Jonny and Newman being delightfully clueless about different things for about 1.5k words.
All from Jonny’s perspective.
Anything Indented is what the original creator wrote in the game and not my words, just to avoid confusion (☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞
Can be read on ao3 here if preferred.
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Sitting in a diner alone wasn’t exactly his idea of a great Friday night but it wasn’t like he had ever had one of those, really.
It was made all the worse by the fact he had been coerced into coming—alone, his mind provided again in a voice awfully similar to his friend as if to spite him—all because one of the only people he might care about had gotten hit by cupid’s toxic arrow.
Jonny had tried to get out of it, but Roach was relentless when they wanted to be and Jonny hadn’t had the patience to continue arguing between rewinding tapes and Roach’s dramatic declarations of love towards somebody he didn’t know existed until then.
I wrote a small soft Jonny/Newman piece because I wanted to give him something gentle for once 😭
Just a quiet apartment scene, and Jonny being painfully bad at accepting affection lol
English isn't my first language, so some lines might sound a bit odd, but I really wanted to try writing them anyway.
thank you for giving us this cranky little guy, @the-passenger-if 💛
——
Your apartment is barely big enough for the distance you're both pretending to keep.
Too cramped.
After his knee knocks into the coffee table for the third time, Jonny points it out.
"Your furniture is really out to get me," he says.
"You're just tall."
He gives you a look from the far end of the couch — it is much too small — which is hardly far at all. His green jacket is thrown over the back of a chair, brown hair curling loose around his face because he keeps running his hand through it. He looks tired.
The movie on the TV is terrible. Jonny picked it, which means he is convinced it is meaningfully bad in some way.
A woman in a torn prom dress screams at a creature made of pond weeds.
Jonny sits up a little. "See, the lighting here is actually—"
You reach across the couch and tug him toward you by the wrist.
He stops talking.
For a second he lets you pull him. Then his body realizes where it is going and turns awkward, all elbows and hesitation.
"Newman."
"Come here."
His eyes flick to your face. "Why?"
You smile at him.
That is enough. It usually is, and it delights you every time.
He makes a low sound, something trapped between a sigh and a complaint, but he moves. At first he moves slowly, as if the couch has rules he is trying not to violate. You shift back against the armrest and guide him down until his shoulder is against your chest, his head tucked near your collarbone, his long legs folded badly because your couch was never built with Jonny in mind.
He goes still.
You can feel him thinking. That is the funny thing about Jonny — They move through his body long before he ever voices them: in the tension of his shoulders, in the hesitant hover of his hand above your waist before it finally settles, in the careful way he angles his neck, as if trying to take up as little space as possible.
"You're allowed to lean on me," you tell him.
"I know that."
"You don't look like you know that."
"Shut up."
You slide one arm around his chest, the other over his shoulder, and settle your hand in his hair. His breath catches when your fingers touch the curls at the back of his head. Then he lowers his face a little, hiding it against your shirt.
Oh.
That is new.
You keep your hand there and say nothing.
The movie keeps going. Someone on screen declares that the swamp has a living consciousness. Jonny would usually have an opinion about that. He stays quiet this time.
His hair is softer than it looks, sliding between your fingers. You comb through it gently, carefully working out the tiny knots, feeling the last of his resistance slowly melt away.
First his shoulders, then his jaw, and finally the hand at your waist, which curls lightly into the fabric of your shirt.
"You okay?" you ask.
He nods, then seems to remember you cannot see his face well. "Yeah."
"You're quiet."
"You're doing something weird to my head."
"Petting you?"
"Yeah. That."
"You don't like it?"
A pause.
"I didn't say that."
Your mouth curves before you can stop it.
That strange warmth blooms in your chest again. You have known hunger before — sharp, wordless, ravenous. You have known curiosity, pleasure, and desire — all those fleeting human emotions that drift through this borrowed body. But this is different. When Jonny leans into you like this, the warmth settles low and quiet behind your ribs. A soft, aching tenderness. Almost ridiculous.
