna sit around with them and talk about what the theme for homecoming is going to be and whatever boring crap we always talk about till my brain melts and falls out of my ears. Because, maybe, one day my parents are gonna come home early and seeing Josh isn’t as alarming as seeing you because, to them, you’d look like the kind of boy who eats girls like me for lunch and maybe they’d scared instead of thinking I’m just fooling around.
Because, for five fucking minutes, with you, I don’t have to pretend that I’m perfect and I’m fine. I don’t have to deal with anything or anyone. I wanna forget, Connor,” I gasped, realizing now that I was crying in front of Connor Murphy, who would never let me live this down, and never talk to me again.
I knotted my hands in my hair and pulled, desperate to feel something else than lonely. “I need you to help me forget, Connor. I’m sorry.”
The silence was deafening, embarrassing. I felt juvenile, stupid. I felt stupid for trusting Connor with that information, knowing he’d sell me out for a paperclip.
This relationship we’d had–whatever it was–was over now.
I sat up, covering my face with my hands, surprised to still hear him breathing.
“You can go now,” I said, my voice only slightly more level.
“You just asked me to help you,” he muttered.
I pulled my hands away, surprised to find him close again, his face staring down at where my hands had moved into my lap. At some point he’d shed his hoodie, leaving him in an undershirt it looked like he’d outgrown in middle school. Rail thin, pale, freckles across his shoulders. There were bruises on his biceps, one, two, three, four, lined up like fingerprints. I swallowed.
“You want your parents to lose their shit and care about you?” He asked, not so much a question as a bargain opening. “Me too. You’re just gonna have to get more ostentatious with it.”
“That’s a big word, Mr. Murphy.”
“I have a word of the day calendar,” he replied dryly, looking up at me with pleading eyes. “You wanna forget? Me too. You wanna piss of your parents? Me too.”
My eyebrows lowered, and I couldn’t help but lean closer to him, placing my hand on his shoulder to steady myself. I felt dizzy. All of this had to be the pot talking.
“What are you suggesting?”
He didn’t ask. He didn’t know how. He didn’t have to.
He reached forward, placing his fingertips along the edge of my jaw, his eyes deadly serious, almost concerned. Maybe scared.
He hadn’t done this before.
I shut my eyes, gasping when I felt his nose brush against my cheek. His mouth was soft, closed, pressing chastely against mine for a long moment before pulling away and repeating the action. I could taste the blood on his lip, which was odd, but I let it happen.
“Yeah?” He asked softly, out of breath.
I nodded, reaching forward to push myself to my knees, my fingers knotting into his white shirt.
“Yeah,” I breathed back, letting myself fall against him, pleased and breathless tat he caught me, his hands ghostingly tenderly over my waist as he kissed me deeply, working my mouth open with quick, sloppy kisses. He wasn’t a great kisser, but he definitely made up for it in enthusiasm. I giggled against him, earning a grunt of protest from him, his hands yanking hard at my waist, pulling me flush against his chest.
“What?” He hissed.
“I’m not gonna break,” I promised, reaching my arms around his neck to tangle my hands in his hair, watching his eyelids flutter close, his eyelashes fanning against his cheeks. “Really. Go nuts. Leave a hickey or something, that’d really jazz my dad.”
“Please don’t mention your dad again,” Connor grumbled, leaning forward to press his face against the column of my throat, letting out a groan. “It’s kinda killing the mood.”
“Just suck on my neck, Murphy.”
He did, and it wasn’t entirely unpleasant–he had the decency to occasionally pause to press kisses against my clavicle, the neck of my hoodie eclipsing most of his access. He didn’t try to take it off, and I was mostly grateful (albeit a little disappointed). His hands were tight fists against the small of my back, pressing me as close as I could get, until I pulled him away from my chest and back to my face, kissing him roughly with my hands still knotted in his hair, my thumbs keeping a solid pressure on his jaw until he yelped, pulling back.
His eyes were shut tight, his whole face pinched as he scrambled back from me, sliding me off of his lap. Red faced, I watched the tears slide through the cracks as he scrubbed at them.
The bruise. I’d pressed too hard.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck, sorry–just–fuck, still new, we can keep–fuck, I know, I killed the mood, I’m sorry–”
“Hey,” I crooned softly, crawling across the nest to place my hand on his shoulder, rubbing softly, shushing him. “It’s okay. Calm down. I’m sorry I hit your bruise.”
