#THERE ARE THREE DIFFERENT FUCKING SHADES OF BLUE BETWEEN THE STRAP THE BOX AND THE BAG

[serendipitous-syzygy]

you know i was only seeing pics of v3 itself and was just resigned to my dislike of it (cheap looking, colors suck, nothing is cohesive) but then i saw a picture of the box and was reminded that the fucking BOX is rose quartz and serenity and now i’m just seething with ANGER

[songbirdstyles]

hangin’ on the telephone

summary: you decide to tease harry on a zoom for his class. he’s less than thrilled.

warnings: smut (18+), masturbation, phone/facetime sex, voyeurism/exhibitionism, some fluff?

word count: 5k

song inspo.: hanging on the telephone - blondie; sometimes on a fantasy - billy joel; love on the telephone - foreigner

author’s note: this doesn’t quite fit with the events of when i’m sixty-four and lola - this is if reader was in harry’s class during quarantine. don’t think about it too hard

Harry’s camera is shaky when the class first begins - his screen seems to quiver in itself as he adjusts it, large hand nearly completely blocking him from view before he adjusts himself properly. His camera quality is higher than yours and anyone else’s in the class, for that matter - courtesy of the expensive computers the university had provided to all of its teachers so they wouldn’t complain about how many Zooms they had to have.

That’s what his theory is, anyway. The university says they think its of utmost importance that all of our staff are treated to the highest levels of technology available - but the Macbooks they gave out were from 2015. Certainly not the highest levels.

In every other one of your classes, teachers hold their class as the only colorful block amongst a sea of turned off cameras, white letters reflecting the name of the student to make up for the lack of facial recognition. In Harry’s class, though, there are at least two pages of turned on cameras, and you don’t pretend to not know why. Surely everyone in this class - girls and guys alike - holds some similar fantasy that your professor will somehow fall in love with them through their grainy video on Zoom -

Well, unbeknownst to them, you’re the only one that gets to live that fantasy. In fact, it’s hardly a minute after the Zoom has begun that Harry murmurs jus’ wait a minute f’everyone t’get here - and the apex of your thighs is already heating up.

It’s been so long. Nearly three months since you’d last seen him in person - since you’d last felt his palms pressed to your cheeks, his hips tight against yours, his lips trailing a path up and down the soft column of your throat. And your relationship had never been entirely about sex but it’s a large part of it, feeling each other, and even if you’ve been calling each other for hours nearly every single night, it isn’t enough. You miss him so much it twists at your heart, most days, though it does, admittedly, feel nice to see him in class Zooms.

He’s donning a pink button up, the top button mercifully undone, curls messy and unstyled, and every so often he brings his hand up to run his fingers through it. You’re sure if you could see his full body you’d be able to see the blue checkered pajama pants he wears during all of your lazy days together - he’d never liked wearing dress pants when he didn’t have to. He’s in his bedroom, sitting at his desk, and you can recognize the curtains behind him from the many days (and nights) you’d spent in that exact room together before the entire world had went to shit, and now you miss those stupid curtains so much you can practically taste the desire on your tongue.

You shift in your seat, desire burning in between your legs. You’re not sure if the quirk in Harry’s eyebrow is due to recognition of the simple movement - he’d teased you enough times to recognize every single one of your mannerisms, even ones you didn’t know existed - or if he’s simply acknowledging that all of his students have finally entered the Zoom, but the movement still brings a small smile to your lips.

“Alrigh’, then - looks like we’re all here, now. May as well get started, hmm?” Harry begins, voice booming over everyone’s muted cameras, and the girls on your screen look like they’re practically swooning at the raspiness in his voice. You would judge them if you were a different type of person, but, God, his voice would bring an angel to her knees. You’re sure you look just as needy for him as they do. “Gave y’some questions from last class, right?” The class collectively nods. “Pull those out, then. We can go over them an’ have some discussions an’ analysis, all tha’ - easy class f’today.”

You minimize your Zoom screen and tap into your Google Docs, searching through your most recent documents until you find the questions he’d pushed out to all of you last class - you click on it and watch as your answers fill your screen before looking back to the Zoom, nibbling on your lower lip as you glance at Harry’s screen again.

He’s so composed in the most casual way possible - you can’t possibly know how he manages it. He looks almost like another student, leaning forward to rest his chin against his palm as he waits for everyone to get to their questions, and your breath hitches in your throat as you stare at him, suddenly feeling entirely too hot in your hoodie (his hoodie, actually) as your skin heats.

Simple fix. You grab the bottom of your hoodie and tug it off in one smooth motion, littering it on the side of your desk with a nonchalance that came naturally to you - the cool air of your parent’s basement does little to relieve the heat you feel, the burn seeming to come from the inside out, but you still relish in the coolness that washes over you like a wave. You’re simply wearing a tank top, the straps spaghetti thin and light blue, and you lean back in your seat with a soft sigh.

Harry coughs. It draws numerous eyes back to the screen at the sudden noise, and you furrow your eyebrows as you glance over towards him -

Realistically, there’s no way to know if he’s looking at you. You know that. And yet, somehow you know that he’s staring at you, his eyes darkening in a way that would be unnoticeable to anybody else but you know him. You know how he gets when he’s horny - like when you bent over in front of him to pick up your pencil, knowing it would make his pants feel just a bit tighter, and when you turned back to look at him you could fucking see the green hue of his eyes deepening in shade.

You hadn’t even meant to make him horny by taking off your hoodie, and that’s the truth. Maybe you’re both a bit touch starved from your months apart - but, no matter. You like watching him get like this, examining the way he shifts in his seat like you had moments before, and a smirk tinges your lips as you discreetly reach for the bottom of your tank top, tugging it down just a little bit further down your chest until your cleavage and the top of your bra peeks through. Then you lean forward, narrowing your eyes as though you’re searching through your computer for the questions, and you swear you can hear Harry’s breath catch.

He clears his throat, then. It’s a casual noise and it brings everyone’s attention back to him. “Let’s start wit’ number one - anyone want t’share their answer? Jus’ need a starting point f’our discussion - Sophie, good girl, go ahead.”

Sophie unmutes herself and begins reading her answer for the first question on your sheet, her voice just a bit higher than it usually is and you don’t pretend not to know why - but you’re not focused on it. Harry is smirking, lips tilted slightly upward as he nods along to Sophie’s answer even if you can tell he isn’t listening, and your heartbeat thumps harder against your chest.

Good girl? That bastard - and you can tell Sophie’s eating it up, too, skin flushed in a deep pink, and you narrow your eyes at Harry, already reaching for your phone to text him and tell him off - he knows how much you’d hate to hear anyone else being called good girl because that’s for you, dammit - but before you can, a small box pops up in the corner of your screen.

You lean in, squinting to read the small, granulated chat box -

Professor Styles: What’s got you looking so sour all of a sudden?

You roll your eyes. Cheeky asshole. He knows exactly what’s got you all sour, as Sophie’s voice drones on and on, further explaining her answer that hasn’t made too much sense to you, truly, and your fingers fly across your keyboard to furiously type your response.

You: you’re such a dick

His lips turn up into a larger smile, but before you can reach in to type a different response, Sophie has finished her answer and he nods. “Good answer, Sophie - what d’you guys think? Jacob, tha’s good.”

And Jacob begins to speak - his so called addition is just a poorly worded restatement of exactly what Sophie had said - and then you get another notification from your private chat with your professor. You click on the box and your stomach flips -

Professor Styles: Serves you right, practically flashing your tits to everyone in the class.

Professor Styles: If you were here, I’d put you over my knee.

You could moan at that. Holy shit, you really could. You cough into your first as someone else unmutes themselves to add onto Jacob, and you take just a moment to think of your response before you gnaw on your lower lip, fingers loud as you formulate your reply.

You: you would never. way too vanilla for that

It’s a damn lie and you know it. He’s fucking obsessed with spanking you, even if he’d never truly put you over his knee like a punishment but you know he wouldn’t hesitate if you showed the slightest bit of interest in the act - and you most certainly are interested.

But you like pissing him off. Like watching the way a vein jumps in his neck as he nods along to what somebody with their camera off is jabbering about and when they’re finished, his voice sounds just a bit deeper when he says, “Good, good. How ‘bout number two - Elizabeth?”

You tug your tank top down a bit further, smiling sweetly into the camera and to anyone else it may just look like you’re wholeheartedly agreeing with whatever your classmate is saying but you watch Harry’s eyes scan his screen before they surely land on you, and they widen slightly.

Another message pops up in record time - and you’d expected it - but it doesn’t make you any less desperate to lean in and read it.

Professor Styles: Or maybe I’d force you to kneel on the ground with my cock in your mouth for hours.

You: i think you know i’d love that

Professor Styles: Can’t move, can’t touch yourself, can’t do anything.

You swallow thickly, feeling your face heat up desperately. Your cunt is fucking dripping, now, surely desperate for your touch and every time you shift in your seat your clit rubs against the lace of your panties, sending jolts of pleasure rolling through your body as shaky fingers type a response.

You: you wouldn’t be able to last

Professor Styles: I’d last all day just to make you stay there.

Well - you have no shame in resting your hand on your lower stomach, just out of view of your camera. Eyes on Harry’s little box on your screen your fingertips slight down into your sweatpants, digits running over the moist fabric of your thong before pressing to your clit, and a wave of pleasure rolls through your body at the initial touch until you’re practically preening into your grasp, still caressing your cunt over your panties.

The class moves on to the next question - you’ve stopped paying attention ages ago, since the words good girl first slipped out of Harry’s mouth and he messaged you for the first time. You hook a finger into the crotch part of your panties, tugging them to the side and you can feel your wetness, strings connecting your dripping folds to the lace, and your breath picks up as you slip your hand into your panties.

The message comes fast. You’d been expecting it, pressing it open with the hand not shoved into your pants.

Professor Styles: You’re fucking touching yourself, aren’t you

It’s not a question. He can read you like a book - knows every one of your reactions because he was the only one who could pull them from you - and the way you tug at your bottom lip with your teeth, glancing into the camera with an air of faux-innocence, is something he’s come to recognize.

You type your response slowly. Take your time, don’t rush, because you love to make him wait as your fingers slowly move in circles against your clit - too gentle to truly make you feel anything, touch feather soft as you spread moisture around the sensitive nub.

You: of course i am, professor. if you’re not here to do it for me…

You lean back in your office chair - to anyone else you look nonchalant and casual, if a bit bored of the proceedings in class - and your hand slides further into your panties, fingers smoothing up and down your folds until your breathing picks up, chest rising and falling as you finally push your pointer finger into yourself, immediately curling it upwards to brush against the sweet spot inside of your velvety walls that has you pushing your hips against your hands. You’re quivering for your own touch - for Harry’s, more so - as you push your own essence in and out of your cunt, heel of your palm brushing against your clit, before you glance back up at the screen.

And Harry is - God, he’s a sight, is what he is. He’s leaning back in his seat, like you, and you watch for a moment at the way his chest rises and falls against the fabric of his billowy dress shirt. The top button is still undone and as you watch, he reaches up and undoes the second one - 

It’s like a collective moan rolls through the fucking class at the action. You can see every girl’s eyes widen on your screen as the overhead lights in Harry’s apartment illuminates the thin shine of sweat on his chest, and if you didn’t know better you’d simply assume that the AC in his apartment must be broken because he merely looks hot as he nods along to the current speaker - but you do know better.

If the camera was angled just a millimeter down, you’re sure you’d see the bulge through his pajama pants, thick and hard and desperate for your attention. For your mouth or your hands or your cunt, squeezing him so good, milking him for everything he’s worth until you’re both sobbing -

You add another finger into your pussy, sliding them in and out with a slow pace that gradually picks up until your ears are filled with the sound of your wetness, sloshing in your panties as you suck your teeth, trying to prevent your mouth from opening in a moan. You may look inconspicuous now but if your lips part in a desperate cry you know people will get suspicious -

Caught in your own pleasure, you’d missed Harry’s messages until the third one pops on your screen, and you scramble to click on the notification before it disappears.

Professor Styles: You’re a brat

Professor Styles: Trying to work me up like this

Professor Styles: Don’t you dare stop touching yourself.

The third one has your eyebrows furrowing - God, of course you’d never stop. You don’t think you could even physically drag your hands away from the pearl between your thighs until you’ve finally come over the edge and you didn’t need Harry to say it. You raise your eyebrows and begin typing your response with your free hand, fingers pumping in and out of your cunt desperately, but you’ve barely finished the text when you hear your name in his fucking voice and -

“What d’you think?” Harry inquires, voice even lower than it had been before, and you resist the urge to drop your mouth open in an appalled gasp as he practically stares into your fucking soul even through Zoom. Your heart drops into your ass and now you know why he’d wanted to confirm that you wouldn’t stop - “Why d’you think Steinbeck structured the book like he did?”

What? You don’t fucking know - you click to unmute yourself, fingers slowing down as you take a breath, tapping until you get to the answer written on your Google Doc. “Um - they’re plot chapters followed by intercalary chapters - they invoke an emotional response from readers.”

It’s a textbook answer, short and shitty and anyone with half a brain could tell that you simply said it so you would get the participation points, and you watch Harry’s eyebrows raised with a poorly-concealed smile. 

“How d’they invoke an emotional response, though?”