He is twenty-seven. He is taller than you. He is not a child, and you are not anything that should be trusted with softness.
Still, you want to hold him until whatever is sharp inside him forgets its own edge for a while.
Maybe that is a kind of monstrosity too.
You bend and press your mouth to his hair.
Jonny makes a small, startled sound.
You feel him lift his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are wide in that way they get when you catch him somewhere undefended — annoyed, embarrassed, pleased. All of it tangled together.
"What was that for?" he asks.
"Wanted to."
He stares at you.
Then, because he is Jonny and he cannot leave anything soft in the room without poking at it to see if it will bite, he says, "You're gonna make me miss the swamp waking up."
"But you've already seen this movie."
"Exactly. I know what I'm losing."
You touch his cheek with the back of your fingers. He goes quiet again.
The light from the TV moves across his face, pale blue and green. It traces the line of his nose, the tired shadows under his eyes, and the faint flush.
You think of every person in St. Georges who has looked at him and decided they knew exactly what he was. Freak. Clerk. Leech. Bitter thing behind a counter. Someone's difficult brother. Someone's bad twin. Someone to laugh at, needle, or leave alone.
You draw him closer.
His forehead touches the base of your throat.
"Y/N," he says, very quietly.
You like when he says your name like that. It has less defense in it than Newman. Less distance.
"Yes?"
He does not answer at first. His fingers tighten in your shirt for a moment, then relax.
"You're going to fall asleep sitting like that," he says.
"That's what you wanted to say?"
"…No."
You wait.
He exhales, annoyed with himself. "I don't know. Forget it."
You look down at him. "Jonny."
He shifts but does not pull away. That is how you know he wants to say it, whatever it is. He presses his mouth into a thin line, eyes on the TV even though you doubt he is actually seeing it.
After a while, he says, "This is nice."
The words come out stiff, almost reluctant.
He immediately adds, "Don't make a thing out of it."
"I won't."
"Come on, I can hear you laughing."
"Can you?"
"While I'm lying on you? Unfortunately."
You cannot help laughing, and his face goes even redder.
You keep one arm around him, fingers threading gently through his hair again. This time, he closes his eyes.
The monster rises from the swamp on screen, a blurry, mournful mess of rubber and mist. Outside the apartment, a car passes by. The fridge hums. Jonny's breathing gradually evens out, warm and steady, his weight becoming real and solid in your arms.
You could break many things.
You know that all too well. If you wanted, you could devour everything on this small planet.
Instead, you hold him carefully.
After a few minutes, Jonny murmurs, "If Roach ever finds out about this, I'm killing them."
"Huh. They'd probably call it body exploring."
Jonny opens one eye. "I changed my mind. I'm killing you too."
You kiss his forehead before he can hide.
He freezes.
Then he groans, long and suffering, and turns his face back against you.
now i desperately need a drabble about high school jonny and newman dating 😭 too cute
Are you following @starrypawz? They write really cute/spicy JonnyxNewman stuff.
Newman-was-public-school-meat!AU:
“This is bullshit,” he mutters under his breath as he glances at the group of four guys standing between him and the street. If Jonny had known Brandle and his cheerleaders would be clogging the exit today, he would have stayed behind. Hiding in the bathroom, his mind provides, sticking the knife and then twisting it for good measure.
A part of him--the one that sounds a lot like Quino--reminds him that there’s no shame in trying to avoid Brandle and co after the hell of a day they decided to subject him to. It’s a shame Jonny has never been particularly keen on the kind of wishy washy talk his twin loves to spout so much.
There’s an instant in which he wonders if he can turn around and walk back into the school before they notice—
And then Brandle is looking up, locking eyes with him like a vulture finding roadkill. He puts his hands in the pockets of his tracksuit pants, throws Jonny an amused grin--just as if he could read his thoughts--and then moves his lips and the other three are turning his heads to stare at him. A myriad of emotions flash on those faces, none of them friendly, and Jonny knows this is going to be long.
