#that's the bare bones description anyway

[ranseur]

I take it Skinamarink has nothing to do with The Elephant Show/Skinamarink TV????

Correct! It's an experimental horror movie released in 2022. From google, Skinamarink is about: 'Two children wake up in the middle of the night to find their father is missing, and all the windows and doors in their home have vanished.'

Trailer here if you're interested

[junkissed]

pro bono

member — lawyer!wonwoo x lawyer!reader genre — smut, fwb to ?? word count — 1.1k synopsis — you and your coworker jeon wonwoo have been working on this case for months. now that it's finally over, he shows you that "for the public good" doesn't mean that he can't be good for you, too. aka: lawyer wonwoo fucking coworker reader after winning a case smut warnings — descriptions of female anatomy, prone bone (the title is a pun hehe), creampie (shocker i know!), spanking, hair pulling, dacryphilia, mirror sex, coworkers fwb!wonu, gratuitous descriptions of how wide wonu's shoulders are just because i can notes — requested by @junhuisms sorry this took so long bff </3 — lots of love to @onlymingyus for proofreading !! — probably some legal inaccuracies bc i know nothing about the law i'm just here to fuck the hot man so go easy on me pls. i really meant for this to be a longer fic but it's been in my docs for almost a year and i've been trying to not pressure myself to write a certain amount so i hope this is still able to live up to your expectations :) i know i've been pretty mia recently but i'm trying to get back into the swing of things so feedback is super super appreciated! hope you enjoy! note #2 — tumbly still hates me and is super finnicky about putting my posts in the tags so i haven't been able to use my regular divider image bc it bugs out :(( i've tried everything i'm sorry but pls lmk how you like this new one!

you’d been working on this case for months, and it had been one to make or break your career. weeks upon weeks of research, reviewing documents and studying laws to make sure your arguments were seamless.

the upside to all this work, however, was that you got to know your coworker wonwoo better, who you’d been assigned to work on the case with. and by “get to know him,” what you really meant was “get railed every night after work”.

and tonight, after the trial had wrapped up and the court’s final decision had ruled in your favor, you found yourself where you’d grown accustomed to spending all your nights: in his penthouse apartment, and more specifically, in his bed.

the floor-length mirror in his room was one of your favorite things, because no matter what position you were in or how you were angled, you could always see wonwoo. see his broad shoulders, see his muscles flexing, see his abs tensing right before he cums; and god, it drives you crazy.

but it drives him even more crazy as he fucks you into his mattress, watching in the mirror’s reflection how your eyes are squeezed shut and tears stream down your cheeks onto his pillowcase. 

it’s one of his favorite positions, as you’ve learned over the past few months, to have you lying flat on your stomach as he fucks you from behind. with your body at this angle, he can get so much deeper into you, you can practically feel it in your stomach, and with only just a handful of thrusts he can make you fall apart on his cock in a matter of seconds. 

tonight, however, it’s taken less than that to make you cum. the pride of winning the case has him on a high, and he barely even needed to get you stretched out first. but he did anyway, his face buried between your thighs for what felt like eternity until you were pushing his head away and begging him to stop teasing.

you yelp as he twists his hand in your hair, yanking your neck back so you can see your reflection in the mirror.

your eyelids droop heavily, jaw hanging open as wonwoo meets your eyes in the mirror. “you see how well i fuck you, baby?” he groans, squeezing your hip with his other hand. “taking it so fucking well… i’ve fucked you stupid, haven’t i?”

all you can manage is a moan as tears begin to form in your eyes from the pleasure. you whimper quietly, noises muffled by the pillow as you struggle to catch your breath in between thrusts. you can already feel the burn of another orgasm in the pit of your stomach, and wonwoo’s hands pushing down on your lower back are making it impossible to hold back.

“my good girl,” he coos and he lets go of his hand in your hair, barely giving you a chance to catch yourself as your head falls forward and back down onto the pillow. “don’t hold back those pretty sounds. let everybody hear how you like to celebrate your wins. you deserve it, baby.”

“just as much a win for you— as it is for me,” you manage to gasp out. you struggle to keep your eyes open but you force yourself to, determined to see the way his face contorts in the mirror. his eyebrows furrow as he adjusts the angle of his hips, staring down at your ass, back arching into him and forcing his cock deeper with every stroke.

he leans down over you, caging your body with his own, his mouth brushing against the back of your neck. “we both know you did most of the work. and this… this is your reward.”

“wonwoo—” you moan out brokenly as his hands knead your ass roughly, grabbing at your skin and spreading you apart so he can push into you with more force. you clench around him and he curses, his hips starting to stutter.

without warning he pulls out, rolling you over onto your back. you whine at the sudden loss and at the ache in your muscles, but wonwoo just leans forward over your body to kiss you and suddenly you forget everything you were thinking about. you’re so caught up in his mouth on yours and his hands sliding over your body that you barely even notice when he pushes his cock back into you, never breaking away from your lips as he starts out a steady rhythm, gradually building back up to his pace from earlier.

finally he pulls away, sitting up to put his hands on the back of your thighs and push your legs up to your chest. your breath catches in your throat with each thrust, your mind reeling as you concentrate on the feeling of him so deep inside you, pressing against that sweet spot over and over again.

his broad chest is the only thing that fills your vision as you cum, and your brain barely registers the words that leave his mouth in that deep, gravelly voice you’ve become accustomed to hearing nearly every night. 

“taking every inch so fucking well,” he grunts, forehead glistening with sweat. “god, you look so good taking my cock.” his movements become more and more desperate as he starts to chase his high, his fingers digging into your skin so roughly to the point that you know you’ll find bruises there in the morning. 

still breathing heavily, you whine out his name one last time, sending him over the edge right behind you in a matter of seconds. he lets out a guttural groan, continuing to snap his hips frantically as your walls squeeze around his throbbing cock.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄

wonwoo chuckles, handing you your purse and helping you shrug your coat on as you attempt to wipe the smudged mascara from your cheeks with your thumbs.

“same time, monday night?” you ask as he walks you down the hall to the elevator, holding the doors open with one hand.

he nods, not even making an attempt to hide the grin on his face. “you keep winning cases like you did today, and you might as well just move in. save you the trouble of calling a taxi every night.”

you laugh, knowing he’s not serious but your heart races at the thought anyway. “you keep fucking me like that, and i might take you up on that offer.”

he hums and raises his eyebrows, but you can tell he’s pleased. “i knew having that mirror installed was a good investment.”

you might not be getting paid for taking on pro bono cases, but just knowing that you’re helping people makes up for it. and of course, the compensation you get from your coworker is more than enough to keep you coming back for more. 

i hope you enjoyed this!! if you did, consider reblogging or leaving a comment or an ask :) it shows me this is something people want to see more of, and knowing people like this makes me want to write more of it! thanks for reading!!

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[chewingcyanide]

𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍 | 𝐣. 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬

₊⊹ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — secrets are best kept buried, just like your tangled relationship with your best friend’s older brother.

₊⊹ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — unrequited love ( that heart wrenching shit ), cursing? weird mentions and descriptions of blood, cursing ( lots of it ), yelling / arguing ( LOTS of it ), heavy angst with a dash of laughter, kind of OMC x reader but not too much, jealousy, kinda possessiveness ( from jack… had to do it ), emotional distress and all that good stuff

₊⊹ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — jack hughes x f!reader , OMC x f!reader (briefly), best friend!luke hughes x f!reader

₊⊹ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — i’ve returned from a million year hiatus with this BIG BITCH and i’m sorry for it. may write a pt. 2 w a happy ending bc i’m a slut for them. anyway, enjoy! request if you’d like. love you guys.

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

You had existed within the world of Jack Hughes since your freshman year of high school.

Existed. Not an integral part, nor a spoke on the wheel of many friends he already had. Truthfully, you were only acquainted with him because of his younger brother, Luke; your freshman biology lab partner, and eventual best friend. Years had passed since you first met Luke—no longer were you the wide-eyed fifteen-year-old crossing the threshold from child to near-adult. Now, you were an adult. Twenty, with two more years of college stretched out before you, seemingly everything had changed.

Well, except for the lead weight chained to your ankle—the fundamental and inexorable truth that you were still in love with Jack Hughes.

It started as most consuming things do: a small idea, watered by brief looks, a brush of heated fingertips against your hand, or arm, or waist—or anywhere, really. A head rush that sent you meters under waves of excitement and anticipation. Loving Jack was like having a fever that never broke; it persisted, a dull ache that squeezed your skull each time he was near. Even now, five years later, the flashing of blue eyes—never brimmed with what you knew was embarrassingly reflected in your own—was enough to make sweat bead at your palms.

It never grew into more than a hope, a wishful desire. But wishing seldom got anyone anywhere, and it surely hadn’t helped you. When the months turned warm and spring faded into summer, the overwhelming ache of freedom that came with warm weather and the end of the hockey season drew Luke and his brothers to Sanibel—a beach so wrought with memories of youth and foolish memories that the idea of going another year made dread settle like steel in your bones. They’d bought it after a vacation there a few years ago, and the rest was history.

But, of course, Luke—the youngest of three—never took no for an answer.

“You can’t miss this year,” he had insisted. The Devils had their hopes cut short once more—this time in an second round exit to Carolina. Ergo, the expected departure time had been bumped up significantly. Vancouver had missed the playoffs altogether.

You stood silent, tearing away skin from your nail-beds as Luke leaned against the kitchen counter. The cold metal of the fridge pressing into the bare strip of skin on your back was the only thing keeping you present in the conversation.

You hated how Luke did this—he’d take your silence over text as an invitation to barge his way into your apartment, destroying the barrier of safety and excuses a phone provided, and ask you face-to-face. And how could you say no? You never had before, and look where that got you. No closer to removing hooks branded with the name Jack from your heart.

“Luke…” you sighed, only dropping your hands when blood bubbled to the surface of your torn skin. Pain rippled down your fingertips, but you ignored it. The dread that quickened your pacing heart was too overwhelming a sensation. “I don’t know—maybe I should—”

“Skip out?” Luke rounded the kitchen counter and came to stand in front of you. “No way, Bells. You have to come. Otherwise I’ll be alone all summer.”

You could have scoffed if you cared more. Bells. That dumb nickname Jack had given you years ago—according to him, it was because you were such a silent walker, you required a bell to be heard. Aside from the embarrassment you got from being called a childhood nickname even now, it reminded you that your existence was always going to be tied to Jack. A piece of him carried with you, a cage keeping your heart from beating without him; the bright red ribbon tied around your wrist that screamed I Love Jack Hughes!

No matter what, it would always be him. You tried; God, did you try. Hearing stories of his hookups, the life of a single, superstar hockey player should have been enough to send your stupid childhood crush to its grave, but as if cursed by a necromancer, the mere mention of Jack brought it right back to life. It was a cruel cycle that just wouldn’t end. And you knew going to that damned beach house would only prolong the life of the indestructible feeling more.

Jack was tarnished jewelry, rubbing your skin green and raw and wrong, and yet—you could never seem to take it off, even when it made you look foolish.

Silence fell like thick fog. Luke’s eyes roved along your face, as if trying to read a book with the letters smudged. “C’mon, Bells. You have fun every year, and I don’t want to have a summer without you.”

“Jack and Quinn will be there,” you said, voice low. Pathetic anxiety swelled in your chest like the forecast of a hurricane. Even saying his name tightened your veins. “Trevor, Alex, and Cole, too—I don’t need to go, Luke. Won’t it be weird?”

An unamused look graced Luke’s face. “You go with us every year. Why would it be different now?”

You wanted to curse Luke for being so persistent. Part of you wished you could just scream that you loved his brother, but couldn’t. You never could. Loving Jack ensured you lost someone—Luke, who would never get over the thought of you potentially sleeping with Jack; and well, if that failed, you also fully lost Jack. Unrequited love confessions made fools of ghosts.

To Jack, you were a ghost. Haunting his life, disrupting some times, but never there long enough to be seen. And even if he did, he convinced himself you weren’t there, that you didn’t even exist. Maybe it were best if you moved on and let yourself rest. Ghosts haunt their murderers, but Jack hadn’t killed you, you’d killed yourself—hoping, wishing, praying he would take a moment to believe and see you. But he never did. So you floated through his life until the moment you were no longer confined by unfinished business.

And maybe that was what you needed. Closure, the severing of a tie that was only hurting you to hold on to. And maybe, closure would come this summer. To look on Jack and not feel your heart race, but settle into a quiet murmur, a healthy pace—to free yourself from the confines of this painful love and finally move on. Haunt the graveyard no longer; sitting by and hoping he would place flowers by the grave.

“Okay,” you said quietly, glancing down at your sweater. Crimson marks stained the white fabric. You’d accidentally wiped your fingers on the cloth. “You win.”

Maybe this would be the summer you let go of Jack Hughes.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

The cry of gulls and gentle breeze of salt-bitter air welcomed you back as the car breezed past the Welcome to Sanibel Island! sign. It felt like a taunt, as if you were passing into the circus, the main star of a show you never signed up for. With Sanibel came Jack, and the potential end to a love you’d clawed onto for dear life for the last half-decade. It felt strange, almost wrong, to imagine a world where Jack Hughes didn’t exist as the basis for all romantic interests. To hold someone’s hand and not compare the texture to his. To lose the anticipated blush that warmed your face each time he glanced at you. Because losing Jack was like losing a piece of yourself—all your life you’d associated love with him, and what would there be afterwards?

Sandy beaches rolled endless at the horizon, dotted with the figures of vacationers and locals alike. You glanced to Luke, his hand working the steering wheel as he drove the long-winded path to the beach house. Strands of your hair were roused by the invisible hand of the wind, no doubt knotting it, but you were too enraptured in what ifs and a potential future to much care.

“Are you excited?” Luke asked, looking to you. Elbow leaned against the doorframe, you managed to work your mouth into a smile. Even if it was twinged with apprehension.

“Of course. I love it here. I’m glad you guys were rich enough to buy it.”

Luke laughed.

And that was true. Summer here felt endless. Nights spent on the beach, the tickle of warmth from a stick-lit fire cradling you against the rush of cold blowing off the ocean. The bitter rush of alcohol that stung your veins. Hair made wet by the sea, drying beneath the warm fingertips of sunlight. Skin richening into a burn, soothed only by aloe vera and a cold shower. Laughter between friends and the restless nights talking. All of it was perfect. For you, summer was Jack. Brief and sweet, the thing you looked forward to seeing each year. But it never lasted long enough to truly feel, something you could never touch.

You wondered if you made it obvious. If Luke suspected, or Quinn; the eldest Hughes was always the most perceptive. Any time Jack said something that made your teeth clench with hurt, Quinn glanced at you. A reassuring smile. The extended hand in the dark. But if he knew, he never commented on it.

“Who’s already here?” you asked, eyes catching on the brightly colored houses lining the beach. Blue, pink, the odd green, melding together as the car breezed into the strip of land the beach house rested on.

You almost dreaded the answer. “Quinn and Jack,” Luke responded, voice a little distant—his eyes scanned for the house, too focused on his task to much care for the cringe you gave at the mention of Jack’s name.

You shouldn’t have been surprised, really. It was his house. Yet you found yourself hoping you’d at least beaten him here so you could mentally prepare for his arrival. As it were, you had about five minutes to do that.

Tires crunched against sand as Luke pulled into the driveway. Lead solidified in your bones until you felt as though you were going to sink straight into the earth. A deep breath expanded your chest, and you watched as Luke took out his phone—presumably to text that he’d arrived. Escaping the car, Luke stared at you expectantly. Your body pressed against the doorframe, eyes glanced out at the horizon. Smeared like a painting across the sky, a myriad of colors—oranges, pinks, yellows—foretold the coming of night. Maybe you could stay in here until everyone was asleep, to sneak past Jack and not have to—

The door to the passenger side opened, and there stood Luke, a hand on his hip. Making grabby hands like a toddler, he motioned for you to come. “What’s up with you, Bells? You’re so… quiet.”

You snorted. “That’s not news.”

“You know what I meant,” retorted Luke, grabbing your elbow with a gentle grip. “What’s got your head off to sea?”

Your brother! you wanted to scream, but found your tongue bolted to the bottom of your mouth. Offering instead a smile, you allowed Luke to help you out of the Jeep. Soft sand caught your feet, cushioning the drop. It felt strange to be back here again, but somehow, you knew it wouldn’t be the same. A rueful feeling ached your bones. This would maybe be the last time you’d ever come to the beach house. If your closure went as you intended… there would be no more summers in Sanibel. No more late beach nights. No more salt air creating a stick sheen on your skin. No more Jack Hughes.

“Just thinking about summer,” was all you said.

Like everything, its temporariness was what made it special.

Together, you and Luke began to unpack the bags from the trunk of the Jeep. “Any fun activities planned this summer?” you asked, hoping to alleviate the tension making your head pound.

Luke gave you a backwards glance as he practically leaned his whole body into the trunk. “New bar opened on the strip,” he told you. “I think we have to go.”

Your eyebrows crinkled. “We’re twenty, Luke. And this is a tourist town, they’re going to ID.”

Luke only smiled, clearly not thwarted by your pessimism. “Lucky then that you don’t have to worry. I’ve got it all figured out.”

You didn’t want to ask how, so instead you sighed, hauling your bag onto your shoulder. “Whatever. But I am not ending up in jail because you want to underage drink in public, Luke.”

There was no response to that. Slinking past you with elegance you thought his large frame incapable of, Luke began walking up the driveway and towards the beach house. It looked exactly the same as it had last summer—a gentle gray exterior, like the storm clouds that sometimes brewed over the sea, and a darker roof. White wood bordered the many windows, some with their own balconies. Rust spotted the metal of the garage, slowly encroaching from the outside. A simple wood fence enclosed the sides of the house, leading to the back where you knew a pool hid. Everything was exactly the same, yet so different. Last time you were here, it all felt so unknown, like the end of the summer would make or break the rest of your year. You’d hoped then that maybe Jack would notice, that it would finally be the year he looked at you as more than Luke’s best friend. You’d packed your cutest outfits, the bikinis your friends said would make any man double-take, yet nothing worked. It had been the same as every year before. Jack was nice, but indifferent. Friendly, but inattentive.

However, this year wasn’t like every other year. You didn’t come here with starry eyes and a child-like hope that Jack would pick you after years of oblivion. You came here to finally let go of him, to move on, to bury a love you’d kept on life support for years and years, in the hopes it would come back to life.

Feet making indents in the sand as you walked up the driveway, you saw Jack’s car—a silver Mercedes-Benz—parked a bit ahead. You hated the stutter in your step when you saw it, and you hated more the stoppage in your heart when you heard laughter rounding the side of the house. There was two voices, interwoven and nearly indistinguishable, but you’d know his laugh anywhere, know it blind. All the feelings you’d shoved aside in favor of an aloof disposition crawled their way out of shallow graves. A shaky breath, the fluttering of your eyes, and suddenly—there he was.

Trailing behind Quinn, soaked black swim shorts clinging to wide thighs, a bare chest coated in droplets of water, tousled hair styled by the unconscious hand of water. He smiled, maybe at something Quinn had said, you weren’t sure, and it all came back. How could you get closure when he incited such a deep, profound longing in your soul? When he tugged you towards him the the moon to the tide?

You’d stopped walking. When, you weren’t sure. Time became an endless thing as Jack’s eyes flickered to you. Those blue eyes shot through with something you weren’t sure how to describe, but he grinned—at you—and then he was walking towards you. All at once you wanted to lob a rock at Luke’s head for making you come, and then kill yourself for even thinking for one moment closure would be remotely possible when you still were in love with Jack.

His presence was all-consuming, like stepping to close to the fire. Fingers worn by years of use brushed your own when he took your luggage, carrying it with ease. Even older than you, Jack never lost that youthful sense of delight you’d seen on kids when they got a new toy. He’d always been the sun. For you, and for everyone around him.

You’d never deluded yourself into thinking you were the only one who loved Jack, or wanted him. But it didn’t stop you from wishing you were the one he’d choose.

“Bells,” Jack greeted, warmth oozing from his words, so much that you wanted to yell at him that he wasn’t being fair. How could he expect you not to want him? How, when he was so nice to you, yet so indifferent? “How was the trip?”

Blinking, you allowed him to gathering your luggage and begin walking back to the house. Water transferred from his body to your tote bag, but you found yourself not caring. He could ruin everything you’d brought and it wouldn’t matter. They’d at least be stained with his touch.

“Good,” you managed, trying to keep your feet even on the lumpy sand. Why they’d decided not to install an actual drive way would never make sense to you. “Not a lot of traffic. Luke didn’t kill us, so that’s a plus.”

Jack laughed. It rumbled through his chest and echoed like a victory trumpet in the air. “He’s a shit driver,” he said. “Shoulda convinced him to let you drive with me.”

Tar filled your lungs. Words failed you, and so stupidity, you said: “But you drove with Quinn.”

Jack quirked an eyebrow. Readjusted your bag on his shoulder. “Quinn’s a big boy. He can travel alone.”

Before you could stop yourself, the words flew out of your mouth, “So you think I’m a little girl?”

Jack paused. Glanced over at you. The meeting of two sets of eyes holding extremely different emotions. After a moment, he cut the tension with another laugh. “You are two years younger than me.”

“So is Luke, and last I checked, he was the tallest,” you retorted, offering up a chuckle yourself. You didn’t want to give more, to give in. You had to keep that wall, even if there was already so many holes in it.

With his free hand, Jack tussled your hair, wiggling your head around. You batted him off, feigning annoyance, when really, you wanted him to keep touching you. You could have groaned. God, you were pathetic.

Entering the beach house was like entering freedom. It was typically decorated, that seaside aesthetic Ellen had done herself the first year the boys bought the house. Fishing net and shells in jars, accompanied by hanging hammocks and white coral displays hadn’t moved, and you felt the air greet you, blowing in from the open back door that looked over the pool—and the beach. Salty air snaked up your airway, a welcome sting. A missed one. You weren’t sure if you’d miss Jack or the beach house more.

Luke disappeared with Quinn, the latter offering a gentle smile—perhaps a little pity twinged in. That left only you and Jack, standing in the wide mouth of the living room, the sunset sky bathing your skin in those candle-light oranges you so loved. Beside you, the gentle pat, pat, pat of water dripping off of Jack’s shorts was all that was heard. You took a moment more to enjoy the feeling of peace you got from being here, before Jack snapped you back to the current with a throat clear.

“Want me to bring your stuff to your room?” Your room. The one you’d claimed all those years ago. A room that—after this summer, perhaps—would bo longer be yours. You’d spent hours decorating it, little trinkets imposed with sentiment covering the room. The sea blue sheets. The balcony overlooking the ocean. All of it would be gone.

You had to inhale to stave off the melancholia crawling up your throat like bile. “Yeah, thanks.”

It was hard not to look at Jack. He was always the center of attention—on the ice, off the ice; in his personal life, in the eye of the public. He just was. Never asked for it, always had it. Girls wanted him, boys wanted to be him. You imagined it got tedious after so many years, but at the same time, you wondered what it would be like to be that loved. So adored you could have anything and anyone. You found you’d trade it all for him, for Jack, if he simply asked. You knew he wouldn’t do the same. Why give up freedom for a small-town girl that his brother had dragged around for longer than he probably should?

Up the stairs, through a hallway, and there your room was. You tried to revel in it, in the finality of it all. Convinced you were never coming back here. That Jack would never carry your luggage for you again, making a mess of the floors just to help you out. Inside, you saw the bed was made just like how you left it. A small whale plush—affectionately named Hershey for the chocolate it had been holding when it was won at the arcade—was sat just before the pillows. You hadn’t left him there. Hershey was a cherish piece of history; Jack had won him for you, two years back. Whales were your favorite animal, a gentle giant, the crown of the sea. He knew it, and he had gotten him for you. Maybe that was what kept your hope alive, the little things, the moments where he was more than just an unreachable deity you prayed to repeatedly just for him to notice you.

You glanced over your shoulder as Jack placed your luggage down with a thud. He rubbed his hands together. “Found him downstairs,” he said, gesturing to Hershey, “figured I’d bring him home.”

Home. A word that made your gut turn. His home, but never yours.

“Oh, yeah,” you said lamely. “Wouldn’t want to lose Hershey. You tried so hard to win him.”

Jack scoffed. “I was playing against Trevor. I’d be embarrassed if I didn’t win.”

“Don’t talk about Trevor like that,” you teased with a smile. Finding yourself slipping back into the dynamic. You’d try to make him laugh, just to make him smile. Just to make him see you could make him happy.

