#andy cameron

Dirtbags : Pierce Ashwood, Roy Jacobi, Andy Cameron,

Tags: Jealousy, teenage romance, violence, suggestive content, angst, fluff, touch starved teens, mentions of toxic masculinity & abuse, possessive behaviour & relationship dynamics.

Pierce Ashwood

“Pierce?”

Your voice carries through the silence that sat heavily moments ago, between the two of you sat in Pierce Ashwood’s bedroom.

The sandy-haired boy lifts his gaze from the electric guitar held in between his hands, with a slightly flexed eyebrow. Pierce always had this look of perpetual annoyance on his face, even if he wasn’t. You do suppose it was a part of his angsty charm so you couldn’t even be too mad at it.

He slows the brooding chord progression humming beneath his nimble, long fingers that move effortlessly against the cool red electric guitar—before letting the final note ring out with a jagged and sharp noise akin to a oddly shaped dagger being thrown across a rocky cavern.

“Hmm?”

The sun had begun slicing through half-drawn blinds, painting stripes across the floor and catching in your stupidly beautiful hair, bathing the locks in a warm toned golden gleam making you look like l some kind of feral pixie who crawled out of a fairy tale and into his grimy bedroom.

You look way too soft and gentle for a place like this, in Pierce’s opinion. He’s a dirtbag. Princesses aren’t supposed to play with the riffraff. But you do.

His walls are covered in peeling band posters, from Editors to Deftones, with empty soda cans littering my desk, energy drinks on my bedside and a sock on the ceiling fan that he swears is *not* his. Probably Andy’s. The bastard got stuck with a bible thumper for a mother and Pierce’s room is his get-high-in-peace special place.

“I’m gonna have to bail on our hangout tomorrow, I promised Maisie that I’d help her pick out an outfit for her date with Lewis.”

Pierce plucks the next chord a little too hard—twang, before letting out a dry laugh void of any semblance of amusement.

“Why bother? No amount of dress up is going to get that stupid, beefy jock to abandon his fuck-then-flee rule.” Another scoff, this time a little more bitter and the flexing of his eyebrow is more than just his resting asshole face. “Least of all a chick that looks like Madame Medusa at her very best.”

“That’s so rude! You can’t just say that.” You gasp, throwing a pillow aimed straight at his annoyingly shaped head.

The blond doesn’t duck, rather takes the pillow straight to his face like it’s his l birthright to endure out any and all suffering if it’s at your soft, coconut hand-cream scented hands.

“Ow,” Pierce deadpan, rubbing his jaw like it actually hurt. “Violent pixie.” He notes in a factual tone.

“That’s very mean, Pierce. You can’t say stuff like that.”

“I can say whatever I want as long as this is the free country my great great grandaddy’s fought for and all that shit.” He leans back in his chair, the guitar balanced precariously on his lap. A frowning at you with his plush pink lips.

“No you can’t. Just because she’s not here, doesn’t mean you can say whatever you want about her. She likes Lewis and she should try because not trying just leads to regret.” Ever the voice of reason and sincerity, it is truly a wonder how you got stuck with Sierra Valley’s resident pessimist. Your lips are downturned and you frown right back at him, matching his glaring expression.

Pierce is the first to relent in your silent spar. With a heavy sigh, he drops his head and his guitar and begins eating up the space between the two of you. When he reaches, he’s pushing you down onto your back, straightening your legs and then looming over you. “Fine. It’s her funeral, but why do you have to help her, huh? All she needs is a miniskirt and maybe nipple pasties to attract the walking STD.” You shove at his chest in response.

“Ow.” He groans, even though it didn’t hurt. He knocks his forehead against yours, “mean girl.”

He scoots down lower to drop his to press his head to your smooth stomach, wrapping his arms around your waist in the same movement. His next words are slightly muffled, spoken to the skin peeking out of the bottom of your hoodie when he buries his face against you.

“You’re being ridiculous.” A hand finds its way into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way he likes, “Maisie’s a sweet person and she just wants to look nice for Lewis.”