And he’s such a tease - he loves this, watching you teeter near the edge of your orgasm with shaky breaths as you seemingly contemplate your answer for a moment - fingers circle your clit slowly as you say, “They - they show us the historical and societal background - which - which broadens the scope of the novel.”

You, truthfully, think you did a fairly decent job keeping your composure - sure, your voice was a bit airy, a bit breathy, and you’re sure you tripped a bit over your words, but you at least didn’t moan out wildly in front of your entire class - celebrate the little things. And, yeah, it may not have been the best answer, but Jacob is already unmuting himself to elaborate and restate your entire answer, which feels like a win in your book, at least.

Professor Styles: Good girl. Kept your cool.

You’re practically trembling, resuming your thrusting of your fingers deep within your cunt, as you shakily type your response, fingers quivering on the keyboard.

You: wish you were here

And - when you realize that sounds a bit too sentimental to fit the situation at hand, fingering yourself in front of the entire class - you hurry to type something else.

You: to eat me out

You bring your eyes up to the screen again, fast enough to watch the quick smile spread across his face - his eyes dart around the screen for a moment before landing on a spot that you assume to be your box, and you exhale softly, curling your finger upward to that spot that has your back arching forward, tits pushing closer to the camera before you drop back against your seat.

Professor Styles: I’d do anything to have my face in your cunt right now.

You inhale sharply, nearly coughing as you pick up your speed, lips parting the slightest bit in a soft whine that erupts from your throat before you can try to fight it back - your eyes shut, head falling back against your chair, and you’re so close you can feel your impending release on the tip of your tongue like your favorite meal.

It’s the sound of the chat notification on Zoom that makes your eyes open, and you click on it. It’s hard to read, vision going fuzzy as your orgasm comes closer and closer, but you can make it out -

Professor Styles: Eyes open.

Professor Styles: And keep your camera on when you cum.

You practically whimper at the request but you oblige - eyes opened and staring directly at his box, at the way his face is practically bright red, sitting up straighter in his seat. He’s moved his camera angle up more, concealing his abdomen until only his chest and head is visible, showcasing the two undone buttons at the top of his pink shirt.

He sure doesn’t look composed now. Not a total disaster - but not the cool, calm professor who had first opened Zoom nearly 45 minutes ago.

Your eyes are moving towards the camera when you notice something in his box that has your eyebrows raising, eyes wide and alert as you squint, fingers briefly paused in their mission to get you to orgasm -

Your free hand flies across the keyboard as you type the message, mind spinning with the image you’d seen - the way his fabric creased near his shoulder, like his arm had been moving up and down with an unbridled, jerky pace -

You: are you jerking off, professor?

And you can see the exact moment he reads the message, his eyes widening, before he unmutes himself and loudly proclaims, “Question 4, then? W - Who wants t’start us off? Jamie, good, tell us wha’ you’ve got.”

And Jamie goes off in some tangent about their answer, words sounding like mud in your brain, as Harry mutes himself once more, and it’s only another moment until you get the next message.

Professor Styles: How could you expect me not to?

Good answer. You know that if you’d caught him jerking off before you had the chance to stick your hands down your panties, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself - but it’s still surprising, watching the fabric of his shirt rustle. It’s not obvious in a way anyone else could tell but you can, and that’s all that matters.

You pull your fingers out of your cunt, bringing your sodden fingers up to your clit. You’resoclosesoclosesoclose - your trembling fingers rub hard circles into your clit, pussy fluttering around the emptiness after you’ve pulled your fingers out, and you clench your muscles taut as you pinch the sensitive nub -

Fuck. There it is - a burning sensation throughout your body as flames lick up your body, rocking through every inch of your skin - it’s all you can do to sit there, legs spread, practically biting back the urge to sob out with the force of it all, and keeping a poker face feels like some sort of torture form. Your cunt jolts beneath your fingers as you try and ride yourself through it, sticky wetness coating your fingers with proof of your release until it’s all over your sweatpants, soaking the gray fabric darker.

Harry’s the only person who’s ever made you squirt - twice, it happened, once into his mouth and the other around his cock as he overstimulated you until you were practically sobbing. And he’d loved it, too, pulling out even though he hadn’t cum yet and sinking to his knees to lap the moisture from between your thighs, eyes rolling back into his head as though it brought him such pleasure to sit there and eat you while you grabbed at his hair.

You’ve never done it yourself. Not with just your fingers.

The next message comes before the aftershocks have finished rolling through your body, and you need to take a few seconds to compose yourself before reaching to read it.

Professor Styles: I love watching you cum.

You resist the urge to smile, resting your palm against your swollen cunt as you use the other hand to type your response.

You: squirted all over my hand.. wish you could’ve seen it

You can practically hear the way he chokes when he reads it, even through his muted mic, and your response comes in seconds.

Professor Styles: I’m wrapping up the class early. Stay after.

It’s a demand and one that you’re more than willing to oblige, giving one unceremonious jerk of your head upwards as you lean back into your seat. And, true to his word, he unmutes himself, declaring loudly that since he wanted an easy day you could all leave early - not too early, mind you, a mere seven minutes before the class would officially be over - but he could let the class out twenty seconds early and they’d act like he canceled an exam. 

People unmute themselves to say goodbye before boxes quickly begin disappearing, the number of participants dropping down until it’s just the two of you, squares side by side next to each other, and you reach to unmute yourself the second the last person has left.

“Harry - Harry, fuck,” you breathe, pushing your computer back and angling it down more so he can see your body. He unmutes himself and you can hear his gasped breathing as he pushes his own laptop back until you can see him fully and - “Fuck.”

His pajama pants are pushed past his cock, curling towards his stomach and an angry shade of red. His fist wraps tight around it, pumping himself up and down with his chest rising and falling desperately, and the thought of him doing this during your Zoom call has another pang of pleasure rolling through your body from your clit.

“Unbutton your shirt,” you beg him, propping your foot on your desk as you shimmy your sweatpants down your thighs, kicking them off into a pile on the floor. Your cunt is exposed to him, covered only by a sopping scrap of lace that you call underwear, and you’re quick to pull it away from your pussy to show him as you dip your fingers back down to your clit, circling it freely. You’re still entirely too sensitive, and the simple motion has your chest arching vehemently, but you can’t watch him do this without feeling the overwhelming urge to cum again and again -

He obliges, practically tearing the shirt away from his chest until the two halves have split open and you get an eyeful of his chest, littered in tattoos that only you get the pleasure of seeing - the butterfly you love to press your palms against when you ride his face - the ship you always grasp when you’re rolling against his thigh -

“Finger y’self,” Harry grunts, breathing desperate and heavy as you lean back in your seat, exposing yourself further to him, your chest heaving. “An’ take off tha’ tank top.”

You grab the end of the shirt, tugging it up and over your head and littering it on the side of your office chair, pulling the straps of your bra down your arms so you can peel the cups away from your tits, displaying your peaked nipples to him, and he moans at the sight, the noise low and guttural. You slide two fingers into your cunt easily, the dripping essence of your release still lubricating your digits to push in and out of yourself.

It isn’t going to take long for either of you - you can tell. He plants his free palm on the edge of his desk, leaning forward and baring his chest to you, and you push yourself to sit up more, resting your free hand on your tits. Fingers pinch at your nipple, the peaked bud sending rays of euphoria through your body, and you drop your head back with a desperate whine.

“Y’close?” Harry asks through gritted teeth, words interrupted with needy breaths and gasps as you nod, and you can tell that anything he’d said about punishing you is gone - he won’t stop you now, not when you’re so close, not when all either of you want is to touch each other. You want to reach through the camera, to press your lips to his, feel his palms smooth up and down your back before traveling downwards until he can slide his fingers into your cunt - one of his is bigger than both of yours, and he’d fill you up so good you wouldn’t be able to do anything else but cry out.

And you - you’d rest your knees on either side of his thighs, lowering yourself into his lap as his length slides against your stomach. Scraping your nails through his hair always makes him cry out and your fingers tense around your breasts as you imagine it, thinking of the way he’d moan and beg for you to pull it harder, lowering his lips to your nipple as you obey him.

You’ll always obey him. (In bed, at least.) God, you really would sit on your knees for hours, holding his cock in your mouth like it’s your fucking job, and you’d love it, too.

“Look at me, baby,” Harry moans, voice crackling through the speaker of your shitty computer and you oblige, hazy eyes rolling upwards to the camera, and you swallow thickly, pumping your fingers faster in and out of your cunt. “Look at me when y’cum … c’mon, baby.”

You don’t need much more encouragement than that. With one curl of your fingers upwards to hit the sweet spot deep within your velvet core you cum, eyes rolling back into your head with a piercing cry that makes you entirely too grateful that it’s your parents’ date night - your cunt clenches and unclenches around your fingers as you finally hit your peak, breath coming out in needy groans as you release over your fingers.

You’ve barely finished when Harry’s tell-tale groan sounds through the basement and you snap your eyes back to his figure, glancing at him just in time to see him cum, white ribbons spurting out of his cock and coating his hand and the sleeve of his pink dress shirt. He drops his head forward with a grunt, fist still jerking up and down his dick as though he’s trying to milk every last drop all over his abdomen, and your breathing turns more jagged as you watch like he’s a fucking piece of art and you’re nothing but a spectactor.

And then - for a moment - there’s silence. Not silence, in its literal definition, as desperate, heaving breaths pierce the air even screens apart, and you’re not sure which of you will be the first to speak. You can hardly breathe right, let alone say any coherent sentence, and Harry takes the lead.

“Did good, baby,” he breathes, voice so soft you can barely hear it, and you nod, wiping your moist hand on your outer thigh. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” you tell him, pushing yourself to sit up more. “And your dick.”

He exhales a shaky laugh, raising his hand to examine the cum that coats his palm and fingers as though he’s never seen anything like it. “Yeah - I miss y’pussy. Not used t’not cumming in you.”

“Yeah,” you begin. “Feel empty without -”

You’re cut off before you can finish as Harry raises his fingers to his mouth, pink tongue darting out to lick at the bits of cum that decorate his skin. Your lips part needily as you watch him, eyes wide as saucers until he’s fully lapped up every ribbon of cum, and he smacks his lips as though he’d enjoyed a great meal.

“Don’t get how y’swallow so often,” Harry says, and even through his faux-casual demeanor you can see the corners of his lips turning up at your state. “Really doesn’t taste good -”

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“M’horny again.”

[willowandfog]

Hey guys! I asked for people to send me some prompts my way and as promised I took the first two and wrote an Inu/Kag one shot. 

The two winning prompts were:

“They're such an idiot. My idiot but still.” 

& “Nothing else matters except for you."

Thank you to @ruddcatha and @smmahamazing for the prompts!

So this came from an idea I have for a fic. This ‘one shot’ will eventually be developed into a full fic. This one shot is from further into the story. The feelings, relationships and such are established by this point. (Warnings:) There is also some violence and brief references to torture.

Read below the cut:

Inuyasha pushed through the doors to the lab, carefully taking in the small group standing huddled together, talking in hushed whispers. Shippo was the first to notice him approaching, shushing the others before pointing over their shoulders towards him. The other two turned in unison as Inuyasha came to a stop in front of the group, hands on hips.

“Tell me you guys have managed to connect the bomb to Sandusky Shipping?” He asked in his rough, impatient tone. 

Miroku, Sango, and Shippo stood gaping at him. “Well uhh actua-”

Miroku elbowed Shippo in the side. “Kagome still wasn’t exactly sure that the bomb is connected to them, she thinks that the bomb might have been moved somehow from its original place to make it seem like it was the shipping company.”

“Ooook. Why does she think that? Is she still testing things?” He held up a hand to stop them from speaking as they all opened their mouths to speak at once. “Nevermind. I’ll ask her, where is she?”

Shippo and Miroku shared a wide eyed look before taking a step away from him, trying to gain some distance, leaving only Sango standing directly in front of him. 

Sango glared back at them before turning back. “Inuyasha, that’s what we were talking about when you came in. We found some unusual trace elements in the samples brought back for us, and… well Kagome wasn’t sure if they originated in the bomb or are just from the terrain when the explosion happened. She said she needed a ground sample from the site, outside of the explosion area.”

“Ok.” Inuyasha sighed, glancing at his watch. “When do you think she’ll be back? Kouga and I really need to move forward with this.”

“Here’s the thing.” Sango started nervously. “She went last night.” Inuyasha looked back to her, frowning. “The records show that she never came back to the lab and she wasn’t at her place this morning when I went to pick her up. We all figured she maybe just decided to go home and grab the samples this morning but… She should’ve been here three hours ago and she’s not picking up her cell.”

Pulling out his own phone, Inuyasha tapped Kagome’s name on his screen. The call connected directly to her voicemail. “Kagome.” He spoke in a low dangerous tone. “Call me. Now.” He growled before ending the connection. Inuyasha stood there, jaw tightly clenched, seething. He turned to leave, stopping at the doorway. He let out an aggravated shout a moment before he punched the wall beside the door, his fist leaving a hole in the drywall. “Whichever of you is capable of collecting a sample, meet me by my office in ten minutes.” He exited through the lab doors, hands tightly balled into fists.

Sango turned back to the other two to find them with their hands raised in position for Rock, Paper, Scissors. “Nope.” She said, before striding away. 

-------------------------------------------------------

“I am never letting you drive again. What the fuck, Inuyasha? You’re going to kill us.” Kouga growled, grabbing the roof handle as Inuyasha swerved around another car ‘going too slow’.