Jack only rolled his eyes. You attempted to side-step him, only for your foot to catch his own. A hand immediately came to your rescue, steadying you. A hot flush pinkened your cheeks and slid down your spine. His breath fanned over your temple, a catalyst for every single one of your nerves fraying. You hated that he could do this to you, without trying, without caring, when you tried so hard to avoid falling back into him like a fool. It wasn’t fair—but when was love?

Jack pulled his hand away, the phantom of his fingers imprinted on your skin. Marked. Just like you’d always been. “Sorry,” you muttered, embarrassment eating at you.

His laugh was a reward. “It’s fine,” he responded. It was always fine with Jack. Never hard feelings. You didn’t think he had a aggressive bone in his body, even after years and years of playing physical hockey. “Even after all the years, you still can’t stay on your feet.”

A reference to your clumsiness. Which wasn’t clumsiness. It was just Jack. You never stumbled around anyone but him. “Yeah,” you bit out, probably harsher than intended. “Guess I haven’t changed.”

But you had. And you needed to find a way out of the hole that was Jack Hughes before you were buried alive.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

Letting go of things has never been easy. Marked with scratches and tears, everything you’d ever relinquished never left the same. How could it, when you’d spent so much time loving it, cherishing it, only for it to be cruelly ripped from your grasp? Letting go had never been easy, because you’d never been ready to lose what was taken, because it was never ready to leave you either. That’s why it was so easy to reason with yourself about finally moving on from Jack Hughes.

It wasn’t mutually assured destruction. There would be no blowing out of stars and creation of supernovas when you finally put the love to rest. Because it was you. It was never him. He didn’t love you—hell, he didn’t even know you loved him. Perhaps there laid the foundation for burial, a tomb within the dunes, marked with a single shell. When the time came, no claw marks would mar Jack’s skin. He was never yours to mark.

Two weeks had since passed. Settling in had always been easy, but this time, it felt like a final meal before execution. A good thing before the inevitable end. Nights spent by the pool, the reflection of the water a perfect mirror of Jack’s eyes. Drinking and laughing and talking—a chosen family, but one you’d soon depart. You’d always have Luke, the last cord of the fraying rope, unbreakable and timeless. But never again would you tug on that rope, just to see the other end. To move on from Jack would be to forget him, as much as you could.

The summer sun blistered overhead, biting your skin until red bloomed. Splayed out on a beach towel, you opted to suntan while the boys enjoyed the water. You’d get in, eventually, preferably when Jack was not in. You didn’t want the distraction of his body to further make you doubt your ability to handle change. Back facing the sun, you remained entranced by the book in front of you, instead imagining your love life was as explosive and beautiful as the story written for you. When you went to flip the page, something hit your back—a ball, you guessed, from the feeling of impact—making your already sunburnt skin sting like hell.

“Shit,” you cursed, placing your book face down in order to stand. Glancing to the side you figured the ball bounced off to, there sat the culprit: a black-and-white soccer ball, covered in patches of sand.

You heard some shouting, and opted to be a good samaritan and grab it. As you bent down to pick up the sandy ball, another pair of hands invaded your vision and brushed your own. Rightening, you saw a tall man—your age, presumably—who immediately began spewing apologies of all kinds.

He had that youthful look to him, the same as Jack. Golden curls fell around his eyes, slightly sandy, a bit wet, but gleaming like rays of sunlight. Familiar eyes, the blue of the sky after a storm, peered at you with a mixture of concern and apology. He was beautiful, in an artful way—a hand-sculpted effigy, lain in the town square to be worshiped. You figured with age and maturity he presently lacked, he’d be all the more beautiful.

But he wasn’t Jack.

“I am—so sorry!” he spewed words like bullets, hoping one apology landed. You bit down a laugh at the desperation leaking into his voice. “I wasn’t watching where I was kicking. Sorta shanked it—scratch that, really shanked it. Are you okay—I meant to ask—”

“I’m fine,” you cut him off, sparing him. As endearing as his apology was, you could see red rising to his face—you knew what it felt like. “Although I don’t recommend you shoot for the Premier League.”

Upon realizing you weren’t angry, the boy relaxed. “Yeah, as if,” he laughed, tossing the balls back and forth between his hands. “You are okay, right?”

Your eyebrow quirked. “Unless you’re secretly the Hulk, I don’t think you kicking a ball at me could do any serious damage.” Your fingers grazed the spot the ball struck. “Might have a weird mark on my back, ‘s all.”

Goldie Locks, as you’d taken to calling in him your head, circled around you and bent at his knees. His fingertips grazed the small of your back, rattling your spine into a shiver. You heard a subdued sound—something between a giggle and a sharp exhale of air through his noise—and twisted to look down at him.

“It looks dumb, huh?” you said, trying to feel the patter marked on your back with your fingers.

Goldie Locks shook his head. “You wear it well.”

“I better, or I’ll give you a matching mark,” you teased. He stood up, imposing. “Really, though, I’m fine…”

He caught on swiftly. “Jackson. Or Jack.”

You could have cursed the Gods and Fate and her trifling ways. Of course the first cute guy you find has to be him, but not be him. The great irony of life, you supposed it was. Finally ready to move on, and your tugged right back to square one.

A tight smile made its way onto your face. “Jackson.”

Jackson opened his mouth to say something, but the voice of the man you quite literally could not escape interrupted him. “Bells? You okay?”

You thought briefly of faking fainting.

“I’m fine,” you responded, without looking at Jack. You couldn’t. But you wanted to. “He just hit me with a soccer ball and was apologizing.”

Jack imposed into your vision anyway. Jaw working, the rapid flex of his muscles that told he ran to you. Suddenly, the sweltering heat was no longer the cause for your sweating. “Hit you?” he repeated, glancing to Jackson with a raised brow.

Shoved into an unwanted spotlight, Jackson immediately backpedaled. “Accident. Didn’t mean to hit your girl.”

Your girl.

Your girl.

Your girl.

Those two simple words repeated like a scratched vinyl in your mind. Jack’s girl. His. It was something that would have made past you puff your chest. It made present you feel sick. Another pull towards him. Another lock trapping you inside of the room. In the past, you wouldn’t have said anything—wouldn’t have fought it. You’d have waited to see if Jack would deny it; he always did. Another nail in the coffin. How many were needed until you finally understood?

But you were now actively trying to fight the feeling seemingly hardwired into your blood. The instinct that told you to love Jack. “Oh, we’re not dating,” you told Jackson. Blue eyes flittered to you—was he surprised? For once you denied, distanced. Was he confused? “He’s my best friend’s older brother.”

You didn’t know why you added that part. It wasn’t necessary—Jackson didn’t care about your relationships to Jack past the words not dating. But here you were, petty pride swelling in your chest at finally getting to stick it to Jack. Finally being the denier instead of the denied.

“Oh,” Jackson quirked his brow. Glanced at Jack; he said nothing. “Is it okay if I have your number?”

That shocked you. And it clearly shocked Jack, as well. His shoulders tensed, eyes darting to you. Gauging your response. You would have said no before. Would have made some dumb excuse. If you accepted, you distanced yourself from Jack, showed indifference. Past you couldn’t have that.

Present you could.

“Sure,” you said.

This summer would be different.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been on a date. Michael Neely in eleventh grade, but that was in major part because he looked entirely too similar to Jack—didn’t act like him, however. Didn’t smile like the sun’s envy. He just wasn’t Jack. For as long as you could remember, no one had been. Isolating yourself for years because of the off chance Jack would finally admit it, as if he’d been pulling a big joke on you and had actually wanted you back. But he never did. And you couldn’t wait around forever hoping he would. He never asked you to.

You went through your hair with a brush one final time before deeming yourself presentable. A knit green tank-top paired with denim shorts, warm vanilla perfume—one you’d used since Jack had offered a compliment on the scent—and a smile that you hoped appeared genuine. For once you were excited, not thinking of Jack, measuring Jackson up to him. You let Jackson be himself, undeterred by the ghost of your unrequited love.

The downstairs of the beach house was alive with loud laughter and conversation—you hated you could still pick out Jack’s laugh, could imagine his face when he did; the gentle scrunch of his nose, the squint of his eyes. You wondered if it would ever go away, that sixth sense. If you’d ever be truly and unapologetically free.

Rounding the corner, you were met with the sight of the three brothers playing what looked to be Chel, their eyes fixated on the large TV in front of the couch they were splayed on. You debated slinking out of the house, silent as they’d always teased you for being, just to avoid the awkward conversation you knew would come from the knowledge you—Bells, infatuated devotee of Jack Hughes—were going on a date with a boy you’d known a week.

Fiddling with your fingers, you stood at the back of the couch. Not wanting to interrupt their game, you went to simply tap Luke on the shoulder, hoping he’d eventually pause it. He wasn’t the one to do it, however. Luke and Queen groaned in annoyance when the screen paused, glancing over to the only person who could have done it. Jack didn’t spare them a glance. His homely blue eyes were on you, eyebrows furrowed. Following his gaze, Luke and Quinn gave you a once-over.

“Hell are you going all dolled up like that, Bells?” Luke asked, flicking you on the wrist.

You didn’t really think you were dolled up. “I have a thing called a date, Luke.”

That incited the expected awkward silence. As if drawn by a unbeatable force, you found yourself glancing to Jack. White-knuckled, he gripped the controller with such force you were surprised it didn’t break on him entirely. You briefly wondered what his issue was before Quinn spoke.

“With who?” Surprise laced his question, and you hated it. Hated that he thought you were incapable of moving on from Jack—or maybe he didn’t think you incapable, just averse.

“That guy from the beach, right, Bells?” Luke piped up, turning his body on the couch to face you. “What was his name? Jack?”

You ground your jaw. “Jackson.”

Luke shrugged. “Same thing.”

It wasn’t. You really hoped it wasn’t.

You turned to leave, intent on scurrying out like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, when a voice called you back. Always calling you back, just when you tried to leave.

“Bells,” Jack spoke, voice drawled. You didn’t turn. “Where are you going?”

You blinked at him, dumbfounded. “On a date…?”

“Where?” You figured it could have been a growl if he were less careful. Luke and Quinn glanced at each other. You fought back a scream.

Why do you care? Why now? When I’m about to move on? I spent so much time waiting for you. I’m done.

You wanted to scream those words at him, but of course, like most confessions, they went unsaid.

“The cove,” you humored him, eyes flicking to your fingers. When had they started bleeding? The cove, of course, was as it sounded: a small chunk of land past the rock barrier at the beach, cornered in by mangroves and hidden away from sight, Jackson claimed it the perfect place for a seaside picnic. You weren’t one to argue.

When Jack made no effort to respond, you finally left. Jackson wasn’t even there yet, but you couldn’t stay inside anymore. Indecision and confusion were eating away at your gut, turning your mind into a war zone. You didn’t understand—couldn’t understand. Years spent in the shadow of Jack Hughes had taught you to fear the light, that if you even for a second let the rays touch you, came the consequence of losing the shade forever. And you’d tossed those fears aside, let yourself into the light, and that only made the dark come back in full force.

It wasn’t fair. Why weren’t you allowed to move on? To finally break the bonds that you yourself had made? Jack had never kept you near, and yet now he didn’t seem to want to let you go. Like a child unwilling to relinquish a toy just because it was theirs.

You tried not to dwell on it. Not when Jackson pulled up, his 4Runner breaking the noise of gulls calls and rumbling cars. Not when he led you out to the cove, picnic basket in hand, like an old-timey romance your mother used to watch. You tried, but just like everything concerning not thinking about Jack, miserably failed. Jackson was attentive, sweet, he did it all right. And as much as you hated yourself for thinking it, it was true: he wasn’t Jack.

“Are you a local?” Jackson asked you. Your mouth closed around a strawberry, staining your fingertips red—better than blood, you supposed.

The tide lapped gently at the sand before your feet, spanning out from beneath the quilt laid beneath you and Jackson. Always coming close, but never quite enough to wet your feet. Gnarled roots of mangrove trees split the sand, boxing the little cove in. You remembered coming here with Jack once, when he was trying to make up for throwing you in the pool with your phone in your back pocket. He hadn’t set up a picnic, only sat beside you in the sand and offered you Hershey. A silent apology. One you never forgot.

Trying to build over that memory was like trying to filter the salt out of the sea. There was too much to ever fully get rid of it.

A breeze tickled your legs. Sand parted between your toes. Everything felt normal; normal, you realized, wasn’t always right.

“No,” you responded after some time, tossing the strawberry head to the sea. “I come here every year with my best friend, his brothers, and their friends.”

Jackson nodded. “The guy from the beach, the one I thought you were dating—” You fought the urge to cringe, “—that was Jack Hughes, right?”

Always the icon. Beloved, beautiful Jack Hughes.

You glanced at Jackson. He smiled. “Yeah, I’ve known him for years. His brother is my best friend.”

“Yeah, I remember you saying that,” he laughed, a whimsical sound. Off-key; pitched too high. You didn’t think you’d be able to differentiate it in a room of others. “How’d that even happen?”

You grinned. Memories of freshman year. Restless nights spent studying in Luke’s room. False trips to the bathroom just for a chance at a glance of his brother. “Luke and I met in our freshman year biology class. He absolutely sucked. Had to tutor the poor kid so he wouldn’t fail.”

Jackson shook his head, the mess of golden curls crowning him danced with the movement. Raising a finger, he wagged it at you as if apprehending a naughty dog. “Hold on now. Biology is damn hard, cut him some slack.”

You giggled. Almost cringed. You felt like a schoolgirl again, trying to slow time as a cute boy walked past. “Maybe if you’re a loser.”

More time passed, the sun’s rays dulled to a warm orange instead of a blinding yellow. The sea calmed. Unseen birds chirped and sung their tunes, never to be understood. Jackson asked questions, answered some. He indulged, dug deep, hoping for treasure. It was strange, to fix your hair and bat your lashes in the hopes of impressing a boy who wasn’t Jack Hughes. Stranger yet you were enjoying Jackson, even fantasizing about a second date. The cold fingers of the wind rose gooseflesh in its wake; your arms rose to combat it, folding against your body in hopes to retain heat. Jackson peered over.

“Cold?” he asked, presumptuous and forward and hoping; one arm already out of his cardigan.

You nodded, murmuring a thanks as Jackson draped his sweater over your shoulders. At once the smell of salt and secondhand smoke snaked up your nose, invaded your airways. It was so different from the warm amber you imagined your skin would faintly smell of if Jack made you his—he smelled like heartbreak and sleepless nights and longing, something you feared was permanently smeared on your flesh. You found yourself heating at the scent, blushing, a slight twinge of excitement at the thought of being claimed by another boy. Foolishly, maybe, you thought it could purge Jack from you, draw over the marks he’d made all over your flesh.

You’d had boys like you before, liked them back—felt the head rush that accompanied youthful yearning. None had ever compared to Jack. Like a stain on your favorite shirt, he’d never come out of your heart, a scar that pulsed every so often, a reminder that he was still there. That he’d never go away. You realized now, looking at Jackson—the soft lines that sprouted next to his eyes when he smiled, a mess of curly blond hair that seemed to fall perfectly in front of his eyes, catered specifically to his beauty—that the memories of wounds weren’t always bad. They weren’t just reminders that you’d been hurt, but that you survived.

Before your mind could conjure any wishful images of you and Jackson, he spoke, “Tomorrow night, there’s a beach bonfire.” His finger extended, curled a stray piece of hair out of your eyes. “Something the locals do every year to kick off summer.”

You smiled—genuinely smiled, not just a flash of teeth forced in order to hide a grimace. Not the smiles you got so used to giving Jack. “And you’re telling me this because…”

Banter. He could tell you knew where he was getting, yet wanted him to spell it out anyway. “Go with me? I think you’d enjoy it,” he said, voice gentle over the lap of waves against the shore. You could almost feel the world hold its breath, awaiting your answer. Would you cling to a hope and dream, or go with what was sitting in front of you? “Plus, having a pretty girl with a perfect personality on my arm wouldn’t hurt too bad.”

“Hmm…” You faked contemplation, tapping your chin. When Jackson flicked your forehead, you scoffed, batting at his hand. “Well now I’m reconsidering my answer, ass.”

Warm fingers wrapped around your wrist, caught it midair, a fish hooked on a line. Feverish, a heat you’d only associated with one person your whole life rose to your head as Jackson’s eyes met yours. Not blue, green. Your mind didn’t even attempt to paint over them, to erase his color, to make him him. Lips wet by eager tongues, a mutual desire. When had you last even considered another man romantically, sexually?

The answer was: not since Jack Hughes barged his way into your life and trapped your heart behind a wall, tossing away the key.

Before anything could be realized, before you could experience your first kiss in what felt like forever, a dull vibrating ripped the moment to shreds. Annoyance flashed in your heart, and a part of you told you to ignore it—but you couldn’t. What if something had gone wrong? Apologetically, you tore your eyes away from Jackson and dug your phone out of your back pocket.

The name flashing on the screen had your heart clenching.

Jack.

“Yes?” Confused, clipped. Why was Jack calling you?

“Oh, uh, hey,” came Jack’s voice—you frowned at his tone. He sounded as if he didn’t even know why he was calling. “I was just… calling to see when you’d be home tonight.”

A scream bubbled in your throat. This is why he was calling you? “This could have been a text.”

Jack laughed dryly. “Guess so. Figured you wouldn’t have seen it.”

You didn’t want to admit he was right. “It’s what…” You took your phone away from your face to look at the time. 8:43. “8:43? I’m not sure, Jack. We’re still at the cove.”

Shuffling on the other end. Your eyes darted to Jackson; he seemed intrigued at who was calling you. “Right, well… Luke wanted to know, so…”

You frowned. “Then why didn’t Luke call me?”

“Playing Chel,” was all you got in response.

Pettiness whirled in your chest like a maelstrom. For once you had the upper hand; cards hidden against your chest, not splayed out for all to see. Maybe with the right move, Jack would fold after so many years of winning. It was childish, you knew that, but the child in you who’d hoped and hoped and hoped only to get turned down every single time awoke—wanted Jack to feel the burn she’d felt when he’d sunk his hooks into her heart.

“I may not come home tonight,” you told him, relished in the pause. Jackson’s eyes flickered to you, curious.

“What?” Jack asked, voice darkened with knowing and other terrible emotions. “What do you mean?”

He knew very well what you meant.

“Absolutely fucking not.” You resisted the urge to recoil at the scorching flame simmering in Jack’s tone; he rarely ever spoke to anyone like that, least of all you. “You met him this week, Bells. If you aren’t home by 10:30 I’m coming to find you.”

Rage flared. You weren’t sure why. Maybe because you could pretend like he cared. As if he had any right to tell you when you had to be home. “So what? Now I have a curfew?” You didn’t want Jackson to overhear the spat, but it’s clear he was watching, listening, picking apart the conversation. “Forgot the part where you were my mother, Jack.”

“You’re staying in my house,” he retorted sharply. “10:30. I’m not kidding.”

After that, the line went dead.

Fire lashed in your veins, threatening to burn your being to ash. How dare he? Just as you inched out of the cage, he tries to drag you back in. Why did he care now? Why couldn’t he have before?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Tears taunted you. Tried to slip past your eyes. You had given so many tears to Jack, expected him to bottle them and place them on a shelf, a reminder to never hurt you again. He never did. The moon’s rays were a solace, an extended comfort from who knew loneliness better than anything. Soft fingers touched your arm, didn’t push—only rested there, a reminder of consolation.

“He’s like an older brother, huh?” Jackson tried to alleviate your melancholy, revive your playful spirit like a necromancer.

It only made you sadder. If only Jack were like an older brother, if only your heart hadn’t chosen him to beat for.

“Yeah,” you chuckled dryly. “Let’s be glad he won’t be there tomorrow.”

A bright grin tugged on Jackson’s lips. “So you’re coming?”

You smiled.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

10:15.

The bright light of your phone screen cut through the darkness as you walked up the sandy driveway to the beach house. The departing rumble of Jackson’s 4Runner interrupted the ballad sung by the cicadas and crickets, a sound that followed you all the way to the front door. Sliding your sunflower-adorned key out of your pocket, you fiddled with the lock before finally managing your way into the house. The biting cold of the summer night was promptly chased away by the inviting warmth, but you found yourself unwilling to remove Jackson’s green cardigan. Plastic buttons twirled between your fingers, a few stitches unraveled. Well-worn, loved—smelled like summer nights and escape. You smiled to yourself.

The hum of the TV, along with its vibrant glow startled you as you crossed into the living room area. Despite the somewhat early time, you hadn’t expected anyone to be awake. But there Luke was, curled up on the couch, watching Grease. You could have laughed if you weren’t more aware; Luke had always had a major small crush on Sandy, his guilty pleasure movie, one that came with summer nights and hours talking into the AM. Rounding the foot of the couch, you plopped down next to Luke, startling him out of what appeared to be oncoming sleep.

“Back already?” he asked groggily, clearing the gravel out of his throat. He straightened, blinked a few times. “I take it you didn’t get laid.”

You glared at Luke, silently cursed his teenage-boyishness. “Not everyone fucks on the first date, dick,” you retorted, smiling. “Someone here gave me a curfew. Said he’d come looking for me if I didn’t come back in time; I wasn’t too keen on testing him.”

Luke rolled his eyes. “Cockblock,” he muttered. “Which of them was it? Quinn? He seems like the type.”

“The other one,” you corrected, earning a confused look from Luke. “Exactly! That’s what I thought. Also, did you ask Jack to ask me when I’d be home?”

“No,” Luke drawled, raising an eyebrow. “Why would I?”

That son of a bitch.

Was he just dead set on denying you happiness? Why couldn’t he just admit to caring even a little about you? Why dress up good deeds as the requests of others? Nothing about Jack made sense; it never had. You supposed that was part of the appeal, the mystery of it all. A puzzle gathering dust on the shelf, tried and forgotten for its difficulty. You’d always had a knack for choosing the hardest games.

You waved Luke off, not wanting to hear his conspiracies tonight. Maybe tomorrow, when you didn’t have the weight of a thousand unanswered questions close to caving in your chest. “Nothing,” you said. “Are Quinn and Jack awake?”

Luke eyed you. He saw through you—always had. Yet, for the sake of your dwindling sanity, chose silence. “Quinn isn’t, no,” he told you. “Went to bed like an hour ago.”

“Old man,” you commented, earning a laugh. “And Jack?”

Luke’s eyes flickered to the door leading to the back porch. A warm orange glow was visible through the drawn curtains. “He’s in the pool, I think.”

You nodded. Came to a resolution in your withering heart. “Right,” you murmured, standing. Before departing, you pressed a kiss to Luke’s cheek. “Night, Luke. Go up to your room, if you fall asleep here, I won’t be able to carry you to your bed.”

Luke rolled his eyes, nudged your leg with his knee. “How unfortunate.” Then, he stood, and disappeared up the stairs.

Dread swarmed in your stomach like a tornado, wrecking every defense you’d built up these past weeks to keep out a certain boy. You feared damage control wouldn’t be enough this time, that you couldn’t rebuild if Jack shut you down now. But you had to confront him, had to at least tell him to stop controlling you if nothing else. This summer was meant to be your closure, the final chapter in a book you never thought would end. It felt more like the procession to the grave, not the closing of a door.

What if losing your love for Jack lost you him?

The back door swung open with a squeal, piercing the once thick silence. With your presence swiftly outed, you forewent attempting discreetness, and eased out onto the pool deck. Fingers of frost grabbed for your exposed skin, only combated by Jackson’s cardigan. Bones rattling, you wondered why on earth Jack was going for a swim right now of all times.

You heard the lapping of water, roused by movement, before you saw him. The fluorescent underwater lightning cut through the darkness and reflected on your face, a myriad of whites and blues that was distinctly Jack. When you came to the pools edge, your eyes focused on him—clad in nothing but a pair of blue swim shorts—floating ok his back, eyes closed, as if imagining himself in a different place. You almost felt sorry to ruin the fabrication of his mind. Remembering your anger, you pushed aside the feeling. Why should he be given peace when he’d never given you any?

Before you could even open your mouth, his eyes opened, as if sensing you. He adjusted, treading water, as you merely assessed each other. Waiting. Who would draw first? You. It had always been you.

“I’m home now,” you bit out, your leash gone; Jackson wasn’t here to judge you. “Happy?”

Water lapped at Jack’s collarbones. You almost envied it for being able to touch him so freely. His eyes darted around you, then stopped on the cardigan. Forest green, like Jackson’s eyes. You knew he knew; you hadn’t been wearing it when you left.