“It’s fine,” he said, scrubbing frustratedly at his face with too much force, wetness still leaking from his eyes. “I fucked up, Christ, sorry, I can do better–”
“Enough for now, okay?” I said, leaning him back against the nest, settling him against the pillow. “We can try again when you’re calmer, okay? I’m not kissing you. You’re upset.”
“I’m fucking upset because I ruined the fucking mood–”
“No, you didn’t Connor,” I sighed, squeezing his hand where he hung between us, watching him become pink in the face with anger. “It’s really okay. Please tell me about the bruise, if you wanna.”
“I don’t. I’m already a fuck up, I don’t need you thinking I’m an asshole.”
“I know your an asshole,” I chuckled.
“I’m going home–”
“Please don’t!” I gasped, lunging forward to pin him down, holding tight to his hands. “Just–if you wanna talk, I’m here. It’s not healthy to bottle things up.”
“Who says I bottle things up?”
I didn’t want say the obvious–that he didn’t have any friends. I just blinked down at him, staring softly.
Connor Murphy was collateral damage. He was a mess. His hair was frizzed, curling around his face, unkempt and soft, like a child’s. His bloodshot eyes were wild, darting everywhere but my face as if he thought he could make an escape at any moment. His lips were pouted, puffy from kissing and cracked from being too dry, with little specks of silver glitter at the corners, almost like freckles.
He was messy. He was shaking. He wasn’t a good person. He’d never get me into an Ivy League school and standing beside him would never mean I could be Prom Queen, and still….
“I could be your friend, if you wanted me to, Connor,” I said quietly, squeezing his hands, feeling him relax beneath me.
“Friends talk to each other at school.”
I smiled back. “Yeah. They do. I would, if you want. And sit with you at lunch. And we could go to movies, if you like those–”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” he said softly, pulling his hands away and starting to stand.
“Please, don’t leave,” I pleaded softly, looking up at him from where he towered over me. I knew I must’ve looked silly sitting in a nest of pink pillows and pastel blankets and worn teddy bears, staring up at him with bloodshot eyes, holding out my hand for him to take. “Connor, I want to be your friend. We could even hang at your place–not even to do drugs! Yousaid you wanted to make your parents mad. I can do that–”
“No,” he growled, turning to glare at me with blazing eyes. “You can’t. My parents would fucking love you. I can tell you exactly how it would go, too. They’d constantly bug you about it until we’d have to pretend to date just to get them off our fucking backs, and they’d–they’d think you could fix me like that’s how that fucking works–and, fuck, my dad would probably tell you to get the fuck out of dodge before I hurt you and you can’t leave. That’s exactly what would happen.
So, no, sweetheart, we can’t be fucking friends. I’ll buy your pot, I’ll see you next weekend, we’ll smoke up and I can leave a fucking used condom in your kitchen sink if you want me to that badly–but I don’t need you to pity me, okay? Fuck off.”
I rose to my feet, catching the arm of his hoodie so he couldn’t tug it on properly. “Connor, please stay. Don’t leave angry, you’re gonna get yourself in trouble–”
His fist connected with my stomach, sending me back into the wall, and I choking for a moment as the wind was knocked out of me, sending me sliding to the floor.
I was crying–it hadn’t hurt that bad, just the shock of it, Connor still standing over me, screaming something incoherent to my still ringing ears while I sobbed.
“–wanna know how I got the bruise? I fucking hit my mom. She didn’t even do anything in just–she wouldn’t fucking stop talking about what we should do this weekend and ‘you need to get out of the house you need to do something you need sunshine’ like everything is a magic fucking bandaid and her fucking voice–so I went to hit her in the fucking face, my own fucking mom–and my dad just fuckin’,” his voice died off momentarily, and I realized through my shock that he was crying. “My dad just fucking wailed on me. Hit me right between the eyes like four times, blam blam blam blam! Tried to send me to my room. So I left. Don’t think I’m going back for a few days.”
Had it been ten minutes ago, I’d have told him to stay. I would’ve offered the bed. I would’ve sat beside him at lunch and taken him to Prom.