Fuck it, he thinks clutching hard the shoulder straps of his backpack until he can feel the skin of his hands copying the texture. He glares at his steel toe boots and pushes forward.
The sound of his footsteps on the concrete feels final and inevitable like a countdown, but he keeps going: the sooner they have their stupid fun, the sooner he’ll be left alone.
Stamp stomp stomp
Someone is whispering but his ears don’t catch the words; he’s still relatively away from the group.
Stomp stomp stomp
Any time now Brandle will say something stupid and his fan club will roar with laughter, and then he’ll be surrounded, prodded, ridiculed.
Stomp stamp stamp
Jonny gets to them, walks right past them, right through them, and then he’s going away and nobody is even snickering as he keeps going down the path.
He’s wondering what just happened when someone grabs his backpack and pulls.
Here we go, he thinks, his frown reappearing once again… just to morph into a confused look when he finds Newman standing behind him.
“New—“ he’s able to say before being kissed on the lips. For a moment there’s only static, white noise inside his skull, the same that manifests whenever Newman kisses him. The tiny part of his mind that doesn’t completely shut down wonders if he will ever get used to being somebody’s boyfriend. To being kissed like this.
“How was school?” Newman asks as if they hadn’t completely obliterated Jonny’s thoughts. He blinks and his eyes slip to Brandle and his cheerleaders. The group looks… strangely meek. Newman follows his eyes and waves at Jonny’s classmates with a smile. The only one that responds is Brandle—a curt tilt of his chin—the others quickly look away.
“It was,” Jonny says, and Newman looks at him with piercing eyes that a second later turn soft like a piece of ice left under the sun, “it was ok. How are you feeling?”
Newman waves a hand as is shooing a fly. “Like my head isn’t made of spikes and broken glass anymore. Feel like grabbing something to eat? I’m starving.”
“Aren’t you always?” Jonny asks as they resume the walk and Newman entwines their fingers with his. And it’s in moments like this that he feels like he could actually do this whole boyfriend thing.
A horrific shambling abomination is magically transformed into a human and the story treats this as body horror. It immediately falls over into the dirt because it isn't used to balancing on legs or having bones, It claws at its too-few eyes with too-blunt nails and screams in a voice that is utterly alien to it, the ever-present singing of the cosmos is silenced as its myriad senses dull to nothing.
And all of this is made worse by these things, these hideous things that have warped its form to match their own, telling it in condescending tones that they have saved it. That they are the perfect beings, the default beings, and that surely all creatures must long for their shape. That this is better than being what it was before.
can i get uhhhhh ros after newmans death? with extra angst. thank you
Mhhh… the angst…
Prompt under the cut.
[In which Newman has been dating their RO for 5-6 years]
Bruno wakes up from a dream about feet dragging next to his bed. Something about zombies, he thinks. A burst of adrenaline is rushing through his veins, and he sits up, ears perked.
Someone’s scrubbing the floor somewhere in the house.
He frowns in the dark and
Oh yeah, they are dead
dangles his legs off the bed. He looks for the bedside lamp switch and clicks it on. His black slacks and white shirt are haphazardly strewn on the floor, a grisly reminder of the funeral they held for his parent the previous day.
He stands up, thinking about putting on some pants
and the coffin being lowered into the hole
but he shakes his head and decides against it. He opens his bedroom door and peeks outside. The house is in darkness, which makes the slim beam of light coming from the partly open bathroom door stand out like a lighthouse in a storm.
Following the scrub-scrubbing has Bruno trudging his way over to look in. His mom is kneeling on the shower floor going to town on the pristine tiles.
“Mom?”
She stops, looks at him over her shoulder—her eyes are dry, Bruno notices, red but dry—and turns to face him. “Hey, kiddo,” she tells him with a tired smile. “Did I wake you up?” She glances at the wire sponge in her hand and the white residue dusting her fingers.
