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Angels and Writing (John Laurens x Reader)

Every story starts out with a bang. Every story starts out with something to capture the reader's attention, whether it be a vulgar word or a funny catchphrase. But that's something that he wasn't too sure about. Writing is easy, they said. Besides the fact that you have to stare at a paper for about six and a half hours to come up with something coherent.

Alexander's eyes traced the lines of the page, trying to come up with something, anything, to start off his career. His professors told him he was going to be the next J.K. Rowling. But if he couldn't even put a single word on the page, what was he? A washed up, John Green? An almost Edgar Allan Poe? No, probably just another John Doe.

He put his head on the typewriter, hitting several keys in the process. That was his way of being different. Not one modern writer used typewriters to write novels. Poems, sure. But prose? That was definitely his style. He lifted his head back up, seeing what it wrote. If he squinted, he could see the slightest glimpse of a form. Angels.

Well, it actually spelled adgnls, but that was the closest thing he could see.

"Come up with anything, Angel?" John asked, chewing on an apple across from him. Ah, yes, John Laurens.

The genius, from mathematics to art to war. He knew a little about everything. But he decided to be a social warrior. Putting posters around town and demanding justice for the little guy. He shook softly, stretching out his limbs. The feathers of his wings ruffled softly, brushing against the desk.

And he was your guardian angel. Y/N, was your name. Alexander saw John with his wings out by accident. It was something stupid, but from there on out, John didn't hide his wings from Alexander anymore. But you, on the other hand, that was something he'd definitely never show.

You and John have been together since freshman year of high school. And now, after college, John still didn't pop the question. Not that he could, anyway. He was kicked out of heaven for a reason. Being with a human was a big deal, and could cause supernatural disfunctions.

Like birthing a nephilim.

John glanced back at Alexander, "Stop staring at me, it's making me feel self conscious."

Alexander rolled his eyes, twisting a hair behind his ear. His glasses were on the tip of his nose, "How do you think Y/N would react to the wings. Scream? Yell? Cry for help?"

John frowned, tossing his apple in a tin nearby, "I'd rather not think about that, if you don't mind."

He wouldn't tell Alexander anything about you. He's seen you around campus, but other than that, nothing. You were beautiful, which is probably why John was infatuated with you. John lost his natural form, his unearthly beauty, for you. Not that he was ugly.

When John fell, he told Alexander, God threw freckles on his cheeks to represent everything he was losing. Each freckle was an angel, each freckle was a star that he couldn't save. The curly head of hair and hazel eyes? Well, Alexander wasn't sure what that was for. John was handsome, which might not have been God's intention.

When he fell, the first person he look for was you. The girl with the sad eyes, he said. John couldn't speak English well either. Which is probably why he stumbled into Alexander.

Alexander taught him everything he knew, and John learned much more. He didn't have a birth certificate, so he took the age of Alexander. He didn't have a last name, so he closed his eyes and pointed at one in a book. And when he was finally able to say hi to you, well, now that's history.

A feather fell on the desk, covering Alexander's typewriter. He flicked it on the floor, still thinking. Angel.

"I have the story idea." Alexander whispered. John looked up from his poster.

"And that's...?"

Alexander grinned, "Angels and Writing."