Pierce grunts into your belly, moving your hoodie up higher with his nose so he can indulge into more skin-to-skin. “Not sure why she bothers, since she’s just another notch in his belt.” Another grunt, more like a growl. “And more importantly what about *my* plans with you, huh? You’re just gonna ditch me for the blonde bimbo over fashion?”

“You’re being so silly—“ so silly, Pierce repeats in his head “—I hang out with you almost everyday.”

Pierce lifts his head out of your shirt just enough to scowl properly at you.

"I'm not jealous," he spits out, but it's a weak and pathetic lie even to his own ears. He knows, that you know that it's complete and utter bullshit. Nevertheless, he buries his face against you again and mutters, "just don't get why you gotta go help her prepare for a date she's just going to fail anyway. It’s a waste of time.”

“Pierce.”

And the hand in his hair keeps stroking. Like you're trying to soothe an angry puppy. Or more accurately, a grouchy, jealous, emotionally stunted seventeen-year-old.

“Hn?”

“You’re so clingy. It’s so cute, you’re like a grumpy cat.”

“Shut up!” He groans, nipping your belly with his teeth but his cheeks are most definitely getting pinker and warmer.

“How about I promise to finish up quick and then we go to the DVD store, okay?”

Well, when you try finding middle ground in a sweet voice like that, how could he fight back? Releasing a content sighs, he relaxes into you, crawling back so he’s lying over you like a weighted blanket.

Clingy. Pierce hates that. He hates when you remind him just how touch-starved he is, how much he craves your attention and affection. Because a year ago, Pierce would have never been caught dead clinging to anyone. He was a angsty, skater teenage dirtbag with thick skin, and now here he is getting called a cute little cat for begging for scratches by Sierra Valley’s local princess. Still, he can't bring himself to fight your soft tone. It's always his weak spot. You’re his weak spot.

Roy Jacobi

The Sierra Valley Trailer park looks like every other trailer park shown in movies about the broke people, because of course it does. Sierra Valley feels like a movie about the broken, poor struggling to live in it.

Old mobile homes with peeling paint and rusted-out satellite dishes in almost every yard. A run-down playground in the middle of the square, with one slide and a jungle gym so warped it looks like it's melting and a suspicious-looking white substance on the back of a rocking ladybird.

You sigh when you get out Roy’s car, and he catches your hand without thinking about it.

"You gonna be okay here?"

You nod, smiling at Roy with your signature pageant queen smile. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll see you at school tomorrow.” Then, you get out of his car. You’re about to wave at him when your keys slip out of your hand and you instinctively bend over to retrieve them but your shoulders bunch up the second a high whistle and crude voice reverberate around the two of you.

Roy’s eyes set ablaze.

There's a group of grown men hanging out in front of the trailer across from your mom's. Smoking, and drinking beer from either red solo cups or straight from the bottle, leering at you like they want to eat you alive. One of them, a greasy, dumpy-looking guy with a messy beard and an uneven hairline, whistles. While another says something too low for Roy to hear, but apparently funny enough that they all laugh.

Roy's out of the car as soon as he hears it, before he even realises that he was moving. It’s rule number one of being an SVD, trained to go. Whatever sound, sight, or flick of the wrist. Fight, then think.

You, yourself, are stunned in place for a moment. Gaping at the sheer audacity more than anything else. You’re only pulled out of your stunned daze when you see the shaven head of Roy Jacobi begging to storm over in the direction of the wide-mouthed pigs. Jesus Christ.

He strides up with the grace of an attack dog, eyes narrow, shoulders squared, and his hands curled into fists at his sides. “You mind repeating that?" Roy says, his deep, baritone voice low and even.

"Mind your own goddamn business, boy. Th’s man’s business.” The man spoke like his dad did, with the same bullshit about real men and how Roy was the boy. Like, how he’d try stopping his dad from punching his mom but he was just a snot-nosed kid and didn’t know shit about the duty of men and husbands. His blood sang with the cries of violence.