Bruno pushes the door open all the way. “Can’t sleep?” he asks.
“Oh, no.” The smile stretches on her face until it looks painful, “I was just… I thought… You know I don’t like cleaning the bathroom and I’ve been procrastinating for—” She must see something in his face because she drops the smile and looks away seemingly embarrassed.
He comes to sit next to her on the floor. His eyes fall on the plastic toothbrush holder displaying only two toothbrushes now. Theirs had been there when Bruno went to sleep a couple hours ago. He frowns and looks down at his hands resting on his lap.
He can’t help thinking about his mom removing it, throwing it away. Is this how it's going to be from now on? His parent being gradually and silently removed from his life until there’s nothing left to remind him of them?
”We regret to inform you…” the policeman says, and “…they were crossing the street… the driver didn’t see them…” and what are words anymore? Bruno doesn’t understand what the man that showed up at their doorstep is saying. It’s as if he’s started speaking in a different language all of a sudden. And then that chilling scream right next to him, and his mom falling on her knees as if somebody had shot her.
Goosebumps riddle his arms because he still can hear the sound of her heart breaking. It still rings and echoes inside his head like a crystal shattering in an empty home.
“I can’t sleep.”
Bruno blinks, looks her in the eye.
“You’re right,” she admits with a tired little sigh. “I can’t, but I’m so tired here,” she taps her right temple.
“I keep waking up as if somebody had barged into my room,” he confesses after a beat.
She nods. Her lips tremble but the tears don’t come. Then she’s embracing him and running a hand through his coily hair. After a minute or so in which neither says anything, she comments, “You need a haircut.”
He pulls away from her, giving her a good-natured eye-roll and making her laugh if only a bit. He looks down at his hands again, bites his lip for a few seconds before speaking, “Is it ok if I sleep in your bed tonight?”
His mom takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. “Of course, kiddo,” she says. “Go, I’ll be with you in a moment, ok?”
Bruno stands up and offers her a smile before exiting the bathroom. The scrub-scrub continues on until he falls asleep in her bed.
—
The pressure in his temples doesn’t ease up as he knocks back his glass. Jonny puts it down on the bar and stares at the foam in the bottom. Overpriced crap, he thinks, hangover still going to kick my ass tomorrow morning.
He looks up at the middle-aged man behind the counter and raises one finger. The man nods and fills up Jonny’s glass with more overpriced beer, before setting it back in front of him. The bar is dark, dingy, and smells of sawdust, old beer, and balls. It’s also the kind of place Jonny wouldn’t willingly set a foot in, making it the best spot to be at right now when Quino is undoubtedly looking for him; his twin has been trying to locate him since Jonny didn’t show up at the funeral. The phone in his back pocket begins to vibrate again as he brings the glass to his lips and drinks.
The small bar is at least silent, which Jonny appreciates. There’s two rough looking fifty-somethings sitting at a table to his right, and an old guy sleeping it off in one of the booths. The TV is on and the Baltimore Orioles are losing as they always do. The fifty-somethings throw annoyed glances at the baseball game while mumbling into their drinks.
Unfortunately—but not surprisingly—the peace and quiet doesn’t last, and a clash of voices and laughter push their way into the musky dive bar. Jonny’s muscles tense in a second like those of a dog expecting a kick.
“Jeez, who fucking died in here?” The question is followed by more hysterics.
The newcomers yell and jeer for a few minutes before one of them comes to stand next to Jonny at the bar. He slams an open hand on the counter—Jonny can’t help jerking away—and shouts, “Hey, it’s my friend’s birthday. Do you have anything special on tap or…?”
Another chorus of laughter rings behind Jonny, and the guy turns to his friends and chuckles. “Like a…” he turns to the bartender, “birthday cake flavored beer.”
The group jeers again; some of them throw jabs at the guy, the others are losing it.
“Nothing special,” the bartender rumbles, before jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s the price per pint.” Then he’s turning away, looking for the remote to raise the volume of the TV. Seven turns fourteen.