Inuyasha grumbled something under his breath, turning down the road leading to the warehouse district. 

“He’s right, I’d rather not die before I can legally drink.” Shippo mumbled from the back seat. 

Inuyasha pulled up next to where Kagome’s sapphire blue Hyundai Elantra was parked next to the active crime scene tape. He had barely put the SUV in park before he jumped out. He threw open Kagome’s driver’s side door, picking up her phone that lay on the seat. 

“Her phone’s dead.” He said turning to Kouga as he pocketed the object.

Shippo pointed at the east end of the warehouse. “She would have wanted to collect a sample from as close to the edge of the blast site as possible.”

“Kagome!” Inuyasha shouted as they ducked under the tape, walking towards the spot Shippo indicated. “Kagome!” He heaved a sigh. 

“Guys…” Shippo said quietly, pointing to a spot near the tall grass. 

Kagome’s large black collection box lay turned over, contents scattered. Inuyasha dropped his head into one of his hands, shaking it. Kouga carefully stepped through the tall trampled grass, scanning the ground. He crouched down, inspecting something. 

“Inuyasha. Come look at this.”

Inuyasha knelt down beside him. When he saw Kagome’s issued firearm his stomach dropped. 

“Look here.” Kouga pointed to the butt of the grip. “Is that blood?” 

Inuyasha nodded. “Looks like it.”

“Why would she come out here alone? Especially when it was getting dark.”

Inuyasha growled slightly. “Cause she’s an idiot.” He rubbed his hand over his face in exasperation. “My idiot, but still.” He grumbled before standing, pulling his phone from his pocket and calling it in.  

Why is this happening after we finally agreed to give things between us a shot? Dammit, Kagome, you better be ok. 

-------------------------------------------------------

“Inuyasha!” Sango came sprinting into his office, huffing for breath. She handed him a file. “Kaede got those results on the blood from Kagome’s gun.”

Inuyasha cracked open the file, studying the contents for a long moment.

“It wasn’t her blood. She fought back, she’s still alive, Inuyasha.” Sango spoke quietly reaching across his desk and resting a hand over one of his. 

“We don’t know that for sure. But she damn well better be.”  He snapped the file closed, covering his eyes with his hands. “Why didn’t she just ask me to go with her?”

“Inuyasha.” Sango said gently. “As much as  Kagome likes working with you. She isn’t likely to want to interrupt when you’re arguing with your ex in your office.”

Inuyasha sighed. “I gotta make a call about these results. Hopefully we’ll be able to find out where she is.”

-------------------------------------------------------

“Alright everyone, the blood we found on Dr. Higurashi’s firearm was from Johnny Marrow. Been in prison a few times, but mostly his cases almost never make it to trial. Some crimes include criminal possession of a controlled substance, evidence tampering, but most importantly several cases of assault, and he was suspected of several murders but we never had enough evidence to convict. We had an informant report Marrow conducting suspicious activity near the port. Now, if he doesn’t have the doctor, he should know where she is. Marrow is to be taken alive.” Inuyasha instructed the three HRT agents in the van as he strapped on his vest. 

“That’s one of Darren Montana’s men right? Scummy, clean up, loose ends man?” Kouga questioned. 

“Yeah.” Inuyasha said quietly as he sat down next to him, checking over his MP5SD6. 

“Don’t worry man. She’ll be in there.” Kouga said, clasping him on the shoulder as the van jerked to a stop and the back doors swung open. “Let me take point. If we find her, you just focus on getting her out.”

Inuyasha nodded, following him out of the van. As the five agents gathered together to finish coordinating, the driver ran over to them.

“Thermal scanners indicate there are a dozen people inside. There’s a cluster of five on the west end. Three on the second level. One near both doors, and another doing patrols. Then the last one is isolated near the five on the west side.” He reported. 

“Thanks, Luke.” Kouga said, turning back to the group. 

“Should’ve brought more men.” Inuyasha groaned to himself. 

“Alright guys.” Kouga started.

-------------------------------------------------------

Kagome jerked awake at the sound of gunfire. She yanked on her restraints, tears pouring down her face as the blistered wounds circling her wrists began bleeding, and her dislocated shoulder screamed at her. She failed to shake the matted, blood-caked hair from her face as she watched the door intently. Her vision swam, head throbbing, as the continued sound of gunfire seemed to echo in her ears. The dirty cloth rag pulled tightly at the corners of her mouth; her mouth and throat dry and raw.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed as she sat, tense, tied to the chair before the door swung open. She blinked squinted eyes at the bright light before she was able to make out a tall figure standing in the doorway, swinging a gun from side to side, scanning the room. When the figure lowered their weapon and kneeled beside her chair, she was finally able to recognize Inuyasha.

Tears of relief rather than pain began to flow as he gently pulled the gag from her mouth. He hesitated for a moment as his stern set face took her in. The bruises on her face already had different shades of blue and purple, and the dried blood down one side of her face indicated a head wound. His eyes turned soft before he moved behind the chair. As he cut the ropes he tried not to take in her blood soaked hands. She slumped forward, almost falling as the ropes fell free.

“Come on, Kagome.” He whispered to her, moving to scoop her up. 

She let out a high pitched whimper as her limp arm was jostled, dangling uselessly at her side. Wrapping her good arm around his neck, she buried her face in his neck. 

“Inuyasha.” She sobbed.

As he carried her from the room she noticed another agent had been guarding the door. Inuyasha followed close behind him, eyes scanning as they went. She closed her eyes firmly against the sunlight when they exited the building; hearing more shots coming from the second floor. Inuyasha carried her to the back of the van they arrived in, gently setting her down on a seat inside.

“Ambulance is on it’s way.” The other agent, Kagome thought his name was Evan, said to Inuyasha before turning and speaking into his radio.

Inuyasha knelt in front of her again, taking her face tenderly in his hands. “Are you ok?” He questioned softly.

“Yes.” She whispered but shook her head.

“Your shoulder.” He moved to take her arm as if he was going to pop it back into place but she pulled away from him.

“No.” Her voice was hoarse. “It’s really swollen, just leave it. She leaned her head back, closing her eyes again. “How did you find me?”

“Your gun.” He said simply, and she nodded.

-------------------------------------------------------

Inuyasha waited impatiently outside of Kagome’s hospital room. Almost an hour had passed before Totosai finally emerged, closing the door behind himself. He frowned, shaking his head as he approached Inuyasha.

“That took a while.”

“Yes well, when an agent is kidnapped and tortured, there’s a lot more questions to ask. She’ll have to fill out an official report when she’s out of here but it’ll do for now.” Totosai raised a brow at him. “You sent Kouga without you?”

“I’d rather be here. How bad was it?” Inuyasha questioned.

Totosai sighed. “They were trying to find out what and how much we know. They’re scared we’re getting close. I believe her when she says she didn’t give anything up, I don’t think she’d still be alive if she’d talked. I think they were just getting started on her though, if you hadn’t found her when you did…” he shook his head again, glancing at his shoes briefly. “They’d started pulling fingernails, Inuyasha.” He said delicately before patting him on the shoulder and walking away.

Inuyasha closed his eyes, trying to compose himself before heading into her room. He drank in the sight of her as he shut the door. He took in the small bandage on the side of her head, the sling on her arm, her wrapped wrists and her bandaged fingers. The majority of her face was covered in deep purple bruises and the corners of her mouth looked split.

Her eyes cracked open, a small smile gracing her lips. “Hey.” She called out weakly. 

“Hey.” He replied back softly, approaching her bed.

“What are you doing here? I thought they finished the tests at the lab, confirming that Montana’s group planted that bomb. You were supposed to be making that arrest on Montana today.”

“Kouga’s going.” 

“We all know that you should be the one making that arrest.” She said firmly to him.

He rested a hand on her bed, leaning down, bringing his face close to hers. His breath warm on her face, Kagome caught a whiff of his spicy cologne. “Nothing else matters, except for you.”

She sucked in a breath, heart racing. Her chocolate eyes studied the greyish depths of his violet ones. He leaned in closer, stopping when he was a hair’s width away, pausing for a moment to see if she would object. When she didn’t he placed a brief tender kiss to her lips.

He smiled at her grin. “I think you should let me take you to dinner when you get out of here.” When she nodded he held up a finger. “Actually. How about I’ll take you to dinner if you agree to not go back to crime scenes alone.”

She laughed. “Deal.”

@ruddcatha​ @lavendertwilight89 @cstormsinukagblog​ @clearwillow​ @witchygirl99​ @dangerouspompadour​ ​ @pinkpigeonstudio @superpixie42 @smmahamazing​ @bluejay785 @zelink-inukag @liz8080 @rootpatterson @umacaking @zelico

[peachyteabuck]

sick of nothing (carol danvers x reader)

summary: Shitty, shitty bars can still have pretty, pretty bartenders. 

Carol’s got a night off and you work as a bartender while you study to become a statistician. A one-night stand situation.

pairing: Carol Danvers x Reader

words: 2,592

trigger warnings: one-night stands, daddy kink, light choking, strap ons, angst if you really squint

notes: this was written for @shay-iamiam ‘s 800 follower writing challenge. my prompt was “i have a name, and it’s not sweetheart” and has been bolded within the fic !!

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

The walk is about three and a half blocks, the hood of her AIR FORCE hoodie pulled up the whole time as if to dare any pick pocket and low life in the city to test her self-defense abilities. Nobody she passes looks at her for more than half a second, just how she wants it.

In front of her destination is a neon sign that’s nearly dulled - as if too old to support its own brightness anymore. It’s almost hidden among the other, flashier billboards and car lights and God knows what else the civilians in this town use to be seen these days. Regardless, it catches Carol’s eye.

The stairs to the entrance are lit by a green similar to the color outside, the deep shade barely masking the multiple women making out against the wall. Carol makes eye contact with one of them who’s got two attached to each side of her neck. The unnamed woman smirks at Carol, who nods back.

When she gets to the bottom of the stairs, the heavy door she has to use all her might to push in order to get through the threshold. There aren’t a lot of people in the run-down bar, it’s much too early for the regulars to be partying. She counts maybe six people, max, along with the three exits.  

Carol spots you across the bar. Across the dirty, grimy bar she flags you down and orders scotch. She doesn’t know exactly what it is, but it was what her papa drank when he was lonely, so it’s what she’ll drink now.

Your pour the dark liquid into a glass with fluid movements, and you push it down the bar to her with equal ease.

“Enjoy,” you tell her, and she nods once before downing it. She watches you intently, tracks your wide grin and fast hands.

You notice her staring but don’t say anything, too busy stuffing your bra with the single dollar bills and wiping down the wettened wood as each patron becomes drunk enough to leave. It’s near the end of your shift, when you’ve got ten minutes left and the next girl comes to pull back her hair and change into her own t-shirt printed with the bar’s logo, that you finally make contact.

“It’s kinda rude to stare,” you tell her without meeting her eyes.

“Oh, but you’re so nice to look at,” the woman, with her shockingly neat blank olive long-sleeved shirt. She’s got blonde hair pulled back tight into a bun at the top of her neck, posture that rivals that of a Renaissance-era French noble.

Military. You note. Most of them don’t bother with the bar you have the misfortune of working at, especially with it being as seedy as it is; filled with degenerates as it is. There are better places to drink, better places to pick up hookers, better places to forget the fact they joined was just to pay for college.

The woman speaks again when you lean against the bar – the first time your feet stopped moving since your shift started. “When are you done here, sweetheart?”

You smile, the shine in your eyes especially evident in the low light. “I have a name, and it’s not sweetheart,” you tell her with a voice playful and light.

“And what is this mysterious name of yours?” she downs the last of her drink as she waits for your reply.

There’s a hesitancy in your voice, an uncertainty that isn’t scared but most definitely is noticeable. “Why don’t you take me on a date and find out?” Another pause. “I’m done here in five. You can meet me out back if you want.”

Carol smiles wide and dope, and tips you a crisp twenty-dollar bill, which she places over the wet ring her empty glass left on the dark, stained wood. “See ya then, darling,” just as she tucks her stool back out of the path of travel for the other customers, she turns back around. “My name’s Carol, by the way.”

As you tap out and grab your bag from the back room, you can’t tell which weighs heavier on your conscience: the biggest tip you’ve ever received (in proportion to the tab) or the fact that you’re about to have sex with a stranger.

Said woman is right where you told you to be, leaning against the brick wall with her hands stuffed in her pockets. Silently, you nod, and she follows you on the route to your apartment. For awhile it’s silent, almost uncomfortably so.

About halfway through the walk, Carol’s the first one to speak. “What are you doing here? In this shitty town?” A pause. “You seem way too smart to be stuck here.”

You shrug your bag closer to you, as if it’ll protect her from whatever hypercritical commentary she’s about to give. “I’m studying to be a statistician, working on saving money so I can start working on my PhD soon.”

Carol laughs a little, and for a moment you prepare to recite the speech you gave your dad when you left home four years ago, your freshman year professor who told you that women can’t do math, it’ll interfere with their natural role as caregivers to the family, your sophomore year boyfriend who you broke up with not only because you figured out you only like women, but also because he was a piece of shit who told you that if a woman wasn’t a stay at home mom she wasn’t worth shit.

But Carol doesn’t mock you, doesn’t chuckle like it’s the strangest thing she’s ever heard.

Still, you’re concerned. “What’re you laughing about?”