“I said—“ he grabs one of the guys by his shirt, yanking him up off his lazy ass, “—the fuck did you say to her?” He growls, headbutting the bastard and then punching him with a sloppy but hard hit that promptly knocked the beefy guy out of Roy’s hold and onto the lap of one of his other friends.

“Roy—“ Your voice is both distant but so close. Like he was in a coma and yours was the only voice he could hear. “—Don’t, please. Come on.” You try prying him away before one of the men is coherent enough to fight back. You don’t doubt that your boyfriend would win, but your boyfriend had also just gotten a violent beating from his dad the night before and it’d be better not to irritate his injuries

The boy’s too lost in violence to hear. He’s always been quick to anger and fast to escalate, but this night—this particular moment in time, it’s *personal.*

Because he’s seen these type of guys his whole life. He grew up around bastards like this.

And there’s the girl he cares about standing behind him, being objectified and leered at by these grown-ass men. And he can’t Stand. It.

That being said when you pull his head towards her and he sees your face. The wispy breath of your eyelashes fluttering slowly against your cheek and eyelid when you blink at him, silently willing him to follow you, he goes under like sand under a tsunami.

Roy doesn’t want to. God, he wants to knock them all out, break some noses, split some lips. He wants to hurt them for the way they looked at you like you were a chew toy. It's what all his goddamn instincts are screaming at him to do.

But the look on your face is stopping him. Your soft, pleading voice—begging him, for once in his stupid fucking life, to do the goddamn right thing.

So, gritting his teeth, Roy listens. That's rule number 2 of the Dirtbags, if you find someone who gives a fuck about you, run to them. Drown in them. For there's nobody else but them.

“That’s it.” You smile, the concern still radiating off you but, even still, you keep the brave face on for him. “They ain’t worth shit, baby.”

Roy lets out a long breath and runs a hand over his jaw when the two of you are in close enough proximity to your family’s trailer. He can feel the cuts and bruises still throbbing, the blood pumping hard through his veins, adrenaline still high from the near fight.

But your voice is like a balm, and your hand wraps so gently around his wrist that his shoulders visibly relax. The tension bleeding out of him like an open wound.

God, he needs you like oxygen.

“M’so sorry, baby.” He murmurs, sitting on the steps leading up to her steps. His head in his hands, and frustration making tears spring to his eyes. “I…fuck, I got so mad.”

“Oh, Roy.” You get on her knees between his spread legs, trying to preen his head out of his hands. “Hey, hey, it’s cool.”

He tries to hide his face from you, not wanting you to see the tears, but he's never been able to deny you when you touch him like that. With your soothing, gentle hands.

Roy lets out a shaky breath and lets his head fall to your shoulder, burying his face against your neck. "I'm sorry," he repeats like a mantra that’s trying to imbedded into your skin, the word muffled against your shoulder. "I just…I just hate how they look at you."

“I’m all good Superman.”

He snorts out a laugh at that, the nickname both annoying and adorable. "Superman," he mumbles, lifting his head to look at you. "I don't feel very super right now." He reaches up to wipe at the few stray tears with the back of his hand, trying to gather his pride back together. But you beat him to it, instead, kissing the salty tears off his cheek that was swollen from yesterday’s altercation with his father.

“S’alright, you're super to me. Even if you don't feel like it.” You murmur the words so tenderly, you kiss them into his skin to make sure he never forgets. Roy Jacobi was Superman to you.

Andy Cameron

Andy’s arms are crossed tightly enough for the veins in them to pop, a deep-set scowl contorting his freckled face. The source of his anger? You. Specifically how Jason Callahan’s stupid face was so close to yours, trying to be all charming and shit like you’d ever go for him. Puh-lease. Andy had been tutoring you for two months now and somewhere between the teaching you science turned to kissing under the covers in a very casual, tutor-with-benefits type of way.

That being said, Andy Cameron wouldn’t know casual if it hit him upside the head. Which is why he’s seething at the sight of you two, completely overcome with jealousy.