The guy rests his forearms on the counter, squinting at the blackboard. “With prices like those,” he mutters, “the least he could do is wish my friend a happy birthday.” Jonny doesn’t realize the jester is talking to him until the guy turns to face him. “Escudero?”
No. Jonny glances at the guy. Not him.
“Jonathan Escudero,” the other says with an awkward smile. “I’m—”
“Brandle,” Jonny finishes for him. Why him? Why now? He stares at Eric Brandle. “What do you want?”
Brandle straightens up, hands drumming a rhythmless beat over the wood. “I heard about your, uh, partner, and I—”
No, God, no, please.
“I wanted to say… I’m sorry?” He winces. “Are you… ok?” Jonny blinks once, and Brandle holds up his hands. “I mean, of course you aren’t, but you know what I mean…”
Jonny turns away, takes a long swig of beer.
“My buddies and I,” Brandle keeps going like a fly lodged in Jonny’s ear, “we’ll be having some drinks; it’s Matt’s birthday. You should come over.”
Jonny drains his drink, sets the glass on the counter, and takes out his wallet. He fishes out fifty bucks and leaves them next to the empty glass. Then he pushes up and walks out of there. Surely this can’t be the only dive bar in St. Georges.
—
Someone had the idea of watching the sunrise from atop this cliff, and nobody could come up with a good enough reason to stay at the party at the beach. That’s how Roach found themself in a circle sharing this moment with their new friends.
It's spring break and, under normal circumstances, they would be having a blast, but as Roach watches the very waspy group of twenty-somethings laugh and smoke blunts and drink, they realize spending time with these kids won’t silence the constant rush of thoughts inside their head.
With a sigh, they mentally scratch partying at the beach off the list.
"You said," the blond next to them says then, "you're studying in California?"
"UC Davis, yeah," Roach replies automatically. They take the blunt he offers. In the guy's defense, he isn't pushy and even though it is obvious he wants to get in Roach's pants since they met hours ago, he is still trying to look like he cares about whatever comes out of their mouth. Roach eyes him as they take a deep drag, weighing up the pros and cons of rolling in the sand with this kid for a while.
Alas, the idea of bumping uglies with a stranger makes their whole being sag with exhaustion. What’s the matter? Worried he might erase their traces off your body, Roachie? The sudden thought makes them squirm, but not as hard as they would have in the past. You're a romantic at heart, aren't you?
"Shut up," they chide themself so softly it’s barely heard under the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below.
"Come again?"
Roach glances at the blond, gives him an empty smile, and—after a last drag—returns the blunt. "I said, I'm watching the sunrise, and then I'm going to jump off this cliff."
The blond blinks confused before offering Roach an award worthy smile. "Not before I get a kiss, I hope?"
Roach chuckles. "I'll give you something better," they promise and almost feel bad seeing the anticipation twinkling in the kid's eyes.
Twenty minutes later, the first rays of sun are gleaming over the surface of the Atlantic ocean. Roach nods and says, "It hasn't changed since the first time I saw it. It's… out of this world, really."
"Sunrises are cool," the blond agrees.
Roach stands up and takes their shirt off first, and their pants and sandals later. They aren't wearing underwear. They look down at the blond, and smile at the waves of desire coming off him. "I bet this is better than a kiss," Roach says, almost sounding like their old self, the one before their partner bit the dust a month ago.
They twirl in front of the blond and his silent group of friends. And as the kid stands, reaching out with a hand, they spin on their heels, dash to the cliff and jump off.
If the group makes any sound, Roach can't hear it over the rush of air as they fall into the sea.
They are changing even before they touch the water: torso stretching like that of an eel, arms turning into long fins, legs becoming an undulating tail. Roach's face stretches too, looking like an eyeless dolphin with a big smirk full of sharp teeth. They don't need eyes where they are going, but they do need teeth.