“Just never expected anyone so smart would allow someone like me to take them home,” she tells you, honest and sincere. For a moment her cool façade breaks and your heart along with it, but after a few seconds she’s back with that killer smile.

Your conversation remains light the rest of the walk, at one point your fingers intertwining as the silence of the night settles upon you. The action is cute, innocent, directly contrasting what happened the second you reach the inside of your apartment.

Carol’s got you pushed against the inside of your bedroom door, and you can feel each groove and nick in the old wood as she pulls off the horrendous black shirt your boss requires you to wear. The day it was handed to you, you promised yourself you’d burn it the minute you didn’t have to work at that shithole anymore. But, as Carol kisses your collar bone and bites at each square inch of sensitive skin, you wonder how bad it could be if you managed to catch her while wearing it. On impulse your nose wrinkles, thinking about the putrid scent wafting from the fabric, the piss of a thousand racoons settling over the hottest woman you’ve ever laid eyes on.

Luckily, Carol doesn’t notice, because she’s too busy pulling it off of you and catching a glimpse of the tattoos that litter your body. Her lips stop, then, and she takes a moment to look – really look – at them. She traces the normal model – located on your ribs – lightly. “Is that the mathy shit you were talking about?”

You laugh, pulling her in for a kiss. “These are equations that can determine things you only dream of knowing. You know, in World War I-“ You’re cut off with a sharp bite to your breast opposite the ink and one of her hands snaking itself down your pants. “Oh fuck.”

Carol smiles into your skin before throwing you onto the bed, her hair barely moving as she tosses you as if you were pillow rather than a person. You hit the bed with a loud thump, and in the second you take to move your thick blankets that have gathered over you off of your body she’s removed her shirt and is working on unhooking her simple, sweat-stained bra.

Her movements are fevered, her eyes ablaze. It’s the kind of fire you’ve seen in the climax of cheesy animated movies, when the pretty, hopeless protagonist is cornered against some thick free as the big, bad wolf towers over her as spit falls from its jowls. With wide eyes, the careless woman watches and whimpers as what is likely her death-bringer rips the top of her bodice open with a simple swipe of its dirt-coated claws.

The only difference between you and her appears to be her terror, because as Carol crawls over you and sinks her teeth into your jugular all you can do is moan and grab at her back.

“You’re so cute,” she growls into your ear. “Maybe I should fuck you like I’ll break you…” An evil, hungry grin spreads across her face as you shake your head, your nails dragging angry red lines down her muscular back.  “Or, maybe not.”

As she removes her thick, black pants, you notice she’s wearing a worn leather harness she claims she’s had since she first enlisted fit tight to her waist and thighs. The material is soft as your palms occasionally run over the buckles as you reach for her ass. “Please, Carol, please god,” you beg, gasping at she bites at your nipple. “Please just fuck me.”

Carol moves on down your stomach, leaving a trail of bruises in her wake. You can feel her lips spread into a smile into your skin, nipping at your heated flesh as she looks up at you. “Mm, kinda wanna have you ride me instead. You okay with that, baby girl?”

You’re breathless as you respond. “Yes.”

Somehow, in all of your breathless splendor, Carol finds a way you coax you – no, manhandle you so that you’re hovering just above the bright blue cock kept in place by the harness.

“I don’t think that’s military-issue,” you quip. The smirk on your face, though, subsides quickly when she aligns herself with your entrance and bottoms out in a single thrust. All you can do is moan, bracing yourself with one hand on the wall and one on her chest. It’s embarrassing, almost, how good it feels.

The ends of Carol’s mouth slowly spread upward as she watches you fall apart, watches your eyes roll to the back of your head, watches your jaw go slack.

“You like that?” she asks, voice thick with the arousal that comes with pleasing a partner. “You like it when I fuck your pussy this hard?”

All you can do is give her a small squeak and a nod, unable to form such a complicated thing as speech. Carol’s got one hand on your hip to keep you moving, to keep your hips grinding on her cock, while the other rests on your throat with her thumb moving just past your lips.

It doesn’t take any exchange of words for you to understand what she wants from you, and as you take the ridge between the two phalanges you flatten your tongue against the digit.

You soak the calloused skin with your spit, tracing every small detail with your tongue and basking in the glow of giving and receiving pleasure. Soon, though, Carol pulls her thumb away with a loud pop!

You pout, worrying you had done something wrong. But as you feel Carol circling your clit you forget all about your own insecurities.

“Oh fuck,” you whine, almost falling if it weren’t for Carol’s painful grip on your hip. “Oh my God!”

“You gonna come for me baby?” She hisses, voice husky and laced with godly confidence. “You gonna come on daddy’s cock?”

Her saying that word, that title, sends another flood of arousal to your center. “Yes, daddy, I love your cock,” you moan, desperate throw yourself into the pleasure you’re so close to reaching. “Please, please let me come! I wanna come on your thick dick, daddy!”

Carol doesn’t say anything at first, caught stroking her ego with a cocky smirk that somehow makes you even wetter.

“Fuck yeah, baby,” Carol nearly purrs. “Come for Daddy.”

She’s got one thumb rubbing at your clit, the other hand palming at your breast. Soon it’s too much, the tight, heated coil in your abdomen gives one last tightening before it unravels – pleasure flooding your blood. As the explosive pleasure begins to subside, Carol carefully flips you onto your back and pulls out of your hypersensitive pussy. As she pulls the toy out of you achingly slow you whimper from sensitivity and the empty feeling inside of you.

Carol moves off of the bed to pull the harness off of you, and in the absence of her body heat you shiver and whine for her to join you back in bed. She gives you a small, pitiful smile before leaning forward to a place a light kiss on your sweaty forehead. “Just give me a second, baby, you need some water.” You mmph, and point her in the direction of your shitty kitchenette.

When she comes back you’re on the precipice of sleep – eyes heavy as she props you up to drink from of the cold tap water. As you empty the glass, she places it onto your bedside table and wraps herself around you – puling the heavy, sex-thick blankets over the two of you. With the warmth of the fabric and her skin, sleep soon claims your consciousness.

It feels like a mere few seconds later when your pupils begin to move behind your eyelids, sparked by something deep in your foolhardy dreams telling you that you feel someone stirring in your room. When your eyes finally crack open, you can see the woman who fucked you into another consciousness last night pulling on her clothes in the dark.

When you click on the lamp, her movements stop like a cockroach freezes under a flashlight. A long, heavy silence ensues.

Carol’s the one to break it. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

More silence.

“I’m sorry,” she says – voice small.

The corners of your lips turn up in a similar manner. “It’s okay.”

Another beat passes before the both of you move. Carol continues to dress, and you move to write your landline number and, after a bit of hesitation, your name and address.

The silence continues as she makes her way around your room and collects her things – namely the harness, which she tucks back under her pants, just as before. As she turns around to pull her pants over the leather strap, you move behind her to tuck the old receipt into a back pocket.

When Carol notices your hands on her ass she freezes, but soon welcomes the embrace as you whisper in her ear. “Just…don’t be a stranger, alright?”

She intertwines your fingers and kisses where her skin meets yours. “I’ll try.”

You sigh as Carol steps out of your apartment complex into the pink-covered city. Dawn is just bringing itself upon the horizon, as if the sun is trying to bide you more time together. There are a few moments where your eyes meet, and she gives you a small, sad smile.

“Goodbye,” she says quietly.

You nod, once. Wrapping your robe tighter around you to keep the chills tighter to keep the chills at bay, you wonder why it would be so cool in the thick of summer. As you turn back inside to get ready for class, you try not to think about how it might not be the cold that make you shake.

[twofootedbones]

Wooden Boxes (Entire Story)

Summary: Small group of friends finds themselves in the forest just to get drunk and burn tree branches in a fire pit. One thing leads to another and now John is stuck with some kind of cheap horror movie plot box and a becomes responsible for a murder. Now that is all just between him and Father Erik. 

"Father I believe I have done more than sin, " John sat calmly on his side of the confessional. The calm demeanor wasn’t going to last long as his story continued and he knew this. "Tell unto me your troubles child, " Father Erik had invited the boy into the safe space after his recent suspicious behavior. John hadn't always been one to make it to church every single Sunday, but the boy's family was well known here. The man had watched him grow up watching him become more and more of a strapping young man each Sunday up until he had gone off towards college. But for the young man to suddenly appear in his church after all this time, it was obviously a moment of need. John stared down at his shoes, simple black sneakers that he could see the collecting dust fall towards. The woven brown reeds were pierced by the dyed sunlight coming from the stained glass. Greens, blues, and reds danced around the space making everything seem like it was all a children’ room. 

"It started through a party, " 

Erik would've never expected the boy to say anything like that. The blonde never seemed like the type to go to any party higher than a get-together. But there could be a lot about the boy he didn’t know.

 "We were all drinking, no one driving, it was technically supposed to be a camping trip, "

-

"If you haven't finished that wine yet you better fucking pass it bitchboy, " Conner gargled and cackled. His voice slurred through 2 fireballs and more than his fair share in beer. John clung to the white wine like it was a bar of gold. "You drunk slut! Get your own!" He yelled swatting away the hands of his brother. Saron sat across on a separate log, laughing into his premade sex on the beach, while poor Rick sipped from his Vermouth. He had to be the slightly sober one out of all of this, having to get at least a gallon or two of the booze before getting any kind of buzz.

 The blonde twins on the other side of the fire continued to argue about who should get the long empty white wine bottle. The air was crisp, untouched by human pollution, it was strange to both Rick and Saron but to the other two, the forest was a second home. Everyone held their own geographic location close to their hearts, while Saron loved the feeling of sand and the sounds of the sea, John craved the smell of the great pines and the sight of the growing ivy. The fire crackled before them, embers flying up into the now dying daylight. The chill of the wind started to hit everyone but the safety of Rick's van was only feet away. John shot up, almost immediately falling back over in the process. 

"I'm going to go take a piss, and I'm taking my wine with me, " he announced while stumbling towards the surrounding trees. "Don't stay out there for too long!" Rick called after him. Saron pats the older boy on the chest. "This is John we are talking about, if he gets lost then we're in a different forest, " 

The blonde did a sloppy job doing his business, hitting everything around the tree trunk rather than the tree trunk he was currently touching foreheads with. Something yelped behind him, it was like a scream that was gagged too soon. The blonde shot around, zipping himself up with more precision than his blackout brain would've wanted. He had never heard a sound like that in the forests before, no bird or mountain lion could ever make such a sound. There was someone or something out there amongst the leaves with him. 

Eyes started to search the leaves desperately, his drunken brain making him see and assume the worst of the worst. Was there a body amongst them? Did the poor boy wander upon a murder scene? The wind blew through the leaves, the temperature dropping with the sun. Once green trees are now turning black. The forest colors dripping down into the ground, making everything a harsh brown and an unforgiving black. Those green eyes wandered across something that might've matched the scenery, but the shape was wrong. A thick and tall wine box sat rotting amongst the forest floor. The top of the box was covered in layers upon layers of various colored candle wax. It seemed to be fresh wax, no dirt visible in the brightly colored substance. It sat straight up, facing the boy and almost inviting him in. At first, he was going to laugh, no amount of adrenaline could sober him up. He giggled at the box, unable to see any seriousness in the situation, believing that this thing could just be someone’s time capsule or some kind of harmless prank.

 "Did you just scream?" he asked the box. He moved closer, stumbling and slow. He started to talk to the box like it was a small dog, fear had left him. "Ya cold out here buddy? Come on, let's go back to the bonfire, " with that John picked up the box and started to carry it back towards camp. Everyone had already crawled their way into the van by then, so he slipped the box into his lemon of a car, placing it in the passenger side before forcing himself into the pile in the back of the van, shutting the van door behind him. He pushed himself onto the end being back to back with his brother. Having all of the blankets stolen from him before he had even fallen asleep. The sounds of the forest seeming to pierce the metal walls and echo through the vehicle. 

-

"This box, " 

Erik interrupted the story snapping John back to the tan comfort of the confessional. "What did it look like again?" 

John knew all too well what the box looked like, he knew every single detail and wax smudge on that stupid box. For something so simple it was stapled into his mind so well. The bright tan of the wood and how it was stained different shades from the candle wax. How the locks on the side looked so out of place and how the screws were put in wrong.

 "It was a wine box, one of those old ones like the cigar boxes, with white and purple candle wax all over it, " 

“Hm,” 

-

The sun tried it's best to pierce through the dirtied and fogged up windows of the van but had no such luck, only creating a dim and dusty light that stained everything yellow. John had woken up first, almost expecting the sound of his alarm to attack his senses, but instead it was just the lovely symptoms of a hangover. The night before started to come back to him as he gazed upon the white wine bottle he fought so hard to keep cuddled up to him. 

While the red of the metal walls and the yellow of the light provided comfort, something was off. There was something wrong about the scene, it felt as if he shouldn’t be here. The forest was silent, no morning birds, no sounds of the small creatures running through the leaves and the bushes, nothing. Something was stopping everything. 

No matter how hard he tried to shake it, the feeling of someone watching him overpowered his murderous migraine. Rick, the patron saint of all their outings, had packed not only a surplus of aspirins and a cooler of just orange juice. His pounding mind pleaded for him to try and get up to get the two miracle products but something was stopping him. Something was looking right at them, he could feel it. A pair of eyes all too bigger than his own we're starting him down and he could feel them on him. Three deep breaths and counting the number of breaths that came from the rest of the room grounded him. Three of his own and three others. The sunlight started to brighten, desperately wanting to get inside of the van. How much time was he wasting staring at the ceiling? And how much longer was this feeling going to last? 

