Author Topic: The pack (Read 25 times)

Inkglitched · « **on:** February 10, 2026, 08:55:06 pm »

Dawn crept in softly, sunlight spilling over Alastor's form like a delicate veil. Slowly stirring, the teen awoke to the familiar hum of his siblings bustling about, their morning routine in full swing.

His mother’s voice echoed from downstairs, urging him to get out of bed. Reluctantly, he complied, the weight of facing a new school day pressing heavily on his chest. This was supposed to be a fresh start, an escape from the nightmare of last year—but the thought of seeing "him" again churned his stomach with dread.

Alastor glanced at his hands, flexing his fingers as if trying to grasp some invisible strength. Rising, he dressed with a newfound awareness. He had changed—something within him had shifted. His vision was sharper now; the glasses he once relied on were unnecessary. He considered wearing fake ones, uncertain how others would perceive this version of him. But today marked a new beginning, the unveiling of his true self.

Descending the stairs, he helped his mother feed the younger siblings and get them onto the bus for elementary school. Then, it was his turn—boarding the bus to Summit High. He pushed his hair back, slipping in a headphone to drown out the noise of his fellow students, a barrier against the whispers he imagined were directed at him.

The rumors of his "fistfight" with Blaze had spread the previous year. The truth remained hidden, buried by the influence of Blaze’s father and his wealth. No one knew the real story.

When the bus arrived, Alastor stepped off and made his way to his locker. He gathered his books, sliding them into his backpack, his mind ticking through his schedule. Pulling it from his pocket, he scanned the list, mentally preparing for the day ahead.
The alarm claws at 5:47 a.m.
Nathan doesn’t hit snooze; he yanks the cord from the wall and lets the sudden quiet ring in his ears.

“Vstavai, zolotse,” comes the papery call from the next room.

“I’m up, Babushka.” Only for her does his voice lose the barbs.

He moves through the one-bedroom on rails: kettle on, oatmeal stirred, pillbox checked against the Sharpie grid on the fridge. He helps her sit, wraps the red thread back around her wrist, rubs lavender onto her hands until the ache loosens. She eats three spoonfuls and glares at the fourth; he takes the hint, swaps to toast with honey.

“School,” she reminds him, eyes bright with that no-nonsense nurse glance.

He nods, tucks a note under the remote—Back by 3:15. Call if dizzy.—then shoulders his backpack and clips the beat-up skateboard to it. The morning air is knife-cool. Good. It keeps him mean.
On the way he detours through the gas-station convenience store he knows too well. Cameras like spiders in the ceiling corners; one blind spot by the rotating sunglasses rack. He buys a bottled water he doesn’t want, palming a sandwich and a bag of chips on the turn. The clerk’s watching a soccer replay, shouting at a goal that already happened. Nathan’s out the door with a nod that looks like he paid for more than he did.

Five fingers, full lunch. He tells himself he’ll drop a ten in the charity jar when he has a ten.

Summit High rises like a bad joke against the sky. He keeps his hood up, shoulder clipped, eyes forward. The halls smell like disinfectant and panic. At his locker he pops the dented door with a practiced jerk and starts stashing the contraband—board, chips, sandwich, water—when the hair lifts on the back of his neck.

Chlorine and cheap cologne. Gum snapped like a warning. Blaze.

The door slams shut on his knuckles. He doesn’t flinch. He turns, already scowling, already bored.

“Back for more, Nate?” Blaze drawls, using the name like a thumb in an old bruise. Laughter from the orbiting goons. Then the uglier thing—an ugly slur tossed like a beer can.

“It’s Nathan,” he says, calm as a fuse. “Try the two syllables. Your mouth can handle it.”

Blaze steps in. He’s taller, broader, and he thinks that matters. “You still hit like you sing—shaky.”
Nathan’s hands itch. Every nerve whispers yes. Not because of the words—words are air—but because this is simple math. Distance. Timing. How to stop the world from grinding his teeth to powder for one clean second.

Blaze makes the first mistake. His right shoulder twitches; his eyes go to where he wants the punch to land. Nathan’s body moves before the thought forms—left foot slides, chin tucked, slip outside the jab. Leather and bone pass through where his head was.

He answers with economy: double-jab to blind, step inside, short hook to the ribs. It’s not big; it’s correct. Blaze folds a fraction, breath catching on surprise. Nathan’s glove-less knuckles sing.

“Still shaky?” Nathan murmurs.

Blaze snarls and grabs, going for a clinch and a throw. Nathan pivots, peels the grip, taps a straight to the sternum that’s more message than damage. He could chase the head. He wants to. The wanting hums like an amp warming up.

A whistle blows. Hall monitor. Then another adult voice, sharp with authority. Hands hook under Nathan’s arms from behind—assistant coach, of course—and Blaze instantly becomes the wounded prince.

“He swung first!” Blaze coughs, clutching his ribs for effect. “Crazy as ever.”

Nathan doesn’t bother arguing. He’s already tired of the play. He lets the coach drag him, feet still under him, jaw set. The goons grin. Witnesses look away. The camera above the math wing blinks its indifferent red light.

As they round the corner he tips his head back and stares at the ceiling tiles until the urge to go back and finish it dissolves to ash. Babushka’s hands. Honey on toast. The note by the remote.

He exhales and lets the anger settle where it belongs, a hot coin under the tongue.

“Office,” the coach says.

“Yeah,” Nathan answers. “I know the way.”
The alarm went off at 5:30, but Asher was already lacing up his running shoes. His first day as a senior at Summit High wasn’t going to change his routine—an early-morning run kept the wolf in check, and he wasn’t about to risk snapping at someone before homeroom. By the time he jogged the last block back, lungs burning and hair damp with sweat, the sun had only just cleared the rooftops.

Shower. Dressed. Bag slung. Breakfast half-done before he stomped down the hall to his sister’s room.

“Adara,” he said, knocking once. “Up. Now.”

A muffled groan answered him. Then silence.

He opened the door a crack to see a tangle of dark hair with streaks of blue peeking from under the blanket. “I’m serious. School starts at seven.”

One eye opened, narrowing at him like he’d personally ruined her life. “Five more minutes.”

“You said that yesterday.”

Adara buried her face in the pillow. “I’m a senior now. I need my beauty rest.”

“You need a cattle prod,” Asher muttered, but he smirked anyway. Ten minutes later she dragged herself into the bathroom, and by the time she was in front of the mirror with her arsenal of brushes and palettes, he was pacing the living room.

“Ready in five,” she called.

It turned into twenty. Asher checked the clock every thirty seconds, bouncing his leg. “We’re going to be late.”
“Relax,” Adara said breezily when she finally appeared, eyeliner sharp enough to kill. “It’s fashionably late.”

“It’s almost criminally late.” But when she begged him to drive her so she could tweak her makeup some more, he sighed . “Fine. Just don’t
Make me drive slowly,"
---

They pulled into Summit High’s **** parking lot with two minutes to spare. Asher killed the engine, ready to sprint inside—only to freeze as shouting carried across the lot. A circle of students had formed near the math wing doors.

“Fight?” Adara asked, perking up instantly.

Asher’s stomach sank when he spotted the bigger figure in the middle. Blaze.

Blaze and his orbiting pack of sycophants.

And facing him, jaw set, hood half-up, was someone Asher didn’t know—pale, sharp-edged, the kind of kid people called “emo” when they wanted to be cruel. Later, he’d learn the name: Nathan Black.

The chaos played out in fast snapshots: Blaze’s fist cocked, the sneer curling his lip, the slur that carried ugly across the lot. Nathan’s reply was low, steady. A blur of movement—slip, jab, hook. Blaze stumbling, clutching his ribs, shock painted across his face. The crowd erupted.

Then whistles. Coaches cutting in. Hands grabbing Nathan’s arms, Blaze already crying foul.

“He swung first!” Blaze shouted, doubled over with all the drama of a stage actor. “He’s crazy!”

Asher’s hackles rose. He saw it clear—every move, every word. Nathan hadn’t started it. He’d finished it clean.

Adara’s eyes narrowed. “Lying sack of—”

“C’mon,” Asher said, already striding forward. “They’re not pinning this on him.”

They trailed after the assistant coach, ignoring the stares of Blaze’s entourage.
Inside, Nathan walked with the weary posture of someone who’d been here before—shoulders squared, jaw tight, every step echoing with quiet defiance. Asher and Adara exchanged a look.

“Witnesses,” Adara whispered. “They’ll need witnesses.”

Asher nodded, the decision already made. If Blaze wanted to spin his lies, then fine—but he wasn’t going to let Nathan carry the weight of them alone.

--Fin--
Alastor heard a commotion—a door slamming shut. His head snapped around to see Blaze, frozen mid-step, his mouth pressed into a thin line, fear flickering across his lanky frame.

Observing the scene unfold, it was obvious who had instigated the altercation. Alastor’s fear morphed into anger—Blaze couldn’t keep getting away with the stunts . Or could he?

His eyes darted to two figures already trailing the assistant coach: a visibly annoyed girl and a familiar jock—Asher. Who wouldn’t recognize him? Alastor glanced at the small mirror tucked inside his locker, let out a deep sigh, and muttered, “Might as well try—fucker can’t keep getting away with ****,” slamming his locker shut with resolve.

His feet carried him toward the office. Removing his headphones, he tucked them into his bag and strode past Asher, briefly locking eyes with Nathan before positioning himself on the other side. The assistant coach began to tell him to move along to class with the other two. His icy blue eyes flashed subtly.

“He didn’t do it coach. I saw what happened, and *Blaze* started it. I’m a witness.” He said calmly.

“Or you going to assume one side without hearing the other- *you’re really good about that.*” the last part mumbled in Spanish, getting a look from him.
—fin—
Nathan sank into the hard chair, jaw tight, his knuckles still buzzing from the fight. He’d already started building the usual walls in his head—silent, detached, waiting for the verdict to come down like it always did. He knew the rhythm of this song. Blaze threw the first punch, Nathan threw the last, and somehow the blame always stuck to him.

He didn’t notice the others at first. His mind was too loud, chewing on the same bitter thought: scapegoat again. But movement at the edge of his vision pulled him out of it—three figures trailing after the coach. Seniors, like him.

The jock. His sister. And the dark-haired kid with the pale stare who had actually locked eyes with him.

Nathan’s brow furrowed. What the hell were they doing? He expected mocking, or pity. Not… that. And when the goth opened his mouth, when he said exactly what had happened, Nathan’s eyes went wide for the briefest second.

No one ever told the truth for him. No one ever stood up.

A hundred alarm bells went off in his head. What was their angle? Nobody did this out of kindness. Not for him.

The coach tried to wave them off, shoo them back toward class, but Nathan stayed silent. He’d learned the hard way that defending himself only ever made things worse. So he sat there, stone still, eyes hard, letting the others talk.

But when his gaze flicked up—when one of them caught it—they wouldn’t find gratitude there. Only sharp, suspicious distrust. Like he was daring them to prove this wasn’t some trick, some setup.

Inside, though, the confusion lingered like a splinter: Why? Why are they even here?

-fin-
The coach stiffened. Before he could bark back, another voice cut through.

Asher cleared his throat, steady and controlled. “Coach, you’ve got it wrong.”

The man swung toward him, brows snapping together. “Excuse me?”

“I was there,” Asher said, his voice carrying the weight of someone who didn’t bluff. His shoulders squared, solid as a wall. “So was my sister. Blaze threw the first punch. Nathan defended himself.”

Adara—half leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyeliner sharp as her tone—let out a dramatic sigh. “Meatheads,” she muttered just loud enough. “Always think size equals right.” She tipped her chin toward Blaze’s absent chair and back again, one brow lifted in mockery. “Newsflash—it doesn’t.”

The coach’s mustache twitched like it wanted to fight them on its own. “Now, look—”

“No, you look,” Adara interrupted, sugar and steel wrapped into every syllable. “We saw it. Blaze spat a slur, swung first, and Nathan dodged. That’s it. He didn’t start it, he ended it. Check the crowd if you don’t believe us—but I bet half of them will suddenly forget how to talk.”

Asher nodded once, firm. “We’re not here to argue sides. We’re telling you the truth.”

For a beat the only sound was the tick of the wall clock. The coach’s gaze bounced from Asher’s calm defiance to Adara’s unflinching stare, then to Alastor—still watching with those pale, unblinking eyes—and finally to Nathan, who sat silent, jaw tight, like he’d been through this rodeo too many times already.

The coach exhaled through his nose. “Fine. I’ll… make sure the principal hears all of it.” The words tasted sour on his tongue.

“Good,” Asher replied evenly. He didn’t move.
The coach frowned. “That’ll be all, then. The rest of you, get to class—”

“No,” Asher interrupted, tone firm but calm. “We’ll stay.”

The coach blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said, we’ll stay,” Asher repeated, golden-brown eyes steady. “We’re witnesses. If the principal’s hearing about the fight, he’s hearing it from us. Not just secondhand.”

Adara smirked faintly from her perch against the wall. “Translation: we don’t trust you to tell it right. No offense.” She tilted her head, all faux-innocence. “Actually—offense very much intended.”

The coach’s cheeks flushed. “Now see here—”

Asher didn’t flinch. “I’ve seen how this goes. Blaze starts something, the other person gets blamed. Not this time. Not when we were standing right there.”

Adara spoke again, quiet but cutting. “Three of us saw the same thing. That’s more than Blaze can claim.”

The room went still. The coach’s jaw worked, but the combined weight of three unyielding stares left him cornered. With a grunt, he threw up his hands. “Fine. Sit. But don’t expect this to win you any favors. Disrupting class on the first day—”

“Standing up for the truth isn’t disruption,” Asher said flatly.

Adara’s smirk turned sly, her voice dropping low enough that only Asher caught it: “Dad would be proud.”

The coach glared daggers at all four of them but fell silent. Just then the secretary’s voice floated from the hall.
“The principal’s ready for you.”

Asher rose, steady as stone. “Good. Let’s go.”
Alastor noticed Nathan's distrust—and he couldn't really blame him. Before the year he had rearranged Blaze's face, he probably would have kept his head down just to avoid becoming another target.

Had he known it, he was just one of the fools who believed Blaze was the sun—radiant, untouchable. The popular guy everyone either aspired to be or longed to be with. Instead he let himself get drawn in- and he ended up burned.

His eyes softened slightly at Nathan's demeanor. He might not have been able to claim his own justice, but there was no way he was going to stand by and watch someone become another victim. He knew what Blaze was capable of.

He listened to the other two teens chatter about staying and sharing their side of the story. It was almost amusing to watch the coach ease up on Asher, appearing noticeably more lenient with the jock.

The stammer, the body language. He still remembered being desperate like that, wanting his truth out. But it never came- his was buried under blaze’s father’s influence.

Once inside, he listened to the coach. He caught it. “I saw—“he interrupted.

"No, you didn’t. You came up after the fact. Blaze told you he started it. Of course, Mister O’Donnell, Blaze did," he said sharply.

He wasn’t stupid. He recognized the language some teachers used to claim authority, pretending they had witnessed events from the very beginning.

“Young man, please let Coach Linmen finish,” O’Donnell began, only for Alastor to interject again, "Why—when he’s lying?"

“Now, young man…” the principal started, then paused.

There was an unfamiliar look—a furrowed brow. Alastor sighed, "It’s Alastor, sir. Alastor Rodriguez."

He watched as the principal paled slightly, a subtle shift of gaze toward the assistant coach, followed by a sigh. "If you believe he lied, when did you first notice it?" the principal asked.

The coach slightly sputtered to get a mild look to quiet down.

>>>
He figured the man felt guilty. It didn’t matter- he took it.

“I’ll be honest, the door slam first caught my attention.“ he said softly. “When I turned Nathan was keeping his hands to himself. Then I noticed blaze going to hit the guy, and well Nathan fought back in self defense.” He said recounting what he saw.

He observed the principal sigh as Alastor kept speaking. "We clearly have two other students who witnessed it, and there's a camera. Or... is this going to be one of those things you choose to bury?"

A subtle accusation, intended to strike, elicited only a fleeting reaction—a brief guilty glance followed by a furrowed brow. “I promise you Alastor, this will be done fairly and justly..”

Alastor chuckled, unable to contain himself. "Yeah... we'll see what the true colors reveal. So far, all I've seen is green," he remarked with another subtle, pointed jab.
—fin—
Nathan sat with his back to the cinderblock wall and let the noise wash over him. Coach’s bluster. Asher’s stone-flat voice. Adara’s sugar-glass barbs. Alastor’s scalpel words. Too many sounds, too bright lights—headache blooming behind his right eye like a bad flower.

He didn’t get it. People didn’t stand up for him. Not here. Not ever. If they were talking, it was usually to make the story fit the ending they already wanted. Blaze lies; adults nod. Nathan pays. Math he’d learned years ago.

When the coach started spinning his version, Nathan clocked the tells without looking up: shoulder lift, throat swallow, the way his eyes slid past the parts that mattered. Same old script. A shard of hope needled under Nathan’s ribs at Asher and Al backing him up; he pressed it flat until it stopped moving.

He kept his hands open on his knees. A trick from Babushka—flat palms, slow breath. Don’t give the wolf or the temper a reason.

The principal finally turned. “Mr. Blakes. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Nathan raised his eyes. No flinch, no apology.

“It’s Nathan,” he said first, even. Then: “Blaze started it. Slur, grab, swing.” A beat. “I slipped it. Two to the body. Stopped when your guy pulled me. That’s it.”

He tipped his chin toward the ceiling. “Camera by the math wing saw it.”

Silence stretched. The coach opened his mouth; Nathan didn’t look at him. He’d already said more than he liked. He wasn’t going to narrate how easy the ribs had opened, how clean the second shot felt, how much he’d wanted to finish it—how he hadn’t, because he could hear Babushka’s lullaby under the whistle.

He set his jaw and went quiet again, letting the adults do whatever dance they were going to do.

-fin-
The room went still after the testimonies. Principal O’Donnell leaned back in his chair, lips pressed into a thin line. His gaze shifted from Asher’s steady face to Adara’s sharp glare, then to the coach. The silence stretched until it felt like the walls themselves were listening.

At last, he exhaled. “Regardless of who started it, there was still a fight on school property. Both students will receive detention for the week. No exceptions.”

Asher’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding together. He wanted to protest, but Adara’s sharp inhale beat him to it.

“That’s ridiculous,” she snapped, arms crossing tightly. “Blaze runs his mouth, throws the first swing, and Nathan gets punished the same? Real fair.”

“Miss Lennox,” O’Donnell said, his voice stiff with warning.

Adara tilted her head, a saccharine smile curving her mouth. “Fine. But if this keeps happening—don’t be shocked when my dad shows up. You know, the lawyer who eats school boards for breakfast?”

The principal’s expression faltered, just for a second, before smoothing out. “Detention stands. Both students. That’s final.”

The meeting broke apart in the scrape of chairs. Asher rose without a word, his expression carved in stone. Adara rolled her eyes and followed him into the hall.

They walked a few steps in silence before Adara leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “We can’t let Nathan be stuck in a room with Blaze all week. You know exactly how that’ll go.”

Asher’s brow furrowed. “Adara—”
She elbowed him lightly, smirk tugging at her painted mouth. “Might be time we stir up a little trouble of our own. If one of us lands detention too…”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re impossible.”

Her grin widened. “Correction: I’m brilliant.”
Blaze’s orbit of sycophants leaned against the lockers like they owned the place. Adara spotted them before they spotted her, but it didn’t matter—they always sniffed her out like dogs.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Eyeliner herself,” one sneered, eyes flicking over her outfit. “Guess your new boyfriend needed backup in the office, huh? Cute. Didn’t know you liked strays.”

Another snorted. “She probably thinks she’s some kind of hero. Wonder if she’s just desperate enough to—”

The words didn’t finish. Adara’s fist connected with his cheek, sharp and clean, sending him sprawling into the locker bank with a metallic clang.

“Oops,” she said sweetly, shaking out her knuckles. “Guess I tripped.”

The crowd gasped and erupted. The taunts stopped, replaced with shouting, the shuffle of feet, someone calling for a teacher. Adara stood over the boy with a razor-edged smirk. “You want to keep running your mouth? Or should I give you a matching bruise on the other side?”

By the time a teacher rounded the corner, Adara was all innocence, hands clasped behind her back. But the damage was done. Detention was a certainty.
-++++
Asher was finishing up basketball drills when Coach Linmen barked at him from across the court. “Lennox! Pick up those cones before you go. You’re not done until I say you’re done.”

The rest of the team had already filed out. Asher glanced at the cones scattered along the baseline, then back at the coach. His jaw tightened.

“No.”

Linmen’s whistle nearly fell out of his mouth. “What did you just say?”

“I said no.” Asher’s voice was calm, but his posture was solid, immovable. “I ran the drills, same as everyone else. You didn’t make them pick up your mess. You don’t get to dump it on me.”

The coach’s face went red, his jaw clenching so tight the vein in his temple throbbed. “You’ve got nerve, Lennox.”

Asher slung his gym bag over his shoulder, gaze never wavering. “No, I’ve got self-respect.”

He walked out without another word. He already knew what was waiting for him on the clipboard outside the office: detention slip, one week.

When the last bell rang, Asher found Adara leaning against his car, holding up her own pink detention slip like it was a trophy.

“You too?” she asked, smirk wide.

He pulled out his matching slip and held it up beside hers. “Guess we’ve got ourselves covered.”

Adara winked. “Detention club, here we come.”
--Fin--
Alastor listened intently as the principal spoke, awaiting the inevitable verdict. The moment it was delivered, he clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes—predictably, both parties were deemed at fault. Adara mirrored his reaction, her expression clearly stating there was no need for such redundant declarations.

When adara issued a threat of her father, Alastor laughed reflexively, unable to suppress it. He knew exactly what Blaze was capable of and the influential force backing him.

The principal's stern gaze locked onto Alastor, his voice sharp with authority, "Mr. Rodriguez, what’s so funny about this?"

Alastor leaned back slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. If they were expecting contrition, they were about to be sorely disappointed.

"Oh, it's just amusing," he replied smoothly, his tone dripping with mock sincerity, "how Blaze seems to have a personalized get-out-of-jail-free card. Must be nice having the principal on speed dial—or maybe it’s more of a family plan?"

The words hung in the air, bold and irreverent, daring anyone to deny the unspoken truth.

There was that face- the one where he didn’t like being challenged.

“Detention, three days .”

Alastor heard to chuckle more.

“Figures can’t handle the truth so your-“

He said before the principal cut him off.”a week- keep being disrespectful be calling in your mother.”

That shut him up. Last thing he wanted was to drag his mother into a meeting. “Yes sir.” In a rather deep sigh before he would turn to make his way out, he signed what he had to tuck the detention slip in his coat.

He walked by a rather innocent looking adara, he snorted almost immediately.

Seemed the loud one was adamant on trouble in a flashy way.
He worked through his classes like normal, and after made his way to detention.
—fin—
Nathan snorted before he could stop it. It felt like a tiny betrayal of character. “Community outreach,” he said.

“Exactly.” Rook drummed a beat on the desk with two fingers. “Also—me, you, same detention as Blaze? Could be fun.”

“Could be stupid.”

“Most fun things are.”

Nathan let the corner of his mouth twitch—almost a smile, almost. He leaned back, fists unclenching. For now, the wolf was quiet. For now, the week didn’t look like a trap so much as a hallway with two exits.

“Fine,” he said. “If it gets loud, we make it louder.”

Rook flashed a salute. “Detention club it is.”
—-

Inkglitched · « **Reply #1 on:** February 10, 2026, 08:58:19 pm »

The clock ticked loud in the stale classroom air, and the door opened a few moments later, Asher held it open for his sister who glided in and slide her pink slip onto the desk, Asher tossed his down before heading away with that defiant glint still in his eyes.

Neither looked surprised that Blaze wasn’t there yet—Blaze never arrived anywhere without making an entrance.

Adara’s gaze cut straight to the back corner. Her brow arched when she spotted the orange-headed kid perched backward in front of Nathan, grin sharp as broken glass. “Well,” she murmured to her brother, “looks like somebody beat us to the bodyguard audition.”

Asher just grunted, scanning the room with his athlete’s instincts, then steered Adara toward two open desks flanking Nathan and Rook. They sat—close enough to make a point, far enough to make it look casual.

The door banged open again.Cosmo stumbled in like a science experiment gone wrong. His curls were poofed out in a frizz halo, the ends singed dark, and he coughed hard enough to rattle his backpack straps.

“Sorry! Sorry—I, uh—lab stuff,” he wheezed, fumbling for the nearest chair.

As he dropped his bag, the zipper split halfway, spilling its guts across the floor. Pens skittered under desks, a dog-eared physics notebook flopped open, a tangle of wires and a half-built circuit board clattered like bones on tile.

Cosmo groaned, already on his knees, scrambling to scoop everything up.

Without a word, Adara bent down and retrieved a runaway pen that had rolled to her shoe. She twirled it once between her fingers, then dropped it into his open palm. Asher stooped too, snagging the notebook and sliding it across the desk.

“Thanks,” Cosmo said quickly, ears turning pink as he clutched the armful of supplies to his chest. His crooked smile was sheepish, apologetic, but not unkind.

Adara smirked, leaning back in her chair. “Don’t mention it, Einstein. Happens to the best of us,"

Asher gave a short nod, settling back into his seat with the solid patience of someone who’d decided not to comment at all.

Cosmo hunched into the desk beside them, trying to arrange his mess into something resembling order, the tips of his ears still red.

The room quieted again, anticipation hanging heavy. Blaze still hadn’t shown. Asher wondered if he would or if he'd used his family to get out of it somehow.
--Fin--The door flew open with an aggressive force, signaling Blaze's frustration. Being summoned for detention infuriated him—not only did it steal precious practice time, but it also jeopardized his playing time for the game.

His gaze swept over the group of students gathered for detention. Rumors of a few narcs had circulated, but this group seemed unusually large.

He spotted the seat he wanted—right next to Nathan. Determined, he planned to make that emo kid's life a living nightmare. What he didn’t expect was Alastor walking by and planting his ass right in the seat he wanted.

He almost didn’t recognize him at first. The kicker was the one teacher doing detention wasn’t quite in the classroom yet.

Blaze walked in front of the seat he looked down.

Inside Al was freaking out- but from his expression- he seemed calm to the average Joe.

“Move.” Simple.. to the point- and clearly angry.

“Yanno.. that nose looks like it healed straight just fine.” A retort made by Alastor

The blue eyes, he almost didn’t realize it was Alastor. The scrawny kid with glasses had changed.

That made him think twice- he moved into a seat that worked for him- away from Alastor.
—fin—
The room kept filling like a bad lung.

First Rook—already sprawled backward in the chair in front of Nathan—then the Lennox twins slid in, one on either side, casual as a perimeter. Nathan stared at the clock. Looked at no one. Heard everything.