But Connor Murphy was collateral damage, meant only to be seen as a red flag by my parents. He had no place in my life, no place in my future.
I couldn’t fix Connor Murphy. Nobody could.
“Get out,” I whispered, voice breaking, hardly audible. He did.
I washed the sheets. I threw away the joint. I washed my face in the mirror, put a bandage over the rather artistic purple bruising on my neck. I crawled into bed, throwing the offending teddy bear underneath, only to be found a year down the line while I packed for college.
My whole body felt sore, like I’d just gone through a car crash and walked home. It was the shock, I knew.
I pulled out my phone.
3:56 am same time next weekend?
It took less than a minute for him to reply.
3:56 am I love hittin the books with u
A/N: Hey! I wanted to address the fact that, yeah, Connor is definitely a little OOC here (i.e. being more confident and open in the beginning, not very paranoid and not very scared) and I’d like to explain that as (not only being needed for the fic to work) but I imagine his walk over to your place is very a la Dead Girl Walking from Heathers–he’s just gotten in a fight with his parents, he doesn’t think he’s going back home and he doesn’t have much to lose. Sorry for the not so happy ending (which the one of the requests called for :/ sorry guys). Regardless, hoped you liked it? Lemme know? Thanks ♡
Thank you to @mysteryprof for inspiring me to write this! It’s not so much demon Hanzo as it is dragon!Hanzo and Van Helsing!McCree (because I desperately need Blizzard to give us this Halloween skin), so I guess this can be considered a Van Helsing AU <3 hope you enjoy!!
The steady sound of booted footfalls
echoed down the stone hallway, recognizable even without the faint
jingle of spurs. The creature hidden within the abandoned wine cellar
shifted, lifting its great head to take in a deep whiff of the air
around it. The smell of rotting wood and dust was now pierced by
leather, gunpowder, and… blood.
Cramped as its hiding space was, any
opportunity to shift into its natural form was taken where it could.
Last of its kind, trapped in a foreign land, a prize sought after by
human and monster alike, meant discretion was key to survival. The trip home was slow and treacherous, made
only possible by concealing its identity. Slowly, its large form
shuddered and shrank, rough blue scales transforming into smooth
human skin. Claws became fingers as the mythical beast picked up the
robe bundled up next to his gear and fastened its sash around his
waist, a show of modesty for company’s sake, not his own. Long,
straight hair fell past his shoulders, as inky black as his eyes. All
that remained of his true form was its image seared down his left
arm, disguised as a tattoo.
The dragon was Hanzo once again.
With a human hand he wrenched the door
open, just as Jesse McCree stepped up to the threshold. “Whoh
there,” the hunter exclaimed, though his voice lacked its usual
“You are hurt,” Hanzo muttered
distractedly, burying his face into Jesse’s coat and running his
hands over his chest until he found the source of the blood smell. A
puncture hole in the left shoulder, red stains concealed by the dark
of the leather.
“Yeah. Was too busy tryin’ to keep
the blood-sucker from bitin’ me to notice she had a knife,” Jesse
answered, wincing as Hanzo pawed at him. “Hold on a minute now,
lemme at least sit down ‘fore ya patch me up.”
“Hmph.” Hanzo reluctantly pulled
away, letting Jesse enter the cellar. The man pulled off his duster
and flopped onto the cold floor, grunting as the movement jarred his
shoulder. The fabric of his shirt clung to the wound, and Hanzo
quickly pulled a small kit from his bag. “Allow me.” Jesse merely
nodded, a grimace the only hint he was in pain. Hanzo cut away the
shirt with a knife, peeling the soiled cloth away. “Did you kill
“Almost. Threw my flask o’ holy water in her face,
but then she stabbed me an’ bolted. I reckon she made it back to her
A rumbling growl formed in Hanzo’s
throat, its sound not entirely human. “I will-”
“No,” Jesse interrupted quickly. “I
know what yer gunna say. Our goal is to get ya home, that’s it. I
hurt her enough that she won’t be on our tail no more. Right now
that’s good enough fer me.”
Hanzo fell into silence, a frown
gracing his otherwise stoic features as he cleaned and bandaged the
wound. Jesse drank from his flask, oddly patient as he was tended to.