“Cute,” he commented, sarcastic and dripping with cruelty you’d never heard from him before. He parted the water with ease, as if he expected everything to bend to his will.

Jack stopped where you stood at the edge. You looked down on him for once, a prick of pride stinging you as for once you had the high ground. For once, he wasn’t able to confine you with his overwhelming presence and being. Fingers curled around the edge of the pool, his hair dripping tears of chlorine-tainted water down his face, Jack merely watched you, waiting a scolding, the tantrum of a child who had what she wanted torn away.

You thought if unfair someone could be so beautiful, especially when he could never be yours.

“What is your issue?” you snapped finally, folding your arms, protecting your glass heart from his insults he’d fire like arrows. “I asked Luke, he said he never asked you what time I’d be home. Was it fun for you? To ruin my date?”

Jack scoffed. Arms corded with muscle flexed, rose from the water; a heave and he was on his feet in front of you, your leverage lost. Water bled off his body like a torrent, soaking your shoes. Droplets flicked on Jackson’s cardigan, the water staining through. You stepped back instinctively, throat tight. You hated how, even now, he had an effect on you.

“Ruin?” he echoed, eyebrows creased. “Don’t be dramatic. It wasn’t like you were planing on staying out with him past 10:30. I was doing you a favor, giving you an out.”

Classic Jack; thinking he knew better than everyone else. “You weren’t, actually,” you hissed. “I didn’t need an out, Jack; I was enjoying myself. So much so I’m going out with him again tomorrow night.”

That was unnecessary to say, you knew. A bite only given to wound him, to prove you were capable of rising from your knees and tearing down the shrine you’d devoted to him for years. Because if Jack Hughes was no longer your sun, you didn’t need to revolve around him—shine only when he was near. Pathetic and driven by childish need to probe yourself, you wanted Jack to hurt—even if you knew he never would, that he couldn’t care less about who you loved and who you were with.

You just wished that he did.

A flicker of confusion. A frown, and then, “What?”

“Jackson invited me to the beginning of summer beach bonfire,” you told him, watching Jack’s jaw tense. You wanted to look away, but couldn’t—he’d always been so encapsulating. “It’s tomorrow night.”

His presence invaded every defense you’d placed up. Chin tipped to look at him, you felt suddenly claustrophobic, as if boxed in—everywhere you looked was him. Deep breaths made each muscle of his chest flex and tense, well-sculpted from years of punishing activity. You hated the flush that almost burned your face. You hated the thunder of your pulse that drowned out any noise but your racing heart. You hated the effect he had on you.

“You aren’t going,” he said simply, as if he had any say.

You frowned. “Yes, I am.”

Jack’s lip wrinkled. Condescension dripped from his voice. “No, you aren’t.”

You could have strangled him. You really could have. “You aren’t my father, Jack. You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I’m going.”

He smiled at you. Smiled like he thought you opposition was funny. “You met this guy this week, Bells,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Not only that, you have no idea who’s going to be at this bonfire. What if something goes wrong? You think Golden Boy is going to play the white knight?”

Ignoring what Jack had called Jackson, you turned to leave. You were absolutely not having this argument with him. Not when it was ultimately your decision and your life. Before you could even make it a step, a wet hand clamped around your arm, fingers closing around you like a vice—Jack spun you, unsteadying you. In an effort to save yourself a trip straight down, you threw up your hands, connecting palms with the rigid plane of Jack’s chest. Heat rose to your face, a feverish high sinking the logic of your brain. All of a sudden, you were sixteen again hoping Jack would come out of his room while you were in the hallway.

Breath deepened, you searched for an out—a way to defend yourself. The sword lying at your palms was cheap, but effective, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”

But you did know better. And you knew he wasn’t; you just wished he was.

Jack smiled. Predatory. “Of Jackson?” Fingers loosened—you took the chance to escape, pulling yourself free of Jack’s hold. “If you’re going to try and make me jealous, maybe do it with someone who doesn’t have my fucking name.”

He breezed past you, disappearing inside like a shadow.

You looked down. Eyes grazing the cardigan. A wet handprint stained the arm. Jack’s handprint.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

Smoke thickened the air into a husky, palpable haze. Dozens of conversations overlapped into one massive dissonance, drowning out the harsh crash of waves upon the shoreline. Bathed in an amber glow provided by a massive fire housed upon a hearth of triangularly-laid sticks, the beach was alive with drinking and laughing and dancing. Sand cushioned your feet, sandals dangling in your hands. Jackson haunted your side, keeping close. He led you in deeper, parting throngs of people like the Red Sea. Greeting a few of them, introducing you.

Excitement turned your blood hot. Rebellion made it all the sweeter. Despite Jack’s vehement opposition against your coming here, you’d done it anyway. When the boys had decided to get a few drinks at the new bar that opened up, you feigned sun sickness as a result of a day at the beach. Whether or not they believed you didn’t matter much—they’d left, which allowed you the chance to be here.

All you had to do was be home before them, which shouldn’t have been difficult. They’d be home in the early hours of the morning.

Mingling with Jackson was simple enough—people didn’t much care who you were. Just that you existed. Beers were handed to you, drank quickly. You wanted to have fun, to let yourself exist without the shackle that was Jack Hughes dragging you back from any romantic venture. A heated hand slipped in your own; Jackson smiled at you. Stomach knotted in a ball, you downed the rest of your White Claw and grinned back.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asked, bending down to better carry his voice to you. The proximity of his face warmed your chest.

“Mhm,” you hummed, relishing in the head rush. Being drunk wasn’t something you did often, what with being underage. There were parts you hated, parts you sought. Like the current buzz of warmth that whispered false confidence through your bloodstream.

The confidence that made you lead Jackson to the water’s edge, hidden from the glow of the fire, shadows outlined by the light of the moon. Rosy-cheeked, you tossed your arms around Jackson’s neck and peered up at him. Although his countenance was lost in the darkness, you could make out blown pupils overtaking his eyes, parted lips lightly doused in alcohol. Water lapped at your feet, danced around your ankles. You didn’t care. Everything in your mind was screaming at you to just do it—kiss him and get it over with, get over with Jack.

Jack.

You hated that even in a moment like this, your mind went to Jack.

It was then—arms tossed around Jackson’s neck, the waves kissing your bare legs—that you realized you’d never let go of Jack. You couldn’t. He was too well in your heart, the patchwork of two souls. If you could, you would turn tail and run, find happiness on the road of abandonment. You wouldn’t have to worry about being alone, isolated simply because people found a piece of your life more interesting than the whole. You wouldn’t have to rebuild your shattered heart when another summer passed by without Jack loving you. You wouldn’t need to remind your heart not to give in to his toothy smile and infectious laugh.

But then, you wouldn’t have Jack. His smile, the devil’s disguise, a shot of oxytocin to the system. Touching of skin, unintentional yet entirely wanted, setting ablaze the wildfire that burned down your castle of wood. Nights spent by the pool, his face illuminated by the glow of underwater lights. The way he made your heart break and mend all at once, the high of a drug that you could never quit. Every time, you relapsed, reminded yourself why you loved Jack��why he was your favorite love, your only one. He didn’t want you for anything, he didn’t even want you.

And maybe it was that; the hypothetical, the possibility. The construct you’d built inside your head, trying to fit into the narrative every summer, but never getting the part.

“Jackson?”

He looked down at you. Green, not blue. Never blue. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think—”

All at once, your arms were falling, cradling empty space as Jackson was ripped away from your touch. A splash of water sent droplets launching into your skin and clothes. You shrieked, stumbled, looked for the culprit. And of course—there Jack stood, huffing, as if he’d run to you. You could barely make out his face, but you didn’t need to; you’d know him blind, by touch alone. Your eyes went down to Jackson, body engulfed in the shallow water. You pieced it together, came into the frantic understanding that Jack had pushed Jackson.

Immediately, you went to help Jackson, only to be tugged back by your elbow. “Jack! What the hell?”

He didn’t grace you with an answer—didn’t even look at you, actually. Those stormy blue eyes were on Jackson, murderous and heated. He shoved you behind him. “What are you doing, huh?” he barked. “Did you know you were giving a minor alcohol? She’s twenty, you fucking idiot!”

Tears of frustration turned your eyes wet, and air became scarce. You wanted to do something, but what could you even do? Jack was accustomed to ignoring you. Stares nipped at the back of your head. Conversation dulled into a lapse.

“Jack, enough,” you begged, the sheer desperation in your voice normally something you’d hate—you couldn’t be bothered to care now. “Please. I’m fine. It wasn’t Jackson’s fault. He didn’t do anything.”

“Stop,” Jack interrupted, eyes flashing to you, a warning. “I told you not to come. Stay out of this, Bells.”

“I had no idea, dude, I swear!” Jackson responded, pulling himself up from the water. Soaked head-to-toe, and dully embarrassed. “She did it herself, I didn’t offer her anything!”

It soured your mouth he was trying to shift the blame to you, even if he was being honest. Your eyes flicked to Jack, and all at once you were reminded why you chose to love him.

His hair was tousled, worked one too many times by frustrated fingers. Eyes wild and concerned, so raw that you could’ve convinced yourself he was that cut by your situation. You knew it wasn’t you; he was just a good person, an empathetic one. But still, you liked to imagine. You’d spent your life imagining what it would be like for him to love you.

“Jack, please, just—”

“Don’t you dare blame her,” Jack’s voice was strangled, as if barely bypassing a wall of fury. “What the fuck do you think this is? The blame game? I don’t care who gave her the alcohol. You brought her here.”

“Please, Jack, let’s just go,” you pleaded, voice tight—embarrassment crawled up your spine like the cold. Everyone was looking, observing the screaming match you’d unfortunately found yourself a part of. “People are looking.”

“I don’t give a shit,” he hissed, advancing on Jackson. Chest-to-chest. A size up; one you hoped wouldn’t result in traded blows. You’d never seen Jack so angry, so wrought with violence. He’d always been docile—kind.

“Why do you care?” Jackson finally snapped, shoving Jack backwards. You tried to intercede, only to be shut down. “She said she wasn’t your girlfriend. Stop acting like a jealous dick.”

Jack laughed. He turned around, facing you as he spoke. “She may not be mine,” he conceded, “but she sure as hell will never be yours.”

Everything was happening to quickly. Your mind struggled to process the entire interaction, how quickly it had all gone sour. Before you could question Jack, scold him, consider the root of his rage, you were being lifted by the middle, and promptly tossed over Jack’s shoulder.

Air fled your lungs, your head pulsed—both from the swift movement and your consumption of what was likely too much alcohol. Jack’s hand stayed on you, keeping you steady as he carried you through the crowd, cutting through blots of people who all looked just as confused as you felt. Anger sparked then, fanned by embarrassment and anger and frustration.

Slamming your fists into Jack’s well-muscled back, you spewed profanities at him. “Put me down, asshole!” He didn’t. Kept walking, over the boardwalk and into the parking lot. Jackson’s 4Runner taunted you. “Jack, let me go! Jack!”

And he did. Your feet felt unfamiliar as he placed you down with little preempt. He steadied you before you could fall, kept a hand on your arm even after. Your heart felt pulled in a million directions, throat filling up with sand—fossilizing in your own skin, mortification sawing pieces off of your soul. Jack looked furious, pacing in front of you. His silver Mercedes gleamed in the moonlight.

“Bells—” He cut himself off. His throat bobbed, ran a hand through his already messed hair. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Your teeth bared. “Me? And what about you, barging into my night and accusing my date of being a criminal? The fuck is wrong with you, Jack?”

Jack laughed. Mocking, mean. You half-wanted to punch him, felt the itch in your fingers. “Oh, forgive me for trying to help you,” he hissed. “What if cops had busted the bonfire, huh? If they’d got you? Do I have to remind you that you’re twenty, Bells? That’s a felony.”

He was right, and you hated it. “But did you have to do all that? Jackson didn’t even give me the alcohol, why did you push him into the water?”

“I already said I don’t care who gave it to you,” Jack grunted, closing in on you. A step back, and you felt your back press into the cold metal of his car. “He was with you. He let you drink.”

You rolled your eyes, tried to muster up a semblance of control. “He doesn’t know my age, Jack.”

“Then he’s a fucking idiot.”

Scoffing, you shoved him away from you. “Oh, is he? Or were we just on a second date, one that you completely ruined! He’s never going to speak to me again, Jack, so thank you for that!”

Faintly, you wondered how you went from adoring Jack to despising him. Maybe it was always meant to be like this. There was a fine line between love and hate.

Eyes flashing, Jack rounded on you. “A second date you shouldn’t have been on,” he snapped. “I told you not to go.”

“New flash: you’re not my keeper,” you said, feeling the anger wane into something worse—fatigue. You didn’t want to fight. Fighting with Jack felt like fighting a part of yourself. “How’d you even find me? You guys were at the bar.”

Jack paused; he noticed your deflated shoulders, sullen face. “SnapMap,” is what he said. He didn’t expand, and you didn’t ask him to.

Silence felt like the worse fog—thick and impenetrable, falling over you like a suffocating blanket. You didn’t know what to say. What could you even say? Jack would never tell you why he was so upset, you didn’t want to ask—didn’t want to hear another made up story he’d spew just to tear apart the hope in your heart.

It hit you then that maybe Jack did love you—or care about you in some capacity, but he’d never admit it. Dancing in circles, a choreography that never ended, you’d never know what Jack truly wanted; didn’t know if he even did. Probably figured you’d screw it up, would ruin a friendship—his and yours, yours and Luke’s. It was a losing battle either way. Every word he uttered cut to the bone, because it was meant to. When the shift started, you didn’t know. Maybe when he realized you were not always going to kneel at his alter, when you tried to escape.

Maybe then he understood, and still avoided—lied, all to protect himself and his brother. He knew, you knew. One wanted, the other avoided. None of it ended well. Heaven was breakable, and he couldn’t dare threaten his own peace. Not even to have you.

You knew then where you stood.

“Why?”

He shook his head, chewed on his lip. “Don’t.”

“Please, Jack,” you whispered. “You owe me an explanation.”

Did he not believe in love? Had a girl hurt him? Was it really Luke, or something else? Why wouldn’t he just try?

“Bells, don’t.”

Your hand reached out. Hoping, praying—it brushed his shirt-clad chest. He didn’t move back, finally looked at you. “You owe it to me, at least. I’ll drop it, I’ll never ask again.”

“We’d just… we’d screw it up,” he managed out, the blue of his eyes richening into a navy. His eyes darted around your face. “I can’t…”

What did it matter anymore? Everything was being bared. All of it. Your fear disappeared into dust; the yearning for a conclusion to this twisted knot of a love died. Just like it always did with Jack—you’d want him, try to forget him, and fail. A never ending loop. But before there had been no chance, now—now you weren’t sure.

“Can’t what?”

Jack didn’t respond. He dug into his pocket. Grabbed his key. “Get in the car.”

The stark change of situation caught you cold. “What—?” You shook your head. You weren’t going to lose this opportunity. “Jack, no. Talk to me. Please.”

“Get in the fucking car.”

You didn’t budge for a moment, then finally, “Okay.”

The drive was silent, thick with awkwardness. What could you say? You’d been so close to coming clean, to finally—after five years—admitting everything. It seemed like Jack had too, but something stopped him. Something always stopped him. You wished you could pick his brain, lay it all out to see the moment he’d stopped seeing you as a ghost, as Luke’s high school best friend. All because you’d tried to move on, because you’d hoped for happiness beyond his black hole persona. But of course, he always managed to drag you back in.

“It’s not fair,” you muttered aloud, semi-an accident. Jack’s eyes snapped to you, the dark road rolling out in front of you.

He worked his jaw. Adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “What isn’t?”

“You,” you grunted, looking out the window. “I try to be happy, move on. You’ve never wanted me before, I didn’t think it would matter. But when I try, you turn it into World War III.”

Jack didn’t say anything. Barely even moved. You wanted to scream, to leap out of the car, if only to see if he’d care enough to come back for you.

“Why now, Jack? Why not before?” you whimpered. Alcohol made you pathetic, even more so than usual. “What changed?”

“Bells,” he warned, nostrils flaring.

“No,” you protested, swiveling your body his way. “I deserve an answer, Jack. Please.”

Silence still.

“Stop the car.”

Jack looked at you. Up and down, before his focus returned to the road. “No. Stop having a tantrum.”

That nearly sent you into a murderous rage. “Stop the car or I’m jumping out.”

Jack scoffed. “You’re not going to jump out of a moving car.”

You clicked off the lock. Fingers tested the handle. When you tore the door open, the alarm blared; wind whipped your arm as you gripped the door, the darkened road greeting your eyes. Thankfully, no one else was out this late. Jack grabbed you with his free hand, slammed on the breaks and veered off onto the side of the road, just beyond the dunes. Beachgrass surrounded the car, the distant buzz of crickets the only thing you could hear as Jack cursed at you. Unbuckling his seatbelt and slamming the door shut, Jack glared at you.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped. You felt something akin to pride; he finally had a reaction to something. Cared enough to stop you.

“You won’t answer me,” you said, eyes darting around his face. The emergency interior lights of the car blinked into existence, lighting up your bodies. Jack’s face was flushed, eyes wild. “Please, just—”

“Fuck, stop saying that,” came Jack’s strangled plead, his head dropping.

You blinked at him. Confusion welled like a storm in your eyes. “What? Please?”

Silence. Jack’s head raised lazily, he looked distressed, mouth parted ever so slightly. A hand ran through his hair, mussed it more. “Fuck,” he cursed, low and gravely. “Luke is going to kill me.”

What was he on about? He looked like he was struggling, his hand gripping the steering wheel which such force his knuckles blanched. “What?”

“You’re his best friend,” Jack said. His tongue darted out to lick his lips. “If I… Bells, please…”

You had no idea what to do. What to say. “Jack, what do you mean? You aren’t making any sense.”

“I want to fuck you,” he bit out, leveling you with a furious look, as if he hated himself for that very fact. “But I can’t. If Luke found out, he’d hate you, or me, or us both. I can’t risk that, Bells, I can’t.”

He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than you. The very fact that he wanted to sleep with you sent you into a dizzy spell; normally, you would’ve wept with happiness at the sheer fact that Jack Hughes wanted you, in any capacity, but all you felt now was a resounding emptiness. He wanted to fuck you, to have you carnally, without anything attached. You loved him; not because he could give you brief pleasure, but because you knew how many freckles were on his back, how he drove with his left hand predominantly, how he quoted Camus but never actually read him.

It occurred to you then that this summer was different. Not because you were getting closure, or because Jack Hughes finally loved you back, but because you finally understood that the devotion you’d put in him for years should have been put in yourself.

You looked at Jack, and for once, didn’t feel that biting desire to touch him, to be wanted by him; now you knew you were, but for what? For once night, just to fade into obscurity? Either you had Jack entirely or not at all. You couldn’t tease yourself with a taste only to never be given the full experience. You didn’t think you’d survive the memory of it.

“I love you,” you said. Watched his reaction. The confession felt like the greatest heartbreak and the biggest relief.

He said nothing back.

And you weren’t heartbroken that he didn’t. You were relieved. Free.

[stxneflxwers]

off-colored.

⋯⁂ summary. Aventurine woke up sick, now you're full of determination to keep him home – the place where he's allowed to be himself (and so you can take care of him.)

⋯⁂ a/n. barely edited lol. i wrote this in the tumblr post editor... :') anyway. SICK FIC TIME!!!!! I WANNA BABY HIM GRRRR

⋯⁂ characters. aventurine. gn reader.

⋯⁂ w.c. 971.

⋯⁂ cw. fluff/hurt comfort. established relationship. sickness and its side dishes. all lowercase. mentions of nudity. mentions of past trauma. (both are non-descriptive).

aventurine.

🌌 needless to say, he's not exactly thrilled to be sick – if anything, it makes his heart jump into his throat (and subsequently make him cough and choke on his own saliva even more).

🌌 for a split second, he thinks he's dying – but no, all that happened was him rolling off the bed and crashing to the floor with the blanket tangled around him. and then promptly getting thrown into a violent coughing fit.

🌌 you were, for a split moment, considering getting on his case for hogging the blanket again – and then you heard him hacking away for a solid few moments before he releases a very loud, stuffy sigh. uh oh, you think, that last long mission he had must've gotten him sick.

🌌 but then... you realize how you can take advantage of this and force him to stay home for once (definitely not because you want more time with him or anything. totally not.) you grin to yourself, believing it's your turn to win for once – he's hardly a sore loser when it comes to you.

you roll to his side of the bed and peek over the edge, "you sound sick." you blurt out – soft, unimposing.

"huh? uh... nuh uh!" he then sneezes behind his clothed arm after barely managing to detangle himself from the blanket.

"yeah, sure, totally and completely not sick at all. i definitely believe you." you scowl, although it's more playful than genuine.

"but... i've got work today–"

"you say that every day."

"but it's true!" he sniffles and wipes at his nose with the back of his black fabric sleeve.

"yeah, well, too bad!" you say and hop to your feet, already feeling excited over the notion of babying him all day. "you're staying home – coworkers and boss be damned."

he whines your name pathetically, "pleaaaaase..."

"no."

"pretty please?"

"no!"

"...with a cherry on top–"

"oh, shush. and don't you try to sneak out of the house." you cross your arms with an atmosphere of determination – all to make sure he gets better soon, instead of exacerbating any pain and malaise.

"haha..." he chuckles weakly (and dryly from his parched throat), "alright, you win."

"yay!" you cheer and help him sit on the edge of the mattress (that will certainly need to have its sheets changed soon), "good boy." you pat his head with such soft and slow strokes that he can feel the love melt into his bones and heart.

"aw... you just wanted to hear me say that you win, huh?" he teases – despite his ailed state – and smiles up at you, somehow even more charmingly than usual. "sure, sure, take advantage of the sick guy–"

"shush, you! it's not such a bad thing to have you home with me for once, anyway..." you sigh, a soft pout protruding from your bottom lip – your hand stills for a fleeting moment, making his heart lurch right back into his throat again.

"i'm sorry, i'm sorry – don't be mad–" he pleads, something he rarely does, but you've dealt with a sick kakavasha once before, you can do it as many times as you need to.

you smile sadly, your eyes pinching with apology, "don't worry – i'm not upset at all. i've just...missed you more than words can describe." you resume petting his soft hair – he's always taken such good care of his pretty blonde locks.

"i...i missed you too, babe." he sighs in relief, his heart settling back into its rightful place.

🌌 he's surprisingly compliant for the rest of the day – of course, he has his playful and teasing comebacks, but he never truly puts up a fight. even if he felt capable enough, he still wouldn't – not against you.

🌌 you do just about anything for him as he recovers – to drive home the point that you love him dearly and deeply. he barely asks for anything, though, so you end up going above and beyond for him – as a part of some weird, personal gamble with yourself. has he been rubbing off on you? you're not sure.

🌌 one of the worst (read: most difficult) parts of taking care of him is making him eat. he'll complain with a whine or groan and try to hide under a pillow or blanket. you're not sure if it's trauma-related or him just being a big baby over some minor nausea, but no worries, you've got it handled.

🌌 after a bit of half-hearted arguing, he succumbs to your demands and eats at least half of what you made him. he has an arguably small appetite and stomach due to his past, so you let him eat as much as he's comfortable with – as long as he actually eats.

🌌 one of the other worst parts of taking care of him is getting him to bathe with you helping him. he insists he won't fall asleep in the bath, but you don't trust his awkward laugh and blatant lie (or his half-asleep expression). once you've pulled your final straw, you give him a hard, long stare until he finally puts up his white flag and – yet again – succumbs to letting you help him out.

🌌 he's very shy when you're naked around each other – it immediately makes his whole face red, his blush even reaching his neck and upper chest. you giggle a little at him and he pouts, all you do is pinch his burning, red cheek. yet your gentle, loving teasing eases his aversion to any and all vulnerability. he, from thereon, complies with the rest of the bathing process.

🌌 when night falls upon your shared home, he's practically dead asleep. you feel fulfilled. and he's already looking better than he did this morning – the color in his skin slowly returning.

yeah, you definitely won.

[angrelysimpping]

Soul Mate AU

Soulmarks: tattoo like in appearance, soul marks form on all involved parties when the youngest member reaches their age of majority. Touching someone's soulmark without their consent is considered incredibly taboo and violating. Touching someone’s soulmark when baring the matching mark is supposed to be incredibly pleasurable for all parties involved, more so if it is the two marks that are touching.

ref link, tho I'm gonna put the same soulmark descriptions under each character anyway 

Contents: DoL relationships; Avery's anger issues; public stuff; doctor/patiant, mildly; talk of cutting (Kylar's section); teacher/student, mildly; farm fuckery (aka, Remy's whole fucking section); cat Bailey AU; FUCT Robin AU; Yandere Avery AU; Eldritch PC AU

Words: 2608

Alex

(93)

Geometric shapes. Bold, dark lines. Elbow to shoulder on their right arm. 