Cosmo exploded through the door next—hair singed, bag vomiting wires and notebooks across the tile. A snort escaped Nathan before he could kill it.

Rook was up before the pens stopped rolling. “Easy, Einstein,” he said, crouching to scoop a fistful of resistors, his grin wicked and warm. “If you wanted my number there are easier ways to make an entrance.”

Cosmo’s ears went pink. It was cute. “First day fireworks?” Rook tipped his head, then licked two fingers and pinched out a tiny ember at the end of a curl. “Hold still. You’re smoking—in like, three different ways.”

Nathan let his mouth flatten back to neutral. He wasn’t smiling. Obviously.

The door banged again. Blaze. Cologne and noise, zero subtlety. He beelined for the seat beside Nathan like it owed him rent.

Alastor slid into it first.

For a heartbeat Nathan still didn't recognize Alastor—taller, colder, eyeliner like a knife. Then the turn of the mouth gave it away. Hot goth Al. Huh. He had quite the glow up.

Blaze’s jaw worked. He reconsidered. He moved on.

Fascinating.

Rook dropped back into his chair, half-turned toward Cosmo and—loud enough to carry just a little—kept going. “Name’s Rowan, but everyone calls me Rook.” He leaned an elbow on Cosmo’s desk, eyes bright. “You got a name, cutie, or should I keep calling you ‘Cutie’?”

“You good? Need a hand reassembling the science Kraken after this? I’m great with my hands.”

Across the room, Blaze glared. Rook’s smile sharpened by a degree, satisfied.

Nathan slouched deeper in his chair and pretended to study the ceiling. He wasn’t interested. Obviously.

He was absolutely going to see how this played out.

-fin-Adara smirked as Blaze stormed in, all cologne and attitude, like he thought the room revolved around him. She could practically feel her brother tense beside her. Blaze’s eyes locked on Nathan, zeroing in like a hawk.

But before the meathead could plant himself, Alastor slid into the chair cool as you please, eyeliner sharp, expression unreadable. The air went electric.

Adara bit her lip to hide a grin. “Well damn,” she whispered, leaning toward Asher. “Al’s got ice water in his veins.”

Asher’s eyes narrowed, muscles coiled, ready in case Blaze tried something. But Blaze hesitated, scowled, and moved on to another seat. Asher let out a low hum. “Smart.”

“More like surprising,” Adara murmured back, eyes dancing. “Didn’t know he had it in him.”

Then the show shifted to the front row. Rook, sprawled backward, leaning into Cosmo like a cat with cream.

“You got a name, cutie, or should I just keep calling you ‘Cutie’?”

Cosmo froze, his ears turning a vivid shade of red. “It’s—uh—it’s Cosmo.” His voice squeaked at the edges. “And I’m not—” He waved at the mess of wires on his desk. “I just… wasn’t paying attention when the capacitor—never mind.”

Adara’s smirk widened. She elbowed her brother. “Tell me this isn’t like some Breakfast Club reboot. Goth kid, jock, troublemaker, mad scientist…”

“Don’t forget mouthy sister,” Asher said dryly.Cosmo sighed, slumping into his seat. “Great. Guess that makes me the Brian of the group.”

Asher actually chuckled—a low, amused sound that made Adara’s grin double.

The door creaked open again. Coach Linmen strode in, clipboard under his arm, expression already sour. His gaze swept the room and caught on the sight of Cosmo’s frazzled curls, still singed at the ends.

The man groaned, rubbing his temple. “Of course. Of course the mad scientist ends up here on the first day, too.”

Cosmo shrank half an inch into his seat, ears flaming. “It wasn’t… exactly my fault,” he muttered. “My mind was just… somewhere else when the circuit overloaded.”

Adara tilted her head, fighting a laugh. “Bet it was,” she muttered under her breath.

Asher shot her a look. She just grinned wider.
--Fin--
Alastor busied himself with retrieving a few books, his irritation evident as he struggled to keep the pages still—something he despised. Known for excelling in math and science, these subjects were his strongest suit. He propped open one of the books, the familiar comfort of its pages grounding him. The only person he genuinely connected with was Cosmo, with whom he could discuss all things nerdy without judgment.

“You probably stared too hard at the book, got mixed up, and—boom. We’ve talked about this, Cosmo. Keep the explosions outside, not inside,” Alastor remarked with a smirk.

Detention was foreign territory for Alastor; the fact that he was even present would surprise the few teachers who admired his dedication. He chuckled at Cosmo, recognizing his friend’s intelligence, though Cosmo’s tendency to overfocus often led to minor mishaps.

“And it seems like you’re getting hit on—I’m jealous,” Alastor teased, shooting a glance at Blaze. For a fleeting moment, an unfamiliar sensation washed over him—an intense, unsettling emotion that made his face feel alien. Disturbed by this brief surge of his own bloodlust, he quickly buried his face in his book, to calm down.

Cosmo, ever the grounding presence, let out a groan and referenced his favorite character, lightening the mood.

“Don’t say that—Brian happens to be my favorite character,” Alastor replied, feeling the tension ebb away.

Linmen came in, the chuckle that came out from the few in response of Cosmo saying it wasn’t his fault.

“Quiet- if you got work - do work.” Simple and to the point.

Alastor went back to focusing on what he was doing. Working on pre calculus work. His eye would briefly veer as if keeping blaze in check- though he knew there wasn’t much he could do now. But he knew once they were let out- he’d walk with the guy.
—fin—
Nathan didn’t bother looking up when Linmen barked. He flipped open Pre-Calc, slid a mechanical pencil from behind his ear, and started working limits like they owed him rent. Page rustle, pencil scratch, HVAC hum—white noise he could live in. When Blaze’s stare hit, Nathan returned it once, flat as a wall, then dropped back to derivatives. Every few problems he stole a quick look: Alastor unreadable behind eyeliner and a textbook; Asher sitting like a loaded spring pretending to be relaxed. File it. Solve the next one.
Rook leaned toward the next desk, grin sharp. “Capacitor tantrum on day one? Bold.”
A throat cleared at the front. Rook pivoted without missing a beat—opened his notebook sideways and started writing.

A sheet slid across, heel of his hand doing the delivery:

> How many projects at once? (pick one)
☐ 1 (liar) ☐ 2–3 ☐ 4+ ☐ all of them
(tiny doodle: a wolf in safety goggles holding a soldering iron)

He sent another, folded like a grounded paper airplane:

> Favorite thing to blow up (accidentally)?
☐ LED ☐ breadboard ☐ capacitor ☐ cafeteria microwave (be honest)
(doodle: a blushing resistor)

One more note, inked with extra care:

> Are you single? (for science)
☐ yes ☐ no ☐ it’s complicated ☐ define “single”
(doodle: a rocket labeled SCIENCE and a heart-shaped diode)

Rook settled back, satisfied with his own chaos, and sketched in the margin: a little wolf and a little rocket high-fiving over DETENTION CLUB.

Nathan kept his head down and his hands open on the desk, solving for x like it mattered. Between equations and quiet paper planes, the hour became survivable.

Asher slid his laptop from his bag, the click of the lid opening oddly loud in the hushed room. A photo of the soccer team filled the screen—he started tweaking the exposure for the school newspaper, half his mind already turning over the first draft of his English essay.

From two rows over came Blaze’s voice, low but sharp enough to carry. “What’s the rule, coach? No phones? No laptops? He’s breaking it.”

Adara’s eyes darted up from her book—hidden under a history cover, The Song of Achilles staring back at her from behind its disguise. Her lips curled in anticipation.

Asher didn’t even look up. “I’m not using Wi-Fi,” he said, voice flat. “I’m doing schoolwork. You should try it sometime.”

A couple kids snickered under their breath. Adara bit back a laugh, her nails tapping against her paperback in a slow rhythm. Blaze muttered something under his breath, but the coach didn’t bother looking up from his clipboard.

Adara smirked, ducking back behind her false history text. “Well played, brother mine,” she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

Asher didn’t reply, but she saw the ghost of a grin flicker across his face before it vanished under focus again.
-----
Two desks ahead, Cosmo was a mess of pink ears and nervous scribbles. Rook, sprawled backward in his chair, had turned detention into his personal playground—notes folded like paper airplanes sliding across the gap between them.

The first note had a checklist scrawled on it. How many projects at once?
Cosmo stared at it, cheeks warming. He scribbled in all the boxes—all of them circled twice—and shoved it back with a glance that screamed don’t make this obvious.

The next one: Favorite thing to blow up (accidentally)? Doodles of LEDs and breadboards filled the margin. Cosmo hesitated, then wrote rockets in careful handwriting, adding a flaming rocket sketch for emphasis. He slid it back with the tip of his pencil, face crimson.

When the last note came, he almost dropped it. Are you single? (for science). The box options made his pulse jump. His pencil hovered, tapped nervously. In the end, he marked yes and complicated, then squeezed his eyes shut as if that might make the blush fade. He risked a tiny glance at Rook before shoving the note back.

Adara caught the exchange, her grin widening. She kicked the back of Asher’s chair lightly, leaning in. “This is better than cable.”

Asher huffed, eyes still on his laptop. But his gaze flicked briefly toward Cosmo’s flaming ears, then toward Rook’s shark grin, before he shook his head. “They’re gonna blow up more than a circuit board.”

Adara’s chuckle slid quiet across the desk, her page turning with a whisper of paper.
--Fin--
Alastor heard blaze’s familiar noise—an accusation, a blame.

As usual, it was quickly dismissed, the teacher barely acknowledging it. When the class ended, Alastor gathered his things haphazardly, planning to sort them out later. He followed Nathan’s lead, deciding to take a longer route home. It wouldn’t hurt, and if Nathan asked, he’d come up with an excuse—after all, he usually took the bus.

Anything to keep blaze at bay for a while. Alastor knew the teen would eventually get bored and find another target.

But he hadn’t forgotten last year. Nathan’s name surfaced a lot when he and blaze were secretly dating.

Back then, Alastor kept his distance, believing blaze’s lies. Not this time.
—fin—
Detention spat them out with the scrape of chairs and stale-marker air. Nathan packed fast—math book, pencil, pink slip folded twice—eyes on the door, not the people. Rook lingered just long enough to slide one last note across a desk: ROOK + a number, a tiny wolf and rocket high-fiving over call me.

“Move,” Nathan said, and Rook fell in at his shoulder, board clipped to his pack, grin he couldn’t quite hide.

They cut across the lot into the long shadow side streets. Nathan kept to the curb, hands in pockets, counting steps, making choices: back route, fewer windows, less chance of running into anyone who mattered. Asphalt heat, sprinkler hiss, his pulse settling to even.

Footsteps trailed them. Same rhythm, same distance.

Nathan stopped at a dark classroom window and watched the reflection steady behind his own. He didn’t turn. “There a reason you’re on my heels?” The words came out flat, sandpaper over steel.

Rook glanced back, one brow up, then flashed the newcomer a lopsided grin. “Relax. If this is an ambush, it’s the politest one I’ve ever seen.”

Nathan’s mouth thinned. “Street’s big,” he said, finally looking over. “Pick a lane that isn’t mine.”

Rook bumped his shoulder, unbothered. “He’s fine. You’re always a sour puss after detention.”

The glare Nathan gave him could’ve **** glass. Rook just kicked his board down, rolled it a foot, caught it again, easy as breathing.

“C’mon,” Rook said, softer. “Home route or the long way?”

“Long,” Nathan answered, eyes still on the reflection. Then he turned and walked. If the footsteps kept pace, he’d deal with it at the next corner. If they didn’t, even better.

Rook fell in beside him without another word, grin finally fading to something like watchful. The wolf stayed quiet. The street stretched ahead.

-fin-The scrape of chairs echoed like a signal of freedom. Coach Linmen grunted something about “see you tomorrow” without looking up from his clipboard. Blaze was the first out the door, storm cloud scowl plastered across his face.

Adara stretched her arms overhead like she’d just finished yoga instead of sitting through an hour of enforced boredom. Asher didn’t move right away—his eyes had already gone to the door, to the space where Nathan and Alastor had slipped out.

“That look on your face,” Adara drawled, “means trouble.”

Asher shoved his laptop into his bag, then paused. “Not trouble. Insurance.” He slung the strap across his chest, then pulled the bag back off again and set it at her feet. He added his car keys on top, palm flat. “Take these. I’ll see you later.”

Adara arched a brow, lips curling into a smirk. “Going knight-in-shining-cleats for the emo kid?”

He gave her that flat, unreadable stare. “Just covering bases.” His phone slipped into his pocket as he moved for the door, shoulders squared, footsteps steady.

Adara let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Always the hero,” she murmured, scooping up both detention slips from their desks with a lazy hand. She stuffed them into her bag before heading out, swinging the keys by one finger.Behind her, Cosmo was gathering his avalanche of notebooks and wires, still red-eared from Rook’s relentless flirting. He trudged into the hallway, looking more exhausted than guilty.

Outside, he glanced toward the bus lane and froze. The last one was already pulling out, taillights winking at him like a cruel joke. His shoulders sagged.

“Great,” he muttered, clutching his pack. “Perfect. First day and I’m stranded.”

Adara leaned against the wall by the doors, watching him with one brow arched. “Rough day, Einstein?”

He gave her a sheepish look. “My bus just left.”

Her smirk widened. “Lucky for you, I’ve got wheels. I’ll give you a ride—though fair warning, my playlist is ninety percent girlboss anthems.”

Cosmo’s ears turned pink again. “I… uh… thanks.”

Adara started toward the lot, tossing the keys up and catching them. “And don’t think I didn’t see your little paper-plane romance back there. Rook’s not exactly subtle.”

Cosmo groaned, nearly tripping over his own feet. “He wasn’t serious.”

“Mm,” Adara hummed, grin sharp as eyeliner. “That blush says otherwise.”

Cosmo pulled his bookbag higher on his shoulder, muttering something inaudible, and followed her out.
-+fin--
There it was- the question. Why? “Cause detention ran over- and I missed my bus.” Simple hard to argue.

A grin to rook, seemed to be the buffer he needed.”thanks man- not trying to get in anyone’s bad side. “ he responded.

He glanced back briefly enough- the path felt deliberate- felt perfect.

He dove in his inside pocket and produced a pack of smokes. A soft flick of his wrist and one was between his lips.

After he went for the matches. They were neatly tucked in another pocket. A spark, a puff.
Smoke curled around, and then a ring.

He picked up.

“Hello?” The look softened.*mama sorry, I know I’m late, I’ll be home soon. Just gonna walk a friend home* he said in Spanish. A bit of listening more. *yeah yeah.. I know - I’ll keep my head down* a lie.

He knew his mother worried since that day. She was in his corner the whole time. So being so late he could understand why she called.

*adios.* he hung up.

—fin—

Inkglitched · « **Reply #2 on:** February 10, 2026, 09:02:04 pm »

Nathan grunted at Alastor’s excuse and let it die there.

“Honestly, I’m not sure he even has a good side,” Rook said, cheerful as a warning siren.

Nathan’s glare could’ve sanded wood. Rook grinned. “One day that’s gonna hurt my feelings.”
Eye roll. Board unclipped. Nathan pushed off, lazy wheel-noise on **** asphalt. Rook fell in a half step behind, board in hand.

A match rasped. Smoke curled. Nathan’s front snapped for a heartbeat—hunger, habit, heat.

He slowed, glanced over. “Got another?” The please was buried deep but present.

Rook groaned like a disappointed health teacher. “Gross. Those are tiny death logs.”

“Everything’s a death log,” Nathan muttered.

Rook flicked a pack of citrus gum into Nathan’s palm anyway. “Compromise. Smoke one, chew one. I’m not dragging you up three flights when your lungs file a complaint.”

Nathan tucked the gum, took the cigarette if offered, and rolled again, expression locking back into cool. Rook kicked his board down, coasted a lazy arc, then shouldered up with them, still complaining under his breath about lungs and bad ideas—and staying exactly where he’d be useful if anything went sideways.

-fin-
Asher stayed a block back, hands shoved in his pockets, stride steady but quiet. His senses sharpened the way they always did when the wolf in him prowled near the surface—ears picking up the scrape of Rook’s board wheels, the faint rasp of a match, the curl of smoke threading through late daylight.

He could even make out their words. Nathan’s gravelly mutter about “death logs,” Rook’s easy, needling cheer, Alastor’s clipped Spanish apology to his mother. Every sound carried as if the night itself wanted Asher to hear.

But what made his shoulders lock wasn’t the conversation. It was the heavier set of footsteps, two blocks back, keeping pace. Blaze. His cologne carried even from here, sharp and sour under the asphalt heat.

Asher’s jaw flexed. He didn’t intervene yet—just kept that distance, a watchful sentinel, his pulse drumming with unease. Something was going to break, he could feel it in his bones.

What unsettled him most wasn’t Blaze—it was Nathan. The way Asher felt pulled toward him, protective, like gravity had shifted to drag him closer. He couldn’t explain it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

For now, he just kept watch.
------Parking Lot – Adara & Cosmo

Adara dangled the keys from one finger, grinning as Cosmo trudged beside her toward the car. His backpack sagged with the weight of notebooks and wires, his ears still tinted pink.

“So,” she said lightly, “how exactly did you know my Breakfast Club reference? Most guys your age are lucky if they’ve seen Avengers out of order.”

Cosmo blinked, then laughed softly, a little embarrassed. “My Bubbe,” he admitted. “She insists I see all the classics. Makes a whole event out of it. Sometimes she even makes themed snacks for each movie.”

Adara’s grin widened. “No way. Like what?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well… last week we watched Pretty in Pink. She made pink-frosted cupcakes.” He paused, lips twitching in a shy smile. “It wasn’t too bad. The movie, I mean. Kind of awkward in parts, but… good.”

Adara slid into the driver’s seat, buckling up, still smirking. “So let me get this straight—you’ve got a grandma who bakes cupcakes for John Hughes marathons, and you still think you’re the Brian of the group?”

Cosmo’s ears went bright red again. “I… guess that does sound less tragic when you say it like that.”

“Less tragic?” Adara snorted, starting the car. “Cosmo, that’s adorable. You just skyrocketed like, ten points on my cool meter.”

He muttered something inaudible, fumbling with his seatbelt, but she caught the faint upward tug of his smile in the passenger window reflection.

Adara chuckled to herself and pulled out of the lot.
+-+fin---
Alastor took a slow drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke that drifted lazily into the cool air. The emo leaned back, casually requesting one. Alastor obliged without hesitation, pulling out a cigarette and handing it over, lighting it with a swift flick of his lighter. A soft chuckle escaped him at Rook’s grumble, the sound low and amused.

“Death logs, huh? That’s new,” he remarked, continuing his stride with an easy nonchalance.

Asher wasn’t the only one who caught the faint scent of blaze in the air. His gaze remained fixed ahead, anticipation etched on his sharp features. As if summoned by the lingering aroma, a few of blaze’s cronies soon emerged from the shadows—their postures slouched with arrogance, voices sharp with derision.

“Look who we’ve got here,” one sneered, his lip curling as he gave Nathan a once-over. “Oh look- I it’s the knock off version half the breakfast club.. well - the leftovers anyway.”

The group erupted into a chorus of half-hearted laughter, the sound brittle and forced.

Another crony’s gaze shifted to Rook, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Hey, hold up. Ain’t that one of Blaze’s narcs?,” he asked, jabbing a finger in Rook’s direction.

“Nah man- he’s the one who beat Bobby-“

Alastor paused, his gaze sliding over the group with cool indifference, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest like distant thunder.

“Running out of creative insults? Cause that’s awfully half baked- need to be way more creative- or actually read a book.”
He knew exactly what to expect from them—mockery designed to provoke, words crafted to buy time.

No witnesses- and with blaze coming- it would make it four.

Alastor flexed his hands. Since the year of bullshit he had- he learned to fight. Better than just whaling like he did last year.

He was waiting for one of them to throw the punch first.

That was the only thing he remembered his older brother telling him.

Do not be the first punch- be the one to finish it.
—fin—
Cheap cologne rode the heat. Rook was still grinning at his phone when the jeers started; Nathan didn’t turn all the way—just a bored cut of his eyes.

“Yup, that’s me,” Rook said, pocketing the screen. “Bobby-slayer. Autographs later.”

Blaze arrived like he owned the block. The air went tight. The wolf rose—hot iron behind Nathan’s teeth—begging for an excuse.

Two goons peeled for Rook. He kicked the board down, lured them wide, carved a circle around a trash can. One lunged; Rook snapped the tail—board popped, clipped an ankle—down he went. The other ate curb trying to follow. Rook laughed, skating backward. “Cardio, boys.”

Blaze shouldered in on Nathan, mouth full of slur. Nathan didn’t move.

“Say it again,” he said, flat.

Blaze swung first, big and sloppy. Nathan slipped right, shovel left to ribs, short right to sternum. Breath left Blaze in a grunt.

No whistle. No teacher. Just the hum of the street and the moon in his blood.

Somewhere left, Rook’s wheels tapped a steady tak-tak-tak. “On me—seventy-two,” he called, voice easy.

Nathan tucked his chin, tracked, landed a clean one-two, then a liver shot that bent Blaze. The wolf pushed for more.

“Easy,” Rook called—then cut off with a curse.

One of the stragglers had doubled back. Rook’s board got booted; hands grabbed his hoodie, slammed him chest-first toward brick. A bottle slid out of a back pocket, glass catching streetlight.

Blaze’s hand dipped, too—metal glinted at his waistband.

Nathan’s weight shifted to go—wolf hot, angle clear—when the bottle came up over Rook’s head and the glint near Blaze’s belt flashed again.

The beat stuttered. Footsteps closed, steady and fast.

Nathan’s jaw locked. He had one more punch lined up and two problems at once.

-fin-
The bottle flashed under the streetlight. Too close. Too fast.

Asher broke cover at a sprint.

The crony with the bottle barely saw him before Asher’s shoulder hit ribs, slamming him into brick. The glass shattered against pavement in a spray of shards. A sharp twist at the wrist, a knee driving through his center of balance, and the boy dropped cursing to the ground.

Asher’s eyes cut left. Alastor was locked with another—lean, sharp, cigarette clamped between his teeth, movements tighter than last year’s flailing brawls. He was holding his own, icy calm in every strike.

Two more were already groaning on the ground, Rook’s board lying near one, the other doubled over clutching his stomach.

Which left Blaze.

Knife out, eyes wild. He lunged. Asher’s world narrowed to the glint of metal. He pivoted, redirected the slash with a forearm smack, then drove his knee into Blaze’s gut. The knife clattered to asphalt.

Asher planted a boot on it. “Pick it up and you’ll regret it.”

Blaze wheezed, doubled over—but when his cronies started to tug him back, he jerked free. Stubborn, stupid, eyes locked past Asher.

Nathan.

He swerved, a raw snarl ripping from his throat, charging barehanded. No blade, just fists and rage.

Asher’s pulse spiked. Training screamed at him—angles, distance, strike points. Something ancient and hot unfurled in Asher’s chest. The wolf rose, teeth bared in his blood. *Mine. All of them. The emo, the troublemaker, the quiet one with smoke on his lips—pack. My pack.*

Blaze was a blur of fists and fury.

Asher didn’t think. He surged forward, body low, tackling Blaze around the middle, driving him down hard into the asphalt before the swing could land.“Stay the **** down!”

The words tore out of him, low and guttural, as his knee slammed into Blaze’s back. His hand clamped hard on Blaze’s shoulder—and for one terrifying second, claws split his fingertips, eyes flaring hot red.

Blaze stiffened under him, caught in the weight of it.

Then it was gone. Asher blinked, breath sharp. Brown eyes again. Nails blunt. He swallowed hard, the taste of iron thick in his mouth.

“****,” he muttered under his breath, pressing his knee harder between Blaze’s shoulder blades, hiding the shake in his hands. Thank god only the macho jock crony wasn't conscious enough to witness it.

Blaze squirmed, snarling curses into the pavement.

Asher leaned down, voice low enough only Blaze could hear. “You pull another knife, another bottle—hell, you even look at them wrong again—and you’re done. I don’t care how much money your daddy’s got. I’ll put you down so hard no one will mistake you for a king again.”

Blaze spat, but his breathing was ragged, uneven. He didn’t push back this time.

Asher waited one more heartbeat, then shoved off, standing tall, fists still clenched. His chest heaved, the wolf straining to be let out, but he forced it down, grinding his teeth until his jaw ached.

He didn’t look back at Blaze. Not yet. If he did, he wasn’t sure the wolf in him would stay leashed.
--fin-Alastor set his backpack down, relieved to be free of the weight. One goon broke away from the group and advanced toward him, likely assuming he was the weakest target.

His moves were fluid with some flaws. Some hits he took, others missed. A shove, and a sound of someone being slammed on the ground behind him.

Rook.

He kicked up the skateboard and swung into the stomach of one, winding him getting him off the skateboarder.

Then more feet, he was ready to get to whoever else was jumping them. - instead it was the jock,Asher.

The bottle taken, and a beeline- right for Nathan who was in a fist fight- at first.

Now? It was a fight with a knife.

Asher intercepted and was in the fight. Backup- good.

He turned dodging another hit to help Rook up.

He turned his back- big mistake.

A crash, another bottle -another weapon. Over Alastor’s head.

A stagger and a breath.

Then he saw it- Nathan being brought down by blaze- and fighting for the upper hand.

Asher looking like he’s trying to keep control.

All that anger.. all that *rage*

And It felt as if it was starting to spiral.

Then, a strange sense of calm.-not of peace- but of pure unbridled feeling of wrath.

Movements were different- more deliberate aimed to knock them on their asses- broke a nose., “rook Asher don’t look that great. See if he can calm down.” He said.

The sound of fist meets face came from Nathan’s direction. Seemed he gained the upper hand. He was quick, pulling Nathan off of blaze.
“Not worth it.” He said in his ear. “Trust me- detention is nothing compared to what might happen if ya kill him.. or even get close to- you got family waiting right? Think about that.”

His eye went to the sprawled blaze who sat up.

Then his own voice . Deep in the back of his mind
*can’t kill blaze- don’t make me lose it again. Got too much to lose.*

His eye looked empty. There- but not there. He turned enough so Nathan wouldn’t take a hit if blaze got up again,since he had him in a hold.
—fin—The street blurred red around the edges of Nathan’s vision. Blaze’s voice was nothing but static—mockery drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears. When the knife flashed, he didn’t even have time to react before Asher barreled in, ripping the weapon away. The sight of it—of Asher’s sudden feral intensity—stirred something primal in Nathan’s wolf, a fierce satisfaction that he wasn’t fighting alone.

But Blaze didn’t stay down. He came up swinging again, reckless and desperate, and this time Nathan met him head-on. Fist after fist landed with bone-crunching precision, each hit driving Blaze lower, closer to the pavement. The crowd noise, the shouts of cronies, the scrape of Rook’s board—it all blurred into nothing but Blaze’s face under his fists.