The fresh scar would be one of many, his arms and torso littered with
them. They painted a story, of violence and adventure. It wasn’t the
first time Hanzo had seen them, since he assigned himself to mending
Jesse’s hurts. He would do what he could to thank the man for risking
his life for him.
“Why?” The question had been on the
dragon’s mind for weeks now, and his curiosity finally bubbled out of
him. “Why do you risk so much for me? I am not a fool. I know
merely pretends to care-”
not them.” A stern anger rang in Jesse’s voice. “They’re just
a… a means to an end fer me. They assigned me to ya because they
think this charity mission’ll make 'em look good.” He couldn’t hold
back a snort at the thought. “Overwatch’s reputation is in tatters.
Amari’s dead, Reyes over-extended himself, and Morrison can’t control
him anymore. Just a matter o’ time till it all goes to hell. Keepin’
any rare creature from bein’ hunted to death is, frankly, almost a
damn suicide mission. 'Specially in yer case, what with a literal
king’s bounty on yer head.” Jesse was never anything but blunt, and
it did no good to try to lie to a dragon anyhow. “This way they can
kill two birds with one stone- get rid o’ one o’ their most
“unpredictable” agents, an’ get points for tryin’
to save a majestic creature such as yerself.”
why did you agree to this mission?” Hanzo pressed, unfazed by the
direness of their situation. It wasn’t news to him.
Sighing, Jesse reached into one of his many coat pockets, retrieving
a cigar and a matchbook. “For lots o’ reasons. Reasons I don’t
usually speak about.”
give me one reason, then.” The plea was audible, and Hanzo flushed
and looked away. A voice from his past rang clear in his mind.
Dragons never beg.
Jesse heard the tone too, and his head snapped up in surprise. His
teeth clamped down on the end of his cigar as he struck a match.
Hanzo thought he might not answer, but- “I was with the group that
found ye, remember? The last dragon in existence. Didn’t even believe
it till I saw ya with my own eyes.” The smell of tobacco and ash
filled the space between them. Hanzo wrinkled his nose, but leaned in
closer nonetheless. “I remember goin’ into that dungeon, seein’
what they’d done to ya. Those massive chains, that muzzle.” He shook his head. “Reyes told me it took him hours to cut ya free. An’
there ya were. All shiny an’ bright, giant fangs glintin’ in the
light ya gave off. Then I looked into yer eyes, an’ I knew- I knew
despite yer capture, there was still fight left in ya. I never seen
anythin’ so sad before… an’ beautiful.”
Hanzo repeated the word as if puzzled by its meaning.
Beautiful.” Jesse’s gaze flickered over Hanzo’s human form, before
their eyes met. Something in Jesse’s stare made Hanzo feel like the
human was seeing through
him. He remembered that day, the day he was freed. He remembered
those men, who awed at his presence and yet spoke of him as if he
weren’t there. Then Jesse appeared, approaching the dragon with
reverence. He had been the one bold enough to talk to him. To ask
about him. The first human to show him kindness.
a sharp inhale, Hanzo was the one to look away first. He cleared his
throat before changing the subject. “So the odds are against
“The chance o’ ya seein’ yer homeland again is damn
near non-existent.” Despite his bleak words, the hunter smiled.
“But, I make this vow to ya- I’ll try my hardest to get ya
“Very well.” Hanzo lifted his head, his voice
becoming deep, sultry, inhuman as he spoke. The voice Jesse heard
when they first spoke in that dungeon. “Then I make this vow to
you. I will kill anything or anyone that dares hurt you again.”
shiver ran down Jesse’s spine. A dragon’s wrath was the stuff of
legend. It was said that their protectiveness was just as fierce.
Being in this dragon’s good graces, Jesse suddenly felt more safe and
than he ever had his entire life.
That knowledge was too much to process, and a sudden wave of
weariness washed over him. “I, uh, might need a nap 'fore we move
on,” he muttered as he slumped down against the wall.
course.” Hanzo stood. “Do not worry for our safety, I will keep
watch. Get some rest, Jesse McCree.”
too, Hanzo…” Jesse’s eyes closed, then blinked open again. “Hey,
uh, is Hanzo yer real name? Like yer… dragon name? Or-”
is the only name you need to know for now.” A pleased smirk tugged
at the corner of Hanzo’s mouth. “Rest.”