Then something else tried to get in. An unidentifiable head covered the small back window, much too large to be a human's. It didn't move, just stood there. John couldn't see the window, but when the light that once covered the roof had up and left him, so did any calm demeanor that he once had. "Rick, " 

He called out for the silver-haired boy, hoping and praying that he could see what he was seeing. "Rick, wake up, " John' eyes refused to leave the ceiling, watching and waiting for the light to come back. "Rick, " he repeated in a harsher tone. 

"Wh- what? What?" He had finally woken up, and just like that, the light was back. John finally got his bones to move, sitting up and changing his focus from the roof to the window. "I think there's someone outside the van, " 

"What?" was apparently the word of the day. "Yeah, I think there's someone outside, they were just looking through the window, " 

Rick untangled himself from Saron and pushed himself up against the same window that the head was once hiding behind. The boy pushed to unlock the door while the other two struggled with their own hangovers. Conner lazily watched in awe as the silver-haired boy moved so fast. He swung the van door open as well as started swinging, looking back and forth for anyone around. “Hello?!” he called out to the empty, empty forest. John trailed out after him, wobbly from the sun’s rays attacking his eyes and brains. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s out here,” he said a bit calmer to the staggering blonde. “But there definitely was, look at your poor car dude,” 

John staggered over towards his vehicle, hearing the van door slide shut behind him, the two left there no doubt snuggling back up and falling back asleep. The entire windshield was covered in sap. A full brown and golden coat covered the glass, almost completely obscuring the view. “It must’ve been some fuckin prankster kids or something,” Rick shook his head, reaching to touch the syrup. “I have a snow scraper under the seat it might work,” the blonde mumbled. 

-

“The whole front glass pane?” the older man interrupted with another question. “If it really was just some hooligans, where would they have gotten all that tree sap?” 

John laughed on the other side of the thin woven wall. “It would be quite the prank to pull, no matter how much I scraped, there was no real way to get rid of it,” the boy would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about gathering tree sap just to do that to Conner or believing that Conner had done that to his car himself. “Six car washes later it’s not as sticky anymore but the windshield wiper still gets stuck,” 

“Continue with your story, my child,” 

-

The door swung open all too fast, slamming the door handle into the thankfully placed door stopper. It wasn’t like it was stopping much due to the many doorknob sized holes in the wall. The apartment manager wasn’t exactly happy about it, but this wasn’t exactly anything new. He’s been living here for a year now, when he moves out he’ll fix it. The aspirins had started to wear themselves off as they lacked the power to last the whole migraine. That’s only expected from gas station migraine meds. He shut the door behind him with his foot, unable to touch the handle with his hands as they were both filled with the simple camping equipment and the new antique he gets to add to his collection, free of charge. He set the wine box down on the coffee table, for now, the glass clinking as the metal corners hit the surface.

John left the box there, wandering further into the two-bedroom one bath apartment to shove the other items there before returning to the couch where he would further hibernate. On the way back to the living room, he kicked off his shoes only to leave them somewhere in the hallway. Right now was not the time to keep things simple and clean. The shirt came off next, being thrown somewhere towards the kitchen but he never saw where it landed. A pale body flopped onto the small pull out couch, his feet hanging off the other end but being too lazy to pull the whole small bed out of the couch. Green eyes stared at the wine box that made the coffee table it's home. The box was surprisingly clean for being somewhere in the forest. John started to search for his phone, slapping his pockets until he could recognize the size of his ancient smartphone in his front pocket. 

While Conner begged for him to update his phone and finally live the 5G life if it wasn’t broken don’t fix it. John clicked open the phone and started his common words search. Wine box covered in wax? Spiritual box? Vintage box covered in wax? Spiritual wine box? 

The last search is when he actually got anything. Dybbuk box. What was currently sitting on his coffee table was something called a Dybbuk box. Thousands of clickbait videos showed up in the results. Tens of them having “Gone wrong” somewhere in the title. He opened up Youtube, clicking through the thousands of videos till he could find some kind of informational video that was obviously a child's clickbait. A short video by some kind of news site told him everything he could need to know. Well, not really but get the gist. The box held some kind of demon, a demon that would latch itself onto whoever came into contact with the box. John had carried that box with both hands on multiple occasions. The lady in the video said that the bad events would come in threes, but with the millions of clickbait videos, he started to believe that this was all just a load of shit. Mostly considering that the legendary box was a small wine cabinet and not a dinky single bottle wine box.

 The boy clicked his phone off and set it down on the coffee table next to the box. “Did some Youtuber leave you in the forest, huh?” he asked the box. He smiled at the small prop, laughing about the story he could tell to Travis and Carol in class tomorrow. “I got a bookshelf with your name on it,” he spoke to the box again. 

He didn’t realize that he had slept until he woke up to the natural light leaving him behind. What was he doing when he got home? The light of the street lamps found their way through his windows. He didn’t want to get up just yet, staring out his window and watching the cars on the road outside. Class started back up tomorrow, ending spring break and starting the home stretch to summer break. As if he was even going to make it that long. His grades have been falling to pieces before his very eyes, having to get Travis and Carol to help him with everything. They were upperclassmen and he’s lucky that he even got them to look at his direction. Maybe he could squeeze in a bit of homework tonight. His eyes wandered towards the ceiling. 

Something blocked the light again. 

The same pitch black figure, head much too large for its own body, it was a blessing that the neck could even support it. Or perhaps that's just what the shadow made it look like. John had only got a glimpse of it before it duck down below the window. The blonde shot up, staring back at the window. Now he was starting to regret not having curtains. He didn’t live in a shady part of town or didn't trust his neighbors, but he was starting to. John rolled off the couch, keeping his eyes on the window only looking away to check if the door was locked. It wasn’t. 

The boy dreaded moving anywhere close to the window, it was an irrational fear, there was nothing there he could still be drunk and this all was just his eyes playing tricks on him. He was just tired. It was just one of his neighbors walking by. It was a car going by the streetlamp. 

The two locks shut with two simple clicks. The door knob lock jiggles slightly and the deadbolt sliding securely into place. A short lived wave of calm brushed over him, a breath he didn’t know he was holding escaped between his lips. A crash snapped him back into reality, his body whipped around to face the wine box that had now flashed itself onto the floor, standing up perfectly. John wasn’t a very religious person, while his family forced him into church he believed it was all just some story that people preached for morals like fairy tales. But at that moment, he could believe that there was something in the house with him.

“This is ridiculous,” 

Anger forced his anxiety out and made itself the leading factor of his actions. The blonde stormed over and snatched the box off of the ground, almost throwing it into the spare room. The box landed amongst the forgetting camping stuff on the floor. He slammed the door behind him and went to bed without a shower. 

-

“You threw the Dybbuk box?” 

The voice was harsh and stern. Erik was always a second father to him, so it was a bit difficult to hear that tone. John started to shake, regret and grief taking over him for disrespecting the box and disappointing Erik. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he mumbled holding his head in his hands. The center latched clicked open and the small door opened up, the older man slipping in a box of tissues. 

-

The most annoying alarm rang through the apartment, breaking through the blockage of both the walls and the pillows. John slapped the life out of his phone, sliding his and back and forth to desperately shut the sound off. His face still buried deep into his pillow and blankets still covering his face. His hand bumped into something that definitely wasn’t on his nightstand last night. The harsh wooden texture and the smooth oily feeling made his eyes shoot open faster than a speed dial. There stood the box, right on his nightstand. John sighed, slamming his face back into the pillow, this had to be a prank. His hand remained on the box, trying to think of who had a spare key to his apartment. 

Conner.

 Of course his brother would do some stupid shit like this. His pranks always had layers upon layers of planning. A small splinter of doubt hit him, believing that Conner was too piss drunk to place the box behind him in the woods, but then he remembered that Rick was sober and that trio of assholes lived together. So, of course he would be in on it. The blonde rolled out of bed, checking the time on his phone before picking the box back up. 

“If I throw you away then he won’t be able to move you around anymore,” he spoke to the box again. “But then again, if I hide you somewhere then I could catch him in the act,” he smiled, his plan sounding like a great one. There weren't a lot of places in his apartment that he could hide the box, but there were a few places he knew Conner would never look. So, into the back of the freezer it went. The box was covered up by frozen bags of fruits and vegetables. “Let’s see him find you now,” 

-

John got home from class like it was every other day, slamming the door open and closing it softly before throwing himself onto his couch and crashing his backpack onto the coffee table. Only this time when his backpack slammed itself into the coffee table, it shoved something else off of it. John lacked a TV so there was no way he could blame the crash on something as simple as a remote. The blonde lifted his head to see before him the stupid box. He was started to curse this box and the stupid game his brother was playing on him, did the boy really search through everywhere?! And in the freezer of all places?! He was sick of it. He was sick of the idea that Conner had even thought that doing this stupid little demon prank was a good idea. 

It all just bothered him so much more than it should, unable to understand these drastic moods lately. He was mad almost all the time now, mad at his apartment door, mad at his classmates, mad at his stupid car, mad at his friends for being so fucking nosy, and mad at himself for being mad. It was all so confusing.

But angering all the same. 

The blonde struggled to find out where the thorn in his demeanor was from, while the box in front of him knew exactly where it was from. The boy stared at the box, brows permanently frowed together in the most peeved face he had ever made. “What’s even inside you anyway you useless thing?” he asked in the box. Then it jostled. Causing him to become startled himself. “What the fuck?” he said aloud, quickly shifting to sit up and pick up the box. It jumped again in his hands. This scared him more than just seeing it move on the floor. He's held jumping beans before, but those were small, whatever this was, was bigger than some bug.

 John threw the box across the room, hearing it crash against the wall with a thud then crack open on the floor. The wax scattered itself and the wood splintered. The inside remained pitch black despite the many lights that flooded the apartment. John stood up, backing away but needing to get closer to be able to kill whatever rat or creature Conner had put in this stupid wine box.  It was only after a void black dripping hand slapped itself out of the small box did he realize that this wasn’t a prank. The hand desperately slapped and gripped at the carpet floor, whatever it was attached to wanting out. The fingers curled and flexed in all different directions, seeming to drag itself towards John. The boy was stuck in place, watching with wide eyes as a second hand forced itself out of the broken box. Both arms and finger flexing and flailing around, the sound of the newly wet carpet being slapped on by the mystery appendages. A watermelon sized head pulled itself out of the small opening, the jaw was sharp and pointed in several areas, just above opening in a large toothed mouth with a swirling tongue that seemed to go up and lick the rest of the face like a gecko would to its own eyeball. The head shook back and forth, sometimes even slapping itself on the carpet too, desperately wiggling to free itself from the prison it had once been trapped in. A skinny body followed the head, neck thinner than would ever be expected to lift the head and a chest that was no larger than a notebook. There were no legs on the creature, relying on the long arms it had to keep it mobile. It seemed to look around the small apartment before making a Beeline towards the blonde that only watched in shock and fear as it dragged itself forward and onto the coffee table with just its thin and dripping arms. It was as if the creature was made out of nothing but stale and out of date ink. The large mouth opened before those arms propelled the body towards John with a powerful launch. 

Last thing he knew, the creature was on his face. 

-

John woke up on his apartment floor hours upon hours later. It couldn’t have been that long because it was still light outside, but the buzzing of his phone told a different story. The simple caller ID told him that it was one of his classmates. Well technically an upperclassmen, but he was a classmate all the same. “Hello? Travis?” he spoke slurred into the phone. “John!?” the voice on the other end boomed. “Where have you been!? You’ve been out for two days!” 

There was no way his phone battery had lasted more than 3 hours the day he got home. The boy looked down at himself as the older man on the other line continued to speak, completely tuning him out as he examined himself. He was still wearing the same shirt and same shorts he had been wearing when he got home. The same backpack sat on the coffee table. The scene he endured came back to him, he whipped his head around to look for wither the creature that attacked him or the box he had shattered, but neither were present.

“Are you even listening to me?” Travis snapped him back to the phone conversation he hadn’t gotten a word of. “What?” he asked.

“Where are you? Me and Carol are going to come get you, we’ve been worried to death dude,” 

Well that was reasonable. “I’m just at my apartment,” 

“We’re on our way,” and with that the line went dead.

A feeling of dread started to attack the boy, although it was just a simple phone conversation, he was yet again alone in his apartment. He was afraid to move, even more terrified to even go into any of the rooms of the house. There was no telling where the thing had gone, even if it did make it back to the stupid box, he didn’t want to see it anymore. John looked down to his legs and noticed something he hadn’t earlier. From his ankle all the way up his legs, even so much as stretching under his shorts, was covered in patches of bruises. While some were a fading yellow, others were the deepest purple he had ever seen. How was he supposed to explain these to Travis and Carol? 