“Stay down,” Nathan growled, voice raw, not even realizing the words had left his mouth. His knuckles were slick, his chest heaving, every muscle begging to finish it.

Rook skidded to a halt, one last goon doubled over behind him, clutching his ribs. “****—Nathan—” he breathed, torn between pride and panic. He’d seen that look before. He knew what happened when someone stopped pulling their punches.

And then Alastor was there, hands hard on Nathan’s shoulders, dragging him back with more strength than expected. “Enough!” His voice cut like steel, sharp and commanding. Nathan snarled, half-ready to throw Al off too, but the words sank just deep enough. Not worth it. Not here. Family waiting.For one heartbeat, Nathan’s wolf raged against the leash. Then it gave a reluctant huff, retreating back into his chest. His fists unclenched. Barely. His breathing was still wild, but the red haze started to thin.

Rook stepped in close, board under his arm, eyes flicking between Nathan and Blaze’s battered form. “You good?” he asked, tone low, grounding.

Nathan forced a huff of air, part laugh, part growl. “Fine. Better than him.” His eyes tracked Blaze as his cronies scrambled to drag him upright, half-carrying him away into the dark.

“You better run!” Rook called after them, his grin cocky, though his knuckles were white around the board. “Next time, bring a first-aid kit!”

The street quieted, broken only by their ragged breathing and the distant hiss of cars. Nathan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still burning, but the fight was done.

For now.
—fin—The silence after the fight wasn’t peace. It was teeth-bared, hearts hammering silence. Nathan’s chest heaved like he was still in it, knuckles slick and trembling. Alastor’s eyes had gone flat, distant—like he was staring through the world, fighting something deep in himself. Even Rook, grinning through split lip, had that restless twitch in his stance, board clutched like a weapon he wasn’t ready to put down.

Asher felt it too. The wolf in him had pressed against his skin the entire fight, hungry, demanding. Watching Nathan nearly lose himself in the red haze, watching Alastor’s cold wrath boil over—yeah, it rattled him. Because it looked too familiar. Too easy.

He drew a slow breath, forcing his pulse to steady. Let them catch theirs. Give them a second. He waited until Nathan’s fists unclenched, until Alastor blinked himself back into the present, until Rook’s grin softened back into mischief instead of violence.

Then he spoke. Low. Blunt.

“Don’t argue. Don’t take it personal. I’m making sure you all get home safe.”

Three pairs of eyes cut to him—different shades of defiance, exhaustion, suspicion. He met each one steady, no waver.

“You don’t have to like it,” Asher added, voice flat but sure. “But after tonight? Nobody walks alone.”

The wolf inside him rumbled in agreement, claiming what his mouth hadn’t yet said: Mine. My pack. My responsibility.

He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, already turning toward the street. “Let’s move.”
--Fin--Alastor waited patiently, watching as the man's clenched fists began to loosen. With deliberate care, he straightened him up and brushed the dust from his clothes.

Gradually, he allowed himself to become aware—just enough. The remnants of seething anger still lingered in the air, like the stubborn ember of a dying cigarette.

As the adrenaline waned, it left behind a dull, throbbing ache. "**** ass..." he muttered, his hand instinctively finding the tender spot atop his head. The touch served both as a check and a means to regain composure.

His familiar tick surfaced: a craving for a smoke. He slipped a cigarette between his lips, lighting it with practiced ease—anything to distract from the growing pain.

Then came the demand. At first, he opened his mouth to reject it, but quickly reconsidered. "Y'know what? I’ll do it—on one condition: you tell my mom we had a fight and just ended up buddies," he said firmly.

He didn’t want her to know that Blaze was involved. She’d been upset before, and he didn’t want to put her through that pain again.

He winced softly, his fingers brushing against the tender spot on his head.

—fin—The night air cooled, carrying the sharp tang of blood and asphalt. Nathan’s fists loosened under Alastor’s grip, his chest still heaving like he’d run a mile. For a moment—just a moment—he thought he had it under control. The rage ebbed. The red haze dimmed. He could breathe again.

Then Asher spoke.

Not a suggestion. Not a request. A command.
“Nobody walks alone.”

The words hit Nathan harder than any fist had. His head snapped toward Asher, nostrils flaring. Beneath the sweat and bruises, he caught it—the unmistakable edge in the man’s scent. Alpha. Strong, steady, absolute.

And his wolf rose up like fire in dry grass.

“The **** you are,” Nathan snarled, voice cracking low with something not entirely human. The tremor in his hands wasn’t fear. It was the shift breaking through.

Claws tore from his fingertips. His back arched, bones shuddering as they reshaped with sickening cracks. Fabric split and shredded, falling useless to the ground until there was nothing left but a hulking wolf, fur black as tar, hackles bristling.

His eyes glowed feral in the dark—anger, defiance, and the raw need to challenge the authority that had pressed against his skin like a brand.

Nathan’s lips peeled back, baring teeth slick with spit. With a snarl that ripped through the still night, he lunged at Asher, every muscle driven by instinct to tear down the one who dared to claim dominance.
---Rook’s thumb hovered over his phone, a grin tugging at his bruised mouth as Cosmo’s message blinked back at him.

> Don’t overreact, I’m fine. See you soon!

He exhaled, shoulders loosening as the restless edge of the fight finally began to ebb. Just a few more minutes and he’d see Cosmo roll up, cookies and all. That thought alone was enough to steady him.

But then—

The air split with a snarl.

Rook’s head jerked up just in time to see Nathan’s form twist, bones cracking, clothes shredding. In the space of a heartbeat, the boy was gone, replaced by a hulking black wolf with eyes lit by raw fury.

Rook froze, shock rooting him where he stood. “...oh, ****.”

The wolf lunged, all teeth and muscle aimed straight at Asher.

Rook’s voice broke sharp through the night. “Nathan—STOP!”

It was less a command than a desperate plea, the sound of someone who’d seen fights go too far, too fast—and knew what it cost when nobody pulled back.Alastor’s words cut through the tension first. The cigarette glow painted half his face, eyes still hollow from the fight. Asher caught the stubborn edge under the request and gave a single nod.

“Ah, I got your back, chico,” he said, smooth Spanish inflection curling the words. A promise, quiet but solid. He’d take that burden if it spared Al’s mom one more sleepless night.

But then the air changed.

Not the night breeze. Not the lingering stink of Blaze’s crew. This was heavier, sharper—the electric snap of a wolf breaking leash.

Nathan’s growl rolled through the street as his body twisted, bones cracking, fabric ripping. In seconds he was gone, swallowed by the hulking black wolf, eyes burning with fury and defiance. When he lunged, it wasn’t at Blaze, wasn’t at the cronies already limping away. It was straight at him.

Asher’s wolf surged up in answer, no hesitation this time. The shift slammed through his body—muscles swelling, spine bending, claws tearing free. For a heartbeat he was caught between, hulking and monstrous, a Garou shadow of himself: half-man, half-beast, eyes blazing yellow-orange like coals fanned to fire.

Then the wolf took him whole.He hit the ground in his full form, a beast just a shade larger than Nathan, fur bristling like wildfire, lips peeled back in a low, thunderous snarl. He didn’t flinch when Nathan’s weight crashed into him. He met it head-on, muscles locking, jaws snapping inches from flesh.

No more restraint. No more leash.

This wasn’t just a fight. This was dominance.

And this time, Asher wasn’t holding anything back.The impact rattled through his bones, claws scraping asphalt as Nathan’s wolf slammed into him. Teeth snapped for his throat, hot breath and rage flooding his senses. For a heartbeat, it was nothing but snarls, fur, and fury.

But Asher wasn’t some green pup scrapping in back alleys. His wolf had fought before. Survived before.

Nathan pushed, so Asher pulled. He let the younger wolf’s momentum carry forward, muscles coiling with perfect timing. With a savage twist of his shoulders and a hooked foreleg, he rolled with the lunge and flipped Nathan hard. The black wolf hit the ground with a thud, Asher’s weight following close—pinning him down, forcing him onto his side.

Claws dug into the pavement near Nathan’s ribs, not into flesh, but close enough the message was clear: submit, or bleed.

Asher’s growl rumbled low and steady, a sound meant to vibrate through bone and marrow. His eyes—still burning that yellow-orange fire—locked with Nathan’s glowing defiance. For a moment it was pure silence, broken only by their snarls and the scrape of claws against concrete.

He leaned down, teeth bared inches from Nathan’s muzzle, the sound in his chest rising into something primal. It wasn’t a taunt. It wasn’t rage.

It was a command.

*Yield.*
--Fin--Alastor was taking his minute, when the air thinned. That justifiable rage hit him like a wall- defiant and unyielding.
His hand shot out reflexive at Rook his hand gripping the back of his shirt.

The most shocked look on his face would show.

The smoke dropped. He didn’t know there were more. But.. should have know - same time he wasn’t bitten.. or know anyone by blood with stories of werewolf lore in their line.

Then what was he?

Another wave would hit- righteous rage. Dominance.. alpha.

It left questions- movies told him differently- it felt untrue in some- in others it was.

Then it was over, or seemed it. Asher was on top, asserting himself.

“Can someone tell me what the *ever loving ***** is going on?!?”

—fin—

Inkglitched · « **Reply #3 on:** February 10, 2026, 09:06:23 pm »

The fight was over before his rage even had time to bloom into something worse. One moment, he was all teeth and fury—snapping for Asher’s throat, fighting to prove he wasn’t going to be commanded. The next, he was flat on his side, pinned by a wolf larger, stronger, heavier. Asher’s growl rattled straight through his bones, and Nathan’s own body betrayed him.

His wolf stilled. The instinct to fight bled out, replaced by something older, deeper. The command wasn’t just heard—it was felt. And against his will, Nathan yielded.

A low, miserable whine slipped from his throat, his scruffy black fur bristling as his glowing eyes refused to look away. He hated it. Hated the way his muscles slackened in submission, hated the way his wolf recognized the dominance like it was written into his blood.

Hated even more the pull—the fascination—that twisted up inside him. The way his chest thrummed with something that wasn’t just anger, though he told himself it was.

When Asher let him up, Nathan didn’t wait. His pride was already shredded worse than his clothes. With a desperate shake of his fur, he lunged away—snatching his backpack in his jaws before bolting into the night, paws hammering pavement.

He didn’t look back. No amount of yelling could’ve stopped him. He had to run, because staying meant facing what his wolf had already decided.

And Nathan wasn’t ready for that truth.

---Alastor’s grip on his shirt was the only thing keeping Rook from throwing himself straight into the madness. His heart hammered, eyes wide as fur and claws blurred in front of him. Then—just as suddenly—it was over.

Nathan broke first. That sharp whine, that shudder in his body—it said everything. Relief flooded through Rook’s chest, shaky and unsteady, but he barely had time to breathe it in before Nathan bolted.

The black wolf tore free, grabbed his bag, and vanished down the street in a blur of scrappy fur and fury.

“Oh, for ****’s sake—!” Rook yelled, ripping himself loose from Alastor’s hold. “Don’t just ditch me like that!”

He shoved his board down, kicking hard to get speed, wheels clattering against the asphalt as he tore off after him. Over his shoulder, his voice **** with exasperation:

“Keep up if you can—I know where he’s going! And someone’s gonna have to snag some clothes for Alpha-boy back there, ‘cause Nathan’s not sharing!”

The board rattled as he pushed harder, wind catching his words as he tried to throw some sense behind them.

“Look—Nathan’s the one you want answers from, not me! He was born a wolf, I just got bitten as a kid. He knows all the lore, the rules—everything. Me? I just… follow his lead.”

His voice softened just a hair, more honest than he usually let on, carried back to the others as he disappeared after Nathan.

“And if we lose him now… we lose the only shot we’ve got at understanding any of this.”

-fin-Alastor sat in stunned silence, the weight of Rook's pull heavy on him, his own words echoing back with the answers he desperately sought. With hurried movements, he rifled through the clothes, tossing them at Asher. "Not waiting," he muttered briskly.

Without hesitation, he trailed after Rook, his footsteps syncing with the rhythm of his board. They drifted together, guided by an unspoken urgency, toward a familiar destination—Nathan's home.Asher’s chest still heaved, the echo of his wolf’s victory humming through his blood like a war drum. The sight of Nathan yielding—the whine, the slackening—had lit every nerve with savage satisfaction. His wolf prowled inside him, triumphant, chest high, jaws still tasting the heat of dominance.

But the triumph soured quick. Asher’s hands shook as he forced his body to shift back, bones snapping back into place with a sharp, guttural groan. The wolf hated it, clawed at him to stay, to chase, to assert—but he shoved it down with grit teeth, dragging breath into his human lungs.

A bundle of fabric hit his chest, snapping him back to focus. Alastor’s voice cut sharp, brisk: “Not waiting.”

Asher fumbled the clothes, swearing under his breath as he yanked them on fast. “Chico, I wasn’t—” His own words caught, half a growl, half frustration. He muttered in Spanish under his breath, curses low and tangled, even as he grabbed up Nathan’s shredded rags from the pavement and stuffed them into his own bag.

He pulled his hoodie tight, shaking his head. “****. Went full alpha right in front of them.” The mutter was more to himself than anyone else, the shame burning in his chest. He hadn’t wanted them to see. Not like that. Not so raw.

But there was no time to dwell. He slung the bag over his shoulder and broke into a jog, then a sprint, boots pounding asphalt as he tore after Rook and Alastor.

“Dios mío, Nathan,” he hissed under his breath, eyes narrowing at the street ahead. “You run all you want—but I’m not lettin’ you burn yourself down.”

The wolf inside him agreed, rumbling with a predator’s certainty: The pack runs together.Asher tore down the street, the night air sharp in his lungs, his wolf still prowling restless beneath his skin. The ache of dominance lingered—sweet and bitter both—and every stride felt like running against himself.

Ahead, Rook’s voice carried back through the dark, ragged but loud enough to cut through:

> “Nathan’s the one you want answers from, not me! He was born a wolf, I just got bitten as a kid. He knows all the lore, the rules—everything. Me? I just… follow his lead.”

Asher’s lips twitched despite himself, a rough huff of laughter escaping his chest. Lore. Rules. Like any of it could ever really cage the wolf once it was out. His laugh was low, breathless from the run, but there was an edge to it too—amusement tangled with weariness.

“Chico,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head, “if half the stories were true, we’d be in silver collars and howlin’ at the moon on cue.”

Still, there was truth in what Rook said—and Asher knew it. Born wolves carried the old instincts deeper, closer to the marrow. Nathan would have answers. Or at least, he should.

Asher’s gaze flicked to the blur of Rook’s board skimming the asphalt, Alastor pounding along beside him with a stubborn determination. He pulled his hoodie tighter, catching the last shred of a grin before it slipped back into a grim line.

His wolf wanted to laugh louder, wanted to call back, wanted to assert—but Asher forced his focus forward, every muscle burning with the chase. The only thing that mattered now was catching Nathan before the kid lost himself completely.
--Fin--Rook pushed hard, the wheels of his board rattling like loose bones on the **** pavement. He didn’t need to see Nathan to know where he was heading—he always ran home when his wolf got the better of him. Rook had spent enough nights crashing there to know the route blind.

The streets thinned into an older part of town, the kind that looked like the world had forgotten it somewhere around 1935. Crooked telephone poles leaned like drunks, and the lamps glowed yellow instead of white. Babushka’s place hunched at the end of the block, a sagging two-story with peeling paint the color of ashes and lace curtains so old they looked like they might crumble if you sneezed too close. The porch sagged, boards groaning under even Rook’s light step, and the faint smell of boiled cabbage drifted from somewhere inside.

He skidded to a stop and hopped off his board, chest heaving. Behind him, Asher and Alastor’s footsteps pounded up, steady and heavy. Rook rapped on the door with the back of his knuckles, calling out, “Babushka! It’s me—Rook!”

A shuffle of footsteps, then the metallic scrape of too many locks sliding free. The door **** open, and there she was: tiny, bent with age, her frame swallowed by a floral nightdress and a shawl that had probably been knit before any of them were born. Her eyes were sharp, though, glittering like dark stones set deep in her wrinkled face.

“In, in. Pack always welcome,” she said in her thick, broken English, ushering them quickly inside with surprising strength for someone who looked like a stiff breeze could knock her over.The living room was a time capsule—wallpaper yellowed with age, a cuckoo clock ticking stubbornly, heavy furniture draped in doilies. The couch sagged in the middle like it had carried generations of wolves through bad nights. Babushka flitted around them like a sparrow, gesturing toward the seats.

“Nathan out soon,” she assured, her accent turning the words into soft, rounded syllables. Already, she was bustling toward the kitchen, muttering, “I make tea. Hungry boys need food.”

Rook cast a glance at Asher, then at Alastor, the weight of everything crashing in. Nathan would have to face them here—his sanctuary, his fortress. And Rook couldn’t shake the uneasy churn in his gut, knowing tonight, things had changed.The cool night air cut sharp against his lungs, but it did nothing to quiet the storm inside him. His pulse hammered, ragged and uneven, every stride burning with the wild panic clawing at his chest. By the time he reached the house, his vision had narrowed, edges blurring until the only thing that mattered was the open window of his room.

He scrambled through it like a shadow, landing hard on the wooden floorboards. The wolf bled away in a blur of cracking bones and tearing sinew, leaving him gasping and shaking in human skin. Sweat clung to his brow, his hands fumbling with the clothes he’d abandoned on the floor the day before. Shirt, jeans—anything to cover the rawness of the moment.

But it wasn’t enough. His chest still seized, breath shallow, hands trembling. He tore open the drawer, yanked out the orange bottle, and popped the cap with shaking fingers. Two pills slipped past his lips, dry and bitter against his tongue. He leaned back against the wall, drawing his knees to his chest, holding himself tight as though he could cage the panic inside.

Minutes dragged like hours. Slowly, the edges dulled, the white-hot panic softening to a muffled throb. His heartbeat steadied, breath easing into something that didn’t feel like drowning. By the time he could stand again, his muscles ached from the tremors, but at least he wasn’t shaking apart.

He pushed out of his room and padded barefoot into the living room. Relief—warm and familiar—hit first at the sight of Babushka bustling near the couch. But then his stomach dropped.

Asher. Alastor. Rook.

All three of them sat there, waiting. Watching.

Nathan froze in the doorway, color draining from his face. “What the actual—” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Babushka’s sharp glance cut him short, her dark eyes narrowing.“No swearing,” she chided, her voice firm despite its cracks.

Nathan bit the inside of his cheek, swallowing the curse down, but his hands curled into fists at his sides. The pack. Here. In his home. The humiliation burned hotter than the panic had.Alastor overheard Asher muttering a string of curses interwoven with Spanish phrases. Under different, less tense circumstances, he might have inquired about Asher’s familiarity with the language.

But his thoughts were elsewhere, anchored on Nathan’s well-being. Witnessing something so unsettling was far from Alastor’s usual experiences. More than that, he sensed answers lingering just out of reach—if only Nathan would be willing to provide them.

Pausing briefly at the door, he exhaled sharply, his eyes widening slightly as confusion settled over him like a fog. Stepping inside, he offered a gentle bow to the older woman present, a gesture of sincere respect, though uncertainty flickered in his eyes.

"Gracias for having us," he murmured softly, his voice carrying a tentative note, as if unsure whether such politeness was customary in situations involving supernatural packs.

Her warm mention of food and drink stirred memories of his Abuela, causing his gaze to soften with quiet nostalgia, though it provided no clarity for the whirlwind of questions in his mind.

Clearing his throat, he spoke up, his words tumbling out without a clear path. "Honestly—first of all, I wanted to be sure you're alright," he said, glancing at the woman. She had called them a pack, which meant she knew something he clearly didn’t.

"And secondly, I just wanted to understand what happened. I’ve seen nature shows—the whole fighting wolves thing—but that was unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I don’t understand what it was." He turned his questioning gaze to Nathan, his brows furrowed in earnest bewilderment. "Was it a territory thing? Or maybe fighting for leadership?"He hesitated, floundering in the depths of his ignorance, then added with innocent curiosity, "Or was it like... a mating thing?" His voice carried an unintentional mix of naivety and desperation, as if throwing out any theory might snag the truth. The teen had even delved into dark fantasy fiction about werewolves and jilted mates, blurring the lines between myth and reality in his mind.

His thoughts spiraled, echoing with Rook’s words—the final nail in the coffin of his understanding.

“I turned the end of last year before summer.. just.. trying to understand.”
—fin-Asher leaned back into the sagging couch cushions, shoulders stiff under the borrowed hoodie. The house smelled of boiled cabbage and old wood, a scent that clung to the back of his throat. His wolf had finally quieted, but it still prowled restless beneath his skin—satisfied, smug even, after putting Nathan down.

He didn’t feel smug, though. He felt… raw. Like he’d just stripped down in front of everyone and couldn’t stuff the fur back fast enough. Great. Real smooth, Ash. Show the new crew your fangs and watch ‘em scatter.

His knuckles **** as he flexed his hands, trying to bleed off the tension. That’s when Alastor’s voice cut through, soft but loaded with questions.

> “Honestly—first of all, I wanted to be sure you’re alright.”

That drew a faint huff of surprise out of him. Of all the things to focus on, the kid was checking on Nathan. Then came the flood of questions—pack dynamics, territory, leadership—Asher kept still, jaw tight, listening in silence. He could almost handle those. But then:

> “Or was it like... a mating thing?”

The words hung in the stale air like a bomb. Asher felt the heat hit his face so fast he almost choked on it. His wolf barked out a laugh inside him, sharp and unhelpful.“Dios mío, por qué yo…” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. His ears burned, and for a moment, he half-considered just walking out into the night.

Rook looked like he was two seconds from cracking up, and Babushka’s sharp glance kept him pinned where he was. So he exhaled hard through his nose, pinched the bridge of it between thumb and forefinger, and forced himself steady.

Finally, he gestured toward the couch across from him. “Siéntate, chico,” he said, voice calmer now, though a little weary. “I’ll explain what I can.”

He waited until Alastor obeyed before he spoke again, choosing his words carefully. “What you saw… it wasn’t about territory. It wasn’t about… mating, either.” He shot Alastor a look at that, cheeks still faintly red. “It was hierarchy. Wolves—real wolves, and us too—we don’t have to like each other, but we can’t ignore the pull of dominance. When two wolves clash, it’s to see who’s stronger, who leads, who submits.”

His gaze drifted briefly toward the doorway where Nathan was standing looking frustrated with having them all there in his home, voice low. “That’s all it was. A challenge. His wolf wanted to prove himself. Mine… wasn’t about to roll over.”

The words tasted bitter, because they weren’t the whole truth. He could’ve said more—about Blaze, about how the wolf in him was itching for that fight long before Nathan ****—but he swallowed it down. No sense dumping the full mess on a kid already drowning in questions.

So instead, he leaned back, eyes half-lidded, and finished with quiet finality: “That’s what you saw tonight. Dominance, not territory. A fight, not… anything else.”
--Fin--Nathan’s face went crimson the second Alastor dropped the word mating. It burned through him hotter than any fight, hotter than Asher’s pinning weight had moments ago. His wolf stirred with confusion—fascination tangled with resentment—and he wanted to crawl under the floorboards rather than look anyone in the eye. He ducked his head quickly, pretending to fuss with the shredded edge of his sleeve, praying the heat in his cheeks wasn’t obvious. (It was.)

Babushka’s sharp little cough saved him from answering outright. Her expectant gaze cut across the room, and Nathan knew what she wanted. With a groan that came out more like a growl, he shifted into Polish, explaining what Alastor had asked and what Asher had answered. His voice was low, clipped, his embarrassment seeping into every syllable.

The old woman nodded sagely and gave her verdict. Nathan sighed again, dragging a hand through his dark hair before translating back for the room.

“Babushka says you are always welcome here. Fledgling packs need guidance, and it is good that we now have an Alpha.” His tone was carefully even, but his eyes betrayed him—flicking toward Asher with something sharp, near territorial. “She thinks we should stick together. And… if you have questions, she’ll answer them.”

On the surface, it sounded almost welcoming. But Nathan’s expression—tight jaw, narrowed eyes, the twitch at his lip—told a different story. Irritation and anger simmered underneath, his wolf bristling at the reality he was now forced to accept.

Across from him, Rook had both hands clamped over his mouth, shoulders shaking with the effort of not laughing. His eyes glittered with barely contained amusement—because only Al would stumble into a question like that. He knew better than to actually let the laugh out, though. The last thing he wanted was Nathan’s mortification turning into fury aimed at him.So Rook kept biting down on the grin, his muffled snicker hanging like static in the air while Nathan glowered, and Babushka looked on with her calm, unflappable patience.

—fin—Asher groaned in annoyance, his cheeks flushing furiously along with Nathan's. Asher’s explanation provided some clarity, though a twinge of shame lingered—its source unclear. Alastor glanced sideways at Nathan, he absorbed the unspoken emotions.

Rook appeared to suppress a laugh. The sight of him triggered a memory of earlier words:

*”I am bitten—Nathan is by blood.”*

The older woman listened intently, and despite Nathan’s hesitant tone, his words exuded a comforting security.

“Thank you… babushka… and all of you,” he said. “Nathan, I know this isn’t easy, but I meant what I said. I’m at a loss, so I'll try to limit my questions. I have few that will lead to them- But I do have two important ones.”

He shifted nervously. “I was told you’re a wolf by blood and Rook became one through a bite—that’s how he changed, right?”

His leg bounced anxiously for a few moments.

“…Does babushka have one of her own?” he asked softly.

“I… wasn’t bitten,” he would continue, “but no one in my family changes. I’m the only one. Believe me, I’m not the result of anything like cheating. When I asked if werewolves were real, they just laughed and told me to get my head out of the clouds.”

He huffed slightly. “Can… first changes be triggered by rage? Or is it something else?” His voice remained calm, though tension flickered beneath the surface.

A thoughtful pause followed as he considered his words.

“The reason I ask is because… the first time, I didn’t remember anything,” he admitted smoothly.

“I… uh…”

His hands clenched tightly, as if trying to force out something deeply uncomfortable. His leg resumed its restless bouncing.

Then, after a tense beat, the truth finally emerged.
>>>“Last year.. before the summer - I was violated. I don’t.. remember much beyond shoving him away.” He said as his hands shifted uncomfortably. “By morning I found myself naked and a dead animal. I freaked thinking I killed blaze….”It came out his eyes drifted at his hands.

“But from what I understood when I came home- I beat him till he was out like a light.. so don’t think he ever saw. “
—fin—Asher dipped his head the moment Nathan finished translating Babushka’s words.

“Gracias, señora,” he said softly, and meant it. His wolf eased under her gaze—it recognized the authority in her tone, the steadiness of a true elder. She didn’t posture, didn’t bare her teeth; she simply was, and that alone commanded respect.