Loves touching your soulmark. Loves you touching their soulmark. Loves all of it.

Higher dominance Alex is likely to brush their hand down your soul mark whenever they have the chance. Even if it might be considered “rude” to do so in front of others. 

Lower dominance waits for more private moments. A teasing stroke over your mark while shielded from prying eyes, shivering if you return the favor and ghost a hand over their mark. 

Loves cuddling in the morning, pressed against each other, absentmindedly tracing the lines of your matching marks. 

Avery

(153)

Thin, delicate, lace like lines across their collar bones. Ends in thick, jagged lines going down their sternum 

God, there’s so much pressure on you to act absolutely perfect if you actually want Avery to let you walk around with a matching mark. 

That said, they like touching your mark.

At low anger, they’re tender, tips of their fingers gliding over the marks. 

They may even let you touch their marks, though not often. It’s very rare for Avery to allow it. Something about you touching their marks makes them feel out of sorts, out of control. So, it’s only when they’re drained from work that they indulge in the lazy pleasure of allowing you to take care of them in this way. A hand tucked between their legs and your tongue tracing their marks. 

High rage Avery presses down on your marks hard enough to make your vision blur, pain mixed into the act that would normally bring pleasure. But, you won’t make them do that too often, will you? 

Bailey

(215)

Thin lines that crisscrosses their lower stomach in an intricate pattern and circles around their upper thighs. 

It’s a stupid situation, trying to wrangle one of their brats in their own fucking office, it that’s Bailey’s life: stupid situation after stupid fucking situation.

Except when you headbutt their stomach, shirt having ridden up from the physical activity, and your skin brushes over the marks that had only recently bloomed across their skin, it somehow gets worse. 

What do you mean that the pain they brace themself for never comes? Or, it does, but mostly covered in strange euphoria. 

But, Bailey knows what that means, new anger sparking within them and fueling their ability to pin you down, to tear at your clothes, to expose your mark. 

Your mark that matches Bailey’s.

And they press down on it, thumbs digging into the soft of your thighs as you squirm under them. They hope you feel more pain than pleasure.

They have to keep you, they think. Who knows how you could be used against them if others find out? 

And what are you to them, anyway? Important, one way or another, apparently.

So, fuck you. 

Varey rarely touches your marks after that and forbids you from touching their’s.

Yet, sometimes, you’ll wake up with Bailey’s hands pressed against the mark, palm flat and fingers splayed, dark eyes fixed on that point of contact.

Briar

(108)

One thick line running over the knuckles on their right hand. 

Oh, new lil star walking into Briar’s lovely establishment with marks that match the one that just recently bloomed across their knuckles. How interesting. 

Enjoys taking your hand in theirs, ringed thumb rolling over the mark on your knuckles, watching you shiver at such a simple action. 

Especially likes touching your marks in public and letting others see how it affects you. 

That said, not keen on you doing the same to them. When especially tense, they don't mind the pad of your thumb following the line across the ridges of their knuckles while in their office. Lets their head tilt back, eyes shutting as their muscles relax. 

Black Wolf

(83)

Jagged marks under their left eye

It's actually quite easy to overlook their mark, looking almost like a scar. 

Brushing your thumb over the mark has Black Wolf relaxing, regardless of if they’re the alpha or not.

When they’re the alpha, they’ll climb on top of you, rutting against your thigh as you trace the mark.

When you’re the alpha, they roll over, wanting you to straddle them as your fingers linger.

As for them, they like licking your mark, regardless of how close to your eye it is.

Darryl

(88)

A thick ring around their left pinky

So nervous when they realize they share a mark with you. 

Covers up their own mark and it takes them a while to build up the courage to tell you that you have matching marks.

Very gentle the first time they touch your mark, asking if it’s okay in a voice barely above a whisper, fine tremor running through their hands.

Nervous when you first touch their mark, but doesn’t regret it a bit.

Likes hooking your pinkies together, a cross between holding hands and a pinky promise. 

Doren 

(103)

Looks like the letters of a dead language encircling their right wrist. 

Will not let you touch it in public, and that goes double when at school.

Also won’t touch your mark in public.

Well, they might if it’s to calm you down if you’re having a particularly rough day, though behind the privacy of a closed door or secluded corner.

Very gentle when they touch your mark, brushing over your wrist like it’s something fragile, breakable. 

Only really allows you to touch their mark when at their apartment, though if you’re holding hands then it’s easy to pretend that it’s an accident if you press your marks together and make Doren stumble a little.

Eden

(139)

Thick, almost painful looking lines over their left breast and going up their neck. Stops under their jaw. 

Don’t touch their marks. 

Don’t do it.

Even though you bare their match, their mirror, do not touch Eden’s marks.

At least, not until they trust you.

Even then, you’re risking your ass to touch Eden’s marks.

They like it, though it feels incredibly vulnerable, thus, don’t do it.

You can get away with it during sex, usually. Unless they’re punishing you. Then you’re gonna get slapped. 

Also more likely to get away with touching their marks when they’re falling asleep, little shiver of pleasure running through them as they drift off.

All this said, they’re touching your marks whenever the fuck they want.

Especially loves grabbing you by the chin and rubbing their thumb along the marks under your jaw. Double so if you’ve been acting like a brat. A good reminder that you’re theirs, no matter what. 

Great Hawk

(59)

Small intersecting circles under their right eye.

Please touch their marks.

So proud of their marks now that they’ve come in and they adore you paying any attention to them.

Chirps every time you touch them, all puffed up.

Often nuzzles your marks. Loves brushing against them with their feathers. 

Favorite time to have their marks touched or to touch your marks is when flying together.

Gwylan 

(75)

Very complex markings running down the length of their spine. 

It’s rare for their marks to be visible and is at a loss for words when they find out you wear their match.

Doesn’t really like them touched, to be honest. It’s weirdly intense, with it being along their spine and all. 

Only really likes it if you run a feather light finger down their spine. Not too much pressure, just enough for them to feel it. 

Also not big on touching your marks, either. 

Harper

(102)

Thin, barely noticeable spirals on their tongue.

God they're so fucking ecstatic to touch your mark at all fucking times. 

Every time you see Harper, they wanna check your tongue, rubbing their thumb over the marks. 

You're really lucky they haven't yet found a way to do away with the gloves yet when in the hospital. 

If you're ever in the asylum, they're not wearing gloves.

Would adore you touching their marks if they weren't on their tongue. Makes it kinda hard to remain “professional.”

That said, when they get to kiss you or coach you into kissing them, they nearly cream their pants from your soul marks touching. 

Kylar

(80)

Soft, faded looking lines that weave up their right arm like tendrils. Starts at their wrist, ends at their elbow. 

Touch!

Kylar's!

Marks!

Please!

Touching each others marks calms them down so fast.

Aggravates their jealousy like nothing else if you refuse to let them touch your marks. 

Always gets a soft look in their eyes when touching marks. 

Babbles about it when hysterical, rubbing your marks almost painfully hard. Why are you acting like this when there's proof right here that you are meant for them?

Maybe they should make sure your marks are deeper, more prominent, with their knife…

Leighton 

(109)

Bands around their right knee

They’ll know you’re soulmates long before you do.

And they’re not telling you, either.

Likes the spark of fear in your eyes when their hand first cups your knees, the confusion when pleasure runs up your spine when their thumb brushes the mark. 

Lets you stew, thinking something wrong  with you, like you’re a pervert for feeling pressure when Leighton, someone who isn’t your soulmate, touches your mark.

Would probably let you go on like that for a while, only revealing it as a power play. 

Doesn’t want you just randomly grabbing at their mark, but likes when you place your hand on their mark when giving them head.

Mason

(77)

Looks like gills on either side of their neck. 

Don’t touch their marks.

Don’t touch them at school. 

Don’t look at them.

Don’t acknowledge they’re your soulmate.

Their authority as a teacher is already undermined by their age and now this? One of their students is their soulmate?

Please say this is a bad joke. 

But, at the pond, when they’ve gotten to know you, maybe. 

Lets their eyes close as your fingers brush over them.

Hesitant on touching your marks but will if you insist. 

Remy

(161)

Small, dark spots behind their left ear. Some might say it's a cow print pattern. 

Fuck you.

They’ll never notice it if you drop into the riding school. Nor if you’re just Alex’s silly little partner.

No, the only way Remy finds you’re soulmate is during new cattle intake. 

And they’re pissed.

They’re always wearing their gloves, so at least you don’t react when they find it.

They’ll keep you in the dark about your matching marks. 

And then they keep you isolated until they figure out what the fuck to do with you.

Obedient cattle will find out eventually when they tug their gloves off, cupping your face and letting their thumb brush over your marks while you eat an apple out of their other hand.

Disobedient cattle find out when Remy has finally had it with you, ripping off their gloves and pressing their thumb against your marks so hard that it's more pain than pleasure, making your knees buckle and your will to fight flicker. 

Regardless, they won’t let you touch their marks. 

Robin

(85)

Thin, soft, intricate swirls in the middle of their chest. 

IT’S THEIR FAVORITE THING.

It’s so comforting, their best friend sharing their soulmark.

Huge boost of confidence anytime one of you touches the others marks.

Very flustered the first time due to the placement but gets more comfortable with it as time goes on.

Not big on touching soulmarks in public but only because of the placement. 

Low confidence Robin might be persuaded to touch soulmarks in semi public areas.

High confidence Robin might try to persuade you to touch soulmarks in semi public areas. 

Sydney 

(98)

Two thin lines starting at their shoulder blades and ending at their hips. 

Even though soulmarks are considered a divine symbol of love between partners, Sydney is hesitant to touch yours or let you touch theirs.

The higher their purity, the more likely they are to wait until you two are bound by the temple before touching soulmarks.

The more corrupt they become, the more likely it is that you can coax Sydney into taking off their shirt and letting you trace the marks on their back.

At their most corrupt, Sydney will slip their hand up the back of your shirt in somewhat public places to stroke over your marks. 

Whitney

(126)

Fluid, swirling lines on the inside of their right thigh. 

I hope you like wearing skirts ‘cause Whitney wants you in one at all times so they can hike it up and grab at your marks. 

And they will do that wherever they feel like.

At low dominance, they’ll stop if you tell them to at least?

Also, if you don’t wear a skirt, they’ll try to get their hands down your pants whenever they feel like messing with you and your marks.

And hey, Whitney is your soulmate. Shouldn’t you want to do shit that’ll make ‘em happy?

That’s what they’ll say, anyway.

As for touching their marks, they’ll only let you when alone. 

Even at low dominance, they’ll try to smack your hands away if you try to touch their marks when out public. 

Wren

(89)

Small swirls on their left ankle. Easily mistaken for an actual tattoo instead of a soul mark. 

Likely to kick off their shoes and press their foot against your mark under the table while playing blackjack as a way to distract you.

Gets flustered if you do it back to them, but tries to hide it behind wide smiles and low laughs.

Does sometimes daydream about having you laying under them, holding your foot, thumb brushing over your marks before dragging your leg over their shoulder and ducking down to give you head.

But, as your relationship is, it’s limited to playing footsie during card games.

BONUS

Cat Bailey

(83)

A bit better about touching marks but still isn't big on it.

Purrs every time you brush against their marks but don't ever mention that you noticed. 

It's really when they go into heat/rut that things change. They're more likely to grab at your marks, to press you against their's. 

Don't ever mention how sometimes you'll wake up to find Bailey resting with their cheek against the marks on your stomach, eyes closed, purr rumbling in their chest and tail flicking lazily. 

Fuct Robin

(68)

Less into soul mark touching, really.

Sure, they still like it, but it makes them feel out of sorts, like they’re still the fresh 18 year old in a cramped orphanage room fumbling around with their partner they were when you first got your matching marks. 

Though, they’re much more touchy with your marks. Likes sleeping with a hand pressed to the marks on your chest. Stops nightmares.

Yandere Avery

(89)

Hope you don't get cold easily because Avery isn't allowing you to wear anything that covers your marks when you're home. 

Out and about, they make you cover up more, but any passerby can tell your marks match. What, you didn't think you were leaving the house without them, did you?

Touchs your marks all the time: right when they wake up, when they first get home after work, before falling asleep. All. The. Time. 

Also more likely to touch your marks out in public, but only very rarely. 

Eldritch PC

(71)

The soul marks have added tentacle motifs now, lol.

More intense for when your partner touches you.

Doesn’t mind the intensity: 

Alex

Darryl

Doren

Eden

Great Hawk

Leighton

Robin

Pure Sydney

Cat Bailey

Yandere Avery

Less likely to touch because of the intensity:

Avery

Bailey

Briar

Black Wolf

Gwylan

Mason

Remy

Whitney

Fuct Robin

Likes the intensity: 

Harper

Kylar

Corrupt Sydney

Whitney

Wren

Black Wolf

Great Hawk

Fuct Robin

Yandere Avery

[aquaquadrant]

Philophobia

Word Count: 5,271 Warnings: Shipping, inappropriate/crude humor, paranormal activity, suspense/mild horror, descriptive kissing, mild language Summary: For architecture major and paranormal skeptic Grian, his friends’ after-hours ghost hunting group was just an excuse to spend time with his crush, Scar, without having to actually ask him out. But one fateful night, he finds there just might be things in this world that are scarier than emotional vulnerability… even if only by a very slim margin.

A/N: Did someone ask for a Phasmophobia-inspired Scarian au? Oh yeah, my friend @lunarcrown did! Inspired by the art she made here.

So this is kind of a modern-day college au (not set within the fictional universe of Minecraft), howEVER there are some fantasy aspects in that non-human species (like mob hybrids/monsters) still exist cuz they’re fun and I’m not giving anyone a normal modern name cuz that’s too weird. This is only Phasmophobia-inspired in that GIGS have a ghost-hunting group that functions the same way, but rarely find any conclusive evidence, and don’t have unlimited lives cuz they aren’t playing a game. With that out of the way, hope y’all enjoy, please reblog/comment if u do! - Aqua

~*~

Philophobia

~*~

“I think this is gonna be the one, guys,” Impulse says, turning their van into the driveway.

The suspension creaks as they roll over gravel, rattling the frame in a way that hums through Grian’s hollow bones. His arm is cold where it presses against the window; it’s almost sunset and Impulse has yet to get the van’s heater fixed despite his promises. Stupid demon blood keeping him warm while Grian shivers in the stupid custom pleather jumpsuit that Scar insisted they had made, for their stupid ‘brand’ as a stupid ghost-hunting group. Great, his stupid zipper’s come down again- he stubbornly zips it back up because unlike Scar, he doesn’t like constantly having his bare chest out on display.

Of course, he hasn’t got as much to show off as Scar, who must be getting up at 3 am every morning to work out in order to maintain all that muscle. No wonder Scar prefers to keep his zipper down to his belly button, and doesn’t seem to have ever met a shirt that fits him properly.

… Not that Grian’s ever paid much attention to that sort of thing. 

Grian gives an exasperated sigh. “You’ve been saying that about every case we’ve had for three years!”

“No, no, I really mean it!” Impulse insists. “I feel it in my bones.”

“Yeah,” Scar agrees, leaning forward so his shoulder brushes against Grian’s, “you know Impulse bones good!”

The earnest nature of his statement- and the unexpected physical contact- makes Grian flush. “Scar!” he shrieks, swatting Scar’s shoulder.

“What?” Scar defends. “What, he- he’s got big and strong bones, wonderful bones…”

He acts as if he’s got no idea he said something that could be taken the wrong way. And if it weren’t for the upturned corners of his mouth and the barely-restrained laugh in his voice, Grian might actually believe him.

“Dude,” Skizz chuckles from the front seat, “shut up, that’s awesome.”

Impulse sighs. “Anyway,” he says pointedly, “the place recently had a change in ownership. Previous owner passed away-”

“From murder?” Scar gasps.

Another sigh. “No, from liver failure.”

Grian snorts. “From all the drinking he did to forget about the ghostly hauntings?” he presses, exchanging a cheeky grin with Scar.

“No,” Impulse says, with the patience of a saint, “just normal old-age organ failure. The guy was ancient, and some kinda recluse. House had been in his family since it was built, but uh, he had no living relatives, no will when he died. So the bank took ownership and it’s been sitting off-market for like, fifteen years, til some hot-shot investor thought he could flip it-”

“Ughh,” Grian groans, tipping his head back against the seat. “Investors are the worst-”

“I know, I know,” Impulse soothes, “but um, he’d barely begun when things started happening. Contractors reported it day one, then the owner experienced an event himself and called us. So it’s basically still untouched.”

They haven’t even reached the end of the driveway yet, passing by seemingly endless rows of tall, gnarled pines. Admittedly, Grian’s curiosity is piqued. When he agreed to join this stupid ghost hunting group three years ago, he didn’t do so in the hopes of actually discovering any real paranormal activity. The whole idea is laughable. Ghost hunting is a pseudoscience, at best. Just a bunch of idiots scaring themselves silly in an empty house- and now they’re the idiots! Even their name is stupid: Ghost Investigation Group Services, or GIGS, embroidered on their ill-fitting pleather jumpsuits.

But despite his outright skepticism and dislike for pulling late nights in his already extremely limited free time, Grian’s got one very good reason for agreeing to join.

And his name is Scar.

Grian spent half a semester pining away at the fellow architecture major from across the lecture halls of their many shared classes. Charismatic and easy on the eyes, it was inevitable that Grian would develop a bit of a crush. But as they spent more time together during class projects and conversations in the hallway, he found out just how kind-hearted and passionate Scar was, and how easy he was to talk to, and how strong his arms looked in long-sleeved shirts…

… Yeah, ‘crush’ perhaps isn’t the right word.

So when Impulse- the engineering major who Grian was partnered with for physics lab- got the brilliant idea to start a ghost-hunting group with his best friend and roommate Skizz, and Scar expressed interest in joining, Grian made a split-second decision in a moment of weakness. He maintained his skepticism, claiming that he wanted to tag along just to prove how silly the whole idea was. Impulse was fine with it, while Scar said Grian had to wear the same uniform as them, and the rest was history.

(To be fair, that was before Grian knew it’d be a pleather jumpsuit.)

So here they are now nearly three years later, rumbling down a long gravel road in the dark and cold, up late on a Saturday night even though he still isn’t finished with his condominium model that’s due at 8 am on Monday and he’s fresh out of popsicle sticks. Moments like these almost make Grian wish he could just ask a guy out like a normal person, so they could spend time together without chasing pretend ghosts around dusty houses all night.

But that’d require him to talk about his feelings. Ugh, he’d rather let the ghosts get him.

“Alright.” Impulse slows the van to a halt. The doors unlock with a heavy clunk. “What do you guys think?”

Grian isn’t expecting much when he glances out the window. But the sight that greets him immediately prompts a hasty exit from the vehicle, scarcely noticing the sudden chill, his jaw dropping open in awe.

It’s a Victorian. Not a house that someone has mistakenly called ‘Victorian’ just because it looks old. A genuine, honest-to-goodness, Queen Anne’s style two-story Victorian manor with an asymmetrical facade and a rounded corner tower and a generous wrap-around porch, silhouetted against the fading light of the evening sky.

Grian reaches for his flashlight. Sweeping over the exterior, his breath catches. Knots of ivy creep up the walls, and there are a few places where the intricate wood trim has been lost to previous repairs and weather damage. A couple of the windows are bricked up. Most of the paint is faded and peeling. But overall? It’s beautiful.

“Oh man,” Grian murmurs, pushing his glasses back up, “look at the shape of it... look at the dormers!”

A second beam of light joins in; Scar’s emerged from the van. “Lots of character,” he says, sounding similarly entranced. “And still in great condition! Oh, it’s beautiful. It’s enough to make a man cry.”

Impulse hops out of the driver’s seat, chuckling. “I knew you two would like it. It’s an ‘85.”

Grian gives an appreciative whistle. “Look, I still don’t think we’re gonna find anythin’,” he says with a sideways look at Scar, “but I gotta tell ya… if- if I were a ghost… I think I’d haunt a proper house like this. Not those builder-grade boxes in the suburbs.”

“Right?” Impulse says, his forked tail flicking through the air. “That’s what I’m sayin’... I uh, I think this place has real potential.”

Skizz, who’s come around the van to stand with them, nods thoughtfully. “Definitely somethin’ special ‘bout it, that’s for true,” he says, exchanging a look with Impulse. Then he claps his hands together. “Alright gentlemen, let’s get movin’!”

Impulse and Skizz turn towards the van, heading to open the back.

Grian stares after them, squinting suspiciously. That wasn’t just any look. That was a Look. A Look that he knows all too well. They had that same Look on their faces at last year’s frat mixer, when they rigged the speakers at the Heta Kappa house to play ‘Margaritaville’ every time someone flushed a toilet.

It means that they’re Up To Something.

… Grian’s sure he’ll find out sooner or later.

“Well, Grian,” Scar says, hands on his hips as he surveys the property, “if it’s any connotation, at least we’ll get to study some real architecture tonight.”

Grian gives him a bemused look. “Consolation?”

Scar blinks. “Cono- what, what’d I say? Con- coronation?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, ey,” Grian chuckles, patting him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

~*~

“Check it out, dude,” Skizz calls excitedly, “temp’s dropping in here! Five degrees colder than the rest of the house!”

Grian makes a noncommittal noise. “It’s an east-facing room and the sun’s only just set, of course it’s colder than the rest of the house,” he says, idly passing his UV glow stick over an armchair. No prints, of course. “I doubt they’ve updated the insulation anytime within the last two decades.”

“And hey, look,” Impulse chimes in from the corner, “I’ve got EMF 1.3!”

Grian doesn’t even look up. “There’s an exposed outlet in here and I’ll bet the wiring’s older than I am. And in any case, it’s still below the recommended threshold.” Ew, okay, now that’s a suspicious UV stain on the floor, but not of the supernatural kind…

“Oh, it’s definitely not up to code,” Impulse agrees. He waves his EMF reader around a bit, making the pitch warble. “But I dunno, I think this must be the ghost’s favorite room. Might not be here right now, but I’m getting some real vibes…”

Grian rolls his eyes. “Sure…” 

Twenty minutes in, and despite the house’s hauntingly elegant construction, it’s been the same old story. The house is empty and quiet, as abandoned houses tend to be. Quite sparse, as most of the furnishings probably went to auction. The furniture that’s left is covered with tarps and every surface is coated with a fine layer of dust. He can smell mold somewhere in the floorboards and there’s apparent water damage in the ceiling.

The only renovation attempted thus far was the removal of some cheap linoleum tiles that were laid in the kitchen at some point- a renovation Grian can heartily agree with, there’s some absolutely gorgeous hardwood underneath- but they didn’t get far. The removed tiles are still sitting about in a haphazard pile, hammer and chisel abandoned on the floor beside them. Frantic footsteps smeared in the dust and powder paint the scene of a terrified contractor fleeing for their life from the reported ‘ghostly hauntings’. 

In any case, they haven’t heard any activity from the spirit box, nothing unusual has stood out on UV, and the salt Impulse laid out is still undisturbed. Surprise, surprise. Grian’s spent most of his time admiring the elaborate wooden trims lining every wall, scuffed as they are. What he wouldn’t give to properly restore this place…

“Hey, Dipple Dop?” Skizz calls suddenly. “Your radio working okay?”

Impulse gives him a curious look. “Huh? What, is there-” He pauses, glancing down at his radio. “Oh. Oh, yeah. Yeah, actually, mine’s on the fritz, must be overdue a battery change.”

“Oh?” Grian tilts his head innocently. “You don’t think it’s a ghoooost?”

Impulse purses his lips. “I don’t think everything is a ghost,” he says mildly. He clips the radio onto his belt, turning to the door. “I’ve got extras in the van, hang on…”

“I’ll go, too,” Skizz says quickly, slinging an arm and his wing around Impulse’s shoulders. “Buddy system! You know what, I- I’m tellin’ you, you never split up when hunting ghosts. That’s how they get you, dude.”

Oh. Oh, no.

Grian gives them a warning Look.

They give him a cheeky Look back.

“Yup, yeah, that’s true,” Impulse says with obvious feigned sincerity, steering Skizz out of the room. “So uh, you two keep at it, okay, and we’ll be right back…”

“Oh, okay!” Scar says cheerfully, busy setting up the tripod over in the corner and completely oblivious to their scheme. “Have a great time not getting murdered!”