The way Jason’s leaning into your space makes his teeth click. He’s almost cut his fingers four times when slicing the cucumber because his gaze kept wandering off onto you. Thankfully, Elias was there to knock some sense into the lanky speckled ginger. “Dude!” You know it’s bad when the scatterbrain himself is nagging you for being scatterbrained.

And suddenly, Andy can’t take it anymore.

"Oi, Callahan."

His voice cuts through the sugar-coated bullshit flirting like a cleaver. Your eyes flick to his, something unreadable glimmering in there followed by your lips twitching. Oh, you little shit.

Jason turns slowly to face him, as though the geeky dirtbag was a slimy little inconvenience. "What’s up, Cameron? Need help?"

Fuck this guy.

Andy rolls his shoulders with a saccharine smile. "Nah, just figured you’d wanna know your fly’s down. Unless that’s part of the presentation.”

You choke out a laugh into your sleeve while Jason flushes, then fumbling with his jeans.

When you catch his eye again, biting your lip to bury your smirk, the wizz kid winks at you before mouthing, "supply closet in five?”.

Five minutes later, the supply closet door’s shut tightly, and the smell of sterile school kitchen classrooms is replaced by the smell of sterility. And Andy has you pinned and pressed up hard against the metal shelving unit filled with janitorial supplies.

"What was that back there?” You laugh breathily, the minty scent of your breath tingling against his warm skin making goosebumps erupt over his skin. “You jealous or something, Cameron?"

He sneaks a palm to the back of her thigh, nails scraping over her stockings.

"Just protecting your dignity," I say against her neck. "Can't have people thinking you'd seriously go for Callahan."

“Oh would you look at that? The nerds got spunk.”

“Only when it comes to you, Butterfly,” Andy murmurs, lifting his face and catching your lip between his teeth before kissing you properly—slow and deep, mapping the taste of you. His nimble fingers slide up higher, palming your thighs and making faux dimples pop under them.

When the two of you had first started dating, Andy had been so tender and shy, barely moving without your go-ahead. He’d lick at your lips to silently ask for permission to go further. Now, he slides his hand up higher, dragging the fabric of your skirt while he’s at it to palm your ass, forcing a gasp to erupt from your lips so he can penetrate your mouth with his tongue.

Your hands meanwhile slide under his shirt, cold fingertips tracing the ridges of his abs. “Mmm. Captain Forearms living up to the name,” you tease, breath hitching when he digs his fingers in deeper, to match the way you scratch his abdomen.

I smirked. “Wait till you see what else I can do with these hands.”

“Dirty.” You mock tut at him.

Andy chuckles, his mouth moving down from your neck to your collarbone, kissing a trail of fire down to the dips where he bites down and sucks before soothing the sting with a light massage of his tongue.

The sharp moan that comes out of you at that makes his mouth curl, his fingers squeezing as he nips and sucks a bruise into the flesh.

“You love it, don’t you?” Andy murmurs, kissing his way up to your ear. His lips brush against the shell of it when he adds in a whisper: “My dirty little Butterfly.” He nibbles on your ear lobe, before releasing it and pressing a hard kiss to your cheek. He slides his free hand up higher, palming your chest over your shirt. It’s only fair after all, tits for tits and all that jazz.

“Oh…Ah—Andy.”

He pulls back just enough to catch the way your breath stutters—that split second where your pupils swallow up your beautifully coloured irises—before dragging his thumb over your bottom lip, now swollen and plumped up. Fuck. So pretty.

"Bet Callahan wouldn’t know what to do with you if he tried," Andy mutters, his voice raspy with lust. "Bet he’d just stare at you like some useless fucking—"

The sound of the bell echoes through the school, reverberating through both of your heavy-breathing bodies. Andy exhales sharp through his nose, forehead dropping against yours. "Shit."

You lick his thumbprint off your lip slowly, all the while grinning when his eyes track the movement. "Saved by the bell, huh?"

He bites the inside of his cheek. "Later," he promises, voice rough. "We’re finishing this later."

“If you’re sure you can keep up.”

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