But when Nathan’s eyes cut toward him, hard and bright with resentment, Asher felt his own hackles rise in answer. That look said you don’t belong here, you don’t deserve this, and Asher’s wolf—dominant, unyielding—bristled in return. He forced his shoulders to stay relaxed, his voice even when he finally spoke.

“You may not like it, chico,” he said, gaze steady on Nathan, “but your Babushka’s right. Wolves need a center. Without it, things tear apart fast. If she names me alpha, then I’ll carry that weight—for all of us. Whether you fight me every step of the way is on you.”

The words hung heavy. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t snarl, but the steel was there, clipped and cold.

Then Alastor’s halting confession broke through. At first Asher only half-listened, still caught in the silent tug-of-war with Nathan. But the moment Blaze’s name hit the air—twined with words like violated and didn’t remember—everything in him snapped taut.

The room tilted for a heartbeat. His vision tunneled, fury spiking sharp enough his wolf shoved hard against his skin, claws raking to get free. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, dragging a hand over his mouth before the snarl could escape.

“Hijo de la gran—” The curse cut off, jaw locking tight. He sat forward, elbows braced to his knees, eyes gone dark and hard as flint.“He touched you?” His voice was low, ragged with the effort it took to keep from spitting fire. “And Blaze—” His hand curled into a fist so tight the knuckles creaked. “I should’ve known. Should’ve smelled it on him.”

He forced himself to exhale, once, sharp. Then he shifted, looking directly at Alastor now, tone easing only by a fraction.

“You said no one in your family changes. That you’re the only one.” He hesitated, searching for words that wouldn’t scare the kid further. “It happens, sometimes. Rare. The kind of wolves that aren’t born, aren’t bitten.” His mouth pressed flat. “Cursed. Old bloodlines, old grudges… sometimes it jumps a generation. Sometimes it hits someone who should’ve stayed human.”

He studied Alastor, the restless bounce of his leg, the haunted look behind his eyes.

“You’re not weak, chico,” he said, voice softer now. “What you are—what happened to you—it doesn’t make you broken. It makes you… different. Dangerous, maybe. But never broken.”

The fury still burned in his gut, cold and steady now, aimed square at Blaze. But for Alastor, his wolf held steady, protective in a way that felt instinctive, unavoidable.Asher’s fists unclenched one finger at a time. The rage hadn’t left—it simmered low and hot under his ribs—but he forced his wolf to settle, to stop pressing claws against his skin. Slowly, he lifted his head and looked at them in turn.

First Alastor. The kid was still bouncing his leg, knuckles white where his hands twisted together. Too young to carry what he’d just confessed. Too young to have Blaze’s shadow hanging over him.

Then Rook. He masked it better, always did, but Asher saw the tension in his jaw, the way he sat ready to bolt even now. A boy who’d had to survive, not thrive.

Finally Nathan. Stubborn, jaw tight, eyes sharp with challenge. Still fighting him even now. And yet beneath that, the restless edge of someone who wanted—needed—an anchor.

Asher exhaled through his nose, steady and deliberate. “Listen to me,” he said quietly, the tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re mine now.”

His gaze swept the three of them again, deliberate, unflinching. “Pack isn’t just a word. It means you don’t run alone anymore. You don’t fight alone. My wolf—” his hand pressed flat against his chest, “—will protect you. From Blaze. From anyone who tries to break you down. From the worst of your own selves, if it comes to that.”He leaned forward, eyes hard as steel, but his voice softened just a notch. “It means if you fall, I pick you up. If you bleed, I stand over you. If you can’t fight—” his gaze lingered on Alastor, then Nathan, “—I fight for you. That’s what being my pack means. And I don’t give it lightly.”

The silence that followed was thick, weighted. His wolf surged under his skin, not with fury this time but with the bone-deep certainty of an oath.

“From now on,” he finished, voice low but steady, “you’re under my protection. All of you. Whether you like it or not.”
-fin-Nathan translated Babushka’s words with mechanical precision, clinging to the task like a lifeline. It was easier to hide in the role of interpreter, his voice steady even while his stomach twisted into knots.

But when Alastor’s confession spilled out—raw, jagged—Nathan froze. The word violated made his chest seize, pulling him back to memories he fought daily to bury. Blaze’s smirk. The humiliation. The night that had never stopped haunting him.

His throat worked, but he couldn’t force words out. Not in English, not in Polish. He kept his gaze fixed on the floorboards, heart hammering, the translation dying in his mouth. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to vanish before someone saw how close the mask was slipping.

Instead, he exhaled slowly through his nose, shoulders tightening, and muttered a fractured summary in Polish for Babushka—just enough to honor Alastor’s words, but stripped down, bare bones. Anything more would have **** him open, and he couldn’t afford that. Not here. Not now.

---Rook had been smirking, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding back laughter at Alastor’s earlier blunders. But the word violated cut through the room like a blade. His grin died in an instant, dropping from his face before he even realized it was gone.

He leaned back into the couch, folding his arms tight across his chest. The wolf in him, usually so quick to jeer or bark, went quiet. He didn’t even try for a joke—because nothing about this was funny. His eyes flicked toward Alastor, sharp but strangely uncertain, as if weighing whether the kid was about to crack under the weight of what he’d just admitted.

For a long beat, Rook said nothing. Silence hung heavy around him, his usual smirk buried under something darker. Eventually he exhaled, muttering low—half to himself, half to the room:
“Still standing. That’s what matters.”

But even as he said it, his gaze slid toward the door. His pulse drummed restless in his ears, louder than the murmurs of pack and promise. Asher’s words—you’re mine now, you don’t run alone anymore—rang sharp in the back of his head. And yet all Rook wanted was air. Space. An escape before the walls closed in.

His foot tapped once, twice, then stilled. A decision made.

If no one stopped him, he’d slip out later, under cover of night—straight to Cosmo. Rules or no rules. Alpha or not.

Because if tonight proved anything, it was this: Rook wasn’t built to sit in rooms like this, drowning in confessions he couldn’t laugh off.

-fin-Alastor sensed Nathan's rage simmering beneath the surface, smoldering like embers on the brink of ignition. Strangely, it filled him with euphoria, a fleeting high he couldn't quite understand.

Nathan's words carried a weight, as if he grappled with his own hidden battles—Alastor could sense it, an unspoken struggle lingering in the air.

Then Asher spoke again, declaring himself the alpha and calling them a pack.

But for Alastor, it felt wrong. He wasn't meant to be beneath anyone. Deep down, he felt oddly alone.. like he was missing something important.

His hands shifted once more as he processed the words. Cursed—something that befalls humans who should have stayed human... Apart from Blaze, he rarely interacted with anyone other than Cosmo in class. He didn’t think he offended anyone to be cursed. Grudges… rage.. the rage!

“Honestly.. even during the fight.. I almost lost myself.. “ he said quietly. “But that was because I felt.. the rage around in the fight.. one really stuck out…” his eye traveled to Nathan.

“Anger..… justified.” He said simply.

“It was.. overwhelming.. had enough mind to do what I had to keep from things delving off.. or yall would have seen my wolf.”

He let off a breath.”and let’s just say- I’m bigger than asher. I do shift during the full moon.. but I feel more like I’m hunting something important those nights.. and it isn’t prey.” He finished.

“Thanks for answering what you could.” He said softly.
—fin—

Inkglitched · « **Reply #4 on:** February 10, 2026, 09:13:13 pm »

Asher’s wolf wanted to prowl—still bristling at the scents of anger, shame, and fear swirling through the small room. But he forced it down. The old woman’s calm presence, the steam curling from her chipped teacup, anchored him as much as the sight of three shaken boys in front of him.

He dipped his head slightly, respectful. “Dziękuję… for the tea,” he told Babushka in careful Polish, the best he could manage. His accent was rough, but the gratitude in his tone was clear. “And for… opening your home to us tonight.”

When his gaze slid back to the others, it was softer but no less firm. “We’ve done enough for now. The rest can wait until we’re steadier.” He looked toward the door, already hearing Rook’s restless foot tapping like a drumbeat. “I’ll walk you out.”

The words weren’t a suggestion. They were a tether, an unspoken reminder that he wasn’t about to let them scatter into the night without him close.

Outside, the air was cooler, easier to breathe. Rook immediately shoved his hands deep into his hoodie pockets, muttering something about needing air and peeling off a few seconds later. Asher let him, eyes tracking him as he disappeared down the street. Then he turned his attention back to Alastor.

“You held it together better than you think,” Asher said low, pitched for Al’s ears alone. “But what you described? That’s not something to shrug off.”

He studied the younger man for a beat, weighing how far to push. “I don’t have all the answers. But the Alpha who’s been teaching me? He might. He’s old. Knows things most don’t. If you’re okay with it, I’ll ask him what he knows about… rare wolves. Curses. The kind that don’t fit the usual lore.”

Asher’s expression softened just a fraction, though the steel in his voice remained. “I won’t tell him your story—only what you want me to share. But you don’t have to carry this blind. Not when there’s a chance someone’s seen it before.”He let the offer hang between them, steady and patient, giving Al the choice rather than pressing it like a command.
--Fin--Nathan’s jaw stayed tight, fingers knotting behind his back as though he could anchor himself by sheer force. Al’s words—rage, curse, violated—twisted like knives in his gut. Too close. Too familiar. For a split second, he wasn’t sure if he was translating Alastor’s confession or if he was just hearing his own memories replayed in a different voice.

Babushka’s hand pressed firmly against his upper arm, grounding but insistent. He dragged in a ragged breath and forced the words out, his voice raw but steady enough:

“She says… the wolf will test you, but you are not cursed. You survived. That means strength. The rage—it wants to own you. But you are still you.”

He swallowed hard, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. His wolf prowled restless under his skin, as if Blaze’s ghost had slipped back into the room. He could feel Asher’s stare, heavy with that Alpha claim, pressing down like chains. It made him itch to run.

“If that’s it,” he muttered, voice clipped, “I’ve got homework.”

A lie. The moment the others stepped out, Nathan would be gone—straight to band practice. To Donny. To the only place he could drown out the ghosts clawing at him.Al’s confession snuffed out whatever grin Rook had been holding on to. His smirk dissolved, replaced by the hard press of his lips. He shifted back into the couch, arms folded tight, his wolf sinking into silence.

The room was too heavy. Too close. Every word from Asher—pack, protection, you’re mine now—felt like a collar snapping shut around his throat. He needed out. Needed something sharp and cold to cut through the weight pressing down on him.

By the time Asher rose to herd them out, Rook was already moving. “Yeah. Cool. Air sounds good,” he muttered, tugging his hood low.

The porch air hit him, brisk and sharp, but not nearly enough. The second Asher’s focus shifted toward Alastor, Rook let his restless feet carry him down the steps, hands buried in his hoodie pocket.

He glanced back once—quick, sharp, unreadable—before melting into the shadows of the street.

Not home. Not safe. Not pack.
Cosmo. He needed Cosmo.

-fin-It wasn’t something to shrug off—not a curse, but a strength. The words rooted deep within him. Unlike the others, he didn’t feel tethered to Asher in the same way. Not that he intended to test it, especially after witnessing their fierce battle.

He stepped out to see rook already heading his way out.”thanks!” He called to the retreating back.

A flick- another smoke. All he could think of is he needed to get high after the stuff he saw and heard.

“Let’s bounce.” He said as he started to walk off. He knew eventually- he’d need to run. Let the wolf out, but for now stuffed the feeling in a box, closing it.. settling.

A ring. A grimace. He answered.”sorry mama just dropped off a friend, be there soon, this the other friend- he said he’d walk me home.” He said soothing her worries.

“Mmhmm.. yes mama.. no homework I got that done in detention.” He answered. After a few more words he hung up.”I shouldn’t be that much farther.” He said as he walked.
——Donny arrived unusually early, his belongings neatly arranged. His long red hair was tied up, giving him a composed appearance. People were beginning to slowly arrive, Yuma their drummer was getting his set up, a smoke between his lips and a bottle sitting on a chair.

Donovan noticed Nathan coming in- and looking stressed. “Yall get warmed up.” He told them to put his arm around Nathan’s shoulders- guiding him for a ‘private’ talk. Least to the other members that what it looked like.

Reality- it was more than that, hot and heavy how he liked it. Some he let Nathan ****, anything to keep the guy close. Though he wasn’t happy that the guy was starting to outshine him- he had a voice that any band would have loved to have on theirs.

“Nathan.. I know that look.. what happened?”

A chance to let him complain.. and maybe get what he really wanted from Nathan.
—fin—Asher adjusted his stride to match Alastor’s, not crowding him but not letting the distance stretch too far either. He caught the flick of the lighter out of the corner of his eye, the glow briefly outlining the other boy’s tired face.

“Your mom sounded worried,” he said after the call ended, his tone easy, almost conversational. “That’s… nice, though. Not everyone’s got that. Someone waiting for them.” His voice trailed off, like he was only half-speaking to Al and half to himself.

For a while, they walked in silence, the kind that wasn’t heavy—just steady. The kind that let both of them breathe after everything. Asher kept his eyes forward, but his ears stayed sharp, listening to the shuffle of Al’s shoes on the pavement, the soft drag of smoke leaving his lungs.

“You held your ground back there,” he said eventually, his voice low, calm. “Most people would’ve panicked. You didn’t.” There wasn’t judgment in the words, only quiet respect.

He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck, choosing his words with care. “I’m not gonna tell you what to do with… whatever’s in you. That’s yours to figure out. But if you want help, if you ever want someone to back you up while you sort through it—I’m around.”

When the first warm glow of porch lights came into view, Asher slowed his pace just a little. “I’ll walk you the rest of the way, if that’s cool. Just to make sure you get there in one piece.” A faint huff of a laugh slipped out of him. “No lectures, no hovering. Promise.”

He glanced sideways then, letting his expression soften into something gentler than his usual sharp-edged calm. “You’ve had enough people trying to tell you what you are tonight. I’m not gonna add to that.”

And with that, he fell quiet again, letting the rhythm of the walk carry them the rest of the way—close enough to be there, far enough to give Al space to breathe.
--Fin--The fact that Donovan caught it—that flicker of wrongness beneath Nathan’s usual sharp edges—slipped under his guard before he even realized it. The weight of Donny’s arm around his shoulders grounded him, cutting through the storm that had been chewing at his chest since school. For a moment, the noise dulled.

“Got into some fights…” Nathan muttered, voice low, almost embarrassed by how small the words sounded. He let himself lean into Donny, letting the contact bleed out some of the tension wound tight in his muscles. The Xanax was finally dragging its haze across his nerves, softening the claws of his thoughts.

His eyes half-lidded, Nathan pressed a little closer, unusually pliant. “I just… need a distraction,” he murmured, words muffled against Donny. It wasn’t the usual sarcasm, no bite at all—just a raw need he rarely let show.

And in that unguarded space, his defenses **** wide enough to let slip the truth of it: this was the version of him only lovers ever saw. The one that clung instead of pushed, that needed instead of snarled. The one that let himself be held.
-fin-“She’s always had my back, which is probably why I kept everything to myself,” he said softly. “I’ve got two little brothers, twin sisters, and an older brother who’s been out of the house for a while. She’s already dealing with enough.”

He walked quietly for a moment before speaking again. “Oh, I panicked alright—it’s just about making sure it doesn’t show,” he admitted. “Blaze still scares me; he just doesn’t know it.”

“That’s fine though. I still looked roughed up, you know. So, let’s just say we had a fistfight and now we’re besties—it’ll keep her from worrying,” he added with a slight grin.

As they continued walking, he glanced over. “So, Asher... since it’s just us and we’re out of Emo’s earshot—be honest. Do you like Nathan?” He teased, chuckling lightly. “I mean, you two seemed pretty blushy, makes me think that was a mating thing.” His tone was playful, more to break the ice than anything else. He didn’t like dwelling on his own thoughts too much, so he focused on getting to know Asher instead.
——-“Fights huh?..” said Donovan.. accepting it readily. The vulnerability.. he knew how much to push normally.. and looked like he didn’t have to. It was clear that Nathan was under the influence.

Distraction.

A smirk crossed his face. “I can help.” He murmured as he was more than ready.

Donovan placed his mouth on Nathan’s, his hand sliding up in his hair. He always started out slow- normally. But with Nathan being out of it, and in his feelings- it made it easy to use him.

A firm tug and his mouth on his neck. “Hope you’re ready.” He said against Nathan’s neck. He loved this sort of thing- control. It wasn’t hard.. heck he had a girlfriend that was at his beck and call for a while now. Just Nathan never knew about it.

Broken people made the best ****.

A puppet.. that was what Nathan was to him. And he absolutely loved it.
—fin—Nathan melted into the kiss, body betraying him before his brain caught up. The Xanax haze dulled the sharp edges of his panic, made it easier to lean into the warmth of Donovan’s arm around him, the steady press of lips and hands. For a fleeting second, it worked. The noise in his head quieted.

But then came the tug, the grip in his hair, the mouth at his neck. His chest tightened—not from panic this time, but from something tangled and messy. It was comfort and control all at once, and he hated how much he craved it.

He let out a shaky breath, fingers curling in Donovan’s shirt, grounding himself. “Donny…” his voice was rough, half warning, half plea. “Just… don’t make me think right now.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, raw and low. A confession of just how badly he needed the distraction, how much he wanted to forget everything else—the fight, Blaze’s ghost, Asher’s eyes burning into him, even the guilt he carried into every note he sang.

Once on his knees Nathan began to pleasure Donny just the way he knew the man liked. The more intense the teen was with him, the more that twisted desire to be abused swelled.

Soon, Nathan found himself pulled up by the hair and shoved into the wall. Pants pulled down. No prep. No care. Nathan bit into his own hand drawing blood just to keep himself quiet as Donovan used him. He hated how much this helped him forget his worries. A sick mix of pleasure and pain.

-fin-Asher huffed a low laugh at the “besties” comment, shaking his head. “Yeah, sure. Nothing says bonding like a busted lip and bruised ribs.” But there was a little curve at the corner of his mouth, like he appreciated the attempt to lighten the mood.

When Al’s teasing jab about Nathan landed, though, he slowed a half step. For a moment, he didn’t answer, jaw working as if he was grinding down words before letting them out.

Asher walked quietly for a beat, his steps measured. When he finally spoke, his tone was low, almost like he was confessing something that didn’t come easy.

“Look… I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel something with Nathan. But attraction’s one thing—acting on it’s another. Right now, I’ve got way too much on my plate. I need to learn control, figure out how to handle this whole Alpha thing, and…” he hesitated, thumb brushing the edge of his pocket, “…I’m still coming to terms with being gay myself.”

The words came out steady, but heavier than he meant them to. His jaw tensed before he continued, softer now:

“Coming out to my family didn’t exactly go over well. My mom won’t even talk to me anymore. She wants nothing to do with me.” He swallowed hard, eyes fixed ahead. “My dad though—he’s got my back. And my twin sister, Adara… she’s solid. Ride-or-die, no matter what. If it weren’t for them, I don’t know how I’d be standing right now.”

He let out a rough laugh, trying to lighten the weight of his own words. “So yeah. Relationships? Not on my radar. I can’t afford to screw things up or drag anyone into my mess while I’m still figuring myself out.”

Finally, he flicked a sideways glance at Al, managing the ghost of a smirk. “So you can stop matchmaking. Nathan’s safe from me—for now.”
--Fin--After asserting himself with intensity, he finally withdrew. He didn’t offer Nathan any help to clean up—he didn’t see it as his responsibility. "Get yourself together. You’ve got to practice and let that beautiful voice shine," he remarked with a smoldering look. "Do well, and maybe we can have a little bondage night?" In other words, he was free tonight—unusual, since he often claimed to be busy whenever Lucinda was around. Keeping his secret from Nathan., but when she was busy- he certainly wasn’t going to wait on her to get his fix.
——-
Alastor listened as he smoked. It sounded like to him- Asher was making excuses. Course- he understood not every family was accepting.. but it sounded like he had a support system.

“Who said I was matchmaking.. maybe I was seeing if he was fair game..” he smirked slow.”looks like he is yes?” He asked with a low chuckle.
—fin—When Donovan left him, Nathan stayed behind, bracing himself on the wall as the silence pressed in. His body ached, raw and sore in ways he didn’t want to name. He moved slow, mechanical, dragging damp paper towels over his skin, scrubbing harder than he needed to—as if he could erase the dirt clinging under his ribs.

By the time he looked at himself in the **** mirror, his eyes were hollow. He hated that part of him still clung to the scraps Donovan tossed, that some warped part of his chest whispered at least he’s mine tonight. The shame of it twisted deep, but the meds dulled the edges, smoothed the jagged thoughts into something he could fold up and shove away.

So he did what he always did. He buried it.

When practice started, Nathan’s mask slid into place. Every lyric, every line came out sharp, flawless. His voice soared, hitting notes with the kind of raw power that made the others stop and stare. If Donovan wanted a distraction, he gave it to him—a performance so tight it left no room for cracks.

On the outside, it looked like Nathan was on fire. On the inside, he was ash, still smoldering from what he’d let happen in the dark.

—fin—The sound ripped out of him before he could stop it. A guttural snarl, low and sharp, carried on the night air. Asher’s chest vibrated with it, his wolf surging forward at Alastor’s words like a match to dry kindling.

His eyes flashed, narrowed, and he clamped his jaw shut so hard it ached. For a second, he looked more beast than boy, shoulders tight, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Dammit,” he ground out, forcing the growl back down. He exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair in pure frustration. “This… this is what I mean. My wolf—he doesn’t care about patience or excuses.” His voice was rough, strained, as if he was trying to reason with something snarling just under his skin.

“He heard you say Nathan’s fair game and—” Asher’s mouth twisted, eyes dark with the admission, “—he wants to tear that idea apart. Because to him, Nathan’s already his. Ours.”

He let out a long, weary sigh, shoulders sagging with the weight of it. “The whole control thing… it isn’t that easy when your wolf fights your human side every damn step.”

For a moment he stared off at nothing, then added, quieter, “That’s what scares me. I don’t want to use my alpha pull on anyone, not him, not anyone I care about. If I ever crossed that line—if I ever forced it—it wouldn’t be real. And I couldn’t live with that.”

His voice dropped to a near whisper, full of grit and exhaustion. “So yeah, I’m fighting him every day. And I don’t even know if I’m winning.”
--Fin--Alastor flinched slightly at the unexpected snarl—not from fear, but mild surprise. A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, followed by a soft chuckle at the outburst.

"Looks like he's craving exactly what you're denying yourself," Alastor remarked, his voice filled with dry amusement. "You know, it wouldn’t hurt to yield to the alpha within for a while. Seems like you and your wolf are locked in a constant struggle for dominance. Maybe it’s time you had an honest conversation with him."

He continued thoughtfully, "I’m just saying—it’s tough on your wolf, always having to battle a human who resists his instincts at every turn. Sure, it’s scary, and that’s probably why he’s fighting so hard—to show you it doesn’t have to be."

Alastor sighed softly, his tone shifting to a blend of patience and insistence. "And just saying—it’s in your nature to be an alpha. Perhaps it’s time to use that alpha pull on yourself. Make choices that align with what you want as an alpha.” He said in a tone.

“I may be an enigma, but I’ll be honest. My wolf been listening to me a little more.. and eventually I’ll need to run.. run with me some time.. not really sure how my wolf will act around yours.. given rules and heirchy. I just know.. if we fight it probably be a joke of a story of David and Goliath.. and just saying.. you’d be David.”

After a few more moments he got to the house. He stopped a little.”and thanks for walking me home. Asher.” He said with a smile and a chuckle.”and just saying if nathan don’t look your way. He is missing out- but if you don’t say something- alpha wolf wanting him or not- you’ll never know if he wants you.” He said smoothly..”your alpha acting like that? Probably wants you to try before someone- else- maybe like me claims him.”

—fin—After practice, when the others drifted out into the night, it was just Nathan and Donovan left. That was all Donny needed. The redhead knew exactly how to pull him in—slow at first, then relentless, taking and taking until Nathan was nothing but pliant hands and bruised lips. Pills dulled the edges, made it easier to let go, easier to let Donny use him like an instrument to be played until the last note.

For a fleeting while, it felt good—like being wanted, like being chosen. But the illusion **** fast. Donny’s phone buzzed, and with a sharp word and a shove toward the door, it was over. No shower, no comfort. Just a quick kiss that tasted like dismissal and another pill pressed into his palm as payment.

By the time Nathan stumbled home, drugged and aching, the high had soured into something grimy that clung to his skin. His chest hollowed out with the familiar ache of being disposable.

Still, duty called. Babushka came first. He helped her to bed, made sure she had her medication, and waited until her breathing softened into steady sleep. Only then did he retreat to the bathroom.

The shower was scalding, steam choking the mirror as he scrubbed his skin raw. It didn’t wash away the shame. It never did. The water carried the ache out of his muscles, but the dirt he felt was deeper, stuck in places soap couldn’t reach.

Exhausted, he downed the pills Donny had given him, the chemical quiet settling over his thoughts like a heavy blanket. He curled up in his bed at last, the day replaying in fragments he didn’t want to see. Within minutes, the silence of sleep dragged him under—dreamless, merciful, but heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.

—fin—The corner of Asher’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more like he was grinding down the reaction before it slipped free. Inside, though, his wolf practically preened at Alastor’s words, smug as sin.

See? He gets it. He sees me.

The wolf pressed forward, sharp and insistent, almost giddy at the suggestion of running with Al. Size, hierarchy—none of it mattered. Bigger wolf? So what. He’ll keep up, or he won’t. Doesn’t matter. Run. Hunt. Test him.

Asher’s hand curled into a fist at his side, nails biting his palm. “You’d enjoy this way too much,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the restless presence clawing at his chest.

When he looked back at Alastor, his eyes held a tired kind of defiance. “My wolf thinks you’re smarter than I give you credit for. He’s smug as hell about it, too.” He let out a short laugh, but it carried no real humor. “And yeah, he likes the idea of running with you. Doesn’t give a damn that you’d probably look like a giant next to him.”

For a second, Asher hesitated, then added quieter, “But I don’t know if I can let that happen. Every time I let him loose, even a little, I feel him pulling harder. Like one day he won’t let me take the reins back.”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair and huffed. “Still… thanks for the advice. I’ll… think about it. Doesn’t mean I’ll like it.”

The wolf growled low inside, clearly amused, clearly smug—because thinking about it was already more of a win than Asher usually gave him.Asher barely got the words out before his wolf shoved harder, a low, snarling thought threading through his veins:

Don’t let anyone touch him. Don’t let anyone sink their claws into him. Not Al. Not Blaze. Not anyone. He’s ours to protect. Ours.