Grian opens his mouth to protest, but Impulse and Skizz are already gone out the front door. Leaving him and Scar completely alone. Totally by coincidence, surely. Oh, he knew his drunken confession to Impulse at the school’s annual bar crawl fundraiser night would come back to bite him eventually.

It’s almost insulting, in a way. Like they think the only reason Grian hasn’t made a move is because he hasn’t had ample alone time with Scar. Like he needed them to give him an opportunity. But if he’d wanted to confess to Scar, he already would have. He’d have had it well done by now. They could give him a little credit.

See, the thing is, he’s thought about it. Plenty of times, in fact. But the issue he keeps coming back to is that if he tells Scar about his crush on him, then Scar will know about it. There’ll be no going back at that point. And if Scar doesn’t feel the same way- well, Grian can kiss their friendship goodbye. So yeah, no, he doesn’t think he’ll be making any dramatic love confessions tonight, strangely enough.

The risk of an awkward silence developing is astronomical, so Grian clears his throat. “Man… isn’t this place somethin’,” he says, then immediately fights the urge to cringe.

Scar, luckily, gives an emphatic nod. “It is, it truly is amazing.” He straightens up, dusting his hands off as he turns to Grian. “You know who’d really love this place, is Gem?”

“Oh, yeah, for sure,” Grian agrees. He busies himself with the UV, so he’s not just standing around. “We should take some pictures for her.”

“Oh, good idea!” Giving the tripod a final once-over, Scar wanders over to Grian. “So, any fingering goin’ on, yet?”

Grian nearly drops his glow stick. “Sorry- any what?!” he screeches, whirling around on Scar.

“You know, ghost fingers!” Scar says, perfectly innocent. He holds his hands up, wiggling his fingers in demonstration. “On the- on the glowy light?”

Grian takes a deep breath, face burning. “Oh Scar, buddy, you gotta think through your words better before you say them, alright?”

“Whaaat?” Scar pretends like he doesn’t know. “What, I’m just- you’ve got the stick, you know, little glow stick for when the ghost touches, uh-”

“Nevermind,” Grian groans. “Anyways, no, I haven’t found any ghostly handprints and I never will, because ghosts aren’t real.”

Scar folds his arms. “Well, hey, maybe the ghost is just polite! You know, he- maybe he’s just minding his business, not touching anything or- or anyone. Just because we don’t get anything on UV doesn’t mean ghosts aren’t real, I’ll have you know.”

Grian sees the challenge for what it is. “Alright…” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his spirit box. Holding the transponder to his lips, he belts out, “Where ahhre yewww?” in his best imitation of an over-exaggerated pop-punk accent. If Impulse and Skizz are eavesdropping through their radios, he hopes he gave them a start.

Scar laughs. “Oh man, been a while since I heard that one! You-”

I’m close.

Grian jumps so badly he nearly drops the box, his wings puffing out involuntarily. “What?! Wha- who said that?” he demands, spinning around.

Scar blinks at him. “What? Did you hear something through the box?”

“I- I dunno?” Grian says uncertainly. The box seems to be working as normal; when he holds the receiver down, there’s a faint hiss of static, and the bulb remains white. No further noises come from the speaker.

After a couple seconds of tense listening, Grian feels silly. Way to play it cool. He switches the box off with an exasperated sigh. “No, of course I didn’t hear anything through the box. Like I said, ghosts aren’t real.”

Scar hums noncommittally. “Oh, Grian... you know, there are some things in the world that can’t be explained.” 

Grian snorts. “Oh, yeah? Well, I- I got a few explanations for ya.” He counts on his fingers. “It could’ve been this old house creaking in the wind, or an electrical surge causing feedback through the transponder, or- or, not to mention, Impulse and Skizz pranking us through the radio?”

Scar snickers. “That does sound like something they’d do, I’ll give you that.”

“Yeah.” Grian slips the box back into his pocket. “And y’know, being in a creepy abandoned house, after dark, out in the middle’a nowhere... it’s easy to think you’re hearin’ things.”

Scar rolls his eyes, but his expression is fond. “I know, I know, so you’ve told me. But one of these days, mister, you’re gonna eat your words.”

“Right,” Grian drawls. “I’m so scared…”

The front door slams shut.

That makes Grian pause. They always leave the front door open while out on a job. It saves time when they have to go back and forth from the van, and saves battery life on their radios when they can just shout to each other through the open doorway. Obviously this job is a little different, because Impulse and Skizz have clearly got it in their heads to try and get him and Scar together, but he wouldn’t think they’d go so far as to-

The lights suddenly flicker and go out. But in the split-second before they do, Grian sees a shadowy figure silhouetted against the door.

Pure instinct takes over. Grian spins on his heel, grabs Scar by the arm, and absolutely flies down the stairs to the basement. He knows they’ve disturbed one or two piles of salt but right now, he can’t bring himself to care. His wings are bumping against the walls and he’s certainly never tried carrying someone as big as Scar before but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t even process the ache of it rattling through his body. He bursts into the basement, feathers flying, and careens towards the back of the room, around a tall shelving unit, and into the corner.

There’s a heap of boxes stacked up in this corner; Grian unceremoniously shoves Scar over top of them, dropping him in the narrow space between the boxes and the wall. He’s wedged in as far as he can himself, laying across the boxes, his double pair of wings preventing him from squeezing in beside Scar. He’s still got the UV light clenched in his fist, he realizes belatedly- he braces his forearms against the wall to try and cover it, fanning his wings out behind him to block it out from the rest of the room. Glancing back over his shoulder, he tries to gauge how much light is getting through when a noise makes him freeze.

Footsteps.

They’re soft and light- certainly not the heavy boots of Impulse or Skizz. No, they sound almost barefoot. And as they gently tap down the stairs, the sound of giggling fills the air. It’s a feminine voice. Young, like a child. Like a little ghostie girl is prancing down the stairs to murder them.

Grian thinks he might pass out. Can ghosts actually kill people? How would they do it if they’re incorporeal? He’s never considered the question before, he never thought he’d have to because it’s ridiculous, ghosts aren’t real, of course they can’t kill people-

The footsteps stop. 

Grian isn’t sure if he’s still breathing. He doesn’t dare move. A chill runs up his spine, making every single feather stand on end. He can almost hear the high-pitched violins that would be playing right now if this were a horror movie; the cheesy, overdrawn kind of horror movies that are always playing at the drive-in that the four of them watch while piled into the back of the van in a tangle of limbs and spilled popcorn and oh god he’s spiraling now because he’s about to be killed by a ghost-

Bye-bye!

The chill recedes. Somewhere in his peripheral vision, he sees the faint glow of light from upstairs return.

It’s over.

Grian’s mind is spinning. What was that? What was that? It seems impossible, it doesn’t even feel real to be in this situation right now but he is, there was a ghost, there was a ghost. It feels insane to even think it. But the residual adrenaline coursing through his body reminds him it was very real, he just encountered a ghost.

A ghost! Oh, after three years of very loudly decrying the entire concept as rubbish. He can’t believe it. He really can’t believe it, this is the absolute last thing he expected to happen tonight. Ghosts are real. Ghosts are really, really, real. He doesn’t know what to do, who would ever believe him? Is this how the others have been feeling this whole time? God, he can’t believe this-

“G...?” Scar’s voice pipes up hesitantly. “What... what are we doing?”

Oh, right. Grian glances down at Scar- and his heart jolts. He’d been so focused on getting away from the ghost, he’d acted without thinking, so only now does he realize the... predicament he’s put them in.

Scar’s slumped against the floor beneath him, head tucked just below Grian’s arms. His long legs are still draped over the box that Grian’s laying across, resting on either side of his waist. And due to the odd posture Grian’s in, his chest has been thrust rather close to Scar’s face, lit by the soft purple glow of the UV.

This is probably the closest Grian has ever been to sitting in Scar’s lap.

Grian’s not proud of the yelp that escapes him. “Sorry, sorry!” His wings flail as he struggles to push himself off of the wall, stumbling back onto his feet. It’s clumsy and uncoordinated and he nearly falls backwards, his heart pounding.

Scar manages a laugh, easing himself up off the floor. “No, no, it’s okay, I- I just... what- why’d you bring us down here?” he asks, dusting off his jumpsuit.

Grian catches his breath. “Wait, you... didn’t hear the creepy ghost on its way to kill us?” he asks, frowning.

Scar‘s eyes widen. “What? There was a ghost?”

No way.

“Are you-!” Grian throws his arms up. “Honestly, I- I know avians have better hearing than most but that’s insane. She was laughing! Laughing and skipping down the blumin’ steps! And you didn’t hear any of it?”

“No…?” Scar shrugs helplessly. “I’m sorry, okay! I- I don’t know, I was- a lot was happening, you- you’re grabbin’ me, pulling me down the stairs and into this little corner, I didn’t know what was going on! I didn’t know, I- I was all disconbodulated- disco- bobo, bobumated? I was a little distracted, okay. Jeeze, give a man a break…”

“Distracted?” Grian repeats incredulously. “You’re the one who actually believes in ghosts, here, how could you get distracted? What do you…”

He trails off. Scar is very clearly fighting to avoid looking at Grian, but for the briefest moment, his eyes dart down to Grian’s chest. Suddenly confused, Grian follows his gaze, and-

Oh, for goodness sakes. At some point during his frantic flight, the stupid zipper on his stupid jumpsuit came down again, exposing a frankly scandalous amount of skin. Not Scar-level of scandalous, but pretty close.

Grian immediately feels himself turn red. “Oh. Uh- right,” he hastily pulls the zipper back up, “sorry ‘bout that…”

Wait. Wait just a second. 

Scar was distracted from a literal ghost hunt going on... because Grian’s bare chest was showing? Does that... does that mean he liked it? 

Scar’s avoiding his gaze again. His cheeks are tinted pink.

“Scar...?” Grian ventures carefully. “Were you... lookin’ at my chest?”

Scar’s cheeks darken. “Ah, I- I- don’t- I mean, why would you- I didn’t mean to, it’s just...” He fumbles for the words. “What- what am I- hey, your pecs were basically in my face! I wasn’t trying to look, I- I just-”

“Scar,” Grian says, keeping his voice light and teasing, “did ya… did you like what you saw?”

Scar splutters for a moment. “Well, sure, Grian,” he tries to laugh it off, “I mean, anyone- anyone with eyes can see you’re uh, you know, you’re- you’re pretty attractive. I- I’m secure enough to say it, I don’t care, it’s- sure, of course, you’re very muscular! You’re a- you’re a muscular man, it’s just not always obvious with the sweaters you wear. Or- sorry, you call them jumpers in Britain land, right, they’re jumpers-”

“You been checkin’ me out, Scar?” Grian asks, caught somewhere between playfulness and utter disbelief.

“Uh...” Scar rubs the back of his neck. He exhales slowly, clearly debating with himself. “I... maybe? What... what would you say... if that were the case?”

Grian swallows. His heart is absolutely racing now, and he’s broken into a cold sweat that’s definitely not supernatural in origin. The air between them feels fragile; he’s acutely aware that a single word from him could swiftly plunge them back into the realm of safe familiarity, of casual light-hearted teasing between friends. Scar’s always said things that bordered on the flirtatious, and Grian can hide behind the plausible deniability of teasing. This entire interaction doesn’t have to mean anything. It can be easily moved past and forgotten.

And yet, strangely enough… Grian doesn’t want it to. Maybe it’s the post-haunting adrenaline or the fact that he could’ve died tonight, but all of a sudden, he feels like taking a chance. Like he could finally say what he’s wanted to say for the last three years. He managed to hold his own against a blumin’ ghost, for goodness sakes- he should be able to face his own feelings head on.

He takes a breath. “I’d say that’s a relief… ‘cause I’ve been checkin’ you out since day one of first year.”

Scar stares at him for a long moment. His expression is utterly unreadable. The silence draws on long enough that Grian feels a spike of panic, worried that maybe he’s mishandled the situation-

 “... oh my god,” Scar says finally. “Really?”

It sounds like the good kind of surprise. Grian offers a shy smile. “Yeah, yeah,” he admits. “I- Scar, I know I’m real good at playin’ these things close to the vest, but uh, I- I’ve had a massive crush on you since... basically since the day we met.”

“Huh.” Scar blinks. “You’re serious. You- you’re not pranking me right now?”

That startles a laugh out of Grian. “No! Scar, I don’t- we just survived being hunted by a ghost, I’m not pranking you!”

“Well, that’s- that’s amazing!” A grin spreads across Scar’s face- and man, oh man, does he have just the most wonderful smile. “Oh my gosh, G, I don’t- you don’t even know how long I’ve been waiting for this.”

The relief is almost overwhelming. “Yeah, me too!” Grian laughs, half-dazed and half-giddy, running a hand through his hair. “I- I even- look, the whole reason I even joined this group was as an excuse to hang out with you!”

Scar’s mouth falls open. “No way! That’s- that’s the whole reason I joined in the first place, too!”

Now it’s Grian’s turn to gawk. “Are you joking?”

“I’m not!” Scar insists, “I swear, I’m not- Impulse said he wanted to start the group and maybe we’d all join and get to hang out and I thought ‘hey, ghosts are cool and Grian is cool’ so I just-”

“Oh, I can’t believe this…” Grian groans, hiding his burning face in his hands. “We really are idiots, we’ve wasted nearly three years…”

Scar’s hands close around Grian’s wrists, lightly pulling them down from his face. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to make up for lost time,” he says smoothly, leaning in.

Corny, but Grian will allow it. He closes the gap, tilting his head up to meet Scar’s lips.

In that moment, everything else fades away. All the nervousness, all the second-guessing, even the bombshell discovery of the existence of ghosts- there could be one standing in front of them right now and Grian wouldn’t care. The way Scar gathers Grian in his arms, hands gently roving through his feathers- it’s bliss. It’s perfect.

Scar kisses him strong and purposefully, with no trace of carelessness or haste. He doesn’t rush. There’s intent written into every single movement, jaw working to deepen the kiss. Grian curls against him, hands splayed across Scar’s chest. He can feel Scar’s heart pounding through his flushed skin, and it’s wildly exciting- to think Scar is just as breathless as he is. 

Growing bold, Grian dares to slip his tongue into Scar’s mouth, and the noise he makes- part surprise, part delight- sends pure electricity fizzling up his spine. His mind is starting to drift away from him, lost in the sensation of weightlessness, of floating, that almost makes him feel like he’s gone completely incorporeal- like his own spirit has become untethered from the mortal coil.

Then Skizz’s voice comes down the stairs.

“G-Sharp! Scarface! You down here? We just saw a freaking ghost on the cams, and- oh my god!”

Grian breaks away from Scar, but not quick enough. He turns to see Skizz and Impulse standing at the bottom of the stairs, expressions shocked. And then, as if they’d rehearsed it, they both break into massive shit-eating grins and spin around to high-five each other.

“Woo!” Impulse cheers. “We got ‘em! Ladies and gentlemen, we finally got them.”

“Yeah, baby!” Skizz pumps his fist in the air. “Oh, I love it!”

“Oh, would you two stop it?” Grian huffs, but he’s not really cross. Hard to be cross when he’s on cloud nine. “The ghost did most of the work, alright?”

“That’s right,” Scar sniffs, winding an arm around Grian’s waist. “You know, I- I’m startin’ to think you all were in cahoots! Cahoots, I say!”

“Dude, if only,” Skizz laughs, walking over to clap them on the shoulders. “Could not have planned it better, that’s amazing. Well done, gentlemen!”

“Yeah, it’s about time!” Impulse adds, crossing his arms. “I was starting to think we’d graduate before either of you fessed up, I- I had to take drastic measures…”

“Impulse,” Grian says warningly, “if you’re about to tell me you started this whole paranormal investigation group just as a way to push me and Scar into confronting our feelings, I swear-”

“No, no,” Impulse assures him, chuckling. “I really do like the ghost-hunting deal, don’t worry. But uh, we did deliberately ditch you guys in the hopes that something would happen.”

Scar waggles his eyebrows. “Oh, things happened, alright.”

“Scar!” Grian swats at him, but he’s laughing and it feels good. It feels right. After all this time spent worrying about worst-case scenarios, about denying his feelings for the sake of maintaining the comfortable mundanity of his comfortable life, it turns out the scariest part was the fear itself.

The irony doesn’t escape his notice. A bit on the nose, if he’s honest.

“But in even bigger news,” Impulse graciously continues, “you saw the ghost? And you believed it? You, Mr. Non-Believer in all things ghostly?”

Grian sighs. “Yeah, yeah, I know…”

“This is incredible!” Skizz claps his hands together. “Okay, okay, we gotta go cleanse the area and I wanna hear everything, got it? Don’t leave a single detail out!”

Grian slips his hand into Scar’s as they follow Impulse and Skizz back up the stairs. “Yeah, alright,” he relents. He supposes he’s due for a lot of ‘I told you so’s’. But really, it’s a small price to pay for the life-altering knowledge that ghosts are real… and for finally finding the courage to believe in something extraordinary.

Scar hums. “Wait, details about the ghost or about the kissing?”

“Scar!”

~*~

[catscidr]

okay so. hybrids am i right? (people clap). but wait. crow hybrid dottore (people clap and cheer). yeah. so anyways ( ͡º ꒳ ͡º) time to ramble teehee cw: dottore x afab reader, im rambling, established relationship, light descriptions of gore and mentions of amputation. nsfw!! minors dni!!! (what did u expect from a post about an animal hybrid), possessiveness, mentions of breeding and eggs, aftercare

crow hybrid dottore who has black forearms along with sharp black nails at the end of his slender fingertips, nails that make it almost impossible for him to wear gloves because they’ll just stab through the material (everytime he files them down they come right back somehow).

some small, duvet-like feathers line the black skin of his arm, usually hidden by his coat— though they peek out from underneath the end of his sleeves sometimes. every once in a while you'll find tiny black feathers scattered around his lab when you come visit. he also has some plumage protruding from his face- more specifically the skin of his cheekbones.

crow hybrid dottore who only has one wing (replacing the fluffy mantle he normally has on his left shoulder when wearing his uniform). one wing because, when he got banished from his hometown with torches and pitchforks, his right wing got badly injured.

the trauma on the bones and his back made it so that it could never be restored to its normal shape, the wing looking like a mangled mess at all times. he'd pick out scabs and dried blood constantly, the dull pain driving him crazy- so he eventually just amputated it off himself. moving on

crow hybrid dottore who, whenever you're sitting next to him, tilts his head to the opposite side of you. you'll be keeping him company at his desk while he files reports for the mora he used for his experiments and he'll just... absentmindedly tilt his head away.

the first time it happened you didn't even notice. the second time, you thought it was just a quirky habit of his. the third time you stared at his bare neck as your fingers felt as if they were drawn to the pale skin. a thin, stray lock of hair cascaded down his neck, and you used it as an excuse to touch him. as you brushed away his hair behind his ear, a throaty noise (almost like a purr) reached your ears.

you pulled your hand back with the same speed you would have if you'd just touched a hot stove. dottore, unbothered by your panic, simply tilts his head to expose more of his skin as he absentmindedly scoots closer to you, his thigh brushing along yours. the moment he realized what he was doing he kicked you out of his office out of pure embarrassment

crow hybrid dottore who sings hums to you occasionally; usually happens when you convince him to take a walk outside to get some fresh air. its more likely to happen when its warm and sunny, and even more likely when you're eating together. it'll be just the two of you sharing lunch on your patio, sunbathing, and your ears will pick up on a soft, quiet tune he's humming. just don't tell him when he's doing it- his feathers will ruffle and he'll storm off in a huff and finish eating his food inside.

crow hybrid dottore who seems to be magnetized to the crook of your neck whenever you wake up next to him. always peppering your skin in soft kisses (and sometimes bites), he'll nuzzle into you until you wriggle your way out of his grasp. it's unlikely that you successfully get rid of him though- he rarely shows you affection during the day (unless tolerating your presence counts), so more often than not you'll let him indulge in you.

your neck and shoulders always ends up smothered in hickeys and, though they fade quite quickly since he didn't put much force in his bites, he'll gladly give you more if you want him to.

crow hybrid dottore who sometimes tosses his clothes in the corner of his bed (that he barely even uses) after he's spent time with you. he'd also throw in random things like a spare mask and some of your belongings that he snagged from you without you noticing. he says its because he doesn't want to bother himself with cleaning up, but in reality he's just... building a nest. he hates that he does this in the first place

crow hybrid dottore who loves when you reciprocate his affection. he adores it when you let him brush away the hair on your nape, when you hum just like he does, when you place gentle kisses on the junction where his neck meets his shoulder.

crow hybrid dottore who doesn't waste a single second when you're alone together after that. he'll give you more hickeys on top of your old ones, but this time he'll make sure they last. sharp teeth drawing blood at times when he gets too excited, cock straining against his pants as he ruts against your thigh.

you'll hear him coo sweet nothings in your ear while he manhandles you at his will. usually you end up on your back, legs thrown over his shoulders as he keeps a tight grip on the back of your thighs to keep you from crawling away from his cock.

"fuck, you taste so sweet. i'm going to stuff you full of seed, my clutch- nonono, don't you run away now. i know you want this."

crow hybrid dottore who almost loses his composure the first time he buries himself to the hilt inside of your snug pussy. it feels so tight, so warm around him that he almost doesn't want to pull out. almost.

he'll roll his hips against you, grinding his heavy cock in your gummy walls to get you used to his size. he knows he's a lot to handle- but this is the only semblance of mercy you'll be granted before he sees your body relaxing under him. as soon as he notices your brows lose the tension they held when he first slid inside, he'll jackhammer his cock into you and his full, heavy balls will slap against your ass relentlessly while he rambles about how he'll fill you up. again, again and again.

"take it, take my fucking cock. gods i'll never tire of your moans and whimpers. that's it, let it all out, let me hear how good i'm fucking you."

crow hybrid dottore who drinks in the noises that leave your body because they stroke his ego. he bites your shoulder when he finally cums inside to muffle his own noises, the embarrassing whimpers that threaten to leave his lips. he can't help it, you just feel so good. his hands will leave your thighs and he’ll bring his forearms to cage the sides of your head and his wing will ruffle and twitch behind him, covering your bodies in a display of possessiveness as he empties himself inside your cunt.

he'll keep his cock inside, plugging you full of his warm, sticky cum- refusing to let a single drop go to waste. if you somehow have any energy left and try to get him off of you, he'll glare and thrust into you sharply to briefly knock the wind out of you so you'll stay. he's petty like that

crow hybrid dottore who eventually relents to your whines because you're his number one weakness, and picks you up to go freshen up. he'll put your underwear back on and wipe away the sweat clinging to your skin with a damp rag. he'll soothe the bite marks and small puncture wounds his nails left in your skin with uncharacteristic gentleness, keeping his wing curled around your body to keep you as close as possible.

crow hybrid dottore who brings you back to his messy bed, to his nest, and clings onto you as you fall asleep. he'll brush your hair away from your face and nuzzle into your neck, holding your body close to his as he keeps your body warm while you keep his cum warm inside of you. it's only during the afterglow of a rough session that you get to see the stern harbinger soften up, because deep down all he wants is to keep you safe in his nest to take care of you even if he vehemently denies it

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

What if all the yeerks suddenly died? AU

Part 3.5; Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 are here. All you need to know from earlier parts is that all the yeerks disappeared at once after the events of #19, and that the Animorphs and ex-controllers have been trying to resume a normal life ever since.

• Hedrick Chapman wanted to be an ecologist when he grew up.  Or a veterinarian.  Barring that, he’d have settled for being rich.  At no point did he ever want to be a vice principal of a criminally underfunded public high school.  That had been a yeerk decision, not his.  Certainly not his.  And yet, here he is.

• Then again, Chapman reflects as he watches Andy Mitchell vomit into the potted plant on his desk, this job has recently involved far more working with wild animals than he initially anticipated.

“It was horrible,” Andy sobs.  “Her f-face, it… it split open.  I could see bones under the—”  He cuts off, retching more.

Probably in shock, Chapman thinks.  A perfectly understandable reaction to having seen someone morph for the first time.  “What did she turn into?”

“What?”  Andy lifts his head.  Milk-pale, except for those red-rimmed eyes.  Definitely in shock.  “What do you mean?”

“Rachel.”  Chapman didn’t get a name, but that description could only apply to so many students.  “What did she morph?”

“I don’t know,” Andy wails.  “Her face got all baggy and horrible, like the skin was coming off, and it…”  He makes a pulling motion, away from his own mouth.