They hit the surface of the water with a splash and slither down and keep pushing down until warm turns cold. Cold enough for Roach to notice, and they keep going until the pressure around them becomes almost unbearable and their essence has to shift again just to get used to their new environment.
They need time to process what happened, and they need a different point of view. One humanity can’t give them at the moment.
Ten years in the depths of the sea will be enough, they tell themself, ten years or maybe fifty.
—
Dominus Bismuth is a man in his seventies with rich dark skin and long, gray beard and hair. He looks very much like the stereotype of a spiritual leader, something Horizon actually voiced when they were sixteen years old and, objectively speaking, a bit of a smart-ass. They still remember the way the older Dominus laughed mirthfully at their observation. It had taken Horizon by surprise; Domina Basil and Dominus Dove were firm believers of duty and respect toward older members of the order. They would've probably slapped the words off Horizon's mouth for their brazenness have they been there.
Not Bismuth. The man had laughed for a good ten seconds before eying Horizon with a playful gleam in his round eyes. "Then it's a good thing I am a spiritual leader. Wouldn't you say, child? Do you see me selling cars in this getup?"
Horizon thought about pointing out that, in a way, they were selling used cars to naive people under the pretense of being new, but a look at that disarming smile had been enough to make them hold their tongue. Bismuth seemed nice, a teen Horizon decided there and then, and they could lay off the snark for an evening.
Watching him now, as the old Dominus stretches under the morning sun, finishing his yoga practice, Horizon can feel the tiniest of smiles pull at the corner of their mouth. It's good to see their mentor again, even if the reason behind their reunion couldn't be more tragic. Horizon's throat works and they blink back a few tears, before coming to stand next to the mat. "Dominus Bismuth," they greet, "may Sadalsuud grant more flexibility to those old muscles."
The Dominus stands up with a grin. "Domini Horizon, may Sadalsuud make you more popular amongst our peers."
Horizon huffs amused. "If that were to happen, then who would hang out with you?"
"The Great One is infinitely wise," Bismuth concedes with a laugh. "Come, child. Let's have tea."
The Dominus' house is a beautiful hacienda style home in Florida. Bismuth leads Horizon to the veranda where he serves them tea and offers them almond cookies.
Horizon takes one and inspects it for a couple seconds before taking a bite. It tastes just like they remembered from their teen years, and that fact makes their throat constrict around the crumbs as they swallow down. Trust Bismuth to have a batch of his 'feel good' cookies ready for Horizon's visit. Their eyes are quickly mistying over, and when they look up to find their mentor watching them with a soft expression on his face, Horizon has to put the pastry down.
Bismuth only needs to mutter, "Let it go, child," for Horizon to finally break down crying. They cry with their arms on the table, and their face hidden between their arms. Bismuth comes to sit next to them and rubs circles on their back as Horizon sobs for what feels like hours.
Once they compose themself, Horizon rests their chin on the table and takes two big breaths. Their eyes feel puffy, but also dry. "I miss them," they whisper hoarsely.
"Of course," Bismuth mutters, still rubbing their back.
"It was so sudden, and it isn't fair." Horizon shakes their head. "It isn't fair. They had so much to give, so much to do. They were truly special, Bismuth."
“I don’t doubt it.”
Horizon glances at him, and their mentor offers them a sad smile.
“Maybe,” he begins slowly, “they fulfilled their task on this earth. Maybe they were needed somewhere else. You know the path is long and full of twists and turns. It has to be.”
“I need them here. I still need them.”
Bismuth runs his fingers through Horizon’s hair making them close their eyes under the reassuring touch.
“We can’t dictate other souls’ journeys, child,” he explains softly. “You know this.”
Yes, they know. Horizon takes a deep, shaky breath, and sits up. They chuckle when Bismuth offers them a handkerchief that’s nothing short of a paisley explosion. “You truly are a walking stereotype, Dominus,” Horizon says, taking it and washing their tears with it.
Bismuth grins.“It takes one to know one, Domini Horizon.”