The wolf’s fury burned hotter than anything Asher had felt in years, not just possessive but desperate—like the idea of Nathan being claimed by anyone else was unthinkable. Images flooded his head: Nathan’s quiet strength, the tremor in his voice when he translated, the way his shoulders stiffened when Blaze’s name came up. His wolf prowled against the inside of his ribs, snarling again.

He’s been hurt enough. You let someone else close, they’ll break him worse. Claim him. Keep him safe. Now.

Asher winced, dragging in a sharp breath through his nose. He tried to keep his voice steady, casual, but it came out more raw than he wanted. “My wolf… he’s not subtle about Nathan. Keeps telling me not to let anyone else lay a hand on him. Not in a protective way, either—it’s more than that.”

His eyes flicked toward Alastor, narrowing just a touch. “So, maybe don’t joke about him being ‘fair game.’ Not unless you want my wolf snarling in your face again. He doesn’t… he doesn’t share where Nathan’s concerned.”

For a beat, Asher looked away, shoulders tight. Then, softer, almost grudging: “And maybe he’s right. Nathan’s already been through enough without someone else screwing him over.”

The wolf inside hummed smug approval, tail-high, as if to say: Finally. You’re starting to get it.
--Fin--Alastor chuckled at Asher's self-directed remarks. "Mmm, feels like I’m on the right track if your wolf thinks I’m smart," he said, continuing his stride.

Asher responded thoughtfully, "I don’t think your wolf is like that. He just wants acknowledgment from you. Respect works both ways. If you learn to let him go, he’ll reciprocate. Trust requires giving a little, and I’m sure he’ll meet you halfway."

Pausing briefly, Asher added, "More than that, he wants to feel he can be more. That’s where you come in. He needs to understand boundaries. Building a relationship requires effort from both sides, or Nathan’s human side might start to resent it—and I know that’s the last thing you’d want. Protect Nathan as the alpha, but keep the relationship under his human side’s control. That’s your line in the sand. It’ll be tough because he’s a wolf."

Alastor hesitated for a moment before continuing, "And just saying—if Nathan decided he didn’t want you, how would that work? Forcing it wouldn’t sit right with us as humans. Anyway, sleep on that."

As Alastor reached the first step, he heard his mother before he could open the door. "Hey, Mama," he greeted warmly, giving her a quick hug. "Sorry for making you worry."

"Hijo, what happened? Why are you all dirty?" she asked with concern.

Alastor grew sheepish. "Kinda got in a fight with Asher here, but we’re friends now. Just had a bad day, and he set me straight," he admitted, keeping it short and simple while taking the blame.

His mother’s gaze shifted to Asher, one brow raised. "Then why is he wearing your clothes?"

"He was dirty, Mama—and I kinda ripped his pants," Alastor replied quickly. Her skeptical look lingered, but she let it slide as Alastor went inside.

Turning to Asher with warmth, she said, "Thank you for bringing Alastor home. You’re welcome here anytime. Please be kind to my son… his last relationship wasn’t good."

From inside, Alastor’s voice rang out, "Mama, he’s not my boyfriend, please stop!"His mother chuckled softly before bidding Asher a goodnight, closing the door gently behind her.
—fin—The morning light crept through thin curtains, painting long stripes across Nathan’s cramped room. His head throbbed dully, the echo of last night’s choices sitting heavy in his chest. The ache in his body wasn’t just bruises—it was deeper, stickier, the kind that didn’t wash off no matter how hot the water ran in the shower.

Still, he moved through the motions. Babushka first. Always.

He padded softly into her room, careful not to wake her as he checked her pills, set water by her bedside, and pulled the blanket a little higher over her frail shoulders. She stirred, whispering something in Polish, and Nathan bent to kiss her temple. “I’ve got it, Babushka. Rest,” he murmured, his voice gentler than he ever let the outside world hear.

Back in the kitchen, he stared at the bottle on the counter. His jaw tightened before he finally popped one of the pills, the bitter chalkiness catching on his tongue. Ten minutes later, the world smoothed out. The guilt dulled, the shame blurred. Sarcasm filled the cracks like glue. It was easier that way.

By the time he pulled his hoodie up and slung his shredded backpack over one shoulder, he felt untouchable. Calm. Maybe too calm.

---

The school halls were alive with noise, the kind of chaos that normally set his teeth on edge. Today, though, it slid right past him. He leaned against his locker, arms crossed, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. Waiting.

The clatter of wheels against tile announced him before he even looked up. Rook. Bruised, grinning, carrying that board like it was part of him.

Nathan’s smirk sharpened. “Well, if it isn’t lover boy. Thought you’d be too busy writing sonnets for Cosmo to drag your ass to school today.”

His eyes flicked deliberately to the healing split in Rook’s lip, and he added with lazy sarcasm, “Guess some people are into the whole beat-up puppy look. Real romantic.”Rook slowed, rolling the board up under his arm, one brow cocked. Normally he’d fire back fast, all grin and teeth, but something about Nathan’s tone made him hesitate. Too smooth. Too sharp. He knew that edge—Nathan wasn’t sober.

Still, the smirk came easy. He leaned on the locker beside him, dropping the board with a hollow clunk. “At least I’ve got someone writing sonnets about me,” he fired back, voice low and easy. “What about you, Emo? Still sneakin’ around with Donny, or did he finally let you sing lead in his little ego parade?”

The jab was playful on the surface, but Rook’s gaze lingered. He saw the tightness in Nathan’s jaw, the way his eyes darted everywhere but his. Something was off.

But for now, he let it sit between them, banter sharp as knives.Asher slowed his steps as Alastor spoke about wolves and boundaries, the words sticking more than he’d admit aloud.

“You make it sound simple,” he said after a beat, his voice low. “Trust, respect, give a little and he’ll give it back. Maybe you’re right. But it’s not just me and him—I’ve got people to protect. If I screw up, it’s not just me paying the price.”

His wolf rumbled at that, impatient with excuses. Always impatient. He’s mine. He’s ours. Don’t let anyone else touch him. The words weren’t literal, but the intent slammed into Asher with enough force to make his jaw tense. Nathan’s name hung unspoken between his human and the beast inside him, and it left a sting of fear in his chest.

Because what if Alastor was right? What if denying the wolf only made him claw harder for control? What if, in trying to do the “right” thing, he ended up hurting the very people he wanted to protect?

He exhaled slowly through his nose, letting the night air ground him, and forced a crooked smirk at Al’s “David and Goliath” jab. “Careful what you ask for. My wolf doesn’t care how big you are.”

By the time they reached the front step, Asher had tamped the rest down deep, the way he always did. But the echo of Al’s words—he is yours, whether you admit it or not—scratched at the back of his mind like claws on stone.

That was when Al’s mother appeared, concern written plain across her face.

Asher dipped his head slightly, catching the lilt of her accent before he spoke.“Buenas noches, señora,” he said warmly, his Spanish steady though touched by his own accent. (“Good evening, ma’am.”)
“Gracias por la hospitalidad. Y no se preocupe—I’ll look out for him. Somos solo amigos.” (“Thank you for the hospitality. And don’t worry—I’ll look out for him. We’re just friends.”)

Inside, Alastor’s protest carried out again—“Mama!”—and Asher couldn’t quite stop the flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth. He angled his head toward the door, half-smirking.
“Tiene razón, señora. Solo amigos,” he echoed in Spanish, but softer. (“He’s right, ma’am. Just friends.”)

He straightened, giving her a polite nod.
“Gracias otra vez por la bienvenida. Buenas noches.” (“Thank you again for the welcome. Good night.”)

With that, he turned, pulling his hoodie tighter against the night air. As he started down the street, his wolf still lingered restless under his skin, but Asher exhaled, letting the quiet soothe him. Al’s mom’s warmth, Al’s blunt words, Nathan’s face hovering in his thoughts—it all settled heavy, but not unpleasant, in his chest.

For the first time in a while, he found himself thinking that maybe—just maybe—being part of a pack didn’t have to be so bad.
-----The drive was quiet except for the low hum of the radio. Adara kept cutting sideways glances at Asher, her mouth set in a thin, unhappy line. He gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, eyes locked on the road ahead.

“So,” she finally said, voice sharp enough to slice through the silence, “are you gonna tell me what went down last night, or keep pretending you just… tripped into a bruise factory?”

Asher sighed, knuckles flexing on the wheel. “It was a fight. That’s all. Just… stay clear of Blaze’s crew. Don’t get involved with them.”

Adara barked a humorless laugh. “That’s your big answer? That’s nothing.”

They rolled into the school parking lot. Before he could form another excuse, she slammed her bag shut, swung the door open, and snapped, “If you told me what happened instead of being vague, I’d be better equipped to deal with those ****!”

The car door **** closed like a gunshot. She stormed off toward the front entrance, muttering under her breath.

Asher sat for a moment, exhaling slow, guilt knotting in his chest. She deserved better than half-truths, but dragging her into Blaze’s mess would only paint a target on her back.

He followed her inside, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

And then he saw them—Rook and Nathan by the lockers, their words sharp, clipped, both looking ready to snap.His wolf surged instantly, a low growl rattling his ribs, every instinct screaming to step in, to stake claim, to protect.

But Asher forced his eyes down, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He tightened his hold on his bag strap and pushed past them without slowing, swallowing the storm in his chest.

He couldn’t afford to lose control here. Not with half the school watching.
--Fin--

Inkglitched · « **Reply #5 on:** February 10, 2026, 09:16:24 pm »

Alastor arrived early that morning, a rare occurrence since he typically helped the science teacher carry boxes. Making his way to his locker, he passed by Nathan and overheard something that made his face pale.

He recognized the name Donovan—he was dating Lucinda, a cheerful, popular girl from the grade below who often went out of her way for others.

He had a girlfriend.

But when did Nathan and Donovan become involved? Alastor needed to find out without being too obvious.

“Oh, you’ve got a boyfriend?” Alastor asked smoothly, leaning casually with one hand resting on the locker beside Nathan’s head. "And here I thought I’d be asking you out," he added with an easy grin, seamlessly joining the conversation.
—fin—Nathan let his head thump lightly against the locker door, eyes tracking Asher’s retreating back a beat too long before Alastor’s arm slid in and caged him there. Heat flared across his cheekbones—annoyingly automatic, the kind of blush he couldn’t bully into submission.

“Yeah,” he said, voice dry as old chalk. “I’m seeing someone. Closet model. We don’t do hallways or hand-holding. Very on-brand.” He flicked a glance up at Al’s easy grin, then back down to the scuffed tile. “Save the pick-up line for someone who does daylight.”

Rook shifted in, the humor gone from his face, arms folded tight. “Translation: you’re his secret.” His jaw worked. “I keep telling you—he’s bad news.”

Nathan’s mouth quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I’m bad news. It fits.” The shrug that followed was loose, medicated, all edges sanded down. “Relax, mom. I know what I signed up for.”

“Do you?” Rook shot back, lower, softer. “Because from where I’m standing it looks like he shows up when it’s convenient and ghosts when his phone buzzes.”

Nathan’s eyes flinched before he could stop them. He covered it with a snort. “Wow. Poetry. Put it in your college essay.”

Rook ignored the barb. He cut a look at Alastor’s arm braced above Nathan’s head. “Easy with the locker lean, Romeo. He’s not a poster.” Then, back to Nathan, voice gentler. “You deserve daylight, Nate. Not back doors and excuses.”

Nathan stared past both of them at nothing in particular, the pill-looseness making his words come out almost lazy. “Daylight’s overrated.” A beat. “We done? I’ve got class.”

Rook exhaled, frustrated, but he let it go—for now. “We’re not done. Just… not here.”

Nathan’s mouth twitched again, that same not-smile. “Sure. After school. We’ll pencil it in between bad decisions.”

—fin—Alastor listened carefully to the reply, his expression tightening with displeasure. Secretive... quiet... just like Blaze. It all seemed to fit with Donny too.

He masked his true feelings with a sly smirk, leaning in slightly. "Well... honestly—even if it's a bit wasted—at least you're cute."

“Oh borrowing rook.” He said back at Nathan to hook his arm around his shoulders.

He would step away with.”hey man- my sister totally wrecked my paper- did you do it? If not can I borrow least for the questions?” He would ask until they were out of earshot.

A pass by a few rooms in the opposite direction of Nathan, he hooked arms with the man.. noticing Donovan walking ahead.

“Rook. Keep an eye on Nathan alright man- and don’t tell him **** right now- I can tell he’s not right, it’s messy right now- but that boyfriend got a girlfriend.” He said.”be extra if you have to- whatever it takes to keep Nathan hanging with you today.” He said.

His arm slipped off of rook.

He turned to see Donovan and tap him on the shoulder.

The red head would turn a low tone meant for his own ears.”this for Nathan ****.”

A punch- right to the face.

A coach intervened, and a sigh.”you already got a week- going to make it two?”

Alastor grinned simply.”honestly it’s worth it.“

He walked off glancing briefly back at rook before he’d vanish in the office.
—fin—The blush hit and he hated that it did. Nathan rolled a shoulder like it was nothing, eyes already sliding past Al to the end of the hall where Donny usually showed.

“Keep him,” he tossed over his shoulder, flat, grabbing his bag. “I’m not babysitting.”

He drifted to his usual spot by the trophy case, texted here. u coming?, then tucked the phone away and leaned back against the glass. Hood up. Chewing gum to drown the taste of last night. A little ripple of noise moved down the corridor—teacher voice, a couple gasps—but he didn’t look. Didn’t care to. Probably some freshman drama.

He fixed on the EXIT sign until it went fuzzy and kept waiting like nothing in him was splintering under the calm.

---Rook went stiff when Al slung an arm over him, played along until they cleared most ears. The second Al hissed boyfriend’s got a girlfriend, Rook’s mouth flattened.

“Knew it,” he muttered. “Dude sprints every time his phone chirps.”

He was about to map out a plan when Al peeled off—then, clean as a snare hit, pop—Rook saw the fist land square on Donny’s face. Coach stormed in. Al smirked. Office. Worth it.

Rook blew out a breath, wheels clicking as he coasted to the trophy case. He rapped Nathan’s locker with a knuckle, tone bright on purpose.

“Congrats. You’ve been drafted into Rook’s All-Day Escort Service. Breakfast run now, locker patrol after, sarcasm breaks every period. I’m clingy; fight me.”

He tipped his head down the hall. “Walk with me, yeah?” A beat, softer but steady. “I’ll keep the noise off you.”Nathan didn’t move. He flicked a glance at Rook’s knuckle on the metal, then back to the dead phone screen in his palm.

“Hard pass,” he said, flat. “I’m not signing up for your field trip.”

Rook’s “escort service” bit earned a slow blink. “Cute. Walk yourself. I’m waiting.” The last word had an edge, like a door closing.

He hit his hood higher, shouldered his bag. “Breakfast run? I’m not your golden retriever—fetch your own carbs.” He took two steps down the hall as if that settled it.

Rook’s softer “I’ll keep the noise off you” made him snort. “I am the noise.”

He started to angle away, then—traitorously—his eyes cut to Rook’s split lip. “You should ice that,” he muttered, barely audible, before the armor snapped back in place. “I’m fine. Drop it.”

He planted himself by the trophy case again, jaw tight, gaze locked on the far end of the corridor like he could will someone to appear. “Go skate, Rook.”The warning bell snapped across the corridor. Nathan didn’t move.

He held his post at the trophy case, hood up, eyes locked on the corner where Donny usually appeared. Lockers slammed. Voices thinned. Rook hovered a step off his shoulder, pretending to read a dust-fogged soccer plaque and very much not pretending to leave.

Thirty seconds. Nothing.

Nathan’s thumbs went to work.

> you coming or what
don’t make me stand here like an idiot
we said before first period

“Delivered.” No dots.

Rook shifted his board from one hand to the other. “We’ve got, like, a minute before—”

“Then go,” Nathan said, eyes still on the corner. Pill-calm made his voice too even, too flat. He typed again. Deleted. Typed.

> last night happened
are we doing the daylight pretend thing again

Silence.

Final bell shrieked. The hallway emptied like a drain. Nathan’s reflection stared back from the glass—hood, dark eyes, a face trying not to crack.

Rook hooked two fingers into the strap of his backpack and tugged, not hard. “C’mon. Breakfast run. I’m not leaving you here to audition for Tragic Statue.”

For three heartbeats Nathan resisted; then his shoulders sank. “Fine,” he muttered.

They cut a lazy arc through the cafeteria, grabbing a chocolate milk and a pair of hash browns. Rook slid one over like a peace offering. “Escort Service includes carbs.”

Nathan took it without looking. “Your Yelp reviews must be unbearable.”

“Five stars for stubborn clients,” Rook said, mouth tilted.

They split at the stairwell.

“Text me if the zombie shows,” Rook called, backing toward his wing.The warning bell snapped across the corridor. Nathan didn’t move.

He held his post at the trophy case, hood up, eyes locked on the corner where Donny usually appeared. Lockers slammed. Voices thinned. Rook hovered a step off his shoulder, pretending to read a dust-fogged soccer plaque and very much not pretending to leave.

Thirty seconds. Nothing.

Nathan’s thumbs went to work.

> you coming or what
don’t make me stand here like an idiot
we said before first period

“Delivered.” No dots.

Rook shifted his board from one hand to the other. “We’ve got, like, a minute before—”

“Then go,” Nathan said, eyes still on the corner. Pill-calm made his voice too even, too flat. He typed again. Deleted. Typed.

> last night happened
are we doing the daylight pretend thing again

Silence.

Final bell shrieked. The hallway emptied like a drain. Nathan’s reflection stared back from the glass—hood, dark eyes, a face trying not to crack.

Rook hooked two fingers into the strap of his backpack and tugged, not hard. “C’mon. Breakfast run. I’m not leaving you here to audition for Tragic Statue.”

For three heartbeats Nathan resisted; then his shoulders sank. “Fine,” he muttered.

They cut a lazy arc through the cafeteria, grabbing a chocolate milk and a pair of hash browns. Rook slid one over like a peace offering. “Escort Service includes carbs.”

Nathan took it without looking. “Your Yelp reviews must be unbearable.”

“Five stars for stubborn clients,” Rook said, mouth tilted.

They split at the stairwell.

“Text me if the zombie shows,” Rook called, backing toward his wing.“I’m not your problem,” Nathan shot back.

“Too late,” Rook said, already jogging off, “I offer no-refund policies.”

They were both seven minutes late to first period. Two separate doors, two separate glares, two pink tardy slips. Nathan dropped into a seat, flipped his phone face-up. Nothing. He flipped it face-down instead and stared at the grain of the desk until the period crawled to an end.

Between classes the hall swelled again, a tide of backpacks and perfume. Nathan drifted toward his locker out of habit. Rook found him fast, weaving through bodies with the easy slide of someone who never bothered to ask permission.

“Status report,” Rook said, tapping the locker next to his. “Any word from Sir Vanish-a-Lot?”

Nathan checked. Blank screen. He shoved the phone away like it burned. “Dead battery,” he lied.

“Uh-huh.” Rook didn’t press. He tucked himself at Nathan’s shoulder so passersby had to eddy around them. “Second period together. You’re sitting with me. We can be late on purpose and make it a theme.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Rook countered, easy as breathing. The bell barked. He tipped his head down the hall. “Walk with me, yeah? Package upgrade. Comes with sarcasm breaks.”

Nathan hesitated a beat too long. Then: “Fine.”

They moved as the corridor thinned, Rook a half-step ahead, absorbing the bumps and looks and stray noise. At the classroom door, Nathan caught his reflection again in the little wire-reinforced pane—still hooded, still tight around the mouth—but beside him was Rook, already shouldering the day like it couldn’t touch him.

“Escort Service,” Nathan muttered, almost to himself.

Rook bumped his elbow. “Full coverage,” he said, and pushed the door open.
The day dragged like lead weights on Asher’s shoulders. First period—history. He slid into his seat only to find Nathan two rows over, head bent but not focused on his notes. His pencil tapped absently against the desk, eyes distant, jaw tight.

Asher’s wolf stirred immediately, restless, pacing. Go to him. He’s distracted. Protect him. Claim him.

Asher clenched his pen harder, forcing his gaze on the textbook. Not now. Not here. But every time Nathan shifted in his seat, his wolf perked up again, growling against the leash Asher kept knotted around his instincts.

By third period, math class offered no relief. Cosmo was there—bright-eyed, messy-haired, flipping through his notebook with mechanical precision. Asher almost smiled, but then came the sneers. Blaze’s cronies leaned back in their chairs, muttering just loud enough to be heard.

“Mad scientist’s already plotting how to blow us all up.”
“Bet he builds robot girlfriends ‘cause no one else would—”

The sound of Asher’s chair scraping back silenced them mid-snicker. He leaned forward just enough that the air shifted cold.

“Enough.”

The single word landed like a growl. His eyes locked with theirs, unflinching. For a beat, no one breathed. Then the bullies looked away, muttering under their breath, the false bravado gone.Cosmo blinked, startled—then his expression softened. He offered Asher a small, grateful smile, shy but genuine. Asher gave the barest nod before turning back to his work, wolf purring faintly in approval.

By lunch, Asher wanted nothing more than quiet. He found a spot tucked against the far edge of the courtyard, unbothered, and dropped his tray.

So of course Adara plopped down a moment later, her laugh too loud, her friends orbiting around her like satellites. “Scoot, I’m making sure you don’t mope yourself into the grass,” she teased, breezing right past his frown.

He offered a polite greeting to her friends before his eyes slid across the courtyard. Rook was sprawled at near Nathan, his expression unreadable as he twirled a straw wrapper between his fingers. Nathan was scowling slightly, shoulders hunched, still distracted, still carrying that storm Asher couldn’t ignore. His wolf prowled harder now, tail lashing in his chest.

Then the brightness hit. Cosmo, bounding into view with that disarming smile, a bag of cookies tucked under one arm. He veered straight toward Rook, dropped into the seat across from him like it was the most natural thing in the world, and launched into chatter.

“So,” Cosmo declared, setting his tray down, “I checked—there’s an arcade open late tonight. You, me, Galaga showdown. I’m telling you now: I will wipe the floor with you.” His grin was wicked, daring.

Cosmo’s laugh spilled out at Rook's reply, bright and quick. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll back it up.” Then, as if the idea had just bloomed, he added, “But, you know… stargazing on the bleachers could be a third-date thing. Or baking cookies at my place—dangerous though. My Bubbe might adopt you on the spot. She already asked when she gets to meet the mystery boy.”

His hands flew as he talked, eyes shining with excitement, that mix of teasing and sincerity only Cosmo could pull off.Across the table, Adara stabbed a grape with her fork, following Asher’s gaze as it kept drifting toward Nathan and the others. “You could go join them, you know,” she said under her breath, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “Instead of just sitting here like a broody lone wolf.”

Her friends snickered; Asher’s scowl deepened. He dropped his eyes to his tray, ears burning, wolf snarling in agreement with her words even as he forced it down.
--Fin--After visiting the office, Alastor spent most of the day purposefully tracing the same hallways as Donovan.

Their encounters were wordless, charged with an unspoken tension, like silent warnings exchanged as they passed each other in the narrow corridors.

By lunchtime, Alastor chose a secluded spot. He wasn’t particularly hungry—his inner wolf restless and agitated.

Approaching the area where Rook and Nathan sat, he appeared grumpier than usual. Perhaps he’d blame it on needing his nicotine fix, though the truth ran deeper.

Ultimately, his presence served as a constant reminder to Donovan: keep your distance.

Then it struck him—that faint, lingering scent of sex and shame. It was unfamiliar, unsettling enough to make him wrinkle his nose. He ignored it wondering what exactly he was smelling.
—fin—Nathan hunched over his battered spiral, elbow shielding the page like someone might steal the words right out of him. The phone beside his tray sat faceup on an empty thread—no new dots, no reply. He’d typed Donny’s name twice, both times deleting the message before it could become a humiliation on a screen.

He pretended not to hear Cosmo’s bright orbit drop into their gravity. Pretended not to clock Rook’s grin going soft around the edges. He dragged the pencil down the paper until it nearly tore and scrawled lines that weren’t quite lyrics yet:

*wolf in my throat / glass in my lungs / say it didn’t happen / say it didn’t happen / sing anyway*

Grease-salt cafeteria smell turned his stomach. Under it: something faint and sour on his own skin that no shower had scrubbed out. He swallowed, jaw working, kept writing.

A cookie slid into the corner of his tray. Rook’s doing. Nathan didn’t look up.

“Not hungry,” he muttered, voice flat.

Thirty seconds later, he palmed the cookie anyway and tucked it into his hoodie pocket like contraband for his Babushka later. The pencil tapped, tapped, tapped. Across the lawn, laughter rose and fell. His phone stayed silent.

He finally exhaled through his nose and scraped a new line into the page:

*answer me or I’ll stop asking*

He didn’t look at Rook. Didn’t look at Cosmo. He just let his knee edge against Rook’s under the table—barely there, a contact point, a “still here” he refused to say out loud.

“Thanks,” he said, so low it could’ve been the wind. He kept writing.

---Rook lit up the second Cosmo hit the bench, that bright, breezy hurricane of plans and cookies. He tore a fry in half like a toast and pointed it at him.

“Galaga? Say less, Medic. I’ll bring quarters and my fragile ego. You can annihilate me gently.” The grin tipped wicked. “Third date on the bleachers, though? You’re on—hoodie, fries, star tour by Professor Cosmo. Bonus round: you versus my terrible telescope app.”

He nudged the cookie bag closer. “And tell Bubbe I’m budgeting for cookie taxes now. Cost of doing business.”

Even while he talked, Rook’s knee pressed steady against Nathan’s, anchoring him without making a scene. He clocked Alastor lurking perimeter, clocked the empty patch of lawn where Donny should’ve been, and kept his tone light anyway—noise control by way of chatter.

“After detention, arcade,” he said to Cosmo like it was already written in marker. “Then I walk you home. Non-negotiable. I’ve got a pinky-contract with the universe.”

He flicked a glance at Nathan’s pocket, where the cookie had disappeared, and let his shoulder knock softly into Nathan’s—one beat, nothing pushy—before turning back to Cosmo with that same shameless sparkle.

“Oh, and I’m naming our high score: Dorky Medic Owns My Soul. Fair warning.”

-fin-Asher's gaze fell on Alastor when the teen made his appearance. He’d picked the far edge of the courtyard, away from the noise, away from the pack of eyes always looking for cracks. Asher ditched Adara’s chatter, Adara’s voice was still ringing in Asher’s ears—“broody lone wolf”- pushing to his feet and heading over to Al.

“Hey,” he said, stopping in front of him. “Want some company?”

Al’s eyes flicked up, sharp as always, but before he could answer, Asher’s ears caught it—ugly laughter a few tables over, one of Blaze’s lackeys muttering under his breath, his eyes locked on Cosmo and Rook.

“Look at those two fags.”