“So she turned into an elephant.”  Chapman notes that down.  “Then what?”

“You don’t understand,” Andy says.  “She… she… her body was melting!”

Chapman sets down the pen, looking him in the eye.  “I believe you.  You saw her turn into an elephant.  Did she try to attack you, once she was done?”

“I don’t know!  I ran for it.”

“Smart choice.”  Chapman massages his left temple, which is where his Rachel-shaped headache seems to have taken up full-time residence in Iniss 226’s absence. “I figured as much, since we’re not having this conversation in the hospital.”

“It was horrible,” Andy says again.

“And what did you say to Tobias Fangor that precipitated this incident?”

Andy blinks.  His color looks a little better, anyway.  “How did you know that?”

Chapman does not roll his eyes.  Because he’s an adult, and in control of his own body.  “I just so happen to be fluent in English, Mr. Mitchell.  Which is, by enormous coincidence, the language used to write your disciplinary file.  I’m also capable of basic pattern recognition.”

“What are you going to do to her?” Andy asks.  “Rachel.  What happens to her?”

An excellent question.  Bringing a deadly weapon to school results in a ten-day suspension.  But if Chapman applies that statute in this case, then he’d be forced to suspend all five Animorphs for the rest of eternity.  Threatening a classmate can result in expulsion, though it sounds like no actual threats were issued.  There isn’t a rule on the books for showing a classmate something so disturbing his brain tries to turn itself inside-out from sheer horror, although in light of recent developments there really should be.

“Not your concern,” Chapman says.  “Thank you for telling me.  Back to class.”

Andy takes several more minutes to collect himself before he goes.  Chapman uses that time to catch up on paperwork, though he does offer the young man a tissue.  And a breath mint.

• Andy is barely out Chapman’s door when it swings open again and Tom Berenson strides in.  “You have to tell my parents it’s not Jake’s fault,” he announces.

I am not your therapist, Chapman would dearly like to say.  I am not your best friend.  I am not, regardless of Iniss 226’s relationship with Temrash 114, your fucking subordinate.  I do not ‘have to’ do anything.

Not being snippy with vulnerable teenagers is probably one of those things they’d cover M.Ed. programs, if Chapman had ever actually been to school for this job.  “Why don’t you take a deep breath and explain from the beginning.”  There.  That sounds like something a vice principal would say.

“Jake.”  Tom sits down.  “My parents keep forcing him to go to school.  They think he’s, like, being a moody teenager.  Or faking it.”

Chapman may not be a therapist, or even a college graduate, but he does recognize that Jake’s entitled to as many sick days as he feels like taking, for the rest of eternity.  However, “That’s between your parents and your brother.”

“You can’t do anything?” Tom asks.  “You have the ability to give kids permanent excuses for made-up medical conditions— Iniss did it all the time—”

“I am not,” Chapman says severely, “Iniss 226.”

Tom stiffens.  “I just meant…”

“I recognize it is not your fault you have entirely too much information about the administration of this school.”  Chapman tries to soften his tone.  “But if you can do without using the Krav Maga or ability to home-assemble a working handgun that you also didn’t choose to receive, you can do without that.”

“But— Jake.  They don’t get it.”

“I will speak with your parents.  I’ll express these concerns to them,” Chapman says.  “In the meantime, might I suggest you focus on your own grades?  Thanks to Iniss, you’ve missed far too much school already.  If you want to have any hope of graduating on time, you need to catch up.”

“Why?”

He says it so simply.  It’s a question Chapman’s been asked before: Why bother?  Of all the kids who’ve asked him, only Marco Santiago has been more entitled to ask.  Why, indeed, bother with school?  Why care about Civics and Algebra when the world itself has already ended around you? 

A real vice principal would make a speech about learning being its own reward, or the importance of insuring one’s future.  “Because,” Chapman says, “when I speak to Coach Lu about letting you back on the basketball team, he’ll point out that student athletes need a minimum two-point-oh GPA.”

Tom’s whole face lights up.  Suddenly looking years younger.  Looking like a kid, for the first time in months.  “You’d do that for me?”

That M.Ed. program no doubt would have advised against bribes.  “No skin off my butt,” Chapman says.  “Now go do your homework.  And let the adults worry about your brother.”

“Yes sir!”  And he’s off like a shot.  Possibly even, miracle of miracles, off to work on that backlog of English essays.

• The first time Jake called a meeting in Cassie’s barn, even though they don’t really have a reason to meet anymore, it was to discuss what they can do to help the hork-bajir—taxxon alliance.  The second time, it was to make a plan to help Tobias get caught up in school.  The third time, he doesn’t even make an excuse.

Rachel complains about the press hounding them for a statement.  Marco complains about his parents making out on the couch while he’s in the house.  Tobias complains about Ms. Paloma’s workload, and about the hork-bajir constitution negotiations.  Jake complains about his dad’s horrifying questions about how morphing affects puberty.  Ax complains about Alloran’s frequent, extremely snobby, emails.  Cassie complains about her parents constantly asking her to morph their patients to figure out what’s wrong with them.

It’s silly.  It’s fun.  It’s playing at being teenagers with teenage problems.

“This time next week,” Jake announces, at the end.  “And if there are any major developments in the meantime, keep the rest of us posted.”

• “Tobias Fangor’s aunt called again,” Principal Walsh says, when Chapman gets to the office on a Tuesday morning.  “Don’t you think we should at least speak to her, see what she wants?”

“No,” Chapman says.  “I don’t.”

“His uncle.  This…”  She glances at the paperwork.  “Axel Mili-Esgarrouth.  Didn’t show up for last parent-teacher conference.”

Small mercies.  Chapman doesn’t explain Tobias’s living situation.  Doesn’t reveal that he owes the kid’s parents the kind of debt that cannot be repaid in an entire lifetime of favors.  Doesn’t deign to find out if Maggie Walsh knows what an andalite is.

“Tobias Fangor,” he says, “is part of the one-tenth of one percent of students who are, somehow, attending this high school because they want to be here.  If you give him reason to transfer out, I will resign.”

• There are reasons that Chapman stays in this job, despite being stashed here against his will.  Not the pay.  Not the sullen ingratitude from the teens he helps.  Certainly not the parents.  It’s because he’s needed here, now more than ever.

• He stays for the times Loren’s kid comes skittering into his office, wild-eyed and muttering, “Sorry, I just, sorry, I’ll be out of your hair soon, I promise…”  Chapman knows to open the window, when that happens, knows to shove a chair already well-deformed with talon marks out from behind his desk.

•  He stays for the kids who on paper had straight As, perfect attendance, promising gigs at The Sharing — and overnight became failing wrecks with insomnia and dozens of unexplained absences.  He can explain to their teachers, to their parents, in a way that someone who hasn’t been there will never be able to understand.

•  He stays for the way Eva Santiago clasps his hand and says, “You will look out for him.”  Half-supplication, half-command.

•  He even, despite himself, stays for Tom.  Who showed up at school the day after Aegas 1909 died, trying to pretend like nothing had happened.  Who is a truly godawful actor — he took one look at Chapman, went dead-white, and ran for it.  Who was backing away even as Chapman cornered him in the parking lot.  “Wait!” Chapman had said.  “Wait! Iniss is dead too.”  And Tom had burst into tears.

��  No one else would understand them.  No one else would know why nearly every one of the seventy-three ex-hosts in this school has been sent to his office for not paying attention, for sleeping in class, for allegedly being stoned during school hours.  No one else would overlook the absolute illegal mess of Tobias’s paperwork, or give Rachel a fortieth second chance after she has yet another hair-trigger reaction to being bumped in the hall.

•  But there’s one reason above all others that he stays in this job.

“You don’t mind?” Melissa says, every single time he offers her a ride to school.  As if he’s doing her a favor, letting her take up space in the car he’s already driving that way.  As if it’s a chore to get to spend time with his daughter and hear about her day.

“You sure you don’t mind?” he always answers, smiling, and she always runs to get her bag.

It takes so little — a smile, a nod, an offer to feed the damn cat, sometimes even just a glance her way — to get her to light up with gratitude.  It breaks his fucking heart to know the reason why.

He drives her every day.  He helps her with homework every night, and cooks her dinner afterward.  He drops more than he can afford on leg-warmers and Lisa Frank and Limited Too.  He’s every parenting cliché: on a trial separation from Alison, spoiling their kid rotten because of the guilt.

Anyway, time with Melissa is worth a hell of a lot more than mere money.  And it’s almost enough to make up for dealing with parents.  Almost.

•  “But Cassie’s a good kid,” Michelle Logan says.  “She’s always been responsible, and she’s always taken care of herself.  There has to be some kind of mistake.”

Chapman looks at the good kid sitting between her parents.  Thinks of watching her rip a hork-bajir’s throat out, taking an innocent life along with the guilty one.  Trusts that she had no choice in the matter, because if it was him she’d killed instead then he would have understood.

“I recognize that Cassie has had an overall clean record thus far,” Chapman says.  “However, the Rain Forest Café is filing charges against the school for the impersonation and theft of several live animals, and I don’t have other suspects.”

“Cassie would never,” Michelle said.  “She’s a good kid.  She just fell in with the wrong crowd, that’s all.”

“Of that,” Chapman says dryly, “I have no doubt.”

Cassie lifts her head then to look straight at him.  “I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding it.  “I was trying to help the parrots.”

I.  Yes, she’s a good kid.  “It’s admirable,” Chapman tells her, “that you’re covering for your friends.”  Probably also on the list of things a real vice principal wouldn’t say.  “But there is no way that you could have acted alone.”

“Can you prove that?” Cassie asks.

“Can you even prove it was her?” Michelle says.  “What about Marco, or Rachel?  They morph.  Isn’t Tobias a bird quite often?  Who says it wasn’t him?”

Cassie and Chapman make eye contact.  Marco is one incident away from being expelled.  Rachel is about negative eight incidents away, and Chapman can only do so much to protect her.  Tobias isn’t supposed to be at this school at all, which the board will surely notice if he comes to their attention.  Cassie confessed, because Cassie can take the heat.  And Chapman’s letting her take that fall.

“It’s okay,” Cassie tells the adults.  “It’s only a week of detention.”

Because that was the lowest sentence he could propose, while still avoiding a legal proceeding.  She really is a good kid.

•  “Where you going?” Jake asks, not looking up from his Spanish homework, when Tom unlocks the front door at 8:00 PM on a Sunday.

“Sharing meeting,” Tom says casually.  “Wanna come?”

Jake sets down his pen.  He looks at his brother.

Tom stares back, smirking.

“Where are you actually going?” Jake says.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”  And with that, Tom walks out the door.

Despite himself, Jake follows.

 • It’s an under-21 nightclub that Jake vaguely recognizes as being a front for The Sharing, but the crowd spilling onto the lawn around it is truly all ages.  There’s a giggling pair of 10-year-olds standing too close to the beer keg for his comfort, a middle-aged guy handing out glow sticks, and a woman with gray hair and a hand-knit sweater smoking a joint on the curb.

“Tommy-boy!” That’s the guy standing next to the door, an ex-controller Jake thinks is named Bill.  He throws out his arms and, before Jake can react, has grabbed Tom, spun him around, dipped him, and kissed him on the mouth.

“Hands off, asshole,” Tom says, laughing as he pulls loose.  “You are so fucking drunk.”

“Sssshhhhhh,” Bill says, not disconfirming the accusation.  He points to the Employees Only printed on the door.  “Just meat-puppets tonight.  Ditch the tagalong.”

“Oh, come on.”  Tom gestures at Jake.  “The kid was a controller for a hot second last November.”

Bill squints at Jake.  “Wait, really?”

Jake shrugs.  He doesn’t want to talk about it.  “Yeah.”

“Well all right, then.”  Bill ruffles Jake’s hair, Tom slaps Bill on the ass, and they shoulder their way inside.

• The club is jammed full of bodies, most of them sweaty and partway naked.  Jake retreats until his back is against the nearest wall, looking over the mess of dancing humans.  Tom has split off, chest-bumping with some other guy Jake doesn’t know and stealing a drag off his cigarette.  None of them are acting remotely like controllers, which is reassuring, and now he’s wondering if it’d be rude to leave without Tom about 10 seconds after having arrived.

 No one would notice if he turned into a bug, he decides after about an hour of this.  Seriously.  This crowd would not notice, and it’s not like they’d care if they did.  Tom can find his own way home.

A small form sidles up next to him.  “Hi, Jake.”

“Melissa!” he says too loudly, glad to see a familiar face.  “Hi.”

“You want some drink?”  She holds up a clear plastic cup, three-quarters full of liquid.  “There’s plenty more over…”  She points to the punchbowl behind her.

“Drink?” Jake asks.

Melissa shrugs.  “From the empty bottles, it’s mostly beer and tequila, with a little bit of Bloody Mary mix.  Which is probably why it…”  She grimaces down at her cup.  “Looks, smells, and tastes like urine.”

“Um.”  Jake peers at her cup; her assessment isn’t wrong.  “I think I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Cool.  There’s also a guy around here with E, if that’s more your speed.”

“Gee.”  Jake looks back over the crowd, which includes several couples openly pawing at each other, a group of four with hands inside each other’s clothes, and Tom apparently attempting to eat some woman’s tongue before she can eat his.  “There’s ecstasy here?  I never would’ve guessed.”

“People are just glad the war’s over,” Melissa says.  “And your brother’s a really good kisser.”

It’s official: this is worse than the gathering of alien slugs plotting Earth’s destruction that Jake expected to find.  It’s not even a proper orgy, just a whole crapton of giddy ex-hosts hugging each other and then getting too enthusiastic about the hugs.

“Look,” Jake says.  “This has been nice, but I have school tomorrow, so…”

•  Which is when the commotion breaks out near the door.

“Gatecrasher!”  That’s Bill, brandishing a mason jar as he continues to yell.  “We have a gatecrasher!”

Several people crowd around him to get a better look, someone holding up a glow stick to reveal that, sure enough, the jar in his hands contains a single wolf spider.  Among this crowd, animals that act strange or aren’t native to California don’t go without notice.

«I’m innocent!  And even if I’m not you can’t prove anything,» the spider says.  «Maybe I just wandered by accidentally, and this is all a big misunderstanding.»

“This thing’s for full members only,” Tom says, straight-faced.  “There’s a sign on the door, can’t miss it.”

«Maybe I want to join the Sharing?» the spider suggests.

This gets him several unamused looks.  “Toss him out,” Li says.  “And let’s get back to the keg stands.”

“Nah, let him stay!”  That’s Koko, piping up from the back.  “God knows every person in this bar owes the Animorphs a drink.”

Looking between them, Bill turns back to the jar.  Finally he lifts it up to eye level, starting at the spider’s middle two eyes.  “Repeat after me,” Bill intones.

«Uh-huh.»

“What your mom doesn’t know…”

«What my mom doesn’t know…»

“Will not hurt her.”

«Dude, I wouldn’t narc on you!  What do you take me for?»

“A chip off the old block,” Tom mutters.

“Repeat it,” Bill says severely.

«What my mom doesn’t know, won’t hurt her.»

“Great!”  Bill unscrews the lid of the jar, dumping it out on the ground.  “Welcome to the Sharing.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Melissa says to a slowly-demorphing Marco, “I got the same speech.”

“It really does.”  He presses a hand over his heart.  “Now, someone mentioned buying me a drink?”

•  A small nightclub on the outskirts of the city burns to the ground, shortly after having every piece of its furniture and glassware smashed in a pile in the middle of the floor.  The local police force, over 30% of whom were controllers three months ago, elects to ignore this development.

•  Chapman loathes paperwork to the absolute depths of his soul.  Nothing, absolutely nothing, is worse than filing paperwork to get permission to file paperwork, and yet here he is.  The state of California cannot possibly need this many copies of Ashley Shawn’s transcript.  This has to be a torment invented by an evil god to punish him for everything he did aboard the Jahar.  There is no other explanation.

So when Ms. Hanna comes skidding into his office and announces “Science wing! There’s a brawl!” his first thought is, oh thank god.

His second thought is to wonder why she came to get him, skipping the security officer and Principal Walsh, but they’re already running by the time that occurs to him.

When they get there the press of screaming-chanting bodies fills the hall from end to end, but kids still find room to crowd out of the way when they see Chapman coming.  The circle of spectators breaks long enough to reveal the melee at the center, and—

Oh hell.  Chapman can tell exactly why Ms. Hanna got him first.

Fiona Aherne has one hand fisted in the collar of Tom Berenson’s shirt, and is punching him repeatedly in the face.  Joe Lassen catches her around the middle and rips her off Tom, tossing her to the floor, only to be caught in a side-tackle by Li Saren.  Beyond them, Hailey Ng and Bill Renaldi are hanging onto Asher Reed, until Asher suddenly rolls forward and body-slams Bill to the floor.

Chapman winces — so much for not using that Krav Maga. He's knocked aside as Jake shoves past him and dives in to the fray.

Principal Walsh is across the battlefield, staring in bafflement.  Shouting ineffectually for everyone to stop.  She doesn’t know, of course, what Tom and Joe and Asher all have in common.  What Bill and Li and Fiona and Hailey do.

Li has Tom by the throat from behind, which is why Jake throws himself onto Li with the gracelessness typical of a high-schooler.  Li head-butts Jake, only to have Jake, snarling, bite him in the face.

“Stop!” Chapman bellows.  “ALL OF YOU!  STOP!”

Jake drops off Li.  Hailey drops Asher.  Slowly the others lower their fists, glaring.

Good to know everyone’s fear of Iniss 226 is still good for something.

“Everyone in the Biology classroom,” Chapman barks, pointing at the door.  “Bill’s lot near the windows, Tom and the others by the door.  Move it!”

Principal Walsh stares at Chapman in confusion, which deepens when everyone obeys him without question.  He beckons first to Ms. Hanna, then to Mr. Tidwell, pointing them into the room as well.  They also take their places without question, Mr. Tidwell supervising the voluntary half of the room as Ms. Hanna covers the involuntaries.

Pausing in the doorway, Chapman turns at last to face Maggie Walsh.  His boss.  Who has the ability to fire him, if she misunderstands the situation.  “It’s about yeerks,” he settles for telling her.

Her look of bafflement doesn’t fade.  “How?”

Chapman opens his mouth. Hunts for words.

“Jake had nothing to do with this.”

Chapman doesn’t have to turn his head to know who spoke from the involuntary side of the room.  What a surprise, a Berenson kid running his mouth.

“Thank you for your input, Thomas.”  He spins around.  “That isn’t your call.”

Tom crosses his arms.  Between the fingernail marks down his cheek and the broken knuckles of his right hand, he looks the very picture of delinquency.

“He’s right,” Joe says, from the voluntary side of the room.  “It’s nothing to do with Jake.”  In Chapman’s peripheral vision, Maggie Walsh blinks several times.  He’ll explain later.  Or try to.

“Fine,” Chapman says.  “Jake, get back to class.”

Jake lifts his chin, blood striping the lower half of his face.  “I chose to get involved,” he says.  “I’ll take my punishment.”

“Oh yeah?” Tom says.  “Then what was the fight about?”

Jake looks from one side of the room to the other.  Both sides have ninth graders, twelfth graders, jocks and nerds, white and Black and brown kids.  Jake’s probably smart enough to identify several ex-controllers, and to guess at the rest, but unable to tell how or why they sorted themselves like they did.  Nonetheless, after a second he opens his mouth.

“That’s what I thought,” Chapman cuts him off.  “Anyway, if I suspend you then Marco and Rachel will have burned down the school within a week.  Fix your nose, then back to class.”

Knowing when he’s beat, Jake leaves.  Chapman makes a note he’ll also have to explain to Maggie how morphing works, and that he didn’t just order a 14-year-old to hand-set a broken nose.

“The involuntaries started it,” Bill announces, the moment Jake is gone.

“Yeah,” Tom snaps, “and the voluntaries are the ones who—”

“Who were lied to, instead of being coerced?” Mr. Tidwell suggests.

Tom shuts his mouth.

“Asher called me a traitor.”  Li points a finger across the room.

“Six months ago Li told me,” Asher says quietly, “that I should really join the Sharing.”

“And so,” Chapman drawls, “you had no choice but to punch each other in the face.  Is that correct?”

Tom mutters something under his breath that Chapman chooses not to catch.  He can’t threaten them, not this crowd.  Most of them have survived worse hells than the Geneva Convention ever dreamed of.  Detention means nothing.

Fine.  Persuasion it’ll have to be.  Fuck his life.  Chapman raises his voice to address the involuntaries.  “They—” He points to the voluntary side of the room.  “Are not the enemy.  The yeerks are the enemy, and the yeerks are dead.  Don’t start doing their work for them, you hear me?”

There’s a long silence.  Asher scuffs the toe of his shoe on the floor.

“Yeah,” Tom says at last.  “We hear you.”

“Everyone get checked at the nurse’s office,” Chapman tells the room at large.  “You’re all suspended for the rest of the week.”

Maggie Walsh takes a seat next to Chapman, even as the kids all file out.  Yeah.  He owes her an explanation.  Taking a deep breath, he tries to sum up what just happened.  Hopefully in a thousand words or less.

Don Tidwell, coward, takes that opportunity to slip out the door.

•  “Does anyone have anything to report?”  Jake looks around Cassie’s barn.  It’s still odd to see Ax and Tobias sitting out of morph and in the open.  There was a brief collective panic when Cassie’s mom poked her head in earlier to ask if they want any lemonade or feeder mice.

“I have,” Marco says grandly, “a date… with Destiny!”

«Oh, you mean Destiny Trembull in tenth grade?»  Tobias immediately undercuts this, because of course.  «She seems nice.»

“And we don’t even have to spend the next three days following her around,” Rachel comments, which gets Marco to lob a horse comb at her head.

«I have accessed one-hundred twenty-three additional channels on my television,» Ax adds.

Cassie and Jake exchange a glance.  “How’s it going, getting a ride home?” Cassie asks.  “Any word on that?”

Ax shrugs — he isn’t even going to fit in on the andalite homeworld anymore when he does finally get there — and looks away.  «I’ve been told that there are more important priorities concerning the Navy.»

«Their gratitude,» Tobias drawls, «is overwhelming.»

•  Chapman explains to Jake’s parents that Jake needs a therapist, and also permission to miss school if he needs to.  Chapman explains the Yeerk Empire and how exactly they recruit humans to Li Saren’s parents for the third, then the fourth, then the fifth time, until they are in tears and begging their son’s forgiveness for doubting him.  Chapman explains to the district that he has no idea how the school ended up with a staircase leading from a supply closet to the alien sinkhole, but that he wants it sealed up posthaste.  Chapman explains himself to Naomi Berenson, and then he does his best to explain Rachel as well.

• "No," Chapman tells the officious-looking little man sitting across his desk. "I don't know of anyone like that. I'm sorry, I wish I could be more help."

The man — he's probably a real detective, he has a badge — leans across the desk to push the photo array a little closer to Chapman. "You're sure? None of these individuals is a..." He glances at his notes. "Voluntary controller."

Chapman looks at the array, which includes images of nearly 100 students. Some of whom weren't controllers at all — that's Tobias Fangor in the upper left corner. Some of whom were lied to by the Sharing, and then lied to by the Yeerk Empire. Some of whom, like Bill Renaldi and his absolutely debilitating major depression, felt they had no choice but to give up their bodies. "Sorry," Chapman says. "None of these individuals appear to be voluntary controllers to the best of my knowledge."

The detective stares at Chapman, waiting for more information. Chapman stares back, waiting for the detective to get bored. He can do this all day, literal hours of silence if that's what it takes. He doubts any mere civilian can say the same.

Sure enough, the detective breaks first. "You see," he says, "we know for a fact that some of these individuals did, in fact, collude with the Yeerk Empire. And we have CCTV footage indicating that you might have been one of those colluders yourself. So anything you can do to help us out..."

Chapman lets the silence go for another minute, long enough for the detective to shift in place. "You're mistaken," he says at last. "About what it means to be a voluntary controller. Or an involuntary one, for that matter. The distinction you're seeking does not exist."

"I'm sorry." The guy has his notepad out now, pen moving. "You're saying... there's functionally no difference between the voluntary hosts and the involuntary ones?"

"Yes," Chapman says, unaware of the hell he's about to unleash. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

•  “Ms. Paloma’s being a butt,” Melissa says, spinning her chair with a toe on the floor.  “I told her that I have a French test the same day as the Bio one, but she just said that means I have to learn to manage my time.”

She just walked into his office.  Without knocking.  Without asking if he’s busy, if he minds, if he’s sure.  Without apologizing for her existence.  She walked in, she sat down uninvited, and now here she is complaining to him like any normal teenager.