John would either have to face his fears of the other rooms, or try and explain that he was attacked by a Lovecraft creature. The boy stood up on aching legs, almost immediately falling back to his stop on the ground. It hurt. The boy's face twisted up in pain, temporarily distracting him from the fear of the loose creature. Each step sent shockwaves through his body, his feet feeling as if he was walking on scolding needles. The walk towards the bedroom door felt as if an hour had already passed, sweat starting to run down his face already. While he turned the doorknob to the room, the one attached to the front door started to shake as well. It was followed by all too forceful knocks and a deep voice that broke through every wall. Maybe it had taken him an hour to get to the bedroom. “Just a second!” he yelled back, the remaining fear that gripped onto him let go, leaving just his injuries to slow him down. The knocks continued as he threw the dresser drawer open, he was surprised that Travis was being this impatient but then again he did drop off the face of the earth for two days. Wait, if they were really worried then why didn’t they just get Conner to let them into the apartment. John stared at himself in the body length mirror as he struggled to hop his legs into the longer sweatpants. Something wasn’t adding up, but he blamed it on school and some other unknown excuse he knew was there but couldn’t think of. 

The blonde started to get used to the new pain that was walking as he rushed from the bedroom to the front door, the knocking continued up until he placed his hand on the doorknob. He paid no attention to it until he swung the door open to see no one there. Nothing but the day’s sun and the gentle breeze made its way through the entrance. A sound went off behind him, he could almost recognize it as the knives in the kitchen clattering to the floor and the coffee table bursting into pieces. 

-

This time John actually woke up. The boy was on his knees in the middle of the small kitchen, steak knife in his hand aimed towards his legs. He couldn’t move, only observing in horror at the various butter and steak knives that sat around him in a circle, each blade curled completely into a corkscrew. His heart is the only thing racing. His knuckles shone white as he squeezed on the handle of the knife in his hand, terrified of the object but refusing to let go of it. He wanted to get up, he wanted to run away, he wanted to find his phone he really did, but something had his legs bolted to the tile floor. Half-assed deep breaths calmed his pulse down somewhat, but how was one supposed to be calm in a situation like this. The blonde tried to look over the kitchen counter towards the rest of the house, unable to see a single thing other than the darkness of the window. What day was it? What time was it? Was he still alive? John was endlessly confused with his situation. The mild confusion and anger stopped dead when a familiar slap sounded just out of his view. His heart rate kicked up again, being just as loud as the several wet slaps that followed the first. The long inked hand appeared again, just around the counter. The flexing appendages pulled and scraped the head and rest of the body into view, the creature dragging and lifting itself to sit right in front of the boy. It was silent. The only sound echoing through the small space was John’ breathing and the sound of the tar from its body dropping to the tile. It was a staring match despite the monster’s lack of eyes. The mouth started to open, open wide. John was convinced that the mouth of teeth would be the last thing he would ever get to see before his body would shut down. The mouth kept going, opening and curling back much like the blades on the ground around him. It revealed a face. The face of a boy much like him but so much younger, bright almost glowing red eyes met his green as the real staring contest began. The muk continued to curl back, revealing hair that could rival the black tar in color and a surplus of skin that one would only find on the body of an albino. 

A simple dress shirt and sweater vest was revealed as it continued to drip away, splatters of blood covering the sleeves while whatever blood was on the vest had been swallowed by the darker colors. The rest of the tar dripped away revealing a sight much worse than the cover of the void. The creature lacked legs because the boy under lacked them as well. The dress shirt and vest were shredded at the ends, revealing in full view a pile of driped and wasted organs that spilled out of the open body. Flesh hung out in surplus, the meat seeming more of a petrified jerky with age. John had audibly gasped at the sight, almost expecting an attack from the boy in front of him for doing anything. But instead, he spoke. “I know,” 

The voice was broken and raspy, but remained deep and sarcastic. “You need to do something for me,” the voice spoke again. 

It took him more than a few seconds but the blonde managed to find his own voice. “Who are you?” he asked. 

“Var, You need to do something for me,” he repeated, his tone becoming more and more aggravated. There was no avoiding the question. “What, what do you need?” 

That was where he had started to cover up the grave he dug himself. John had invited the dybbuk onto himself. He had allowed the creature to attach itself to him. The spirit of the boy and the boy’s disgusting and murderous longing. The boy pulled himself closer, the curled knives moving on their own around him. “2116 Aervre Street,” the boy said, putting his hands on his, wrapping around them to help hold the knife in place. They were as cold as ice, burning his hands the longer they stayed there. The knife started to freeze in his hands, crystallizing and piercing his hands. This was real, this time it wasn’t a dream. The body of the boy melting in front of him, the knife staying attached to his hands. Whispered started from behind him, at first he couldn’t tell what they were saying, but as they grew louder and closer he could make out the word simply. “Kill, kill, kill, kill,” it chanted. 

He had a job to do and Var was going to make him do it. Legs shooting up and moving on their own. The curled knives clattered around the kitchen as his legs started to feel. Wet. The black sludge from the floor flowing up and attaching themselves to his body. He didn’t come back to the present until he found himself sitting in the car. 

The car started with a scream, the busted engine coming to life as the small key started the whole thing. The car lights turned on with a flash before shutting off, leaving the boy in the darkness of the night, only interrupted by the glow in the dark lights of the dashboard symbols. The sharp blade glimmered in the flashed lights, drawing his attention to it once again. He had everything he could’ve needed. Bolt cutters, the knife that had yet to leave his hands, gloves, simple toss away shoes he had left over from summer, he had everything. John could feel himself getting sick over the task at hand, half of his mind rejecting even thinking that the spirit had meant something else while the other half, the half that wasn’t him, was already committing the crime. The busted  box sat in the back, fully visible through the rear-view mirror. Var was watching him, watching him closely. The blonde could feel the pressure of the creature resting on his shoulders, almost forcing itself into his body, forcing him to have a lead foot. The car calmly left the parking lot and out onto the main roads. Snoogle maps screamed the directions to him through the discount sound system. The bluetooth speaker glued to the dashboard jostled as he sped up, completely ignoring the speed bumps as he passed through empty neighborhoods. He bounced up and down in the car, feeling Var shove him back down into the seat. The tools that once sat next to him in the passenger’s seat now found their home on the floor, the wine box in the back seat refused to move, as if it was glued down tight to the middle seat. The fresh wax on the box seemed to melt, never dripping but a constant flow like it was all pulsing. Like it was living. It was living. John ran through a red light, the sounds of the honking cars in the intersection snapping his attention back to the road, he was back on the main road again. The cops were going to be called on him soon. He knew this as a fact. 

The speaker roared his last few directions at him, the bass and water damage almost gargling the words. John was almost convinced that part of the sounds were the demon’s doing. The speaker said something about the destination being on the right before the dust dome completely exploded, shooting the guts of the small speaker forward and towards the metal mesh making that mesh the only thing keeping John from facing an electrical injury. The blonde slammed on the brakes, the tires shrieking behind him the trimming bound to be ruined by now but none of that mattered to him apparently. John yanked the key out of the ignition, checking over it to see if it was bent or not. It was fine though scolding hot to the touch, he learned that the hard way. Hissing as he shoved his twice burnt fingers into his mouth as if it was going to make a single difference. Once with ice and once with heat. Something in the back of his mind screamed at him, he could hear the raspy voice he had heard in the kitchen speaking to him. "Hurry up,” was all the voice was repeating. The words forced a noticeable amount of anxiety on the boy, draping himself over the center compartment to reach the tools he needed on the floor. John put on the medical mask with shaking hands, tucking his hair into a baseball cap he planned to burn after all of this, and scribbled all over his face with a body paint stick not even bothering to look in the visor mirrors. He needed to be unrecognizable. Snatching a satchel from the back seat he was ready to head out. The boy looked over at the house, the first thing he saw was the doorbell cam. There was no real easy way to take those out, so he couldn't use the front door or approach the front steps at all for that matter. The gate to the back was easy money, chain link and short enough not to make much noise climbing over. 

The backyard was large, large enough to fit a pool but remained empty. A sharp knock to the back of his head staggered him enough to drop to the ground. “You didn’t even check for a dog,” the cracking voice screamed at him. Var was right, but John could honestly care less. His vision blurred as he tried to get up, the dybbuk cursing in the back of his mind saying things about how he didn’t hit the other that hard. The blonde walked around, viewing the backside of the house, looking for cameras, open windows, or any lights on in the house. It was as if the place was completely abandoned. Every single curtain was open while none of the lights were on. There was no camera and no lights. “You’re welcome,” Var almost screamed in his right ear. He had gotten all too used to having to deal with the creatures lack of volume control. The sliding glass door made a click, John could only guess that the lock on it had sprung open. The boy took off his shoes, shoving them into the bag and throwing on some cheap flip flops over his socks. Fashion didn’t matter in the middle of attempted murder. The pure rubber shoes squeaked as they pressed against the wooden floors. He started to shut the door behind him when a small gash opened itself up on his arm. It took a lot in his power to yelp while it happened, quickly covering it to stop bleeding. If his DNA evidence was found on the scene, they’d catch him almost immediately. “Easy escape,”

John acted quickly, sliding one of the flip flops off, yanking his sock off, and attempting to wrap and tie the fabric around his arm right as he slipped his foot back into the shoe. The sock ripped to shreds in his hand, easier to wrap around his arm. He was already wasting so much time as it is, feeling the demon on his shoulders grow more and more impatient the more he struggled to tie the fabric off. 

John looked around the dining room and kitchen combo. It was pristine, as if the cleaning lady had just come by not two hours ago and deep cleaned every surface. If he left so much as a trace he’d be fucked. Var started to pull him towards a doorway, that doorway led to the living room. A large chandelier hung from the ceiling that seemed to stretch all the way to the roof, no divider between the up and down stairs areas. A small curving stairwell stretches itself from the bottom to top floor, proudly displaying an open hallway where several doors could be seen, every single one of them was closed. Stress was taken off of his back and neck, feeling Var lighten his attachment. The dybbuk was searching the house for the target, John stood patiently in the living room, looking around the doors to see if there was any kind of alarm system anywhere in the house. That was when he saw some items that started to raise a bit of suspicion. It was difficult to view in the plain darkness, so he pulled out his phone and flashed the light of the screen towards it.

 A wheelchair sat next to the door, with one of those stair climber chairs sitting right next to it. Something wasn’t right here. Some kind of monitor sat next to the tv, the wires stretching from there to the couch. Before he got the time to investigate further the pressure of barbells returned to his shoulders, the pressure forcibly pushing him towards the stairs. His foot touched the carpeted stairs with caution, the fabric below him squishing down and bouncing back as if it had never been walked on before. The knife in his bag began to feel heavy, this time not because of Var but because of the guilt of knowing what he was about to do. While this was a problem, something told John that he wouldn’t even have to take the knife out of the bag. Tears started to gather, glassing his eyes but refusing to fall just yet. His nose started to stuff up but he chose to ignore it, breathing through his mouth allowing his shaking breaths become louder and louder. Var had not made some kind of comment or punished him for the behavior yet, but he knew it was going to come.

 A quick slap to the face set him in the right direction once he got to the top of the staircase. To the left it was. The dead silence of the house was replaced with the light sounds of a breathing machine. Quite literally. John recognized the sounds from having to take his brother to the hospital for an asthma attack. The faint sound alone confirmed his suspicions, this old enemy is quite old indeed. The door was almost highlighted as it sat on the other side of the hallway, green lights shining from the crack at the bottom of the door. The blonde felt empty, as if the hands that were opening and door and the feet that were walking across the cushy carpet weren’t his. Before he could even come to, the once calmy beeping monitor was dead flat. The wire that once held the whole man together in his hands and out of the power socket, but Var still wasn’t satisfied and that was the last thing he had heard. The creature screaming in the back of his mind. “It’s not done till there's blood!” 

-

The morning light invaded the newly placed curtains in the apartment, the light cream color giving the whole living room a comfortable feeling. John needed it. He was free from the creature that had plagued him, but it was all from over. Every single news article and report only reminded him of the monstrosity he had gone through and every single time he had been abused by the spirit that possessed the simple wine box. The blonde could only assume that Var was gone completely, not finding a single trace of the box anywhere in his apartment or car. The knives in the kitchen remained bent though and the scars he earned from his battle with the creature would remain there forever. Perhaps he would be able to deal with all of that. 

-

John took a deep breath, completely calm by the end of his story although he knew there was nothing but trouble that could come from it now. Erik stared at the boy through the woven mesh, the natural sunlight now gone, leaving them with nothing but the artificial light of the church chandelier. The once calming kaleidoscope of stained glass colors is now gone and replaced with the buzzing of LED bulbs and eye straining bright white. The blonde looked up at the man who just stared at him in disbelief. “Please don’t tell anyone,” he begged. 

“Not a soul,” 

[artificialqueens]

Heatstroke (Shillam) - Ortega

a/n: it’s ya boi, back from holiday with a very Summery bit of nonsense for u all! love to purecamp for just screaming beta-ing this. hope u all like it and if u do, pls hop into my ask box or pop an ask here to show me some love xo

summary:

“Or…how about we swap shifts? I take yours now, you cover my beach shift later on. Gives you more time to crack on with the nonentities of reality TV.”

Chad looked initially excited then suddenly narrowed her eyes, following Sharon’s quick gaze over to the three girls on the sunbeds, where the pink-haired one in her line of vision was now arguing with the sunbed-reservers. As Sharon snapped her gaze back to Chad, the other girl was now giving her eyes a colossal roll.

“Oh, Sharon, could this be any more of a cliche?”