The word curdled in Asher’s blood. His wolf surged before he could leash it, a growl slipping out low and dangerous. He stepped forward, shoulders rolling broad, his gaze locked like a the teen.

“Say that again.”

The smirk fell from the kid’s face. His buddies shifted nervously, one whispering something like don’t. The jock’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“I—uh—”

“Move along,” Asher snapped, his voice a growl without needing to be loud. “Unless you’re dying for another beatdown.”

That did it. They scattered fast, muttering excuses, their bravado shriveled.

Asher let out a sharp breath through his nose, shaking the tension off before sliding onto the bench beside Al. The wood creaked under his weight, and for a moment he just stared across the courtyard. Cosmo’s laugh carried, bright and easy, Rook leaning in with that lazy grin that said he’d take every word like a gift.

“They deserve to be happy,” Asher said finally, his voice quieter, rough with something softer. His gaze stayed on the two, jaw tight but eyes gentler. “And not hear the ugliness other people carry.”

His wolf huffed approval deep in his chest, proud and satisfied.
----Cosmo beamed, already scribbling something in the margin of his own notebook. “Galaga and fries, you’re going down,” he declared, wagging his pen at Rook like it was a duel. “And for the record, Professor Cosmo’s star tours are rated five stars on Yelp. I checked.”

He nudged the cookie bag back at Rook, cheeks a little pink. “And don’t let Bubbe hear you call them taxes, she’ll double the rate. You’re lucky she already decided you’re cute, or she’d charge interest.”

His words tumbled out fast, bright, but his eyes flicked sideways more than once. Nathan’s notebook lay open on the outside edge of the table, scrawled with sharp lines of ink. His pen moved in quick, precise strokes, shoulders hunched like the world might vanish if he wrote hard enough.

Cosmo’s curiosity itched—what was he putting down? Lyrics? Sketches? Something heavier? But the tension in Nathan’s posture, the way his jaw flexed as he kept his head low, told the story clear enough: he didn’t want attention. Didn’t want questions.

So Cosmo swallowed the impulse and refocused on his own page. He doodled a tiny rocket ship beside his arcade plan and added, in blocky letters, “Team Cosmo Wins.”

When he looked up again, his grin had softened, aimed straight at Rook. “Fine. But when I win, you’re officially carrying my bag home as tribute. Non-negotiable.”
--Fin--“Try not to worry. You and the Alpha—their love is strong. No one else matters,” he said honestly, his gaze shifting to Nathan as he spoke to Asher.

“I could really use some Mary Jane right now,” he muttered under his breath.

Everything felt so messed up—Blaze being the jerk he was, Donovan manipulating the wounded. It filled him with disdain.

“Have you given any thought to what I said last night?” he asked, shaking off his brooding thoughts.
——Donovan sat with his friends, determined to avoid Al at all costs given the circumstances. Despite his efforts, unease gnawed at him when he overheard Nathan’s name slip from the goth’s mouth. A deep frown crept onto his face as he sat next to Lucinda, sharing a meal with the group. His gaze drifted toward a nearby blonde, engrossed in her oversized burger while scribbling furiously, as if her notes were her lifeline.

To Donovan, she was just a resource. Much of the music he proudly claimed as his own was, in truth, crafted by her hand.

A gentle buzz from his phone broke his thoughts, followed by a sigh. Nathan’s clinginess felt overwhelming—almost surreal. His girlfriend mirrored this trait, which Donovan tolerated until it interfered with more pressing matters, often leaving him frustrated.

Finally, he decided to respond:

**Had a day. We need to talk. After school, the abandoned house on Cherry Drive.**

Concise. Impactful.

He deliberately withheld explanations, aiming to instill fear in Nathan, making him believe he was the problem. This wasn’t the first time Donovan had used this tactic, nor was Nathan the first person.

Setting his phone down, Donovan wondered if Nathan was even worth today’s trouble. His eyes caught Alastor across the way, prompting him to nudge Lucinda’s leg.

“Hey, Lu,” he murmured softly.

“Hmm?”

“I’m gonna be busy tonight. Mind if we move date night to next week?” he asked. And there it was—the pout.

“Promise this is the last time? It’s a family thing—Dad insisted we ‘throw a ball,’” he lied with an exaggerated eye roll.

“Fine, whatever,” she replied, moody but pliable. Donovan knew how to win back her good graces—it wasn’t hard.

But right now? Nathan needed to be put in his place.

Rook was always around him. Asher seemed to be chasing something out of reach. And worst of all, Alastor had hit him—"This is for Nathan," he’d said.

Like hell Donovan was going to let that slide anymore.
—fin—

Inkglitched · « **Reply #6 on:** February 10, 2026, 09:20:52 pm »

The cheap phone buzzed and Nathan snatched it like a lifeline that burned.

>Had a day. We need to talk. After school, the abandoned house on Cherry Drive.

His stomach dipped, pills or no pills. We need to talk never meant talk.

He typed with his jaw locked:

> Fine. Whatever. At least bring food… I want Chinese.

Thumb hovered over a second message—did I do something—then he backspaced it to dust, flipped the phone face-down.

Pencil to paper. Hard. Harder. He carved lines until the page fuzzed:

meet me where the windows have no eyes / cherry drive / cherry lie / say it’s fine / say it’s fine

A cookie nudged his tray again. He didn’t look up. He palmed it, tucked it into his hoodie pocket like contraband for later, swallowed against the taste of metal in his mouth. The knot inside him cinched tighter; he folded smaller, shoulders hunched, pen clawing out another verse because lyrics didn’t ask questions.

His knee, pressed to Rook’s under the table a moment ago, eased away.

---
Rook sprawled easy at the sun-bleached picnic table, one sneaker hooked on his board, heel rocking it back and forth. The courtyard was a loud watercolor—trays clacking, someone punting a stray soccer ball, a whistle bleating from the far end, the smell of fries and cheap orange cleaner hanging over sun-warmed concrete. A napkin skittered past on the breeze; he snagged it without looking and used it like a placemat for the cookie bag.

“Double the cookie tax?” he grinned, pinky nudging toward Cosmo’s again. “Tell Bubbe to triple it. I’ll pay in cash, crumbs, or community service. Not scared.”

He bumped Cosmo’s knee under the table, conspiratorial. “Professor Cosmo’s star tour is locked for date three. Tonight—Galaga and fries. Fair warning: I’m tragically competitive. If I win, I want a rematch. If I lose…” he tipped his head, eyes bright, “I want a rematch.”

He plucked a fry, split it in half, slid the bigger piece onto Cosmo’s tray. “Tribute accepted in advance. And the bag carry? Non-negotiable. Backpack, cookie stash, you—whatever needs hauling.” He winked, then added with a low laugh, “Go ahead and tell Bubbe I said that. I’ll bring extra cookies to cover the fine.”
-fin-Asher’s wolf caught the shift first—the restless churn rolling off Alastor like smoke, sharp and sour under his skin. The muttered line about Mary Jane only confirmed it. His wolf stirred, uneasy, wanting to soothe, to steady.

Asher leaned back against the bench, exhaling slow. “I don’t smoke,” he said quietly, “but… if you want company later, I can hang out. Might help, not being stuck in your own head.”

The offer was simple, not pushy. His wolf huffed approval, tail flicking at the thought of keeping Al from spiraling alone.

Then came the question, and Asher’s jaw tightened. He stared down at his hands, flexed his fingers once like the answer might be carved there. “Yeah,” he muttered at last, voice low. “More than I should be.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, letting out a rough sigh. “Can’t really concentrate on much of anything right now. Not with all of… this.” His eyes flicked toward Nathan across the courtyard before he forced them back down again, the wolf snarling impatiently at the restraint.
---
Cosmo ducked his head, grinning so wide his ears went pink. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, but the warmth in his voice betrayed how much he liked it. “Galaga, fries, and a cookie haul—it’s like I don’t even need to bribe you anymore.”

He tapped his pen against the notebook, drawing a little rocket with a smiley face. “Professor Cosmo accepts your tribute. But just so you know, my Bubbe will hold you to that community service offer. Don’t tempt her—she’ll have you carrying groceries before you can blink.”

He laughed, shaking his head, about to say more when the bell split the air.

Cosmo groaned. “Ugh, timing is evil.” With a dramatic sigh, he started gathering his notebook and tray, tucking the cookie bag carefully into his backpack.

“Until detention, then,” he said brightly, flashing Rook another quick smile. “See you around, Rook!”

And with that, he jogged off toward the math wing, the tails of his hoodie bouncing, energy spilling ahead of him like he was late to something worth running for.
-Fin-Alastor sighed softly, a trace of impatience woven into the exhale—an impatience not with the situation, but with himself, knowing that Nathan would inevitably be hurt. The weight of that certainty settled heavily, his mind racing to find the gentlest words to soften the blow. Deep down, Alastor suspected Nathan wouldn’t take it well; he might confront him head-on or retreat entirely, avoiding the pain altogether.

His eye caught the subtle bump of Donovan’s knee to Lucinda’s. It’s like contact without getting close, or looking intimate.

“And I wouldn’t mind the hangout.maybe a run sounds good?” He asked. Somehow he felt if he did that- just maybe get himself back in order.
——
Donovan heard his phone buzz again. He glanced and sighed at what was texted. Of course Nathan would demand food.

He sighed- she noticed.

“Donny.. is everything okay?” Her eye looking at him. She looked tired- not that it mattered to him.

His face would change. fake smiles and gentle voices- it was all it took.

So he went with a half truth..

“Just Nathan- you know how it is, making sure when we have to meet up next.” He said as he heard her scoff.

“The one you keep complaining that’s always late? You really should talk to him.. “ and it starts..

Of course she would- she shown passion from the start. She handled everything he didn’t want to. Scheduling, reminding, organizing.
Paperwork- busywork he didn’t want to waste time on.

If anything most would have assumed she was just the manager.

“Mm I plan to soon- and hopefully it sticks this time.” He said before he’d take a bite.

“Mmhmm.. sure..” said Lucinda before she would snag his fry.

“Hey!”

“Told you- a fry for every complaint you don’t take care of.” A smirk.

“Now I’m stuck.. trade words?”

The rest of lunch would be talking of lyrics and song.

By the end of the day, he would make his way out. He waved off Yuma that tugged along at his side like a criminal.

“See ya.. “ a wave and a saunter away.

>>>>He made it to his truck and drove off, his aim? The house he spoke of.

Long since abandoned and weathering. A place of quiet,and no eyes.
—fin—The second buzz from Donovan never came. The longer his screen stayed blank, the tighter the coil in Nathan’s chest wound back up.

> I’ve got detention. I’ll come after.
Might have people to ditch.

He fired it off anyway—half warning, half plea—and stuffed the phone into his pocket like that would muffle the dread.

The rest of the day blurred: teachers’ mouths moving without landing, graphite smearing under his palm as he pretended to take notes and really just wrote lines that rhymed with alone. Rook kept appearing at the ends of hallways like a shadow with good timing—shoulder to shoulder between periods, a **** joke here, a granola bar shoved into his hand there. Nathan never said thanks out loud, but his pace always eased a fraction when Rook fell in beside him.

Detention was a fishbowl: buzzing lights, the tick of the wall clock, Coach half-asleep behind a stack of confiscated phones. Cosmo and Rook traded notes like they were auditioning for a spy movie; Nathan hunched over a worksheet he didn’t see, knee bouncing hard enough to shake the table. Every minute the pills wore thinner. Every minute the quiet got louder.

The bell hit and he was already moving. Chair legs screeched; he didn’t look back. Out the door, down the stairs, board in hand until he hit cement and kicked—hard—letting speed drown out thought. Wind needled his eyes as he cut down side streets he knew by muscle memory.

Cherry Drive waited at the edge of nowhere: **** sidewalks, weeds bursting through. The house crouched behind a sagging chain-link fence, windows boarded except one that blinked a dead-orange porch light like a tired eye. It smelled like mildew, dust, and old oil—like secrets that never get aired out.

Nathan stepped over the fallen bit of fence, board tucked under his arm, phone back in his hand.

> I’m here. Where are you?

He typed it flat. Sent. Then he stood in the hush and tried not to count the beats between his heart and any approaching engine.

---The bell hacked lunch in half, and Rook groaned like someone had canceled summer. “See you in the slammer,” he tossed to Cosmo with a two–finger salute, then kicked off just long enough to catch up to Nathan’s long stride.

All afternoon he ran escort like it was a job. He thumped Nathan’s locker shut when it stuck. He shoulder–checked his way between Blaze’s orbiting idiots and the kid he was babysitting. Between classes he kept up a gentle patter—nothing heavy, just enough noise to keep Nathan from sinking too deep into his own head.

Detention was fluorescent and stale. Coach pretended not to notice paper airplanes as long as they flew below eye level. Rook and Cosmo passed notes and dumb doodles—tiny galaxies, a lopsided wolf, Galaga @ 7?—but every few minutes Rook’s eyes flicked to Nathan. Knee bouncing. Staring holes through a worksheet. Rook slid a scrap across: You good? It came back blank.

When the bell rang, Nathan detonated. One second he was there; the next he was a blur in a black hoodie, door banging back on its hinges.

“Why is he like this,” Rook muttered into his hands, dragging them down his face.

He stood, eyes on the door Nathan had blown through, the urge to chase fizzing in his legs. Then he exhaled, hard, and let the board drop to the floor with a soft clack.

“Fine,” he told the empty doorway. “Run. I’ll be here when you crash.”

He palmed his phone, thumb hovering—Do I tail him? Do I give him space?Board under his arm, he headed for the doors, scanning the parking lot out of habit. If Nathan wanted to be a ghost, Rook would at least haunt the same neighborhood.

-fin-Donovan's phone buzzed, prompting a quick glance and an exasperated scoff.

They'd asked for food but wouldn’t even arrive on time, adding explanations for their earlier absence the night before.

Simple - short.
*fine*

So he bought the food along the way, and ate while he waited.

By then the food would not *just* be cold- but most of it eaten. Next to nothing.

Not his fault- Nathan didn’t say he had detention.. he reasoned to himself.

The buzz- annoyance.

*the abandoned house- remember- green roof, broken window.. ***our place?**

The more he would get questions the more frustrated he felt.

By the time Nathan would get there.
He’d be sitting quietly. Just simmering. He wouldn’t talk- it was an uncomfortable silence.

If Nathan looked an excuse.

“You took too long- I couldn’t just waste it.”

—fin—Nathan hopped the fence and shouldered through the side door, board under his arm. The place hit his nose like rot and cold takeout—oil, garlic, dust. On the sill: crumpled cartons, greasy chopsticks, one sad fortune cookie staring up like a joke.

His jaw clicked. “Nice,” he said flatly, nudging a collapsed lo mein box with his toe. “Thanks for saving me… a bean sprout.”

He set the board down a little harder than he meant to and kept his eyes up, refusing to flinch. Heat prickled under his skin; the wolf paced tight circles in his ribs.

“Whatever,” he clipped, voice going rough. “You gonna tell me what this is, or are we doing the vague ‘we need to talk’ thing till midnight?”

Silence pressed. Nathan huffed a laugh—short, mean at the edges. “You ghost me all day, drag me out here, eat the food I asked for, then what—wait for me to apologize?” He shook his head once. “Use words. Full sentences. What do you want?”

His hands curled, then uncurled. He kept them at his sides so his nails wouldn’t show. The wolf wanted blood; he wanted answers.

“If this is where you say I’m too much, say it,” he went on, steady now. “If this is where you say keep it quiet and wait around till you snap your fingers, say that too.”

He picked up the fortune cookie, turned it over, set it back without opening it.

“Last chance,” Nathan said, meeting the empty air like it could hit back. “If you’re done, do it clean. If you’re not—stop playing games and talk to me like I matter.”

-fin-Donovan listened as he fiddled with his phone.

Then Nathan’s push to get him to talk- pushed beyond the brink. But to be challenged? Was enough to push him right into speaking.

“Like you matter huh? - and a full sentence? Fine a question. “

A pause.

“Then tell me- are you cheating?”

His face would turn and by the turn of the day, that punch of Alastor’s had started to bruise.

“Mean I didn’t get this shiner out of the blue- goth boy said your name right before I was hit! And how the **** did he know we were dating to begin with?!?”

Accusation fast and hot.
—fin—Nathan stared at the bruise, something cold sliding under his ribs.
“I’m not cheating,” he said, voice rough but steady. “I haven’t told anyone about us. You wanted quiet—I kept it quiet.”

His jaw worked. “If Al said my name, that’s on him. I didn’t give him anything. He likes to swing first and ask later.”

A beat. The wolf scraped at his skin; he forced his hands open. “What do you actually want, Donny? To break up? To scare me? To make me beg?”

He met Donny’s eyes, hurt burning clean. “If you want out, say it. If you don’t, stop making me the villain and tell me what’s really going on.”

-fin-Nathan’s mouth opened, then shut. The words hit bone-deep—Asher, Blaze, Rook—like he’d been caught doing something he couldn’t name. He scrubbed a hand over his face, throat tight.

“I’m not cheating,” he said, quieter than his anger wanted. “I’m not… with anyone. Not Asher, not Rook. Asher pulled me out of a mess, that’s it. Rook hovered today because I looked like ****. That’s on me.”

He swallowed, eyes flashing up and away. “I want to be yours. I do. But am I supposed to cut everyone off? Pretend I don’t know anybody? Half the time I’m just trying to make it to last period without losing it.”

A raw breath. “And that girl you’re always with? You say it’s nothing. I’m trying to believe you. So believe me back.”

He stepped closer, hands open, voice fraying at the edges. “Tell me what ‘yours’ looks like, Donny. You want no secrets? Fine—say I’m your boyfriend, not your problem you stash in empty houses. You want loyalty? You have it. I’ll keep my head down, I’ll stop giving people pieces of me I don’t even want to give.”

His jaw worked, eyes bright. “Just… don’t make me choose between you and having anyone at all. Don’t make me stand alone and call it love.”

-fin-Donny let the silence stretch, just long enough to sting. His arms stayed folded, weight shifted to one hip, unreadable.

Then he laughed—a quiet, scoffing thing—and shook his head. “You really think *that’s* the same?” His voice stayed smooth, a little too calm. “Some girl that helps us manage the band ? You think that even touches what you’ve got with Asher or Rook?”

He stepped forward, measured. “You say they’re nothing, but they look at you like they’re waiting for an opening. And maybe you don’t see it—maybe you don’t *want* to—but I’m not stupid, Nathan.”

He let that hang, then softened—visibly, deliberately. Eyes gentler, chin tilted down just slightly. “But okay. You’re saying it’s nothing? I’ll believe you. I want to believe you. Because I do get it, more than you think. I know what it’s like to be holding everything up with duct tape and a good lie.”

Donny reached out, brushing his fingers down Nathan’s arm, like the storm had passed. “You want to be mine? Good. That’s all I’ve ever asked.”

He smiled, faint but sure. “I’ll give you the trust. For now. Just don’t make me regret it.”

Then he kissed Nathan—light, grounding, like punctuation to a contract he didn’t say out loud.
—fin—Nathan braced for another swing of anger—then blinked when it didn’t come. The gentler tone, the hand sliding down his arm, the kiss—light, careful—made the tight coil in his chest loosen. His wolf sank back, ears low, the urge to bite giving way to the need to lean.

He let himself melt into the touch, breath catching against Donovan’s mouth. “You won’t,” he murmured, almost a vow. “I’ll prove it. No noise. No drama. Just… us.” His fingers curled in Donovan’s shirt, holding on like it could keep the moment from breaking. “Tell me what you need and I’ll do it. Just… don’t disappear on me.”

He followed with a small, steady kiss of his own—less apology than promise—then rested his forehead to Donovan’s, letting the closeness quiet everything else.

-fin-Donovan didn’t pull away, not entirely. His eyes searched Nathan’s face, expression soft—but too calculating behind the warmth.

“I believe you,” he said, low and measured. His thumb brushed Nathan’s jaw like it was muscle memory. “But you know how you get around Rook. You say no noise, no drama, but the second he's near, you're *different*..”

He sighed, the sound just heavy enough to feel like disappointment, not anger. “I’m not asking you to cut anyone off. I’d never do that.” A pause. A practiced one. “I just think maybe—for *us*—you take a little space. From him. From Asher. From the mess they drag around.”

Donovan leaned in, let his nose brush Nathan’s temple, voice barely more than breath. “You say you want quiet. You want *us*. But you keep tying yourself to noise and calling it loyalty. I don’t want to be something you come back to once you’ve bled out for everyone else.”

He kissed him again, soft, slow, lingering like forgiveness. “Just think about what you’re choosing. Because this—*us*—it could be everything. If you stop handing pieces of yourself to people who don’t even notice when you’re gone.”

—fin—Nathan leaned into the gentler kiss first, shoulders loosening, the promise of quiet settling like a blanket. “Okay,” he breathed, “I’ll try—just us.”

Then the sharp tug in his hair and fingers at his belt flipped everything. Pain flashed hot—last night’s bruises waking up at once. His body went rigid.

He caught Donovan’s wrist, firm. “Donny—no.” His voice came tight, breath hitching. “I’m still hurting from last night.”

Another beat, and he stepped back a half pace, dragging the belt loop free of reach, palms flattening over his waistband. The wolf under his skin pricked, a low warning thrum he forced down.

“Please,” he said, steadier now. “Not tonight. We can talk. You can hold me. But no.” His eyes searched Donovan’s, shaky resolve turning solid. “If ‘us’ means anything, you hear me when I say stop.”

-fin-Donovan’s face shifted—just slightly—but enough. The soft, understanding veneer **** at the edges.

His hand dropped, but not in surrender. More like withdrawal, cold and calculated. “So that’s how it is,” he said quietly, too quiet. The kind of quiet meant to sting.

He stepped back just far enough to make the space feel like punishment. “You say you want this—you want *us*—but the second it’s inconvenient, you pull away.” He laughed, but it was all breath and no humor. “God, Nathan. You’re always *just* about to give everything. But when it matters, when it’s not on your terms…”

He looked away, jaw tight, arms crossing in that way he knew made him look smaller, hurt, wronged. “You think I don’t see what this is? You get to play fragile and noble and I get to wait... Like I’m the one who did something wrong.”

He exhaled hard, voice catching in that way he knew hit Nathan’s guilt like a live wire. “I just wanted to feel close to you. That’s it. One moment that wasn’t about your damage or your damn boundaries. But sure. Let’s just talk.” He shook his head slowly, disappointment dripping from every word. “You’re always so good at talking.”

Then he turned, pacing just enough to stay in the room—but not enough to feel present.

Silence stretched, thick with tension, until he added, barely audible:
“I don’t know why I keep trying if you’re never going to choose me with your whole damn chest.”
—fin—Nathan’s chest caved in around the quiet accusation. The softness gone from Donny’s face. The space—sudden, icy—felt like a verdict.

He swallowed hard. “That’s not fair,” he said, voice rough. “I said stop, not goodbye.”

Donovan looked past him like the room had more to say than Nathan did. Something in Nathan snapped—hurt flipping to heat.

“You don’t want me,” he bit out, eyes shining. “You want compliance. A prop you can pull close when it suits the scene.”

His jaw trembled; he forced it still. “I’m not your alibi. I’m not your secret you take out when you’re bored.”

The word choose kept echoing—choose me, choose me, choose me—until it scraped raw. Nathan shook his head once, sharp, like dislodging a hook.

“I can’t be what you’re asking for,” he said, softer now, final. “Not tonight. Maybe not ever.”

He turned before the tears could fall where Donny could see them, shouldered the door, and ran. Down the stairs, across the dead yard, gravel popping under his soles. He didn’t stop until the dark teeth of the tree line took him in.

In the hush of the woods, he stripped fast—hoodie, shirt, jeans—shoved them and his phone into the hollow of an old elm like he’d done a hundred times. Breath sawed, ribs aching, the wolf clawing up through the crack in his chest.

“Fine,” he whispered to nobody.

Bones rolled. Heat flushed out to fire. The world sharpened—damp earth, fox musk, rain-sunk bark. Fur took the wind; paws took the ground. He launched forward, black and fast, the forest opening like a corridor.

He ran until the hurt blurred, until Donovan’s voice thinned into leaves and distance. He ran because the wolf knew one true thing when everything else felt crooked:

Run, and don’t look back.

—fin—Donovan exhaled hard. “Nathan.” Just that—quiet, level—but it went unanswered.
He stepped forward, stopped. Watched the shape of him vanish into the dark like smoke through fingers. His jaw locked, hand curling tight at his side until his knuckles stood out pale.
God, he was exhausting.
A voice in his head said go after him. Another, colder, said let him go. The second one was louder tonight.
Then: a buzz in his pocket.

Lucinda. Easy- predictable.. naive

She wanted to know about times, places—plans.
He hesitated. Then his thumbs moved. Easy excuse- dad ended up working late- wanting to see her.

It was just vague enough to work. Just familiar enough to pull her in.
Donovan shoved the phone back into his pocket and headed down the porch steps, mouth set in something sharp. Not sorrow. Not quite anger.

Far as he felt- he was done using Nathan- and it was time to drop him. He was just too much to handle.
—fin—

Inkglitched · « **Reply #7 on:** February 10, 2026, 09:26:34 pm »

Asher leaned back on the bench, giving Al a long look. He could feel the edge of the other teen’s restlessness, same way his wolf could scent a storm coming.

“A run sounds good,” he said simply, nodding once. “I’ll go with you. Sometimes that’s the only thing that clears the head.” His tone was quiet, steady, like he wanted Al to know it wasn’t an obligation—it was an offer.

The bell broke up the courtyard noise, scattering students toward the doors.

---

The rest of the day dragged. History again—Nathan in the corner, sharp and silent, barely glancing up. Science after that, where Asher forced himself to focus on formulas instead of letting his wolf keep tugging his attention back to the storm of thoughts circling in his chest.

By the time detention rolled around, he wasn’t surprised to see the same faces: Nathan, Rook, Cosmo, Alastor, Blaze slouching in late with his scowl carved deep. The teacher’s monotone filled the room, papers shuffled, pencils scratched, and Asher sat through it all, jaw tight, counting minutes.

When the scrape of chairs finally signaled release, Asher stood, slung his bag over one shoulder, and caught sight of Adara hovering near the door. He dug the car keys from his pocket and tossed them to her in one smooth arc.

“Take it. I’ll be back later,” he told her.

She caught them, one brow arched in question, but he was already moving toward Alastor, falling into step beside him as they headed out.The walk from school cut them across town, through **** sidewalks and streets that got quieter the farther they went. By the time they reached the edge of the woods, the noise of Summit High was just a dull memory.

An old house slouched against the treeline, its roof caved in, vines clawing up its sides. Asher led the way past the sagging porch, ducking behind it to the half-hidden patch of grass he’d claimed more than once.

