𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 [𝐃𝐎𝐁 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑]
This is not a love story.
This is the tale of a broken boy finding an as equally broken girl.
You can't control what the outcome will be.
You can't manifest a happy ending.
All you can do is live and let fate decide whether you live happily ever after or fall victim to your own lethal ways.
Remember, as you read: this is not a love story. It will never be a love story.
Don't hope, don't wish, don't dream. Go in without expectations. Let yourself be guided in the same way the broken boy and the broken girl were guided too and meet them in the middle.
─── dylan o'brien x female reader ༉
They found each other at a sketchy club in downtown LA. The summer heat had been swelling since 8 am, right when the sun came up, and that same heat hadn’t left the walls nor the floors, or the people.
A drop of sweat rolled down Y/N’s back, sticking her black top to her skin.
Her friends had begged her to come along because she never went out and with good reasons too. It wasn’t just the anxiety or the panic attacks or the constant feeling of being overwhelmed. It was also the dangers of going clubbing, especially if the club itself wasn’t a gay club.
Men were women’s greatest predators and Y/N was very much aware of that as she held her hand over the top of her drink, eyeing everyone who walked past suspiciously.
She wasn’t getting drugged – not tonight, not ever.
“Can we go?” Y/N mumbled to the one friend part of the possé who hated clubs as much as she did. Luna pulled a face telling Y/N all she needed to know.
The reason why they were here wasn’t even an ethical one either. The Oscars had premiered earlier on national television which they had all swarmed around in their little hotel room with popcorn at their feet and drinks slowly growing lukewarm on the nightstands. They had judged the outfits of the people on the red carpet, cringed through some of the interviews, and read along with Twitter who commented on the drama of the evening.
Will Smith Smacks Chris Rock for Making Fun of Wife one article had read.
Former Heartthrob Dylan O’Brien Arrived Drunk and Possibly High at the Red Carpet said another.
It was exciting to read about a life that wasn’t your own. Not just because their lives were actually more exciting but because they distracted from your own shitty one. Schadenfreude: noun, pleasure derived by someone from another person's misfortune.
The Oscars were often, or always, Y/N wouldn’t know, followed by an after-party and tonight that after-party had ended in a disaster when a fight had broken out on the dancefloor. Someone had touched someone else and though it was unclear what exactly transpired, the after-party was cancelled for tonight.
How big of a coincidence would it be if there was a club next to the location of the after-party with cheap cocktails and a loud beat booming from the boxes that were placed everywhere within the building?
Melissa had dragged them there, showing the latest gossip on the cracked screen of her phone as she wobbled on her heels to the club entrance. She wasn’t even of legal age yet, the youngest of the bunch. And yet she somehow managed to get everyone, a remaining group of 5 girls, to dress up, put on makeup and follow her to the club that could possibly have some famous people there. Y/N wasn’t even sure what she wanted from them, perhaps it was just like spotting animals at the zoo. Or maybe she actually thought she’d have a chance with them… On second thought, she might.
Melissa was definitely the kind of girl who attracted that kind of attention – the kind reserved for otherworldly beings like other famous people. Now, famous people were people too but they don’t feel entirely human. Perhaps that is why they think they can do inhumane things and get away with it. They were on a different level entirely from everyone else. The world doesn’t look the same through their eyes and so being in their proximity… It makes you feel like you’re part of that world as well – the hidden world full of mysteries that normal people will never uncover.
Anyways, Melissa was the kind of girl who got that attention without trying, Y/N was the kind of girl who didn’t get that kind of attention and desperately prayed she didn’t get noticed but secretly liked it too when it was given to her. It made her feel special, and she rarely felt special.
Catcalling; something highly disturbing and offensive and yet we have been trained as women to like it. So, a shameful part of us likes it. Not all women like it, of course, but most do because that is what society forced us to achieve ever since we were little. Male attention.
Famous people are kind of similar and on a whole other level at the same time. We were also taught to like attention from rich and powerful people because why would they even look at us common folk? If we get their attention it means we’re worth paying attention to. And yet it’s shameful to want it, to crave it, even though many do. However, what separates the men and famous people analogy is that there is a significant amount of men in the world, and there aren’t that many truly famous people. The kind of people who you feel like you should bow down to as though they’re the new, reincarnated, Jesus.
Famous men? Whole other story. Both famous and male – the optimal kryptonite. Not because they’re special and not because we should actually measure our worth by whether they notice us or not. No, because the world deemed them the most important people in the world and in turn made them the most powerful. They rule us all and it will bring the world to ultimate destruction.
“I think that’s Timothée Chalamet!” Hanna squealed and no, no it was really not. The guy that Hanna happily pointed at was bald, and not even a little. Fully bald. Head shining in the fluorescent lights of the club. Perhaps she thought that he had to do it for a role, perhaps she needed glasses, or perhaps she was very much wasted already within half an hour of being here.
“How much did you have to drink?” Y/N asked, her voice low and soft. She was always so aware of herself and what people saw and thought of her that it translated into her interactions with her friends as well. Everything even mildly embarrassing was whispered, hidden from the public eye.
“Ehm… Three shots? No, four. Definitely four.”
“Do you want some water?”
Y/N was almost sure that four shots were a reach. Maybe double with the way she was swaying from left to right and back already. One nod was all it took for Y/N to try and merge with the masses and pave her way to the bar.