“That sounds stressful.”  Chapman is choosing his words with infinite care.  He’s six years old again, holding a butterfly cupped in his palms and knowing that even a millimeter’s clumsiness will crush this precious living jewel.  Thinking this.  This is what I want.  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says.

She came in unprompted.  She just walked right in.

“I hate French.”  Melissa spins the chair again.  “It’s all those lists of vocab words, and I can’t even say half of them correctly…”

“Do you want me to help you study?” Chapman asks.

Her head pops up with the force of her surprised, pleased smile.  “You’d do that?”

That’s it, then.  He’s never leaving this job.  Paperwork and all.

[v6quewrlds]

❝ birthday boy, a. iosivas. ❞  ‎ ‎ ┉  

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀summary: the birthday boy's turning 25. it's only right he gets his present.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀author's note: okay so boom, storytime. this idea hit me exactly five hours ago after i saw a clip of troye giving vinnie a lap dance on tour. immediately thought about subby!andrei which is perfect bc i wanted to write a bday fic for him anyways. so i hope y'all enjoy. she's short and sweet <3

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀warnings: smut, please do not interact with my work if you are under 18. language, sexual content, lap dance, grinding, handjob, blowjob, a hint of sub!andrei, description of ejaculation.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀pairing: andrei iosivas x reader.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀word count: 1.9k.

You stepped out of the shower, the steam enveloping your naked body like a warm embrace. The scent of vanilla and musk filled the air, a tantalizing hint of what was to come. You toweled off with a hum to yourself, your passion twists clinging to the dampness as you walked into the bedroom, your bare feet whispering on the plush carpet. You glanced at the bed, where Andrei, your boyfriend, lay sprawled out, scrolling through his phone.

He looked up at you, his brown eyes smoldering as he took in your freshly scrubbed skin. "You're killing me, baby," he murmured, his hand unconsciously adjusting his growing erection through his pants. "I can't wait for this surprise anymore."

You giggled, your full lips curving in a knowing smile. "Patience, birthday boy," you sang, your voice a velvety purr. 

You strutted over to the dresser, your naked curves swaying with a seductive grace. From the top drawer, you pulled out a black lace lingerie set, holding it up against your body in the mirror. The reflection revealed your dark areolas and the promise of more to come. You slipped on the lingerie, feeling the material hug your curves like a second skin.

Andrei's eyes followed your every move, his breath hitching as he watched you change into your underwear. His dick strained against the fabric of his pants, a silent plea for release. You noticed his struggle and couldn't resist a little tease. You turned to face him, throwing your passion twists over your shoulder without a word before reaching for his Bluetooth speaker on the nightstand.

Andrei's eyes widened in anticipation as you reached for his phone, the light from the bedside lamp casting shadows across your body, making you seem to glow. Without a moment of hesitation, he handed it over, your manicured fingers navigating to Spotify. You hit the play button and a sultry R&B melody filled the room.

The first notes of your sex playlist hit the air, a bass line that vibrated through his chest and straight to his lower half. His eyes never left you as you turned the volume up just right, a knowing look on your face. He recognized the first track immediately, your favorite song that never failed to set the mood.

You strutted back over to the bed, your hips moving to the rhythm as if the music lived in your very bones. Andrei's eyes traced the lines of your body, the silk of your skin glistening under the soft light. He cursed to himself, his gaze devouring every inch of you.

"Sit up," you ordered, gesturing to the edge of the bed. Your tone was playful but firm, leaving no room for argument. Andrei did as he was told, his legs trembling slightly as he followed your command, his heart racing.

You positioned the speaker just right, ensuring that the music surrounded you both. You stepped closer, your movements fluid as water, and began to sway in front of him. The beat of the song matched the rhythm of your hips, which rolled in a mesmerizing dance that made Andrei's mouth water. You placed one hand on his shoulder, your nails digging in slightly as you ground yourself against his thigh. He released a breath, his cock jumping in response.

Your other hand trailed down your body, teasing your skin as you moved. Andrei watched, his eyes following the path you took, his own hand twitching with the desire to do the same. The room grew hotter, the air thick with lust as the music grew more intense.

The second song began to play, an impossibly slower song. You stepped closer to Andrei, your thighs parting to straddle him. You placed your hands on his shoulders, your nails digging in slightly as you began to grind against him. He groaned, his dick straining against you, desperate for contact.

"Take your pants off," you breathed, your voice low and commanding. 

Andrei's hands shook as he unbuckled his belt, his eyes never leaving yours. He slid his pants down, revealing his boxer briefs, the fabric tented with his arousal. You licked your lips, a wicked glint in your eye.

Your hands traveled down your stomach, your fingertips grazing the edge of your lace panties. Andrei could see the dampness already soaking through the fabric, a testament to your own desire. He groaned, his hips bucking up to meet yours as you slid closer, your wetness brushing against him.

"Not yet," you whispered, a mischievous smile playing on your lips. 

You leaned in, your breath hot on his neck as you kissed him lightly. Your teeth grazed his earlobe, sending a shiver down his spine. "First, the full show."

The music was a siren's call, guiding Andrei's eyes as they traced the lines of your body. He watched, his breathing ragged, as you reached behind your back and unclasped the bra. It fell away, revealing your firm, round breasts. They bounced slightly as you moved, your hardened nipples peaked with arousal.

"You're so beautiful, princess," he murmured, his voice thick with need.

You giggled, the sound low and throaty. "Thank you, Drei," you said, leaning in to kiss him, your breasts pressing against his bare chest. Your hand snaked around to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss grew deeper, your tongue slipping into his mouth to tangle with his. Andrei groaned, his hands sliding around to cup your ass, his thumbs grazing the damp fabric of your panties.

The third song kicked in, a rhythmic bass that had you both grinding against each other. You pulled away, a glint of mischief in your eyes. You stepped back, placing a hand on his chest to keep him seated as you turned around. You bent at the waist, your ass high in the air as you slid the panties down, revealing your toned backside. You looked over your shoulder, your eyes sparkling with excitement.

Andrei's breath caught in his throat as you stepped out of the lace, leaving it in a pool at your feet. He took in the view of your bare pussy, already glistening with excitement. The music grew more intense, and you began to dance again, your movements slower and more deliberate. You knelt to your knees, your ass swaying as you grabbed the base of his cock through his boxers, your nails scraping gently along his length.

He groaned, his eyes rolling back in his head as you began to tug at his boxers. Inch by torturous inch, you revealed his hardened shaft, until it sprang free, standing proudly against his stomach. Your hand wrapped around it, your grip firm but gentle as you began to stroke him in time with the beat.

Andrei's hands clenched the bed, his chest heaving with each stroke you administered. The room was alive with the throb of the bass. Your grip tightened, your thumb tracing the precum beading at the tip of his cock. You leaned in, your warm breath fanning over his shaft, and whispered, "You want me to suck it?"

"Fuck yes," he hissed, the words barely leaving his mouth before you took him into your mouth, your lips wrapping around him like a warm, wet glove. Andrei's eyes rolled back in his head, the sensation of your tongue swirling around his head nearly sending him over the edge. You sucked him deep, your cheeks hollowing as you took him to the back of your throat. The sight of you eagerly pleasuring him was almost too much to handle.

Your hand kept rhythm with your mouth, your nails lightly raking his thighs as you worked him. Andrei's hips began to move, thrusting up to meet your mouth, his control slipping away as the music swelled around the two of you. You moaned around his cock, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through him. He watched in the mirror across from the bed, his muscles tensing at the sight of the back of your head bobbing up and down his length, your twists flowing down your back.

The music grew more intense, and you pulled away, panting. "Take these off," you demanded, pointing to his boxer briefs. Andrei complied, his cock bobbing free as he kicked the material away.

You straddled him again, this time with your slick pussy pressing against his thigh. Andrei groaned, his hands reaching for your hips, but you slapped them away playfully. 

"Not yet," you purred, your breath warm and sweet. Instead, you reached for his chin, tilting it up to meet your gaze.

Your eyes searched his tensing features, the music a pulsing heartbeat in the background. Andrei's own heart hammered in his chest, his anticipation a tangible force in the air. You leaned down, your breasts brushing against his chest, and kissed him hard. Your hand wrapped around his throbbing cock, stroking him from base to tip in time with the beat of the music.

"I wanna give my birthday boy the best present," you murmured, your voice a siren's whisper that sent another jolt of need through Andrei's body as he moaned painfully. You continued your movements over his shaft, watching as he groaned out. 

His brown eyes closed as he whispered, "You're the only present I need, baby."

"Gonna come for me, birthday boy?" You taunted, your hand moving faster, your thumb circling the sensitive ridge of his head. Andrei's eyes snapped open, meeting yours, and he nodded frantically, unable to form words through his lust. The room was a symphony of his heavy breathing and the bass of the music, your bodies moving in perfect sync to the rhythm.

"Come for me, Drei," you encouraged, your strokes now a blur as you watched him, his eyes locked on yours. His hips bucked, his body begging for release. He was so close, so very close.

And then the dam broke. Andrei's body tensed, a moan ripping from his chest as he came, spurts of hot cum landing on his stomach and chest. You slowed your movements, your hand milking him through the last of his orgasm, watching with a smug smile as his cock twitched and spasmed in your grip.

The music switched to a new song, something slower, more sensual, as you climbed off of him. You stood to your full height and leaned down to kiss him again. He tasted himself on your lips and groaned as you deepened the kiss.

"I love you," Andrei murmured against your mouth, his breathing still heavy. Your smile grew wider as you broke the kiss, your eyes sparkling with satisfaction. You leaned over him, your breasts brushing against his chest as you reached for a towel, his hands reaching to steady your hips. You wiped the evidence of his release from his body, your movements gentle and tender.

"Thank you, baby," Andrei managed to say, his voice still thick with pleasure. Your eyes softened as they met his, a soft smile playing on your lips as you leaned back in to kiss him again, your tongue dancing with his in a slow, passionate dance.

"I love you too, baby. Happy birthday," you murmured against his lips, your breath sweet and warm. Andrei's eyes fluttered closed as he savored the taste of your mouth, feeling a sense of peace wash over him, the afterglow of his climax lingering as his muscles relaxed.

[builtaworldwithyourlove]

Sweet

one shot

1.5k / joel miller x f!reader / minors dni

summary: summertime saturday bliss with joel. Inspired by ‘Sweet’ by Cigarettes After Sex

warnings: fluff, dad!joel, boyfriend!joel, no specific description of reader, no outbreak, age gap (reader is mid20s& joel is early to mid 40s), just a whole lotta loving. 

Main Masterlist 🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️

You were never fond of sharing a bed with anyone. As a child, you hated sleepovers and always wanted to be asleep early. As a teenager, you had a scrupulous night routine which carried on into your life now. Skincare, meditation, reading and sleep no later than 10pm. You were a light sleeper too, the slightest twitch, distant car alarm or whistle of wind would startle you.

That soon changed after you met Joel and you stayed the first night with him. He was double your size and he made sure to hold you all night. He was a deadweight and didn’t disturb you in the slightest. After the first night with him, the loss of his arms draped over you was huge and you could no longer sleep easily without him next to you.

Joel always slept in later than you, and would only wake after you did, to you either stifling a laugh to some stupid cat video, or vigorously writing down your manifestations and goals for the day. He didn’t mind. Your face first thing in the morning was a sight he’d want to cherish for the rest of his life.

‘Morning darl’ he drawled through a squint. 

‘Sleep well?’ You rolled over to face him, and he cupped your face and pulled you in for a kiss.

‘Better than ever,’ Joel rubbed his eyes and scooped your hair off over your should and behind your neck. ‘Coffee?’

🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️

You both moseyed downstairs and opened all the doors and windows, ready for the heat of an American summer to fill the home .

Joel made your coffee, exactly how you liked it, with frothed milk, plenty of syrup and in your favourite mug, engraved with your zodiac sign.

He held out his hand and you delicately took it and walked outside onto the patio. 

Wildflowers were scattered across the borders of the garden, splashes of colour and flickers of wildlife dashed throughout the morning dew.

A sparrow darted across the garden and landed the fence, calling out to the magnolia tree which shaded your patio. Joel laid propped up on his elbow as you both lounged on the deckchairs watching the birds and butterflies in the morning sun. 

He aimlessly ran his fingers up and down your leg, gazing at you sipping your coffee, and smirking with a full heart.

‘Enjoying the summer mornings baby?’ Joel drawled, as he stood up and stretched. His shirt lifted, revealing a strip of golden skin and chiselled stomach.

You tilted your head, squinting as the sun glowed into your eyes. ‘I wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else, sweet boy. The city life doesn’t even compare’

‘Well this is your home now darl’. Can’t let you go anywhere now’ Joel winked and took your empty coffee mug into the kitchen.

You followed him into the house, finding the motivation to get your life together and not strip the man down to his bare bones. 

He pointed a finger at you. ‘You, shower.’

You rolled your eyes.

‘Er, none of that little miss. I’m not having you moaning when it’s 11am and the parking lots are gridlocked and you can’t get your damn scented candles and bed linens.’

You were too stunned to speak, and cackled as he knew you too well. How could you be mad when he loved you too deeply to let you lose out?

🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️

You hopped in the shower, scrubbing yourself whilst filling the air with fragrance that came from Joel’s mahogany teakwood shower gel. Women’s toiletries smelt sweet, but didn’t last anywhere near as long as men’s. And anyway, who wouldn’t want to have Joel’s scent lingering all day.

Wrapped up in a fluffy white towel and your hair in a towel wrap, you did your makeup, brushed out your lashes and eyebrows, and drowned yourself in Lost Cherry. Your signature scent. 

You decided on a linen co ord, baby pink with shorts and a long sleeved shirt, which you had unbuttoned slightly lower than normal, but smart enough to leave enough to the imagination. 

You danced down the stairs, hearing Joel and Sarah playing in the garden. Breakfast had been made and you invited Sarah to join you on your Saturday shopping trip before Joel had to go to work 

‘Come on peanut, I’ll treat you to the soda shaped candle you wanted’ you called to Sarah and grabbed your purse and some snacks, of course. Sarah ran upstairs to find one of her favourite dresses and matching bows. You prayed she’d never grow up out of her tutu dress stage for any occasion.

Joel looked like a dream, in his cargos and tight fitting flannel. The sky could be on fire and this man would still be wearing a flannel insisting it’s never too hot. He smelt like coffee and cigarette ash, and cedarwood.

He grabbed your waist, threatening to tilt you backwards over the garden sprinkler. You yelped and whacked him off with your purse and whispered seductively ‘That’s just taken away your chance to see what’s underneath my outfit.’

He fell to his knees and lunged into you, your knees buckling as he stood up with you over his shoulders. He ran into the kitchen, still holding you as if he was a fireman and the garden was a burning flame. Sarah skipped down the stairs and immediately ran with concern hearing you yelping.

‘Ma’am, I’m gonna need you to clear the exits!’ Joel did his stupid talking down a walkie talkie impression and pointed to Sarah to give way to you both. 

She crossed her arms and stood firmly in the doorway, as if she wasn’t 4ft nothing.

‘You leave me with no choice’ Joel seemed to forget he still had you upside down over his shoulder and squatted down to put Sarah in the same position.

You clumsily bumped heads as Joel flung you both about with no care. He dropped you on the sofa and Sarah on the armchair.

You were out of breath from laughing and trying to keep some of your dignity.

Joel realised the time, he had to leave in two minutes to go to the site. 

‘Well girls, thanks for holding me up’ he jokingly muttered, trying to imitate the attitude you and Sarah sometimes give him.

Sarah looked at you and you both shook your head and giggled. Joel chucked you the car keys and you and Sarah went out to do some shopping. 

🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️

After facing the trenches of a retail park in scorching heat, you headed home. Joel had called to say he would be home before you and asked what cocktail you wanted lined up.

Sarah was asleep in her car seat, and you reversed onto the drive, texting Joel to grab Sarah while you got the bags.

Joel’s eye widened and jaw went slack as he saw you unload the car.

‘Baby, if I see another throw cushion I may have to scream.’ Joel delivered the most deadpan one liners sometimes, digging at your femininity and weakness for home furnishings. 

‘Don’t act like you don’t fall asleep on them every single night half way through the film you decided to pick’ you shut the car door and let Joel chuckle as he went and layed Sarah on the sofa.

‘What’s for dinner baby?’ Joel asked.

‘Not sure, ask Sarah when she wakes up what she wants, I got groceries yesterday so she can pick’ you kissed his cheek and reached up for the wine glasses.

You gestured at Joel if he wanted some, and he pulled the cork out of the half finished wine bottle from last night with his teeth. 

You began to crumble under how hot this man was, until he blew the cork out of his mouth and aimed it for your head. He laughed like a boy and smacked your ass as you rolled your eyes. 

‘You know Miller, for someone who likes sex so much, you’re doing an awful lot to sabotage your chances of getting some tonight’ you tapped him on the hip with your foot, and he grabbed your ankle trying to trip you up. 

‘You can’t resist this boyish charm, baby’ he winked and showed his perfect white teeth through a grin.

Sarah came tiptoeing into the kitchen and cuddled her daddy. You sat on the breakfast stool next to Joel, and she clambered onto your lap. You kissed her forehead and she wrapped her arms round her neck. 

‘Daddy, can we have Pizza and the special salad you make?’

‘Anything for my princesses’ Joel stood and wrapped his thick arms round you both, before getting dinner ready for you all.

Sarah picked up your phone and scrolled through your playlist, picking the song you were humming as you drove earlier.

‘It’s so sweet, knowing that you love me. Though we don’t need to say it to eachother, sweet’

‘I love you’ you mouthed to Joel. Your eyes welled up as the song played and filled your heart with an overwhelming feeling of how happy you were.

[tlbodine]

Stuck? Try junebugging.

I don't know who needs to hear this, but we're 5 days into nanowrimo so maybe this will be helpful.

Do you want the safety and surety of knowing what happens next in your story but can't stick to an outline? Does knowing in advance what will happen suck the joy out of discovery writing? Do you try to wing it through plots but get tangled in plot holes or have a story that runs out of steam because you can't figure out what went wrong? Are you at your most creative when you have a little bit of guidance? Do you tend to under-write? Do you get ideas in your head for random scenes and snippets that drop from the sky without context?

If any of these apply to you, junebugging a draft might be for you!

What Is Junebugging?

Since you're on Tumblr, you might already be familiar with the concept of junebugging as it relates to cleaning. If not -- I think the idea was first introduced to me by @jumpingjacktrash.

The basic idea is that you tackle cleaning by way of controlled chaos. You pick a specific area you want to focus on, like your kitchen sink, and then wander off to deal with other things as they occur to you, but always returning back to that area. You end up cleaning a little bit at a time in an order that may not make sense to an outsider but which keeps you from getting overwhelmed and discouraged.

How Does Junebugging Work in Writing?

OK, so that's great, but how does this work with writing? Well. In my case, the general idea is to jump between writing linearly, outlining, and writing out of order. It usually looks something like:

Start free-writing a scene, feeling my way through it and enjoying the discovery process.

Thinking, ok, now I have this scene, did anything need to happen to lead up to it? Do I need to go back and add some foreshadowing? Does this scene set anything up that needs to be paid off? And then jump forward/back to make those adjustments.

I'll usually have a bunch of disconnected ideas of ideas that have popped into my head, so I'll write those down in a list somewhere and then try to figure out what goes in between them and what order it goes in.

I'll write what I call "micro-scenes" which is where I'll just sketch out a few essential elements of what's going on without worrying too much about details, description, etc. -- just he did this, she said that, the setting was this, real bare-bones script. Then I can come back through and flesh out each of those microscenes into an actual scene later.

Got a story that has a complex structure? No problem. Write through each storyline one at a time and then chop them up and weave them together afterward. Write all the B plot scenes first then come back through to do A plot and C plot. Move the pieces around like legos. No one ever has to know.

This method works for me because I can't "decide" story elements in advance. I have never been able to just sit down and "figure out" what happens in a story beyond a couple steps ahead -- I have to discovery-write my way forward. But at the same time, that gets really daunting. So I zoom forward with micro-scenes, roughing out the beats in the most bare-bones way possible, then when I run out of clear vision for what happens next I backtrack, flesh out those scenes, build in connective tissue, etc. and by then I will probably find more inspiration to jump forward.

It's basically folding drafting, outlining, and revising all together into a single phase of writing, which is chaotic and goes against everything people teach you, but if it works? then it fuckin works.

Anyway, sorry for the jumbled-up post, I'm dashing this off quickly while I heat up a pizza and I'm about to dive back into my WIP -- but I hope this was a little helpful. If nothing else, take this as my blanket permission that it's 100% OK to jump around, write out of order, write messy, outline sometimes, pants sometimes, and do whatever else it takes just to get through the story. You've got this. Good luck.

[veilofaponia]

Premonition

yan feitan x reader

warnings: yandere content, stalking, sexual harassment, detailed descriptions of gore

word count: 2.4k

You’ve noticed a strange phenomenon recently.

It started off small. You’d find a chapstick you often used to have suddenly disappeared, despite being sure of where you put it last time. Or jewelry you don’t remember owning would appear strewn around in your apartment.

Then, something happened that truly made you suspicious.

The sound of two pairs of footsteps joined in with the sound of your own. They were catching up with you, though you paid no mind to it at first.

A guy’s whistle caught your attention. You turned around to the source of the sound and were greeted by two men who must’ve been around your age. Both reeked of alcohol and sweat. One of them was having trouble standing upright while the other decided to take the initiative.

“Hey, you’re cute. How about joining us for a drink?” His speech was thick. It almost sounded like he was struggling to get each individual word out.

You huffed. “Sorry, I’m not interested.” You just wanted to get home and unwind. The desire to entertain two intoxicated men really wasn’t present.

Both of them just laughed, the sound boisterous and obnoxious. The second guy spoke up this time. “What? C’mon, no need to play hard to get. I swear, we’ll buy you the highest quality drinks on the whole damn market, you’ll never wanna go back.”

You didn’t bother humoring them with a response and spun on your heel to continue home. Their personalities changed so quickly you almost assumed someone clicked a switch inside their heads. One sneered while the other reached out to tightly grab your wrist.

“What’s the matter with you? You think you’re too good for us or something?”

Without thinking, you immediately went to slap him in the face, but accidentally scraped your nails against him too. This caused the man to let go of you and press his hands against his head.

“Ow! What the hell?! This bitch just scratched me!”

There were two thin lines of blood trickling down his face, though neither were deep enough to scar. Taking a deep breath, you made your voice sound as confident as you could.

“If you don’t leave me alone,” You rummaged in your bag till you found your phone and held it up. “I’ll have no choice but to call the cops.”

The man who you’d hit gathered saliva in his mouth to spit on you, but missed and hit the ground next to you instead. His friend scoffed and murmured “You wouldn’t be able to handle us anyway.” Then, the two saw fit to walk off.

You sighed and made a mental note to carry a self defense tool next time you had to work overtime.

It wasn’t until a week later that it refreshed in your memory. You’d taken a relaxing shower and decided to finish the day by watching some tv. When you saw what was on the news, bile rose in your throat.

Two corpses had been found near the center of the city. As if whoever the perpetrator was wanted them to be found. What had been done to the pair was simply awful.

One had his legs bent in an unnatural position, an untreated third degree burn present on his left, while his right showcased an infected cut so deep bone could be seen. His tongue wasn’t in his mouth anymore and his oral cavity was stained with dried blood. Multiple teeth weren’t in his gums anymore.

They were instead found shoved down his throat.

The other had been subject to the same torture, if not worse. His head was barely attached to his neck anymore, being almost completely cut off. It had a notable dent and fragments of skull were found in his hair. Two deep cuts were visible on his forehead, continuing all the way down to his chin. It was almost like whoever had done this was trying to mimic a cat scratch.

You were stuck in a state of shock while you heard the news reporter rattle off all their wounds and what was known of the case so far. A sense of pity and empathy for the two friends filled you on top of the anxiety you felt. The channel then showed the pictures of the two men. It felt as if you’d seen their faces before but couldn’t recall when or where. Your mind was struggling to piece together the puzzle, when abruptly, it dawned on you.

These were the two men who had harassed you that day you returned from work.

You didn’t know how to react. Sure, they were assholes towards you, but a fate like this was something no one deserved.