He dropped his bag, tugged his shirt over his head, and kicked off his sneakers. “Safe spot,” he muttered, half to himself, “nobody comes here.”

Then he slipped into the trees, found the cover of a thick bush, and let go.

The shift tore through him fast—bones snapping, sinew knitting, fur spilling across skin. By the time he padded back out, the human restraint was already slipping away. His wolf stood tall, broader than most, golden eyes blazing in the dim light.

He shook out his coat, claws tearing shallow furrows in the dirt, then swung his head toward Al. A bark ripped out of him, sharp and commanding, tail lashing like a whip. He dropped into a crouch, muscles quivering with pent-up energy, and gave another sharp bark—clear as any words.

Come on. Race me.

His wolf was hungry for it—the chase, the freedom, the chance to push against something that wasn’t walls and rules. No hesitation, no holding back. Just running until the forest itself bent out of their way.
--Fin--Alastor watched in silence as Asher vanished into the trees, the sound of bones breaking and muscle reshaping echoing faintly through the underbrush. It never got easier to hear, but Asher made it look effortless—like slipping into a second skin. Like breathing.

Then *he* emerged.

The golden eyes hit first—bright, alive, and all wolf. Alastor’s breath caught. That version of Asher was wild, untethered, built for speed and power. Beautiful in a way that made Al’s spine itch with the urge to follow, to match, to *be*.

Alastor heard Asher bark once—sharp and clear. A challenge. A call.

Alastor’s jaw tightened.

He peeled off his coat with slow fingers, the fabric whispering against his arms. The rest followed—shirt, boots, jeans—discarded in a small, neat pile at a hidden hollowed tree nearby , with his bag and Asher’s. The wind cut against his bare skin, but he welcomed it. Grounded himself in it.

Then, with one long, steadying breath, he began to shift

His shift didn’t snap into place. It burned.

Smoke poured from his skin like breath from a dying fire. His spine **** *backwards* before it surged forward, and he gritted his teeth to keep from screaming. Shadows clung to him, licking across his body like they *recognized* him, like they’d been waiting.

His hands stretched first—long fingers tearing into claws, joints grinding. Legs buckled, then twisted, bones groaning under the strain. Darkness coiled around him, swallowing his human form whole until what stepped out the other side was *massive*.

A direwolf, black as the void between stars. His fur drank the light. His red eyes shimmered like coals in a furnace, nothing like the icy blue stare of his human side.

He didn’t look at Asher right away. He looked at the sky, at the trees, at the vastness ahead of him.

Then he turned.

And when their eyes met, he didn’t bark. He didn’t growl. He lowered his head just a little..

Then He ran.Alastor watched in silence as Asher vanished into the trees, the sound of bones breaking and muscle reshaping echoing faintly through the underbrush. It never got easier to hear, but Asher made it look effortless—like slipping into a second skin. Like breathing.

Then *he* emerged.

The golden eyes hit first—bright, alive, and all wolf. Alastor’s breath caught. That version of Asher was wild, untethered, built for speed and power. Beautiful in a way that made Al’s spine itch with the urge to follow, to match, to *be*.

Alastor heard Asher bark once—sharp and clear. A challenge. A call.

Alastor’s jaw tightened.

He peeled off his coat with slow fingers, the fabric whispering against his arms. The rest followed—shirt, boots, jeans—discarded in a small, neat pile at a hidden hollowed tree nearby , with his bag and Asher’s. The wind cut against his bare skin, but he welcomed it. Grounded himself in it.

Then, with one long, steadying breath, he began to shift

His shift didn’t snap into place. It burned.

Smoke poured from his skin like breath from a dying fire. His spine **** *backwards* before it surged forward, and he gritted his teeth to keep from screaming. Shadows clung to him, licking across his body like they *recognized* him, like they’d been waiting.

His hands stretched first—long fingers tearing into claws, joints grinding. Legs buckled, then twisted, bones groaning under the strain. Darkness coiled around him, swallowing his human form whole until what stepped out the other side was *massive*.

A direwolf, black as the void between stars. His fur drank the light. His red eyes shimmered like coals in a furnace, nothing like the icy blue stare of his human side.

He didn’t look at Asher right away. He looked at the sky, at the trees, at the vastness ahead of him.

Then he turned.

And when their eyes met, he didn’t bark. He didn’t growl. He lowered his head just a little..

Then He ran.Silently, thunderously, paws ripping into the dirt with weight and rage and a freedom he barely understood. He didn’t wait for Asher to catch up.

If Asher’s wolf wanted a race,
Alastor’s was going to *win.*

His run was swift, feet pounding the ground with purpose. Suddenly, a blur caught his eye—small, dark, and eerily familiar.

Nathan.

He pivoted to trail the smaller wolf, swiftly closing the gap to match its pace. Silent, swift, and present—existing without clamoring for attention.

—fin—The forest caught him like a net and let him breathe.

Cold air knifed clean through his lungs; damp earth and crushed fern rose in waves as his paws ate the trail. Needles combed his coat, burrs snagged and let go, and the ache under his skin—the human ache—bled out into speed. Here, thoughts weren’t words. They were scents and angles and the rhythm of four-beat stride. Here was home: loam and sap, creek-stone slick underfoot, a barred owl cutting a low note somewhere left.

He ran until the tight band in his chest loosened, until Donovan’s voice slid off him like rain off rock. He cut along a deer track, vaulted a downed birch, landed light, kept moving—black shadow threaded through blacker trees.

Then the wind shifted.

Smoke. Iron. Storm-ozone. Heavy footfalls, not Blaze’s stink, not Asher’s wildfire—something bigger. Older. It ghosted his flank, unhurried. He poured on speed, turned the trail to a razor, but the weight behind him matched and matched again.

He broke into a meadow seam and slammed to a halt, paws digging furrows, shoulders bunched. Hackles went up in a dark wave. He wheeled, planting himself with a fallen trunk at his side so he couldn’t be flanked, tail a hard line, lips peeled to wet white.

The thing in the treeline resolved: a wolf too large for sense, coat black enough to drink the dusk, eyes ember-red. Not a hunter’s smell. Not pack, either. New. Wrong-sized.

Nathan’s chest heaved. He sank his weight to his forepaws, gave a low, rolling growl that vibrated the ground between them—warning, not invitation. Back off. This is mine.

Another breath, colder. If it came closer, he’d feint left, snap high, keep the log to his ribs. He didn’t want a fight. He wanted the quiet back.

He held the stare, teeth bared, voice in his chest saying what his throat could not: one more step and you’ll meet every inch of me.The shadows rippled first. Smoke, red eyes, something older and heavier than any wolf Asher had ever scented. His wolf froze mid-step, chest surging with instinct—half warning, half thrill.

Mine, the wolf thought at once, not as a claim, but as a recognition. Pack. Different. Dangerous. But pack.

The direwolf’s form was towering, black fur swallowing the light, every line of him wrong and right all at once. For a moment, Asher’s wolf bristled, golden eyes narrowing, tail high and teeth flashing in challenge. Run with me, he’d barked before. But this—this wasn’t a run. It was a storm given form.

When Alastor’s massive body lunged forward, tearing into the earth like it hated being bound, Asher’s wolf leapt after him without hesitation. His stride was leaner, sharper, built for speed over weight—but the challenge lit fire in his blood.

His paws slammed the dirt in a steady rhythm, muscles coiling and stretching in perfect sync, breath tearing through his lungs like fuel. He howled once—loud, ringing through the forest canopy—not just a call to chase but a vow: I’ll match you. I’ll keep pace.

Then he caught the shift of direction—the massive dark wolf angling suddenly, eyes locked on a blur darting through the trees. Smaller. Scrappier. Familiar.

Nathan.The trees whipped past in a blur of gold and shadow. Alastor surged ahead, his massive black form tearing through the undergrowth like a storm given legs. Asher’s wolf snarled, pumping harder, paws striking earth in steady thunder. He wouldn’t let the direwolf get too far ahead. Pack didn’t run alone.

Then the scent hit—Nathan. His trail sharp and frantic, cutting through the deer track like a blade. Both of them veered as one, following the black blur that broke into the meadow.

Nathan slammed to a halt near the fallen trunk, hackles bristling, teeth bared, growl rolling deep and low. His stare burned straight at Alastor as the massive wolf stepped from the treeline, ember eyes locking with Nathan’s.

Asher’s gut twisted—two storms on collision course.

He poured on speed, burst past Alastor in a blaze of gold, and skidded into the space between them. Hackles high, tail arched, he planted himself like a wall, paws carving furrows in the meadow grass.

The snarl that ripped from his throat wasn’t aimed at Nathan or Alastor alone—it was aimed at both, heavy with command.

ENOUGH.

The sound throbbed through the clearing, more than growl, more than bark. Alpha weight pressed against them both, hot and immovable, vibrating through ribcages and marrow alike.

Asher’s golden eyes cut from Nathan’s bristling shadow to Alastor’s burning ember gaze. His stance said it all—stand down, now.

“Knock it off,” the voice rolled out of him, half-human, half-wolf, the authority undeniable.

He braced himself, ready to absorb the bite of resistance if either tried to push back—but his wolf held firm, unwilling to watch pack tear itself apart.The black wolf didn’t move at first—just stood there at the edge of the clearing, a mountain draped in shadow, red eyes flickering like heat beneath ash. The tension hung thick, like lightning waiting for a place to strike.

Then, in a beat that shattered the moment, his massive head tilted.

His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth—just slightly off-center, wolfish and lopsided. One ear twitched, then flopped. The growl in his chest didn’t vanish exactly—it shifted, rounded out into something amused, irreverent, *deliberately* unbothered.

And then the voice came.

Low, smoky, and tinged with a smooth, unmistakable *Hispanic* lilt—half-joking, half-serious, vibrating just under the skin like the roll of distant thunder to Nathan’s wolf.

**“Your alpha said enough.”**

A pause. The weight of the words settled like falling ash.

The words held no accusation. Just fact. Clean. Crisp. Echoing with the kind of hurt no one would claim aloud.

The direwolf blinked once, slow and ancient, then snorted, as if brushing it off. He padded forward two steps—not toward Nathan, but beside Asher—close enough to feel the golden eyed wolf’s heat but not challenge his space. Not this time.

A shrug rolled through his thick shoulders, the kind that said *I'm not mad, just don't ask me why,* and his tongue stayed lolling, the ghost of a grin curling in the tilt of his massive snout.

**“Anyway,”** the voice murmured again, half under his breath, like a joke only the trees could hear,
**“...I was winning.”**

He dropped to his haunches with a thud, tail thumping once against the grass, the smoke around him curling like a lazy breeze—no longer a storm. For now.
—fin—Nathan’s hackles were already high when the gold blur cut the clearing—Asher’s body planting like a barricade, his snarl dropping heavy as thunder.

The command hit Nathan’s ribs like a hand: hot, immovable, alpha. His wolf snapped back on reflex—ears pricked, teeth ready—then stalled. Asher’s scent threaded through the wind—pine, heat, something that felt too much like home—and the growl in Nathan’s throat thinned to a rumble he couldn’t quite kill.

Behind Asher, the big shadow resolved into Alastor. Red eyes. Smoke. A mountain pretending to be a dog. The lolling tongue earned him a flat, unimpressed stare.

“Maybe don’t chase people,” Nathan huffed, voice a scraped-metal growl. The glare he cut Alastor said the rest.

Asher didn’t move. The weight of him—of the order—stayed. Nathan’s spine twitched against it, stubborn.

“No one controls me,” he snapped, and pivoted to bolt—

Left: bramble wall, thorn hooks waiting.
Right: a deadfall like a ribcage, slick and mean.
Behind: the creek—cold, fast, unforgiving.
Ahead: gold and smoke, shoulder-to-shoulder, closing the only clean line out.

Cornered, his claws bit moss. Frustration clicked his teeth once. A low, traitorous sound buzzed his throat—half-whine, half-swear—before he strangled it and looked away.

He didn’t belly. Wouldn’t. But his posture shifted: tail a notch lower, ears angled back, gaze sliding off Asher’s eyes for a single, grudging heartbeat. Acceptance—thin as a blade, but real.

“Fine,” he ground out, flattening the bristle along his neck. “I’m not running.”

A beat. He cut another warning look past Asher to the direwolf.

“Still not being herded.”

He stepped sideways, giving Asher room—Asher, not the giant shadow—then held, muscles buzzing, breath hot and steady, every line of him saying the same thing:

I’ll yield to you. I won’t bow to anyone else. Lead or let me go.

-fin-Asher’s wolf let the growl taper off, the command loosen just enough so the others could breathe without feeling the leash choke. His golden eyes lingered on Alastor, a low huff rumbling out—half a laugh, half warning.

“An overgrown puppy, that’s what you are.” His tail flicked sharp, but his tone carried a spark of humor under the gravel. “Dripping smoke one second, flopping your ear the next. Decide what you’re selling, chico.”

He turned then, gaze sliding back to Nathan. The smaller wolf’s bristle hadn’t smoothed all the way, but his stance had shifted—just enough to mark the difference between fight and yield. Asher stepped closer, brushing his flank lightly against Nathan’s as he passed. Not a shove. Not a claim. Just steady contact—pack-sure, grounding.

You don’t run alone, the gesture said. Not anymore.

When he pulled forward, he didn’t look back right away—just set his paws on a new line, ears pricked, tail steady. He tossed his voice back over his shoulder, low and even, carrying for both of them:

“Running’s good. Clears the head. But if you want more than that…” He paused at the tree line, amber gaze cutting sharp under the boughs. “…we hunt. Doesn’t have to be big. Rabbit. Squirrel. Doesn’t matter. Hunt together.”

It wasn’t just suggestion—it was wolf logic. Running bled energy; hunting built bond. Prey chased down and felled as one welded strangers into pack faster than any word.

Asher’s human side might grit its teeth, might worry about what it meant, but his wolf didn’t care. His wolf knew the truth: shared blood, shared breath, shared hunt—these were the roots of belonging.

He lowered his head, waiting—not commanding this time, just offering. The choice was theirs.
--Fin--The forest was thick with tension, the stillness almost deafening. Nathan stood his ground, his defiance a visible thing, but Alastor didn’t need to do anything more than watch. He *was* the storm, the looming presence that didn’t have to move to shake the earth beneath its feet.

Nathan’s breath was sharp, a tremor in his chest as the two wolves circled the moment. Alastor could see it—the frustration, the resistance—but there was something else too: recognition. The faintest dip of Nathan’s tail, the reluctant shift in posture. He was cornered, but he wouldn’t run. That much was clear. Still, there was no mistake—he’d acknowledged something.

Asher stood like a mountain, solid, unyielding, but Alastor had no need for him now. His eyes never left Nathan, the only wolf here who mattered. The tension between them was a silent war—one that Nathan fought with teeth bared, with his body bristling, but there was no escape. No running.

Alastor wasn’t interested in submission. He never was. What mattered was the recognition that Nathan, for all his resistance, *knew* who held the power. The game was still his to play, still his to control.

He didn't need words. The presence alone was enough. Nathan had been given room, but the space between them wasn’t freedom. It was a test.

Only Nathan, stubborn and proud, would be the one to decide when that test would end.

*Who said I was herding- saw you running and wanted to run with simple as that.. I’m always alone.. first time with others..* finally slid out.

*hunt is fine but I’ve hunted differently than before for myself.. but I can hunt for what you need.*He said as his tail wagged.
—fin—Nathan’s growl tapered to a low, grudging rumble as Asher’s flank brushed his. The contact steadied more than he wanted to admit; something in his chest unknotted by a hair. He flicked a glance at the gold wolf, then away, ears angling forward at the word that mattered.

Hunt.

The memory hit quick—the slap of fir boughs, Babushka’s smaller gray form pacing his shoulder back when she still ran, the clean, right math of wind and track and breath. No talking. No trying to prove anything. Just do.

“Lead it,” he huffed, giving Asher the lane, but when the black shoulders turned, Nathan slid in off his right hip like a shadow, not crowding, not trailing—with.

The forest took them in. Damp loam under pads. Cedar and iron in the air. He quartered the wind without thinking, head dipping, nostrils flaring. Deer—old. Fox—faint. Then—rank, hot, mean: boar.

Nathan’s hackles pricked—not from fear, from respect. Stupid to take alone. Not stupid together.

He shot forward, a black bolt through sword-fern and salal, every line of him stripped down to function. He was built for this—lean, elastic speed—darting where the big bodies would have to bully through. He knifed around blowdowns, skimmed a rotten stump, and cut wide to hook the wind.

There—the wallow. Fresh churn. He veered hard, looped behind, and started the push.

A flash of bristled back. The boar exploded from cover with a blast of breath and earth, tusks wet and wicked. Nathan never squared it; he needled it, nipping air at the shoulder, snapping at mud and brush—agitation, not anchor—driving the beast on the line he wanted.

Move, bastard. This way.

He stayed just outside the hook of those tusks, feinting left, then vanishing right, herding without ever letting the word touch him. The boar bellowed and charged—exactly where Nathan was not—straight into the corridor he’d threaded between trees.Wind shifted. He felt the others’ heat in it now—smoke and sun at the far mouth of the lane.

Nathan poured on speed for three strides, then slashed across the boar’s face, a taunting snap that yanked its focus and momentum into the open.

He didn’t take the first bite.

He ripped the distance instead—clearing space, circling to the flank—eyes bright, breath high, every line of him wired and ready.

“Your play,” his body said without a sound—edgy, electric, finally alive.

-fin-The black wolf stood steady, coat drinking the shadows, golden-orange eyes fixed on the two before him.

Alastor’s words carried truth—loneliness, the hunger to run with others—and Asher’s wolf understood. That ache had lived in his bones too, pacing fences, never belonging. His ears twitched once, a low huff in his chest—recognition without pity.

Then Nathan. Still bristling, teeth bared, but his tail had dipped, his gaze had slipped, just for a heartbeat. Not submission. Not yet. But yield enough to stand beside instead of against. That was all the wolf needed.

Asher stepped forward, brushing his flank against Nathan’s as he passed. A brief, deliberate touch, steadying. Not demand. Not order. Pack, the contact said, clean and simple.

He turned his head just enough that both caught the flash of molten eyes. His voice rumbled low, rough as stone dragged across earth:

“Then we hunt.”

The words weren’t question or suggestion—they were law.

He dropped his nose, drawing in the forest’s pulse: rabbit, faint; fox, thinner still. Then—sharp and hot, tusk and churned mud. Boar. Dangerous prey, but perfect for more than a run. Perfect for bond.

His tail lashed once, snapping through the tension, and he fixed them both with a look that carried the weight of his wolf’s will.“Run with me. Run as one.”

And then he leapt, black form vanishing into the trees, the hunt already begun.

The forest swallowed him whole. Branches whipped at his shoulders, loam and old rain filled his lungs. Ahead, the boar crashed from cover, tusks wicked in the dim. Nathan darted quicksilver at its edge, snapping it into the lane. Behind, Alastor’s massive shadow pressed close, storm-black and red-eyed, herding by presence alone.

Asher surged into the strike zone. He didn’t take the kill—he hammered momentum, shoulder slamming, teeth flashing across hide to drive the beast where they needed it. A clean geometry of wolves and prey, instinct unfolding in perfect rhythm.

When he wheeled back, breath sharp and chest heaving, his golden gaze cut once to Nathan, then to Alastor.

The meaning burned in his eyes, undeniable:
Now. Together. Ours.
---fin?The forest trembled under the weight of the direwolf’s presence. Massive and dark as the storm, Alastor moved like a force of nature itself. His every step reverberated through the earth, and the hunt, already set in motion, obeyed his will.

The boar was quick, but alas there was no escaping their pack.

With a swift movement, Alastor closed the distance, his form a blur of shadow, guiding the beast with a silent command. It was almost amusing of the fact having to hold back- but Alastor’s wolf was showing asher respect.

It's as if it chooses not to overstep boundaries or disrupt the hierarchy, though it easily could if it truly wanted to..

His red eyes watched, unblinking, as the others danced through the chaos—Asher’s strength and Nathan’s precision weaving together like a thread of fate. It was as if they meant to fit together.

There was no rush, after all, he was one to calculate and heard the hog to having no escape.

The kill would come, but Alastor knew what the goal was. Bonding.. and forming unity- that was the goal- And it seemed to be working.

When the kill finally came, Alastor lingered at its side, his gaze giving a silent affirmation in the way he stood.

The hunt had been theirs, as it should be, and he could see the pack becoming so much more in time.

He howled toward the sky, almost as if approval of the kill.

He would move and find a spot to lay, least for now. He glanced around almost as if keeping an eye out- letting the two do what they needed.
—fin—Nathan hit the boar like a phantom—never where its tusks swiped, always where its eyes weren’t. He skimmed the edges of its vision, zig-zagging through bracken, snapping at the hocks, darting away before the churn of hooves could catch him. When it spun, he spun faster—ears flat, teeth flashing, a quick rake of canines along a tender tendon—just enough sting to turn panic into mistakes.

The forest narrowed to rhythm: crash—hiss of grass—thunder of tusks gouging a stump he’d already vacated. He vaulted a fallen log, landed light, and sprang up the boar’s spine for a heartbeat—paws drum-tapping hide—then kicked off as it bucked, dragging its charge toward the line Asher had set.

Black fur cut across the trees like a thrown shadow. Asher shouldered in at an angle, a brutal, perfect geometry that stole the boar’s balance and shoved its momentum sideways. Golden eyes met Nathan’s for a split second—now—and Nathan answered, slashing low at the inside foreleg, forcing the beast to stumble exactly where they needed it.

Behind, Alastor was gravity made flesh. The direwolf didn’t hurry; he didn’t have to. He flowed wide and deep, a wall of night closing exits, red eyes steady, presence alone penning the boar back into their triangle. When the beast tried to break, Alastor’s bulk slid to block and the forest itself seemed smaller.

They tightened the noose. Nathan needled—nip, feint, vanish—until the boar’s breaths sawed ragged and its flanks heaved. Asher wheeled once more, claws tearing loam, and slammed in hard—shoulder to ribs, jaws snapping across thick hide to turn the head. The tusks skittered uselessly through leaf-muck.

There—open throat, off-balance—together.Nathan dove high to the face, a flash of teeth and snarl that stole the boar’s last aim. Alastor’s weight hit the hindquarters, pinning power to earth. Asher rose in a clean black arc and came down at the angle every wolf knows by bone—his jaws closing deep and final. The forest rang with one sharp squeal, cut short. Then steam. Then silence.

For a heartbeat, nothing moved but breath.

Asher held, then released and stepped back, chest heaving, eyes molten. Alastor lingered at the flank, a sentinel in smoke. The space they left was deliberate.

Hunger roared up through Nathan so fast it blotted out thought. Days of going light, hours of running hard—his wolf didn’t ask permission; it obeyed the oldest law. He slid to the belly seam, split it clean with a practiced rake of teeth, and the heat rolled out—copper and fat and life. He buried his muzzle and ate, fast and honest, the world narrowing to warmth and chew and the way the ache in his ribs eased with every mouthful.

Somewhere above him, leaves ticked in the night breeze. Asher’s shadow circled once and settled just behind, not crowding—guarding. Alastor’s tail thumped once against the grass, a quiet drum that said pack, and the forest finally exhaled.Asher paced a slow half-circle behind Nathan, black coat rippling with each rise of his chest. His muzzle still throbbed with the memory of the strike, but he didn’t press forward. Not yet.

He watched. Guarded.

Every crunch of bone between Nathan’s teeth sent a pulse through his own jaw, hunger growling low in his belly. His wolf wanted—now, now—but the alpha in him held still. This wasn’t about first bite. This was about keeping Nathan safe while he ate, showing him he didn’t have to look over his shoulder for once.

When Nathan finally slowed, muzzle slick and steaming in the night air, Asher stepped forward. He brushed his flank against Nathan’s shoulder in quiet claim, then lowered his head. But before he fed, he leaned in, golden eyes soft, and dragged his tongue once along Nathan’s jaw, cleaning blood from the corner of his mouth. A reassurance, an instinctive gesture older than words: you’re mine, you’re safe.

Then he bent to the carcass, feeding clean and steady, never taking more than he needed. Even in the kill, his body angled outward, sentinel posture unbroken, ears flicking for threat.

The copper tang coated his tongue, easing the ache in his gut, his breathing slowly syncing with Nathan’s beside him. And for that moment, under the hush of the trees, it was simple: two wolves, one kill, shoulders brushing, the forest folded in around them like a cloak.

Behind them, Alastor’s red eyes glowed steady, his massive form stretched like a shadow at rest. Three wolves, one circle.

Pack.
--Fin--After a while, Alastor stirred. The wolf cautiously surveyed the surroundings before approaching the pair, sniffing at the remnants and sensing the wind's calm.

Turning back toward his belongings, he let out a simple bark to signal his desire to leave.

His human side reminded him of the importance of being on time today—he had worried his mother enough.
—fin—Nathan sagged back from the belly seam with a low, involuntary sigh, heat rolling off the carcass and up his throat. The clean-up swipe of Asher’s tongue along his jaw startled him—ears flicked, eyes cut sideways—then left something warm and confusing sitting under his ribs. He didn’t growl. He didn’t lean in either. Just huffed once, wary, and looked away.

He padded three steps off and folded to the moss, chest heaving, listening to the forest breathe. Sap, wet earth, distant owl. For a few heartbeats everything in him loosened—the knot of the day, the noise of school, the ache of being looked through. The woods fit around him like a skin he wished he didn’t have to peel off.

Alastor’s bark snapped through the hush. Nathan’s ears flattened, a reluctant groan rumbling out of him. Of course. The world always comes back.

He pushed to his feet, gave a full-body shake that flung droplets and leaf-dust, then scraped dirt over the brightest spill of scent—instinct neat and tidy. When he turned, his gaze caught Asher’s: a quick, guarded look that said I heard you without admitting anything more. He bumped the black wolf’s shoulder with the barest brush of his nose—thanks, maybe—and then cut his eyes toward the direction of town.

Babushka. Pills. Teacup. The thought tugged harder than the trees did.

He chuffed once—fine—and set off at an easy lope. Not leading, not trailing: a half pace beside Asher, close enough their shoulders could touch if either drifted. Behind, Alastor’s heavy tread fell into place like a door closing.

Nathan didn’t look back at the clearing until the branches swallowed it. The forest tugged at him all the same, like a hand he had to let go of. He answered it with a last, soft growl that tasted like promise rather than refusal—and kept running for home.

-fin-Asher lingered a moment longer in the clearing, the tang of blood still heavy on his tongue, Nathan’s scent sharper in his nose than the kill itself. The brush of the smaller wolf’s nose against his shoulder replayed like a ghost touch—small, fleeting, but it lit his wolf with a satisfaction that made his human side uneasy.

He shook it off with a hard ripple down his spine. This wasn’t the place to unravel.

Alastor’s bark pulled him back. Time. The weight of responsibility never loosened its grip, not even here.