(4kish oneshot. Sharon’s a lifeguard. Willam’s a dumbass. lesbian au bc it’s me xo)

***

The bright sting of sunlight beamed down onto Sharon’s skin as she frowned, squirted out another huge dollop of factor 50 into the palm of her hand, and rubbed gently at her shoulders. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to the heat over here and she cursed as she watched the other lifeguards wander around the poolside, all gorgeous and tanned and straight out of an ITV2 reality show. Sharon was pale and fair, a combination that didn’t mix well with Ibiza in the height of July. She got blisters on her shoulders the first week she came- she’d never been abroad before and thought that one thick layer of suncream in the morning would be enough to last the whole day. Seven days, various baggy t shirts and three full bottles of aloe vera lotion later, she had learned her lesson.

As she cast her gaze over the resort where a healthy mix of sixth form holidayers, wannabe instagram influencers, and 40 year old men with skin the same tone as a gammon partied or swam or sunbathed away, across the way she caught the eye of a girl on the sunbeds who had already been looking at her. She was lying on her tummy and reading a magazine which was resting on the stone tiles below the sunbed. Her gaze had flicked back down to the glossy pages, pink hair falling over her face as she attempted to disguise the fact she’d been looking at Sharon just moments ago. Or maybe Sharon was going crazy, which was probably the most likely option. It had been a couple of months since her ex had broken up with her (okay, five - she was counting) and since Phi Phi, she hadn’t received the attention of any girls and she was starting to go mildly insane. That was part of the reason why she’d even applied for the job at Ocean Beach in the first place- the other was that she desperately needed some sun, and when she got offered the job there she accepted in a heartbeat. A whole season away from home would be weird, but really what was she leaving behind? Her one bed flat and a bunch of potted plants she could barely keep alive?

Sharon felt something burning on her again, and this time it wasn’t the sun. She slowly, cautiously, turned her head around to the spot she knew the girl was lying down at and, sure enough, she was looking at her again. Only this time she hadn’t turned away and was allowing Sharon to take in her blue eyes, surrounded with last night’s glitter, mascara and eyeliner. On anyone else it would look horrific, but this girl seemed to suit it as if she’d woken up that day and decided to put her makeup on like an Escher painting. She’d evidently put on fresh gloss and her lips were a shining metallic blue, rendering Sharon unable to see what colour they were actually meant to be. She didn’t really mind. The girl’s bikini was like holographic dental floss- the bottoms were practically disappearing between her cheeks and the singular strap of the top had been unclipped and was draped on either side of the girl’s body allowing her to avoid a tan line. Sharon was suddenly glad of the mirrored aviators she was wearing which were allowing her to look at the girl without her knowing- which sounded creepy in Sharon’s head, but she justified it by knowing she hadn’t been the one that started it. Just then, the girl gave her an exaggerated wink, making Sharon thankful for her sunburnt cheeks as she knew she was flushing the same shade as the neon pink bikini that an Only Way Is Essex star was wearing two sun loungers along from her.

“Willam!” there came a loud shout that cut through the noise of two different sets of speakers, as the girl’s head snapped to the side and glared at two other blonde girls (one tall, one smaller) that had appeared beside her. The tall one was speaking. “Girl! We’ve been shouting across to you for like five minutes! What do you want from the bar?"

As the girl dragged her eyes off Sharon she barely had time to overthink about whether she’d seemed reluctant to stop staring or not, as she had to blow her whistle at a group of eight boys on holiday together all seemingly trying to drown each other.

***

Sharon boredly swung her whistle around in her hand, the small metal noise box from hell constantly threatening to fly off its lanyard. She’d been scanning the side of the pool all of yesterday and all morning but she still hadn’t seen a flash of pink hair, and she’d be lying if she said it didn’t disappoint her. She didn’t know why this one girl- Willam, Sharon reminded herself- had grabbed her attention so forcefully with just a wink worthy of a Carry-On film and a holographic bikini. Ocean Beach was frequented by beautiful girls with glossy hair, perfect blinding veneers and tans worthy of Greek goddesses, and for the first week she’d lifeguarded there Sharon had felt like a bitch in heat. But Willam was so different to them. She was almost special because she didn’t conform to the classic Ibiza-Barbie beauty standard with her pink hair and messy makeup. Sharon frowned to herself and shook her head before taking a swig from her water bottle. What the fuck was she doing getting so hung up on a random girl she literally hadn’t spoken to yet and who she only knew the name of by sheer dumb luck?

She was suddenly distracted by someone leaning against the lookout, and was ready to blow her whistle into their face when she realised it was only Chad. She’d completely forgotten that her shift was almost over, and it hit her with a pang of disappointment that she hadn’t seen Willam yet. Chad swept her dark fringe out of her eyes and smiled up at her.

"Guess who slept with Rykard Jenkins last night?” she bragged, her poised posture somehow making the whole interaction seem classy. “I’m not naming names but it was definitely me.”

“Oh my God. Is he a minor royal?” Sharon gasped extravagantly, placing a hand to her chest and laughing as Chad rolled her eyes.

“You know he was on Love Island, Sharon,” she glared at her, unimpressed. Sharon gave a chuckle.

“No, you’re right. I did know that. Does he have a thing for girls whose first and last names usually belong to men? Chad, I don’t know how to tell you this, baby,” Sharon stage-whispered down to her friend. “I think he’s gay.”

Chad managed to hold her unimpressed look for all of a second before spluttering out a laugh. “God, you’re the worst. Remind me why I’m friends with you?”

“Because I’m the only bitch in this place that wouldn’t sell your soul to Satan for a bottle of Moet.”

Chad laughed and made to climb up the ladder. “Let me on my goddamn shift, bitch, before I tip this thing over."

Suddenly, something caught Sharon’s eye. Three girls- two blonde, one pink- strutting up to three sunbeds which already had towels on them, flinging them away and replacing them with their own before kicking their wedges off and lying down. Sharon felt excitement catch in her throat.

"Or…how about we swap shifts? I take yours now, you cover my beach shift later on. Gives you more time to crack on with the nonentities of reality TV.”

Chad looked initially excited then suddenly narrowed her eyes, following Sharon’s quick gaze over to the three girls on the sunbeds, where the pink-haired one in her line of vision was now arguing with the sunbed-reservers. As Sharon snapped her gaze back to Chad, the other girl was now giving her eyes a colossal roll.

“Oh, Sharon, could this be any more of a cliche?”

“Shut up! I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Sharon frowned, mentally kicking herself that her second statement should probably have come before her first. Chad raised an eyebrow to indicate she’d read Sharon’s mind. “Look, it’s nothing, okay, it’s just…she’s cute, and I want to get to know her."

Chad gave a laugh and climbed down off the first rung. "Well as long as nobody dies because you’re too busy staring at a cute girl. Which one is she, the legs?”

“No. Pink hair,” Sharon risked a look back over to find that chief-sunbed-reserver-bitch was practically at Willam’s throat. Sharon gave a long blast of her whistle which made the sunbed-reserver drop her towel. “Hey! No reserving! You know that shit!"

As the sunbed-reservers slunk off, Sharon didn’t miss the beaming smile of thanks that Willam was sending her way. She gave a small, self-conscious salute and turned back to Chad, who was cringing.

"A salute? Girl. You’re not fucking Little Mix.”

“Piss off and let me make heart eyes in peace.”

So Chad did, and Sharon tried not to focus too much on Willam because as Chad had mentioned, there were many people here that were already more than a few drinks down despite it being 11 in the morning, so Sharon had to watch that they didn’t stray too close to the pool’s edge. As her gaze drifted back to the three sun-loungers, she saw that one of them was empty. Willam wasn’t there any more, but all her stuff was. As Sharon felt her heart sink with confusion, she was distracted by a deafening cry of “CANNONBAAAAALL!” which was immediately followed by a crashing splash in the water, which soaked many unimpressed Instagram influencers who were trying to perfect their poses on unicorn-shaped inflatable rings. Frowning, Sharon blew her whistle again before she realised who had launched themself into the water- a slick of wet, pink hair floated back to the surface, Willam’s grin plastered over her face, clearly happy that she’d caused the maximum amount of destruction possible. Nonetheless, Sharon had blown her whistle and she had to commit to it.

“No bombing!” she yelled across to her, Willam only glaring briefly at her and shooting her a smile.

“Calm down, princess, I ain’t Al-Quaeda!"

Sharon tried to stop the quirk that her lips gave. Princess. She definitely didn’t like that as much as her body was telling her that she did.

The rest of the morning seemed to pass way too quickly. Sharon was trying to do her job to the best of her ability but she kept getting distracted and her gaze kept being pulled over to the set of three sunbeds to update herself on what Willam was doing. Namely chatting to her friends and sunbathing. Sharon felt like an idiot, willing her to come and walk past her lookout so she could just happen to strike up a conversation with her. Really, though, what the fuck would she say? Hey, I’ve been weirdly lowkey (highkey) checking you out for the past three days and I already know your name even though we’ve barely exchanged words. Wanna go out?

It turned out she didn’t have to worry as, from the way Willam began to act, it was almost as if she wanted Sharon’s attention. It began when she teetered back from the bar, mojito in hand. She slipped her heels off and made her way into the pool, where she sat her drink at the side and dipped her body into the water. As much as Sharon was taken in by the sight of the neon green faux-snakeskin swimsuit she was wearing and how well it fitted her (definitely not how well it clung to her body), Sharon had to blow her whistle again. Her heart gave a thump when Willam looked over her shoulder at her, straw between her teeth and her damp hair giving a flick.

"No drinks,” Sharon shouted over, unable to stop herself from giving a small smile as Willam rolled her eyes and pouted.

“Who the hell are you, Casper the Nazi ghost?” she yelled back, turning and gesturing to her smaller blonde friend to collect her glass. The girl leant down to Willam and whispered something quietly, the other girl’s face lighting up as if she’d just discovered Uranium. There was the smallest, tiniest glance to Sharon, so small that Sharon wasn’t sure if it had even been directed at her or not.

She soon had her answer.

Around twenty minutes later, and mid-daydream, Sharon was distracted by Willam again. She had floated into her line of vision on a donut-patterned rubber ring, and Sharon was about to admire how gorgeous and tanned she looked when she spotted what Willam had in her hand. Willam seemed to sense Sharon’s eyes on her and she smiled, lifted an enormous, lettuce-and-ketchup filled burger to her mouth and took a huge bite.

The whistle was at Sharon’s lips in around a second.

“Are you serious?!” she found herself yelling over, Willam simply smiling and batting her eyes at her.

“You want some? It’s really good,” she said placidly, Sharon rolling her eyes at her so hard they threatened to roll out their sockets.

“Get out the damn pool,” she frowned, narrowing her eyes at Willam before realising she wouldn’t be able to see them through her sunglasses. Nevertheless, Willam shrugged and pushed herself towards the steps where she evacuated her rubber ring without spilling a single bit of the burger.

Five minutes later, Sharon’s gaze was pulled from a group of lads on their stag do who looked increasingly close to falling into the water by a huge shout.

“HEY ALASKA, WATCH HOW FAST I CAN RUN!"

Before Sharon knew what was happening, there was a blur of pink hair and neon green, as Willam made a pretty successful attempt to imitate Usain Bolt’s first time in six-inch heels. Sharon scrambled for her whistle as Willam came dangerously close to knocking someone who she might have recognised from Ex on the Beach into the pool.

Slightly less attracted to her and now far more annoyed by her, Sharon beckoned the girl over. Willam, for her part, looked more proud than ashamed and she made her way around the cavernous pool over to where Sharon sat perched on the lookout. As soon as Willam reached her and beamed up at her with her perfect teeth however, Sharon’s annoyance faltered. What the fuck was she going to say to her?

"Hey, lifeguard,” Willam quipped flirtatiously, Sharon trying to ignore the tone she’d taken with her and going straight to bollocking mode.

“Right, what the fuck is your problem? You’ve been fighting with other guests, chucking yourself into the pool like a sea lion, taken your drink into the pool, taken a fucking burger into the pool, and now you want to act like Mo fucking Farah? You almost knocked Jess Impiazzi into the water, are you trying to end up in the papers?”

Willam fiddled with the buckle on her swimsuit’s belt, looking faux-coyly up at Sharon from under her lashes. “Just page 3 of ‘em.”

Sharon nearly choked. “Well then stop acting like a tit. You’re at Ocean Beach, not the fucking local lido.”

“Well you appear to be a Drumsticks Squashie masquerading as a human being and no-one’s pulled you up on that,” Willam bit back with a cheeky smile. She had a dimple near her chin when she smiled. Sharon tried to ignore that and her hurt pride as she self-consciously touched the sleeves of her regulation polo shirt.

“One more strike and you’re out,” Sharon attempted a withering putdown but her voice seemed to betray the regret she felt in her voice. She didn’t want to ban Willam- she really, desperately didn’t- but rules were rules, and her manager would come down even harder on her if she continued to let this clownery take place a moment longer. Willam simply gave her a single nod and a flirtatious smile.

“Okay, lifeguard,” she deadpanned, before flicking her hair (which had now gone wavy) over her shoulder and walking off. Sharon sighed. She wished Willam didn’t rile her as much as she did. She wished she was less annoying. She wished her legs didn’t look so good in her wedges as she walked away- fuck, no.

Sharon tried to completely clear Willam from her mind. She only had around ten minutes until her shift was up, she could hold on til then. That was what she thought until she scanned her eyes over the pool and saw a mess of pink hair face-down in the water, her body starfished and floating on top. Willam’s two blonde friends seemed to have noticed Sharon’s initial panicked reaction and had begun shouting.

