Once, there was an island.... // MPHFPC one shots, imagines, and misc !

Kissing Lessons { Enoch O'Connor x Reader}

post-desolations of devils acre cuz i just finished rereading it and yes i cried at the part where enoch gets hurt because i am overly attached to a fictional boy. shut up about it

this is me spreading my evan-peters-as-enoch-o'connor agenda, of course

there r an insane amount of poetry/literature references in this so shoutout to you if u know them

based on kissing lessons by lucy dacus + school friends by now,now /

" We are unusual and tragic and alive."

Give me lip gloss, and a hair toss, and after school:

Y/N hadn't decided what they thought of Wales yet.

Cairnholm was pretty, sure. With its rocky beaches, quiet neighbors, and overgrown forests, they found they didn't entirely hate the place. "The Battle at Devil's Acre", as Miss Peregrine and Miss Cuckoo were calling it, had left them riddled with nightmares of tree-armed beasts and papillae coated tounges wrapping tight around their throat.

Twice now, they had woken up screaming. In the month Y/N had spent on this dreary island, they had yet to get a full night of sleep.

Horace had been an irreplacable help. He knew all the best teas to help them get to sleep again, all the most effective distractions, all the grimey little meanings behind the ghosts in their mind.

" It'll get easier," he assured them after a particularly bad night, " You just need to give yourself enough time. Even Noor has nightmares."

Noor, the light-eater with a giddy smile and a quiet nature, had come close to Y/N's newest best friend. She was surprisingly easy to get along with, and endlessly assured in her abilities, especially after her victory in the legendary Library of Souls.

Y/N still didn't know exactly what had gone down there, after Noor and the others had disappeared. They had gone through the panloopticon with the other ninety-four refugees, after all, and had hardly spared the missing peculiars a second thought until they returned with a stolen car and ash-coated hair.

They had been helping one Enoch O'Connor.

They liked him, terribly. For someone with such a venom-lined tongue, he was a remarkably pretty boy, and they found his endless sarcasm charming. Endearing, even. He was a notably isolated boy, and he went bright red when they mentioned his talent at sculpting, and he laughed when they described one of the countless gruesome things they had seen before living at the academy.

Of course, it was completly improper for Y/N to fancy a boy like him.

After all, he was one of Miss Peregrine's famed wards, a hero of peculiardom, and they were one of Miss Peregrine's and Miss Cuckoo's students. They were to be a ymbryne.

And ymbrynes do not fantasize about stubborn blond boys with chewed lips and scarred hands, they do not daydream about how his hair curls in the slight September humidity or how his voice is rough first thing in the morning, they do not spare a second thought to his snide remarks or his muffled smiles or the way his dark eyes catch the dying light of the sun so perfectly every evening without fail.

No, ymbrynes-in-training do not think such things at all.

Yet Enoch had such a captivating way of handling himself, and Y/N found him nestled in all the corners of their mind.