It took some time to get there. The throng of dancing people was a pain to navigate and the only reason why Y/N could even get to the other side of the club in the first place had more to do with her own dancing skills and petite figure than them being courteous enough to let her through. Sweaty bodies merged and parted again as the bass dropped. People jumped joyfully, swayed shyly, moved masterfully. Y/N jumped and swayed and moved with them until she was on the other end of it, smelling like other people. Once again she hated herself for even being here in the first place. She needed a hot shower or even better: a hot bath with a nice smelling bath bomb and a good book. Y/N needed candles and little snacks and fluffy blankets. And yet she was here, trying to get the attention of the barman by standing on top of the ridge of the barstool that was meant for people to rest their feet on to appear taller.
“Yo, man! Three beers and… Yeah, one of those pink drinks or sum? I don’t know just make something of it.”
Y/N watched in complete awe as the barman nodded at the guy behind her, not even noticing her as she waved her hand almost into his face. “HELLO? AND WHAT ABOUT MY FUCKING WATER THEN?” she yelled.
The guy behind her snickered. There was something condescending about it and Y/N immediately wanted to punch him in the face.
She turned to give him a piece of her mind but froze immediately when she realised who she was looking at. The cocky smirk on none other than Dylan O’Brien’s lips when he realised that she recognised him was enough to break her out of her frozen state.
“I don’t give a shit that you’re famous, I’ve been here for ten minutes trying to get this asshole’s attention. You can wait your turn.”
His lips parted in shock and then he started to laugh – really laugh. “You’ve got a mouth on ya.”
“There’s more where that came from.”
Dylan was drunk, or high, or both, just like the Buzzfeed article had suggested. His eyes were bloodshot and small, his face flushed which he could thank the heat of the club for but Y/N doubted it. He wasn’t even sweating, just very red. He was swaying too but comically off-beat. She almost pitied him. Almost.
Y/N knew Dylan O’Brien from friend’s celebrity crushes, teenage girl magazines, and eventually MTV’s Teen Wolf. He looked different then, younger. Fresh-faced and eyes sparkling with joy. He still looked like he loved life, like he really enjoyed what he did at any given moment. He didn’t slur like he was at the moment, trying to explain to her why he and his friends really needed more alcohol – he spoke in full sentences with perfect grammar and witty remarks as a cherry on top. Y/N had a crush on him then, she felt bad for him now.
He looked different but she knew that already. Twitter had blown up when Dylan reappeared after his incident with blonde hair, a small beard, and a body covered in tattoos. There could have been something attractive about his new appearance if it wasn’t the result of a tragedy that resulted in even more tragedy. He fell into the world of drinking, smoking, doing drugs. Dylan got DUI’s, was arrested for getting into multiple fights on the steps of multiple bars and clubs, and had a new girl hanging on his arm every time he went outside.
New appearance, new behaviour, new life.
Y/N wasn’t impressed, in the least.
Because how much would she have destroyed herself if she had the money to do so?
How much would she have clung to substances that made life a little more bearable?
Y/N had to resort to self-harm, pushing people away, and not eating in order to self-destruct. There wasn’t much room or money for anything else. Not with a stressful job and an even more stressful social life.
“I don’t care how badly you need another beer. I. Want. Water.”
Dylan looked at her with squinting eyes. Was she blurry from the alcohol or was he seizing her up? “You really don’t care that I’m famous, do you?” The famous part was accompanied by sarcastic jazz hands. Perhaps he hadn’t lost his old self fully… just yet.
“Why would I?” Y/N asked, an eyebrow raised already before he could even finish his sentence. “It doesn’t make you special, if that’s what you’re thinking. You don’t deserve special treatment for acting in a few things. Sorry to tell you this, Dylan, but you were just doing your job. You don’t see me getting drinks from this very incompetent bartender.” She yelled the last bit at the bartender who was very much still ignoring her. “Because I work at a high school.”
Dylan’s eyes sparked with interest. “You work at a-”
“Not important,” Y/N interrupted, holding her hand up to his face to prevent him from talking. “You don’t deserve special treatment, none of you do. So, no, I don’t care if you’re famous and I don’t care if you care whether I care.”
Y/N confused even herself sometimes.
“I just want water for my very drunk friend and go home. I hate clubs.”
Dylan’s beer was set down in front of them. Y/N stared at it with a mix of disgust and annoyance. Dylan looked conflicted.
“One water too,” he told the bartender and laid down another wad of dollars that was way too much for a small bottle of water. Y/N wasn’t sure if she felt repulsed by the way he threw around more money than she earned in a week or whether she felt oddly happy that he tipped people who worked for minimum wage this much. Even though the bartender obviously didn’t deserve it.
“I could have paid for that myself,” Y/N said, taking the bottle of water from the bar. It was sticky and cold from the condense. She switched hands and laid her now wet hand against her face to cool herself down. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Her voice wasn’t accusatory or biting in any way. Y/N just always had an issue with people paying things for her. The guilt ate her alive even years later.
“See it as an apology for being a dick,” Dylan shrugged.
Y/N wanted to say something, thank him, but no words seemed to come out of her mouth. In the now flickering lighting of the club, black, white, black, white, as a new song came on, Dylan seemed softer almost. A little bit more like the person whose photos she saved on hidden Pinterest boards with the dream of meeting him one day. Dylan looked back at her, unwaveringly so, but his eyes weren’t hostile or unkind. He was watching her patiently until it took a second too long and he opened his mouth to speak.
His name was called out then. The moment shattered. A girl joined his side. Y/N didn’t recognise her. Two arms wrapped around one of his. The sickly sweet voice of the girl somehow breaking through the bass of the song. The voice begged Dylan to come back to the group. A scarlet kiss was pressed to his neck. Hand found hand. A single tug.
That was all it took before Dylan was dragged away, though his eyes never seemed to stray from Y/N’s.
Y/N was left dazed at the bar.
And Dylan was lost in the crowd again.