When you processed everything you’d heard so far, you realized a similarity that the newsman didn’t comment on: their hands. Fingernails had been ripped off, burn wounds taking their place instead. Some fingers were broken, the bone completely shattered beyond repair, while others simply weren’t present. Skin had been torn off. The flesh underneath had started to rot. There was even one of them who’d had a nerve exposed, only for it to be cut in half. You shivered at how that must have felt.

You decided this story would only give you nightmares and quickly switched channels.

The media milked the case for all it was worth. With no new material besides theories online, they lost interest and moved onto the next mildly interesting story to rant about. The fact the culprit had never been found made you feel uneasy, but since the neighborhood you live in isn’t known for violent crimes, you told yourself to stop being irrational.

You’re mindlessly scrolling on your phone when the sound of a glass being slid towards you brings you back to reality. An alcoholic drink is placed in front of you, similar to the one you’d ordered beforehand. You’d told the bartender about the guy you’re meeting here and how excited you were. Now, she just gives you an apologetic smile and you murmur your thanks.

Overstimulating music induces a headache and you berate yourself for not bringing your headphones. To your left is a girl giggling at whatever compliments the mediocre guy she’s talking to is giving. You scoff at the display, refusing to admit it bothers you so much because your date never showed up.

You decide to re-check your messages with him, silently praying he’ll finally have answered you.

It’d been over an hour since you sent your first. None of them had “read” underneath them. You sigh and down your beverage, the taste warming your mouth. Anger bubbles inside you, but you’re not looking to cause a fuss in front of others. You pull out the needed amount of money and slam onto the table with much more force than you meant to. You’re cursing under your breath and clenching your fists the entire time you exit the building. What was supposed to be a date with a cute guy instead had you wishing you never agreed to meet that idiot in the first place.

You’re in front of your door and reaching for your keys when a strange smell hits you. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever smelled before. If you had to think of a comparison, you’d settle on the smell of something rotten. You grimace at the odor and assume someone must’ve not thrown away their garbage properly.

A sense of dread fills you, but you can’t seem to figure out where it’s coming from. It’s like your gut feeling is screaming at you not to enter your apartment. When you ask yourself why, you can’t arrive at a sensible answer. Concluding the alcohol must be having a negative effect on your voice of reason, you pretend not to notice and stick your key into the hole.

The voice in your head gets louder. Don’t open the door. Turn around and walk away. But you push it down, deeper and deeper, until you can’t hear it anymore.

I live in a protected neighborhood. Nothing that has happened has given me reason to be this paranoid.

The door unlocks and opens swiftly. Almost as swiftly as your expression morphing into one of pure terror.

You immediately sink to the floor. Your knees crash against the wood, but you’re too out of it to notice the pain it causes.

The guy you were supposed to meet today. He’s here. On your floor. There’s cuts all across his entire body, a larger one on his torso taking the center of the stage.

Tears are starting to obscure your vision. You wish they could wash out the sight in front of you right now, never to be seen again. You’re digging your nails so tightly into your palms blood is being drawn.

This doesn’t make sense. This shouldn’t be happening. Why is this happening?

Police. I need to call the police.

Even in your frenzied state, you have enough clarity to remember your phone so you can dial the emergency number. Your eyes are fixated on the body in front of you while your arm reaches for your bag. But your hand doesn’t find it, instead meeting the texture of your floor. You direct your gaze to where your bag should be, but isn’t. In fact, you don’t see it at all.

Instead, your eyes notice a pair of gray shoes that doesn’t belong to you. Your eyebrows furrow at this. Looking up reveals a sight that sickens you to the very core.

A man is looking down at you. Blood is soaking into the fabric of his clothing and into his dark hair. Blood is dripping onto the floor. The air feels heavy with his presence, weighing down onto anything and everything else. So much so you’re having trouble breathing.

Reading his facial expression is hard, a cowl covering a large part of it. But his eyes tell you all you need to know. They’re glimmering. He’s clearly thrilled at the situation.

He sounds pleased with himself when he speaks up. “Like it? Gift.”

A sinking feeling forms in your stomach while processing his words. You can’t think of something to say, even if you could.

“He’s not the only one. Two more. Those on the news.” The way he speaks is like a blacksmith’s blade, every word instilling fear deeper into you.

If Feitan wasn’t so proficient in Nen, his bloodlust would’ve surely leaked out and alerted you by now. The display in front of him disgusted him, the pair of men truly digging their own grave. He had to remain patient, just a bit longer. Then, like the thief he is at heart, he could steal you away.

He throws one last look your way before turning around and tailing the guys who’d bothered you. Whatever their corpses would look like when Feitan was done would be their own fault, he reasons. After all, he’s not nearly as tolerant of behavior like that as you are.

“Then, the one who killed them...” You don’t finish your sentence, fearing the answer you already know. His eyes crinkle with delight before a thin, pale finger points at himself. Fear stirs inside you like ash.

The blood on the pliers was starting to dry. The one who had put his hands on you was much worse for wear than the one who’d only spoken. His breathing is coming out uneven and ragged, his heartbeat going at a slow and irregular pace. When this hell for them started, the first thing Feitan wanted to do was recreate the way your nails scraped against the mans face. The sight of blood dripping down due to Feitan in the same manner you drew blood excites him, even if his version is a lot more brutal.

You open your mouth but no sound comes out. You don’t know what to say. Any words that escape could very well be your last.

At the lack of a response, the man clicks his tongue and walks towards the body on the floor. Your eyes follow him.

He settles his leg on top of your date’s chest and applies pressure. You assumed he was already dead, bled out to death, but your hypothesis is proven incorrect when his bloodshot eyes shoot open and stare deeply into yours. His chest is still weakly moving up and down and his heart is still pumping blood. If only the organs would just give up; it’d be a mercy for both him and you.

You wish you could look away, anywhere but the gruesome display in front of you. Your nerves must’ve stopped sending signals to your brain, because your entire body is refusing to move.

Through the weak breaths of the dying man, you can make out a single word.

Help.

The orchestrator of this event must see this as some kind of comedy event. His eyes betray his amusement before he regards you again. “Go on. Help him.”

This causes your frayed nerves to finally spring into action. Your vocal chords seem to have finally regained the ability to produce sound, though your voice comes out cracked and fragile. “I really don’t understand what’s happening. I just-” I don’t want to die like them. “Is there anything I can do to get you to go away and leave me alone?”

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, appearing to genuinely consider an answer to your question. Then, he delivers his verdict. “No.”

Mortification seeps deeper into your bones, but he doesn’t grant you any time to recover. He begins to walk towards you. His footsteps are quiet to the point it’s uncanny.

Sparing a final glance to the man begging for your help, you mumble a “sorry” and redirect your attention to the one approaching you. Your attempts to scoot away with him are just met with a huff and a grip on your arm. No matter how deep you plunge your nails into his skin, he doesn’t relent. When you run out of energy to continue, he pulls you up by the arm he’s holding so his mouth is positioned near the shell of your ear.

This time, he pulls down his cowl before whispering into your ear.

“If you don’t want any more victims, you come with me.”

[infamous-if]

Dec ✮ 12 ✮ 2024 – update

Part of me hates doing these mostly because it's a whole lotta nothing and me just repeating everything I said the last update (lol) but I do like doing it because I like keeping people updated, even if it's a non-update. I may sound like a broken record (pun not intended) but I know a lot of people don't catch my updates every time so it's nice to just keep people informed yk yk

✮ — Part 2 + rewrite

Fun fact: I had written an entire essay about my excitement for the rewrite and chapter 3 and beyond but it got too long!

It boiled down to me wondering why I'm so excited for this rewrite and realizing it's because I feel comfortable enough to approach it with complete creative freedom. I wrote the first iteration of the demo with the constant worries swimming in my head like "I hope people understand what I'm trying to say here" and "I hope this situation is being read the way I intended for it to be read." And I think I sort of had those thoughts tenfold while writing Part 2. If you paid attention, you can probably see where I was trying to shut down certain discussions in the narrative lmao

Recently I had a tiny epiphany and reminded myself that it's not always about what I intend to write, but what is being understood by each reader. And yes this is basic writing 101 but let me have this moment of clarity okay. Embracing that means I can proceed with Infamous without holding back and sticking to my guns in regards to what I want for this story aka I'm just going to write what I write and like....not worry about the rest you feel (while of course integrating the common critiques and suggestions and improving on the things Infamous falls short in—I am not Shakespeare lmao)

ANYWAY my point is that I'm excited to fix up the demo !!! and just go back to it with complete confidence in myself and write whatever the heck feels right to me (and write the rest of the story lolol) and return with a better story than I have now for everyone!!

✮ — December will be for

planning what I'm going to improve and squeezing that in a reworked outline so it can flow much better narratively.

Outlining Chapter 3 and hopefully have the bare bones first draft drafted up which is mostly just be writing blocks of descriptions

I'm not sure I'll have anything substantial to justify looking for beta testers so soon yet but maybe!

work on my spice writing babey writing/reading spice makes me actually physically recoil but im determined to get better! which reminds me to finish the 6k follower gifts!

And also take a small breather because I am moving!

✮ — Patreon

I've already mentioned this on Patreon and a few times on here, but I do want to reiterate that Patreon content is coming out in bulk this month, in case anyone was wondering why I'm not posting as frequently. The content is still the same in terms of the quantity, it just won't be released every few days! thank you guys for being understanding of that <3

✮ —

My activity has is decreasing little by little due to my move but I do read every question and try to at least answer one question a day. I get quite a few mentions lately so I have to sort through those since I do get tagged in things, but I miss them due to my notifications. Usually I hope for the best and hope tracking the tag puts it on my dashboard <3 im not ignoring anyone!

That's all for now! Hope everyone has a happy December and Happy Holidays!

[lilacevans]

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒍: 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒕𝒆'𝒔 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒃𝒍𝒆.

✧.*ೃ⁀➷ pete's place | the intro | opening night | the playlist ༊*·˚

✧.* : ̗̀➛ paring: dark!steve rogers x female!reader. (non-descriptive) ✧.* : ̗̀➛ word count: 375. ✧.* : ̗̀➛ warnings: choking, rough sex, stevie being stevie. ✧.* : ̗̀➛ requested by: @ellethespaceunicorn ✧.* : ̗̀➛ notes: this one is kinda softer than the other's recently, but still steve losing his shit bc that's fun to me. anyway, enjoy my loves and as always, pls lemme know what you think!!!!<3 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑣𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ༊*·˚

*this is an 18+ space. minors are not welcome here.

*this is a dark au. there are no happy endings here.

You quickly found your favourite thing about sex with Steve was the slow climb of making him absolutely lose his shit.

The fun of gradually plucking at the strings of his resolve with every slide of your hands across his skin, every rolling wave of your hips, every soft kiss laid upon his lips; every muted moan, soft gasp, and throat-kept whine. Watching those blue eyes bleed into black as his hands tighten on your hips and his head tips back, shamelessly letting melodic, pitiful moans encapsulate the air around you both. 

You loved how a few fingers pressed tight against made him bare his teeth, sucking in a hiss as your nails stung moon-shaped marks into the creamy flesh; your own darkened eyes meeting his as the rolls of your hips were forced into harsh bounces. Your teasing moans turned into desperation as you were speared repeatedly onto his cock. You craved the diminished restraint, his unbearable need for everything you, and just how violently he was willing to take it. 

You reveled in burning marks left by the carpet as you inevitably ended up manhandled to your knees. His relentless retaliation was a hand snug around your throat that forced struggled breathy pleas out into the room as you were dragged back against the fervent snaps of his hips. Your neck was bent at its brink by Steve’s thick fingers that flexed against the columns of your neck, threatening the strength hidden behind flesh and bone; the strength that could leave you seeing stars for weeks. 

You basked in the stutter of his movements, the strangled nonsensical rambling enveloped in lust-filled moans as he neared his end. The damp forehead that rested heavily on your back as his chest heaved for air. The fingers that bruised kisses into your neck that turned into soft strokes and kept your chin cradled comfortably as your deprived lungs sucked down the oxygen. The wet, delicate lips that left a trail down your spine as you’re flipped over and pulled into the heaven of his arms. The praise that left you a puddle, the kisses that melted the pain away. 

You cherished the man that was everything Heaven and Hell. 

[dalliancekay]

I'm just gonna write out what I think cos if someone sends me this again for the 113th time, I'm gonna snap. Look. Interviews (months!) before a premiere of something are tricky. You gotta be careful and VAGUE with what you say and what you want people to expect. Mostly creators focus on the themes in the first, maybe second episodes or so too trying not to give away much. Just the bare bones, what is already expected anyway. After all, they want you to watch it and go: "Ahhhh...." It was the same in S2 as well. (David describing in interviews how unmoored Crowley was in S2, how kind of disappointed etc and Michael how Az is also a bit disconcerted by not having a job, something big to belong to). But that's a description of - how we find the Ineffables in ep1, rather than describing the whole of Season 2. And there was a book first before the series and you must admit Aziraphale and Crowley are a bit different in the series than they are in the book. So caution was needed. PLUS their story has evolved again. It doesn't now end in the Ritz (I know it never really did for Neil and Terry who clearly wanted them to deal with the whole system somehow). The husbands have more trouble ahead. More details were added. We got more of their story, their journeys. Crowley doesn't change and is just waiting for Aziraphale to catch up with him is not much of a story, don't you think? Aziraphale is a naïve goody two shoes angel who has to realise Heaven is bad - is just so simple I'd be angry if I was Neil and read that. Well, okay, I AM angry.

And I'm sorry but Aziraphale has not lived a guarded life. He has lived a life of fear and anxiety with bosses who underestimate, belittle and laugh at him and think he's soft and rather pointless. Does anyone know what the question was Neil answers?

Yeah, Aziraphale changes a lot in S1 (esp first 2 eps, he's kind of forced to think about the stuff that was always kinda there but swept under a rug a bit in is mind). Crowley throws out - we should do something. This whole Armageddon thing, I don't like it. He is so much a questioner of everything, isn't he. Why does it have to be tis way. Makes no sense, what if... And generally, he doesn't have much to lose. If Hell wins, well, he knows what it's like. If Heaven wins, well, it'd be marginally better? Just about? If he survives to see it? Still sucks balls tho. So yes, David is right that Crowley NEEDS Aziraphale to see things his way and quickly. Cos EARTH.

Aziraphale knows the Earth came with a manual and an expiry date. He even told this to Angel!Crowley aeons ago.

So Aziraphale's journey (is not stopping believing Heaven is good and truth and light) is believing that he has choices. That the Plan might be Ineffable but it doesn't have to follow what he was told it must follow.

Crowley says, look, let's try, what do we have to lose. You like Earth as much as I do. And he gets Aziraphale to agree, they hatch a plan.

We watch Crowley come to love and trust Aziraphale through the ages after all he has been through. We watch Aziraphale to guard their little existence and carefully push at boundaries of what he thinks he can get away with. He wonders at what things are really like. What do they mean.

Their journey, is towards each other.

I don't know how they will smash the System before they fall into a tight embrace and never let go, but I know they will. Even if they have no idea yet that that is even possible. How could they.

And if I see one more post about how Aziraphale was backsliding and choosing his ‘faith’ over Crowley in the Final 15, I will set the internet on fire.

I can never decide if Heaven and Hell are more like mafia or like a dictatorship. Maybe a mix of both. Just cos they couldn't be killed, they were left alone for a bit. Didn't last long though, did it. They needed to be separated so they don't stop another go at destroying the little Universe project God started. I guess the Archangels are quite fed up with it.

Remember. Aziraphale and Crowley have nowhere to go. They never had. The best they could do was keep their little places on Earth. For themselves. For each other. Until they couldn't.

If you thought Aziraphale won't take the chance to have a tiny glimmer of an opportunity to destroy the fucking system in whatever way he can come up with (instead of what, being downmoted, having his memory erased too?), than you don't get him at all. Did he want to stay? You heard him say it. Was he allowed to? (No, really Metatron, nice chat but do fuck off for real now, I have a date with my demon). If you think Metatron wouldn't be back with a punishment for helping Gabriel than I don't know what to tell you.

Remember this?

And then they threatened the demon he loves.

ALSO Why do people keep bringing this back to justify their vague (or not so vague) dislike of Az (but but Neil said "I think Aziraphale needs to learn") cos they think Az betrayed Crowley by leaving or something. The angel is just so stubborn. And he just won't listen to Crowley... right? /s And they ignore all the other wonderful things Neil says about Aziraphale. Especially pointing out again and again and again how smart Aziraphale is. And you can see this. In canon. On screen. In the words and scenes of what Neil wrote. You can see Aziraphale's struggles - he is a part of something he disagrees with and has no way out (Hell is not a way out btw) and tries to live in his existence in the little bubble with Crowley while being extremely careful not to have it burst. Until it inevitably does. Just as he always knew it would. But okay, if you want to have Good Omens be about a demon who figured everything out and is now waiting for his fluffy little angel to catch up and apologise to him (a million times) for being stupid so they can finally ride into the sunset, have at it. TL;DR - Heaven is good and Heaven should/could be good are two different things - Aziraphale is not an idiot; whether he still believes God is good/neutral/whatever and just the management bad or not is up in the air, we can't know unless we ask him, but it's definitely not so simple as he needs to see it's bad, like Crowley did, end of story - The Ineffables HAVE NOWHERE TO GO. There isn't a secret third option where they can leave for and be happy if only Aziraphale opened his eyes - it's what the story is about - Crowley left Heaven for an even worse place. It would make zero sense for Aziraphale to follow his journey. Crowley is not free and doesn't have all the answers - I bet it has never occurred to either of them the whole System can be ever changed (we don't even know if it can be. The System is bigger than the UNIVERSE) - But I think that's what they'll do in S3

[adventuringblind]

Band-Aids are for Speed

Lando Norris x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Street Racer AU

Summary: The five times she patched Lando up, and the one time he patched up her.

Warnings: Injury descriptions, broken bones, cuts, bruises, blood, illigal street racing, car accidents

Notes: Author is not a doctor but has watched medical dramas... don't judge my knowledge!

Side Note: I hope le requester enjoys this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Masterlist // Request Form // My Website // buy me a Ko-Fi

The first time she met Lando, he was siting in the emergency room waiting to be stitched up. She quietly hums to herself while setting up as the other nurse changes places with her.

The deep gash on his arm makes her wonder what he did to get it, but she also knows better then to ask. He doesn't look like he's in the mood to talk anyway.

It takes approximately three minutes for her to retract that statement. "So, you come here often?"

The question takes her so of guard that she doesn't know what to do with it aside from take the next few seconds to process. Is it not obvious that she works here?

"Do you mean the hospital? Or in this room specifically?" She laughs lightly at the ridiculousness of her patient and blames the minor blood loss.

"Nah, I mean in my presence." He smirks.

She tries to focus on her work. "Can't say I have."

"Would you like to be in it more?"

He gives her his number before he leaves. He dots the 'i' in his name with a heart.

She texts him the second she gets him to ask if he's bless her with his presence again.

♡♡♡♡♡♡

In the few months they've been seeing each other she's learned that Lando is obsessed with cars. It's cute when he jumps into excited rants about his favorite subject.

With the amount they've been talking, it's not shocking that Lando texts her in the evening. She assumes it'll be another silly joke. Instead she's met with frenzied sentences and misspelled words about need medical attention.

She doesn't hesitate to drive to his place. In hindsight, she really should've asked him why he didn't go to A&E when he's bleeding all over the bathroom floor.

"Please tell me you didn't get jumped." She kneels down and sets about getting him a position where she can see what she's doing.

He groans in pain as she moves him. "Nope! It was spectacular though."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I crashed the car but still won." He lets out a triumphant hoot.

This man can never give her all the details at one. "You got in a car accident?! How is that winning?!"

"Because I won the money... duh." He's definitely delirious now. Probably has a concussion. "Oh, I didn't tell you? I street race."

There's that strange part of her that is intrigued and curious to know more, specifically because that adds to his sex appeal (like he wasn't hot enough already). The logical side of her brain that is currently staring at Lando bleeding says otherwise. "Uh, no... you didn't."

"Well isn't that unfortunate! You coulda seen me crash today if you had."

Lando is half asleep by the time she is done. She's barely able to wrangle him into bed with how uncoordinated he is. It's useless keeping him awake.

She turns the lights off and is about to leave - "Will you stay?"

"I can, yeah, do you want me on the couch or is there another bedroom?"

"In bed with me. You can stay here - with me."

Against her better judgment, she does.

♡♡♡♡♡♡

She doesn't usually work the weekend shift but one of the nurses is on vacation and she could us the extra hours. She leaves her phone on vibrate in her pocket in case of a 'family emergency.'

Said emergency being Lando who is more accident prone on the weekends. Somehow, less accident prone in the car and more when he's doing normal people tasks.

Sometimes she wonders if her gets hurt on purpose just so he has an excuse to see her. She keeps telling him he doesn't need one - just in case - but he still calls and she goes. It's not like she has much else to do with her time aside.

She really shouldn't be shocked when he ends up in emergency clutching his arm. He gives her a bashful smile and tries to awkwardly wave. "Hi."

"And what, my love, are you in for this time?"

"I slipped on the stairs..."

Another male, a tall brunette who she knows as George, hits him playfully on the head. "No he did not! This idiot decided it would be a brilliant idea to tie a skateboard to the back of Alex's car and sit on it while Alex drove."

She throws a stern look at Lando and his smile goes from bashful to downright embarrassed. "You're lucky it's just you're arm."

By the time he's set free into the world to make more impulsive decisions, she makes the executive decision to make him wait until she's done working. He puts a pout on his lips, but it goes away when she sends him to the cafeteria.

They drive home listening to the indie station. The one he's made her fall in love with.

"Thank you, again."

"You've got to stop thanking me, Lan. It is literally my job." She laughs a little at herself for that one.

"Yeah, but, that's not all. You're the only person who doesn't freak out on me for doing stupid shit. Like I know I shouldn't do it but it gives me that adrenaline that racing does." The sincerity in his voice nearly takes her off guard.

"I can't tell what to do, but I'll always be there when you need a patch job."

"And I'll be there when you need a ride." He winks.

♡♡♡♡♡♡

The first time she's at one of Lando's races, she can feel the thrumming in her heart. The excitement of the start and the fear that he could possibly die doing this.

He jogs over to her right before the start. His hands clumsily find her waist and he smash his lips on hers. "For good luck." He whispers as he pulls away.

She doesn't let go, however. She pulls a band aide out of her pocket and sticks it to his hand. It's a crayon, but she highly doubts he'll care to much.

"What's this for?"

"I had a little girl today who told me that Band-Aids give you speed. I thought you might try it."

"When I win, it'll be all because of you."

Lando does win. She buys more Band-Aids with some of the prize money.

♡♡♡♡♡♡

She's there when the crash happens. The boys had deemed her the official medical personnel. Which she's glad for, since they are the ones getting her to the crash site. In record time - it has to be - she's sure she's never gone this fast before.

She dives out of the back of the truck to the driver side door. Lando sits there, a few visible cuts, but he's smiling at her. She has half a mind to give the boy an earful, but refrains since he did just crash.

It takes her, Alex, and George to get him out of the car and into the truck. She stitches him up before they go home. In her car, mind you, since the one Lando drove is out of order.

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't be - just - please remember that I can't fix every kind of injury."

They curl up in bed together. The long night having drained them both of their energy.

"Maybe, but at least my odds of surviving until my thirties have gone up with you around."

"At this rate, you're more likely to die doing dishes then driving."

"That was one time!"

♡♡♡♡♡♡

It wasn't supposed to be this way. She was supposed to go home, not end up back at her job.

Granted, she's here for a different reason now. One that's not her fault and she's pissed about it. She's going to explode with emotions. Her body hurts so much.

Fucking drunk drivers. Who gave them the right to say it's her fault? Telling her she's lucky it wasn't worse.

A soft knock at the door draws her attention. Lando stands there look mildly disheveled. Still, he has his hands on his hips and rolls his eyes. "Whatever am I going to do with you, my love? Always getting into accidents!"

He comes to lay beside her on the bed and she wiggles to make accommodate him. He pulls out a box of bandages from his pocket and proceeds to put them everywhere she has a new mark.

The stress of it all finally breaks through. She sobs into his shoulder and clings to his sweatshirt. "Thank you."

"Hey, none of that. I owe you for all the Band-Aids you've used on me and all those times you've patched me up."

"Does this mean I can drive your car now? Since I have extra speed?"

Lando raises his eyebrows. "Maybe not drive, but I can think of other things we can do with speed." He wiggles said eyebrows suggestively.

"How about, a speedy recovery? You have plenty of those."

"Alright fine, a speedy recovery - and I'll be here for all of it with a plethora of crayon Band-Aids because I bought them all just for you."