There was a command to the word, and what felt like a fresh breeze
ruffled through Jesse’s hair. Before he could even think to ask where
it came from, he was deep asleep, his troubled expression melting
into a peaceful one.
Reccer’s Note: There are so many fics on AO3 that aren’t tagged properly and then get lost in my bookmarks, I’m so happy I decided to check out old bookmarks and found this one. I really like this one, it’s cute and it features OT7 on a road trip, what more do you need?
I don’t follow @scriptautistic, but I do follow @scriptshrink, and that latter has reblogged posts from scriptAutistic so that I can see them. So, Script Shrink, thank you for that.
Disclaimer: this is all stuff that I thought and experienced. Not everything I believed at the time was true, or nice, or pleasant, and for all I know there may still be incorrect information in here (sorry about that), but it is honest.
I was diagnosed with Asperger’s back when it was a diagnosis, some time in high school I think. I never looked up much information on it. I didn’t look up info on Tourette’s or ADHD either. I didn’t want to feel like there was anything wrong with me, so I avoided it as much as possible.
The first time I went to university (long story, not relevant here) I met someone who’d also been diagnosed with Asperger’s. I loved being around him – looking back, I can tell that I loved him, even if I hadn’t yet understood that it was in a non-romantic way – but sometimes I felt bad, when I compared myself to him. He had lots of friends. I had him, and whoever wasn’t telling me to shut up at the moment. He had a roommate that he got along with, and lived comfortably with the other people in his residence. I’d known from prior experience that having a roommate would be a Bad Idea for me, and I ended up getting kicked out of the townhouse-style residence after less than a month. We had the same diagnosis, so what was wrong with me, I would wonder, that he could function so well with others, and I couldn’t?
Skip ahead a few years. I hadn’t seen him in a while (and still haven’t) because of unrelated reasons. I was at a different university, studying linguistics, and took out a copy of the DSM-V from the library for the lulz. I ended up finding out that Asperger’s was no longer a separate diagnosis because one of the qualifiers had been “no difficulties with language” and pragmatics was a part of language. From my linguistics courses, I knew what pragmatics was: knowing when and in what manner to speak, among other things, which is something I definitely have problems with.
Skip forward a bit. Due to different unrelated reasons, someone was looking at potential alternate living accommodations for me, and mentioned a group home for people with autism. I had an automatic hell no I’m not disabled reaction (despite that I receive Disability from the provincial government), and my second reaction was that it was a bad idea to gather people together whose shared feature was problems with social interaction. The person looked it up anyways, and said that I wouldn’t be a candidate for that place anyways because I was too high-functioning. I mentally looked at my life, and how much of a mess it was, and assumed that anyone who functioned at a lower level than me, would be completely helpless, and also a bunch of other things that I’m not going to put here, but they’re all derogatory.
Skip forward to a few weeks or months ago. I saw posts on my dash about autism. I had never even heard of some of those terms, but what they described sounded very familiar. I started to gradually accept it, not as a brokenness, but as a difference. I think the most important information was that there is no such thing as “high-functioning” or “low-functioning” autism, just a bunch of different elements – like under categories of social interaction, sensory processing, executive function, meltdowns – that are at different levels for everyone with autism, which can be more or less problematic, depending on the person and their situation.
There are two things I found particularly reassuring, odd as they may seem. The first is that clumsiness (or whatever the technical name is) is common among people with autism. Now, my mother has a type of “hell if we know” nervous system disorder, and has gone from walking with two canes (when I was little) to being in a wheelchair full-time. Whenever I would drop my keys or trip over my own feet, sometimes I wondered if I’d inherited that from her as well, along with my nose shape and skin that sunburns stupidly easy. But now, I don’t think I have to worry about that.
The second thing is hypersensitivity to sound. I can hear people talking across the apartment, and what they’re talking about, and pick up quieter sounds than others; but I can barely understand what someone’s saying if there’s a lot of background noise. I did a paper on auditory neuropathy once, so I know there’s more to “hearing impairment” than just detectable sound threshold, so I’d been worried about that. Now my hearing hasn’t been formally tested lately, but there’s a likely non-clinical explanation for my problems with background noise, which is quite a relief.
In conclusion, I’ve learned more about a part of myself from just seeing scriptAutistic’s reblogged posts, in the past few months, than all the years previous. Thanks for that.