“Oh my God, Courtney, Willam’s drowning!”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Alaska, she is! If only there was a…blonde, skinny…kinda pale…lifeguard to come and save her!” the smaller blonde shouted. Sharon briefly wondered how many calories you could burn via eye-rolling. She’d surely lost a pound today through that alone.

Sharon blew her whistle, walked down from the lookout post and lowered herself into the pool where she swam over to Willam, levered her skinny arms around her neck and swam with her over to the poolside. Positioning her on the steps so she was face-up, Willam gave a dramatic gasp for air and fixed her gaze on Sharon.

“Oh my God! That was so fucking scary…I just passed out, I don’t know what happened…”

Sharon tried to ignore the fact that Willam had consciously kept her arms wrapped around her neck. “Very good, Meryl Streep. Get your shit. You’re barred.”

“What?!” Willam cried, her expression contorting into one of outrage and regret stabbing at Sharon’s heart.

“I told you, didn’t I? One more strike. Piss off,” she scolded in as strict a voice she could muster. Willam scrambled on the ground, moved to snatch her towel up from her lounger, and then squared up to her. She was standing close. Too close, because Sharon’s head was being filled with all sorts of scenarios and fuck, things would be made so much easier if the girl took just one step back.

(Of course, Sharon herself could have taken a step back. But where would the fun have been in that?)

Willam’s eyes narrowed, but there was still a playful spark in them that set Sharon’s nerves alight. “You’re lucky you’re cute…” she began, then flicked her eyes down to the nametag on her shirt. “…Sharon.”

With that, Willam flounced off with her friends quickly following her, and the death stares they were giving Sharon were offset by the smell of Willam’s perfume which managed to overpower the chlorine coming from the ends of her hair.

***

No matter how bored she was of drunken holidaymakers, overhearing the sunburnt, bigoted expats talking about Brexit, or the mosquitos, Sharon would never get bored of the sunsets here. Mostly they were the standard beautiful orange with a hint of yellow or red or both, but sometimes whoever controlled the skies threw something truly special up there. Tonight the sky was almost entirely pink, different hues of dark red-pink high in the sky fading into cherry blossom, then baby pink and then a bright white strip where the sky met the sea. The calm surface of the water meant that the whole beautiful scene was reflected against the surface, and a mirror image of the sky shone back at Sharon as she sat against a cushioned sun lounger that was usually reserved for paying guests. She sat and drank it all in whilst thinking about home, and Phi Phi, and what she could have done differently. She didn’t miss her- she just missed having someone to love. Sharon sometimes felt she had too much love and it always threatened to pour out of her, to burst at her seams.

“You just give me the ick, Sharon, you’re too much for me!”

The words still stung, no matter how much Sharon was over it.

Suddenly there was a small thump beside her on the sun lounger and Sharon had to stop her heart rising like one of the parasailers they took out to sea during the day. As she turned, it was as if someone was smiling down on her because there sat Willam, burying her own feet in the sand and swaying a little where she sat.  It had been a day or two since Sharon had seen her last and in that time she’d managed to entirely fill her head, regret at having barred the girl completely consuming her. Sharon still hadn’t stopped looking at her, deigning her much more beautiful than the sunset in front of her. She had chunks of glitter in her hair as well as covering her arms, collarbones and chest.

“Hey,” she began, wondering if Willam really had noticed her as she seemed completely intent on entombing her ankles. Willam’s head suddenly gave a lurch to the side and she smiled up at her goofily, making Sharon’s stomach give a dip.

“Oh hey. It’s the strawberry mini milk,” she slightly slurred out, making Sharon laugh despite the jibe.

“Ouch.”

“That’s a joke, by the way. You’re not that sunburned,” Willam followed it up, her eyes seeming to plead with Sharon to never stop looking into them. “You’re more like a…vanilla mini milk.”

“What is this obsession with mini milks?” Sharon chuckled, Willam giving an elongated shrug.

“They’re rich in calcium.”

Sharon wondered if this girl was ever going to stop making her laugh. As she quieted down, she noticed Willam had gone quiet too and she was back burying her feet. “You’ll get sand under your nails.”

“Meh.”

“How was the glitter party, then?”

“Tried to chat someone up from the last series of Love Island.”

“Oh. Very nice,” Sharon raised her eyebrows, wondering why everyone seemed to be obsessed with these manufactured, airbrushed ideas of what an attractive human should look like. To her, none of them had a patch on Willam.

“No, bitch, it wasn’t nice! Because I’m still alone, aren’t I, instead of getting pounded into the mattress,” she mumbled sadly, Sharon’s heart going out to her for some reason. With a stab to her heart, she realised she hadn’t counted on Willam not liking girls.

“Well, you’re not technically alone. Because I’m with you,” Sharon kept her flirting subtle, part of her not wanting to be deterred. She was rewarded by Willam smiling at her shyly. It seemed out of character.

“Well, Sharon the lifeguard. Since I’m not-alone-with-you. Tell me things,” Willam leant forward onto her elbows and her head came just that little bit close to resting on Sharon’s lap. Her breath hitched in her throat.

“JLS have had the most number ones out of any other UK X Factor winner.”

“What?”

“You told me to tell you things. That’s a thing,” Sharon shrugged lightly, the other girl bursting into a laugh that made her sound like a bike horn.

“No, you idiot! I meant about you! I want the first draft of the autobiography,” she giggled, and Sharon’s heart sprang to life.

“Well. There’s not much to tell really. Was a lifeguard at home before I came out here, just working at the local pool. Can’t really tell what’s easier to be honest. Suppose dealing with drunk adults is a little bit like dealing with children,” she reeled off, suddenly self-conscious about how boring her life sounded. Willam didn’t seem deterred.

“How old are you?"

Sharon was going to make a quip about how it was rude to ask a lady’s age, but thought she might have been taking it too far there. "Twenty-seven. Probably too old to be working at Ocean Beach, but-”

“Oh my God, me too!” Willam cried, drunk and happy. As she rolled onto her back she said something that sounded a bit like “No age gap, then.” but Sharon was sure her mind must have been playing tricks on her.

“What’s your story?” Sharon asked, fighting the urge to rest her arm against Willam’s waist.

“ ’M a receptionist for some company in the Shard. AK…C…VIP or something like that,” she waved a hand dismissively, and Sharon laughed.

“What do they do?”

“It’s a payments ecosystem,” Willam said dryly, Sharon holding in her laugh for about a second before it came bursting out of her.

“You definitely made that up.”

“Bitch, they definitely made it up! Nobody knows what the hell it means,” Willam cried out defensively, before shifting uncomfortably. “No one knows what it means, but it’s provocative. This isn’t comfy. Hang on.”

Before Sharon knew it, Willam’s head was in her lap and her heart was fluttering dangerously quickly.

“So how come you’re out here?” Sharon asked, taking her mind off her impending heart attack. She felt Willam shrug.

“Same reason everyone’s out here. Holiday. Escaping my boring fuck of a life.”

Sharon gave a laugh. “I think most people are out here to get famous.”

“Well in that case, I ain’t most people.”

There was a pause before Willam spoke again, in which Sharon, against her better judgement, brought her hand up to tangle in Willam’s hair. She could have imagined it, but she thought she heard Willam give a little purr of happiness. Willam broke the silence all too quickly.

“The sky looks like the lesbian flag.”

Sharon looked up at the rapidly receding sun and took it all in. “I guess it does.”

“Representation,” Willam punched her fist in the air weakly. Sharon’s heart gave a jolt as if she’d just been pushed down a water slide.

“As in?” Sharon heard herself asking, willing her voice not to sound too hopeful. She fully expected an answer that was akin to Oh I love the lesbians! Pink is pretty!

“As in, I’m getting the representation I deserve?” Willam gestured as if it was obvious. Sharon didn’t dare believe what she was implying.

“Oh, you’re a lesbian?” she asked casually. Except it didn’t come out as casual as she’d hoped.

Willam turned over so her head was peering up at Sharon, unimpressed. “Oh don’t tell me you’re some homophobic bitch, because I had you pegged as a butch top and I’ve never been wrong before in my life.”

Sharon’s mind immediately burst into the Hallelujah chorus.

“No! No, no, no. I mean I’m not homophobic. And I’m also gay,” she shrugged, trying to ignore the angels with trumpets that were blasting in her ears. She gave a snort as she realised what Willam had said. “Butch?”

“Oh yeah, girl. Butch as fuck. Embrace it.”

There was a quiet pause in which Sharon didn’t stop playing with Willam’s hair and Willam began drawing against Sharon’s skin with her fingers. Willam was the one to break it.

“What 'bout you, bitch? How come you’re out here? You gonna be on Baywatch?” Willam spoke too-loudly, interrupting the moment.

Sharon gave a small sigh. “I broke up with my girlfriend. Well, no, she broke up with me. Moved out of her flat. Got one of my own. The job came up and I had nothing to lose so I just went for it.”

“Damn. She’s a fuckin’ idiot. What was her name?"

"Phi Phi,” Sharon said, the words sounding all wrong in her mouth. She was glad when they were out of there.

“She sounds like a bitch,” Willam shifted so that she was comfortable and her fingers could continue to make patterns against Sharon’s legs. Sharon should have moved further away. She didn’t.

Sharon twirled a lock of pink around her fingers, eager to change the subject. “So wait, who was the Love Islander that-”

“Megan from season four. She’s by far the hottest girl to ever grace the show and she’s bi so I thought I was in with a shot,” Willam pouted up at Sharon. “Turns out she likes brunettes. You look a lot like her actually.”

Sharon gave a laugh that hoped disguised the fact that her pulse was racing. She barely knew the girl, but simultaneously she felt as if they were old acquaintances. They had some sort of inexplicable connection, which sounded crazy but Sharon felt it was true. “Comparing me to the most attractive girl ever on Love Island. High praise.”

“No, you’re the most attractive girl to exist ever,” Willam slurred out, Sharon’s pulse now surely breaking every speed limit to exist.

“You barely know me, Willam,” she laughed softly, trying not to let the regret tinge her voice too much. Willam narrowed her eyes at her as she stared up.

“How d'you know my name, bitch?”

Sharon froze. She tried to turn it on Willam. “Well how do you know mine?”

“It was on your fuckin’ nametag,” Willam laughed, curiosity still in her eyes. Sharon covered her face as she realised she would have to reveal what a massive fucking stalker she was.

“I heard one of your friends shouting on you the other day. Committed it to memory. That makes me sound weird, and it is fucking weird, but I just-"

Sharon was cut off as Willam pushed herself off Sharon’s lap and moved to sit close beside her. Their bodies were touching and some of the glitter from Willam’s leg transferred onto Sharon’s, a little part of Willam that was stuck to her. Willam tucked her hair behind her ears and looked towards the sand in an uncharacteristically demure gesture.

"You know I’m coming on to you, right? I don’t mind spelling it out if you can’t tell,” she said, sounding more sober now than she had throughout the entire conversation. Sharon wasn’t sure what to do next. She didn’t really think she would get this far, happy with admiring Willam from a distance. Now this seemed all so real and possible and not just images Sharon had conjured up in her head before she went to sleep.

“You’re drunk as fuck.”

“So were my parents when they conceived me and bitch, here I am,” Willam shrugged, nudging her shoulder against Sharon’s own. Sharon let out a laugh.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to convey.”

“I’m saying fuck my blood alcohol ratio and kiss me, goddamnit,” Willam muttered.

Without too much more encouragement, Sharon leaned in and did exactly as she was told. Willam’s lips were soft against hers and the way she took control made Sharon think perhaps she wasn’t as drunk as she was painting herself out to be. The kiss was slow and lazy, as if they had all the time in the world, and for a moment Sharon was convinced time really had frozen around them as they could have been kissing for seconds, minutes or hours. All she knew was that she never wanted to stop.

Willam rested a hand on Sharon’s thigh as she pulled away, smiling gently. Sharon hadn’t seen Willam look shy often. This was definitely a first.

“How much have you actually had to drink?” Sharon asked, remembering her earlier thought.

Willam let out a splutter, suddenly blushing. “One malibu and coke and four glasses of water.”

“Bitch!” Sharon exclaimed, Willam descending into chaos-inducing laughter beside her.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t be into me! Easier to pass off a failed seduction attempt when you’re drunk. I’m a good actress, what can I say,” Willam laughed, punctuating her final sentence with a shrug.

Sharon was suddenly filled with a swell of affection. She put an arm around Willam as the other girl rested her head on her shoulder.

“When do you fly home?"

"Got another week here,” Willam muttered, sounding suddenly tired.

“I want to get to know you,” Sharon said quietly, as if she was afraid that words would ruin everything. The sun was almost completely set now, the pink sky being overcome with black.

“I want you to rail me on my balcony,” Willam shrugged, and Sharon could tell she was only half-joking.

“There’s time for both those things,” Sharon kissed Willam on the top of her head, afraid to move her.

“Mm,” Willam nodded, her voice coated in sleep. Sharon didn’t know what time it was. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to. She enjoyed existing in this little time-exempt bubble with Willam, where flights home didn’t exist and real life was a distant memory.

“We should get you back to your room, baby.”

“Mmh, no. Wanna stay out here with you.”

So they both stayed on the sun lounger, Willam soon falling asleep and Sharon staying alertly awake until the black sky and platinum stars turned into blue and white with a yellow orb, not wanting to waste a single second in the company of the pink-haired girl asleep with her head on her lap and hoping that the upcoming week would drag slower than any she’d ever known.