Asher padded to the hollow where he’d stashed his bag, the shift clawing at him the second he caught sight of his clothes. He hated it—bones cracking, joints twisting—but he hated more the thought of anyone else seeing him this way. The wolf was power, instinct, freedom. But the man? The man had to face stares, questions, and the burden of being something he wasn’t sure he’d chosen.

The black fur receded, leaving sweat-damp skin and shaking fingers. He dragged on jeans, tugged his shirt over his head, shoved feet into his shoes like he could seal the wolf away under fabric.

When he straightened, his gaze caught the last flicker of Nathan’s black coat disappearing between the trees. His chest tightened. Too close, too much.

Still, he shouldered his bag, pulled the strap tight, and followed at a human pace, trailing the faint sound of paws and breath ahead. His wolf strained against the leash, wanting to lope beside Nathan, shoulder to shoulder. Asher shoved the instinct down hard, jaw tight.

Not yet. Not where anyone could see.
--Fin--The woods held a quiet tension, still but alive, as Alastor padded through the underbrush. His steps were light but sure, his black coat blending into the warmth of the forest, radiating a heat that seemed to press in from every angle. He knew where he was going—had known before his paws even touched the ground.

The hollow tree loomed ahead, its jagged mouth yawning wide with all the familiar scents of things left behind. The remnants of travel, of time spent waiting, of something half-forgotten.

Alastor crouched beside the tree, his claws catching in the rough bark as he slipped his muzzle inside. There was no rush; no need to disturb the careful balance of things. His pack was there, nestled in the shadows of the hollow—worn, but still sturdy. He pulled it free with a flick of his teeth, a soft growl vibrating low in his throat as he settled it against his side.

The weight of it felt like an old friend, heavy with everything he needed, and nothing more. Draped it around his neck with some effort and, without another glance at the hollow, stood. The world outside was still waiting, a soft breeze tugging at the edges of his fur as he turned his back on the place and started moving.

The trail ahead was familiar—footsteps soft in the earth, the occasional crackle of a twig beneath his paws. The wolf walked with purpose, not leading, but not trailing either. Just enough distance to feel the space between him and the forest—between him and everything else.

Once they got to their clothes, did he begin to change. It was another painful one, his body lurching as he held back a growl. His claws dug into the dirt as his body twisted and settle as a human- the furry body fleeing like Trendils of shadow. It was almost as if he was lost at looking to the sky before he’d move. His clothes slid on, it felt as if he was beyond sore. His head throbbed differently than usual- being able to control his wolf was different.
>>>He threw on his bag and continued to trail behind the two.. just like his wolfish counterpart did.
—fin—

Inkglitched · « **Reply #8 on:** February 10, 2026, 09:31:14 pm »

Nathan found his hollow by muscle memory—the slick curl of bark under his pads, the dark seam where old leaves hid his stuff. He half-climbed, half-scrabbled up the trunk and hooked the strap with a practiced jerk, dropping the bag with a thud.

Shifting back wasn’t pretty. It never was. Heat, then the rip of bone and tendon, breath hissing through his teeth until he was on his knees in the buff, palms stinging with grit. He dragged jeans up over goosebumped skin, yanked on his hoodie, shoved damp hair out of his face. The copper taste still clung to the back of his tongue; he swallowed against it and wiped at a faint smear near his jaw with the heel of his hand.

When he stepped out from the trees, he didn’t look at either of them right away. He slung his bag on, eyes on the ground, on the scatter of hoof-prints and torn earth that said we were here more than any words. His pulse had settled into something even. Not calm, exactly—but not the ragged edge he’d come in with.
“C’mon,” he muttered, nodding toward the faint path that would spit them out near the service road. “This way.”

They fell in together without having to talk about it—Asher a step to his left, big enough to shoulder the dark, Alastor a quiet weight behind them. Pine sap sweetened the air; something small rustled off through the ferns. Nathan kept his hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the night, but he didn’t push for speed. He didn’t bolt.

At one bend, his shoulder brushed Asher’s arm. He didn’t jump away. “Thanks,” he said, low enough it could’ve been for the hunt or for the way Asher had stood between him and the world five minutes ago. Maybe both.

A beat later, he glanced back at Alastor and gave the smallest nod—acknowledgment, not surrender.

They walked on like that, boots whispering through needles, the glow of distant streetlights leaking through the branches ahead. It felt… strange. Easier than it should’ve. Like the forest was bigger when they weren’t carving through it alone.

At the tree line, he shoved his hood up, jaw setting back into familiar angles. “I can take it from here,” he said, but there wasn’t bite in it. He lingered one heartbeat longer than necessary, then turned toward town, the quiet at his heels not feeling quite so empty.

-fin-Nathan’s words—“I can take it from here”—hung in the air like a door half-shut. His hood was up, his shoulders hunched, his body already turned toward town.

But Asher’s wolf bristled under his skin, a low growl curling in his chest before he could choke it back. The golden fire in his eyes flared and dimmed just as quick. He clenched his jaw, tried to leash it—but the truth was there, hot and immovable.

“You know I can’t,” he said finally, voice steady but weighted. “Not until you’re through that door. My wolf’s not letting me.”

He wasn’t trying to command. He wasn’t even trying to argue. It was just fact. A line he couldn’t cross without his wolf ripping control out of his hands.

He shifted the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder, forcing a crooked half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “So either I walk you to Babushka’s porch, or I fight myself the whole damn way home.”

Asher kept his distance—close enough to guard, far enough not to crowd—but his wolf’s insistence rolled like thunder under his skin. Nathan might not want it, might not understand it, but Asher’s every instinct screamed the same thing: not until he’s safe.

He jerked his chin toward the service road, falling back into step beside him, easy and deliberate. “C’mon. It’s two more blocks. You don’t have to talk. Just… humor me.”

Behind them, Alastor’s tread stayed steady, his presence as weighty as ever—but for once, Asher didn’t mind it.

Not when his wolf was this stubborn.
--Fin--Alastor overheard Nathan mentioning his ability to handle things from their point. However, as he suspected, Asher's wolf was locked in a protective mode—guarding what he considered his.

"Since Asher said he's going, I better head out too. Got homework, and Mama won’t tolerate me being late again," he muttered.

Alastor didn’t voice his true thoughts. It was clear from their behavior—they mirrored the dynamics he’d read about in those stories he had read trying to figure himself out before: the alpha and the hesitant soon-to-be mate. He had no desire to be the third wheel.

Casting a brief glance at Asher, he offered a small wave. "See you, alpha," he said softly.
—fin—The rumble that slipped out of Asher made Nathan stop short, his brow furrowing. He turned just enough to squint at the other teen, a mix of confusion and exasperation cutting across his features.

“You act like I don’t walk these streets alone every damn night,” he muttered, pulling his hood tighter as if to prove the point. His tone was sharp, but it lacked real bite—more protest than defiance.

Still, when Asher fell into step beside him, Nathan didn’t shove him off. He let the space shrink, his steps syncing unconsciously with Asher’s, even as he scowled down at the **** pavement.

After a beat, his eyes flicked sideways, catching sight of Alastor peeling off. Nathan scoffed, half a complaint, half distraction. “So what—Al gets to wander home solo, but I’ve gotta be babysat?”

The words came out rough, defensive, but underneath them was a flicker of something else. Because for all his huffing, Nathan hadn’t told Asher to leave. He didn’t slow, didn’t pull away. Deep down, in a way that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit, he kind of liked the heavy, steady presence walking at his side.

But he wasn’t about to say that out loud.

So instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and muttered, “Makes zero sense.”

-fin-Al’s wave and soft “See you, alpha” landed like a pebble in Asher’s chest. His wolf rumbled, smug and satisfied at the word, but Asher winced like it was a stone in his shoe.

“Don’t start with that,” he muttered after Al’s retreating back, voice tight. “I didn’t ask for it.”

His wolf answered with a pleased growl anyway, and he scrubbed a hand down his face before forcing his focus back to Nathan beside him.

Asher kept pace beside him, quiet for a stretch. The wolf in him pressed hard, but he swallowed it down, made himself breathe steady before he spoke.

“Al’s fine on his own,” he said at last, voice low but even. “He’s got a wolf that scares off trouble before it even thinks about getting close. Nobody’s dumb enough to test him.”

He glanced sideways, caught the edge of Nathan’s scowl under the hood, then looked away again. “You, though… you don’t hide it. The fight, the anger—it’s right there. Makes people like Blaze circle you, looking for a reason.” His tone softened, almost apologetic. “And after what happened tonight, my wolf won’t let me walk away knowing you’re out here alone.”

Asher let out a quiet sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not about babysitting. It’s just…” He searched for the words, gold eyes dimming to something more human. “You’ve had too many nights like that already. Too many fights no one should’ve had to take. If walking you to your door keeps one more from happening, then I’m doing it.”

His mouth curved into the ghost of a tired smile. “Humor me, yeah? Makes both of us sleep easier.”
--Fin--The answer wasn’t exactly what Nathan wanted, but he let it slide with only a faint huff, ego bruised just enough to sting. “I’m plenty tough enough to walk home on my own,” he muttered, though the fight in his tone lacked teeth. He didn’t push it further.

After a stretch of silence, his shoulders shifted under the hood. “Hard not to be angry all the time when it feels like the whole world’s against you,” he admitted, voice lower, like the words slipped past his defenses before he could stop them.

He kicked at a crack in the sidewalk, lips twitching into something almost like a smirk. “Guess I can let you stalk me home, then. Don’t get used to it.” The sarcasm bit sharp, but underneath, there was the faintest thread of gratitude—one he’d never admit out loud.

His gaze flicked sideways, curiosity cutting through the lingering storm. “How are you even dealing with the whole alpha thing, anyway? Most wolves would kill to have that kind of gift, and you act like it’s a curse.” He kept his voice steady, casual, though the edge of genuine interest bled through.

The words were safer than the ache still coiled in his chest—Donovan’s shadow, the bruises of betrayal—so Nathan clung to them, walls high but eyes just a little too searching.

—fin—Asher huffed out a short breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Gift, curse… depends on the day,” he said, shoulders rising and falling. His wolf stirred under the words, proud of the title Nathan had just put on him, but Asher kept his gaze forward.

“I’ve been working with a local alpha—he’s teaching me control, showing me how to use it without wrecking myself or everyone around me.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes tracing the sidewalk cracks ahead. “His pack’s solid. Strong. They know who they are.”

A pause, the faintest edge of something wistful. “But I’m not bonded to them. Not like that. I show up, I train, I learn. Then I leave. It’s more like school than family.” His mouth twitched, somewhere between a smirk and a grimace. “Guess my wolf’s still waiting for something… real.”

He glanced sideways, catching Nathan’s hooded stare for a beat before looking away again. “Not sure I’m the kind of alpha anyone’d actually want. I’m still figuring out how not to let the wolf chew through me whenever he wants.”

His steps slowed just a fraction, voice dropping softer. “But if there’s one thing training taught me, it’s this—alpha doesn’t mean I own anybody. It just means I carry the weight. Protect, even if I don’t always know how.”

The last words sat heavier, almost like a promise, though he didn’t push them. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets instead, shoulders tight, waiting to see how Nathan would take it.
--Fin--Nathan shot Asher a sidelong look from beneath his hood, brow twitching at the mention of carrying the weight. The whole “alpha” thing still sat strange with him, but there was something in the way Asher said it—like it wasn’t a brag, but a burden—that made Nathan’s chest tighten. He pushed the feeling down fast.

“Least you’re not drooling over the power trip,” he muttered, voice rough but not unkind. His hands shoved deeper into his pockets, shoulders hunching against the night air. “Most wolves I’ve met—hell, most people—act like the title’s the prize. You don’t.”

He snorted softly, trying to shake off the weight that wanted to settle on him. “Don’t worry, you’ll find yourself some cute girl eventually. Lock eyes, bond, boom—mate stuff fixes the rest. You’ll feel leveled out once that happens.”

The words came out more flippant than he intended, laced with sarcasm and that sharp edge he always used to keep people at arm’s length. But underneath, the confession lingered—the admission that he didn’t get it. That he couldn’t imagine being anyone’s chosen, let alone someone like Asher’s.

Nathan turned his gaze back to the sidewalk, hiding the faintest flicker of something raw behind the sarcasm. “Not that I’d know,” he muttered, softer, almost to himself.

-fin-Asher snorted, sharp and short, shaking his head. “Yeah… that’s not happening. I’m not into girls.” His mouth tugged into something like a smirk, though the heat creeping up his neck betrayed it wasn’t as casual as he tried to make it sound.

He rolled his shoulders, eyes on the pavement ahead. “Tried the whole thing once—dating a girl, doing what I thought I was supposed to. Didn’t work. Didn’t feel right. Ended ugly when I finally came clean.” His jaw flexed, voice dipping low. “My mom hasn’t said a word to me since. Guess she decided it’s easier to pretend I don’t exist.”

He kicked at a crack in the sidewalk, muttering, “Dad and Adara still got my back, though. Don’t know what I’d do without them.”

For a beat, the only sound was their footsteps. Then Asher huffed again, softer this time, almost amused. “So yeah—no swooning mate story for me. My wolf’s just gonna have to deal with me being the weird gay alpha who doesn’t have it figured out yet.”

His gaze flicked sideways, catching Nathan in the corner of his vision, gold eyes warm despite the joke. “But at least I’m honest about it.”
--Fin--Nathan blinked, caught off guard by the casual confession. His brows lifted before he could stop himself.
“I would’ve never guessed,” he admitted, voice dry but not cruel. “Suppose you’re too clean and well put together to be straight anyway.” The shrug that followed could’ve been flippant, but his eyes lingered on Asher a beat too long for it to land as just a joke.

He kicked at a loose pebble on the sidewalk, his hood casting shadow over his face. “At least you’re true to yourself… that’s supposed to be respectable, right?” The words came out with that sharp, sarcastic edge he always used, but under it was something quieter. Admiration he’d never say straight.

His jaw tightened as if debating whether to keep going. Then, in a voice rougher than before, he let it slip.
“If it makes you feel any better… I’m not exactly straight either.” He exhaled hard, like the admission itself stole air from his lungs. “Been seeing this guy. Secretly. And I’m pretty sure he’s gonna dump me soon.”

The moment the words left his mouth, the pain settled heavier—more real. His eyes flicked away, his shoulders curling in tighter. “Saying it out loud makes it feel like it already happened.”

-fin-Asher slowed a step, the weight of Nathan’s words sinking into him. His wolf rumbled low in his chest—not angry, just… protective. Wanting to close the space Nathan kept trying to wedge between himself and everyone else.

He didn’t crowd, though. Just let his shoulder drift close enough that Nathan would feel the heat of him if he wanted it.

“Hey,” Asher said softly, not sharp like before. “That doesn’t make you weak. Doesn’t make you broken either.” He tilted his head, catching Nathan’s profile under the hood. “If anything, it makes you braver than most. At least you’re letting yourself feel something.”

He gave a small, humorless laugh, running a hand over the back of his neck. “And for the record? If that guy’s dumb enough to walk away from you, that’s on him. Not you. You don’t get dumped because you’re not worth it. You get dumped because the other person doesn’t know how to hold on.”

His gaze slid back to the sidewalk, voice dipping quieter. “Trust me… I know how bad it stings when family or someone you care about makes you feel like you’re not enough. It’s not something you should carry alone.”

Then, after a beat, he added—lighter, but still steady: “So, secret or not, you’re not the only one walking that road. You’ve got me in it too.”
--Fin--The words lit something jagged in Nathan’s chest. Feelings—he hated that word. It was messy, dangerous, always one step away from ripping him open. Rage was easier. Cleaner.

His head snapped toward Asher, eyes narrowing beneath the hood. “I’m not weak,” he hissed, the words sharper than he meant them to be. His whole body bristled like Asher had struck a nerve, like comfort was just another way to call him fragile.

Normally, he would’ve gutted the moment with something cruel—cut straight to the bone and walked away before anyone could see the cracks. But the insult he reached for never left his tongue. Instead, he just burned in place, fists tightening at his sides.

“I don’t *need* anyone,” he spat, the syllables bitter, as if the very idea tasted wrong in his mouth. His jaw worked hard, eyes fixed on the pavement, every step tight with pent-up fury.

But even as he lashed out, the heat behind it wasn’t the wildfire it used to be. The flames flickered, smaller, thinner—like some part of him didn’t have the strength to set the whole world on fire anymore.

-fin-Asher didn’t flinch at the hiss. Didn’t rise to it, either. His wolf bristled, but he kept it tamped down, jaw tight.

“I didn’t say you were weak,” he said evenly, voice low. “I said you’re carrying more than most would survive. That’s not the same thing.”

He let the silence breathe a beat, then added, softer, “And I know you don’t think you need anyone. Maybe you don’t. But you’ve got me anyway. Whether you like it or not.”

He didn’t push closer, didn’t try to meet Nathan’s eyes—just kept pace at his side, quiet and steady, letting the choice of what to do with that sit entirely with him.
--Fin--The way Asher stood his ground—calm, measured, unshaken—threw Nathan off more than he wanted to admit. He was used to sparking fights, to people snapping back or storming off. But Asher didn’t. He held firm, steady as bedrock, without pressing further. It was… disarming.

Nathan’s scowl twitched, caught somewhere between irritation and confusion. “Whatever…” he muttered, the word more deflated than sharp. “You’ll just be wasting your time. But… I guess it’s your time to waste.” His voice trailed into a huff, rough but lacking the venom he usually carried. It was a strange sort of concession—Nathan’s crooked way of admitting Asher’s presence wasn’t unwelcome.

The tension in his shoulders eased, just slightly, as they kept walking. He didn’t like the way it made him feel—softened, less angry—but he also didn’t shove it away. That was new.

By the time they reached his Babushka’s porch, the edge in him had dulled enough that the words slipped out before he could stop them. “You want to… come in?” His hood shadowed most of his face, but the flush creeping across his cheeks gave him away.

“I’m just cooking dinner, then homework. Nothing exciting,” he added quickly, like he had to downplay it, but the invitation still hung there. Quiet. Awkward. Real.

For all his walls and snarls, Asher had managed to wedge himself past them—if only a little. And Nathan, against his own instincts, was letting him.

-fin-Asher blinked at the offer, caught off guard, but the corner of his mouth tugged into the faintest smile. He didn’t want Nathan to see the flicker of warmth in his chest, so he slipped his phone from his pocket under the guise of adjusting his bag. His thumbs moved quick:

> having dinner w/ a friend. don’t wait up.
I’ll explain later. I’m fine.

Satisfied, he slid it away just as Nathan’s hooded figure turned back toward him on the porch.

“Yeah,” Asher said, steady and simple. “I’d like that.”

His wolf gave a low, pleased hum inside him, practically smug at the acceptance. Asher tamped it down, keeping his expression calm even as his chest felt lighter.

“Don’t worry about exciting,” he added, following Nathan up the creaking steps. “Dinner and homework sounds… good. Better than good, actually.”

He caught Nathan’s glance—quick, awkward, cheeks faintly flushed—and let his own eyes soften in return, gold warm in the porchlight.

“Thanks for asking,” he murmured, and stepped inside. For once, it felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
--Fin--The simple acceptance threw Nathan off more than he cared to admit. He’d half expected a scoff, maybe a muttered excuse—anything but Asher actually stepping through the door like he belonged there.

Babushka was in her rocking chair, her wrinkled face lit up by the glow of a Polish soap opera. At the sight of Nathan and Asher, her smile bloomed wide. She chattered at Nathan in rapid-fire Polish, her eyes sparkling when he introduced Asher as a friend.

That single word made her beam like the sun. Nathan rolled his eyes, muttering something about her being dramatic, but the truth was, a part of him ached at her joy.

He dumped his backpack and board in his room before coming back, tossing over his shoulder, “Dump your stuff wherever.”

By the time Asher turned, Nathan was already pulling a ridiculously floral apron over his head—pink roses and lace trim, the kind of thing that should’ve been humiliating but somehow suited him in an oddly domestic way. He caught Asher’s look and scowled.

“You laugh, or you breathe a word of this to anyone, I don’t care if you’re an alpha,” Nathan said in the sweetest singsong tone—laced with threat sharp enough to cut. “I will murder you and no one will ever find the body.”

Babushka hummed happily from the other room, completely oblivious.

Nathan adjusted the apron like it was armor, then turned his focus on the stove. Within seconds he was moving with an easy rhythm—chopping, stirring, seasoning—slipping into a version of himself he rarely showed anyone outside these walls. Domestic, competent, almost soft.

Cooking her favorite meal had become second nature. But tonight, with Asher sitting at the table close enough to see, it felt different. Strange. Comfortable in a way he didn’t trust.

Still, he let it happen.

-fin-

Inkglitched · « **Reply #9 on:** February 10, 2026, 09:36:08 pm »

Asher set his bag down by the door like he was afraid to scuff the floor, his wolf ears pricked at Babushka’s cheerful stream of Polish even if he couldn’t understand most of it. The joy in her voice, though—that he understood. His lips twitched when Nathan translated him as just a friend, and he dipped his head respectfully toward her rocking chair.

*“Dziękuję, pani,”* he said carefully, the words accented but clear—thank you, ma’am. He didn’t know much Polish, but enough phrases had rubbed off on him from the local pack he trained with that it came naturally.

Babushka’s smile deepened, pleased, and she rattled off something even faster that Asher didn’t catch. The warmth in her eyes was enough to make his chest ease, though.

Then Nathan reappeared, apron blazing pink roses and lace, scowl sharp enough to rival his knife. Asher’s brows jumped—he hadn’t expected that. A laugh tried to crawl up his throat, but he clamped his teeth shut, swallowing it with a muffled cough.

He held both palms up in mock surrender. “No laughing. No words. Your secret dies with me,” he promised, golden eyes bright with suppressed amusement. Then, because his wolf nudged him for honesty, he added, lower: “...looks good on you, though.”

The scowl he got in return was worth it.

Asher slid into a chair at the table, resting his arms on the scarred wood, watching Nathan move around the kitchen with that strange, fluid ease. His wolf settled under his ribs, content just to watch, as if this, too, was a form of claiming—proof Nathan could be at ease in front of him.

“Smells amazing already,” Asher said quietly, breaking the silence without breaking the spell. After a moment he added, a little sheepish: “I usually cook at home. My sister tries, but she either burns everything or leaves it half raw, and my dad… he works long hours most nights. So it kind of falls to me.”He gave a little shrug, as though it wasn’t a big deal, though the admission carried more weight than he meant to share. “It’s not fancy like this, though. Just stuff to keep everyone fed.”

The corner of his mouth quirked, soft. “So yeah—this? Feels like a treat.”

--Fin--The kitchen clattered with the rhythm of his cooking—pans shifting, water hissing as it hit hot metal. Nathan’s scowl lingered, but the edges weren’t as sharp as usual. When Asher’s words reached him, he snorted, shaking his head as he stirred the pot.

“You might wanna actually taste the food before you start acting like it’s some five-star thing,” he muttered, tone carrying its usual bite. But it wasn’t the kind of bite meant to draw blood—it was lighter, almost teasing. A self-deprecating jab, the kind he only ever threw around Rook.

The faintest twitch of a smirk betrayed him before he turned back to chopping vegetables, knife flashing quick in his hand. “Not promising edible. Just… food.”

Still, his shoulders weren’t as tight as they had been when they walked in. The scorn was easier on his tongue, less a shield and more a strange sort of banter. For the first time all day, he found himself answering instead of shutting down.

And maybe, he realized as he stole a quick glance toward Asher sitting at the table—steady, watching but not judging—that was better than being left alone with his thoughts.

-fin-Asher leaned back in the chair, one arm hooked lazily over the backrest, golden eyes following the steady rhythm of knife and cutting board. Nathan’s mutter earned him a crooked grin.

“Trust me, I’ve eaten enough burnt eggs and half-raw chicken courtesy of my sister. I’ll take my chances with yours.” His tone was light, teasing, but honest, too.

He let a beat pass, listening to the quiet clatter of the kitchen. His wolf rumbled low, content in the background—the domestic sound soothing in a way that battle and blood never could.

“You need a hand?” Asher asked finally, tilting his head. “I’m decent with chopping, stirring, not half bad at washing dishes either.” The grin flickered, softer this time. “Figure it’s only fair I pull my weight if I’m eating at your table.”

He didn’t move right away—he waited, letting Nathan decide. But the steady offer hung there, genuine. For once, the alpha in him wasn’t pressing. He was just a boy at a friend’s table, ready to help if wanted.
--Fin--The eye roll came first, but it lacked its usual venom. Nathan moved with easy rhythm, knife steady on the board, the muted chatter of the Polish soap opera filling the silence like background static. For once, the weight pressing on him felt… lighter. Manageable.

When Asher finally spoke up, Nathan raised a brow, then let the corner of his mouth curl into an actual smirk.

“You know what—yeah, sure,” he said, tone sly but not cutting. “Grab an apron. Sorry they’re all frilly. Babushka hasn’t cooked in years, but God forbid I buy my own.”

He shook his head, muttering under his breath like it was an old joke between him and the house itself.

With a flick of the knife, he gestured toward the counter. “You can chop and wash. Don’t screw it up.” His words carried a bite, but his hand lingered just long enough when he passed the blade over to betray the truth—this wasn’t dismissal. It was trust, however grudging.

Then Nathan turned back to the stove, apron strings fluttering as he leaned into his work. For the first time that night, the scowl was gone. What filled the kitchen instead was something quieter, warmer: the rhythm of two people cooking side by side.
-fin-Asher didn’t even blink at the lineup of aprons. He tugged the laciest, most floral one off its hook and slipped it on without a word, the frills ridiculous against his broad frame. The only giveaway was the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth as he tied it off.

He took the knife easily when Nathan handed it over, testing the weight with a practiced roll between his fingers before setting to work. His cuts came clean and even—quick enough to show he wasn’t bluffing, steady enough to prove he’d done this plenty of times before.

“Chopped or minced?” he asked, glancing sideways with that same calm gold-eyed look. No judgment, no teasing—just slipping into the rhythm Nathan had set.

The wolf in him was oddly content, tail-wag energy hidden behind steady hands and a soft hum under his breath. Helping here, in this kitchen, didn’t feel like work. It felt… right.
--Fin--The way Asher slid into the rhythm of the kitchen like he’d been there a hundred times unsettled Nathan more than he wanted to admit. He shouldn’t like this. Shouldn’t like how natural it felt, or how easy Asher’s presence fit into the space that had always been his. But there it was—the quiet domesticity, the subtle teamwork, the hum of something dangerously close to… normal. It tugged at places in him he usually buried under anger and sarcasm, places that now had him silently panicking.

Still, he said nothing. Just let the motions carry him. Pots stirred, dishes clattered, the kitchen filled with the steady rhythm of two boys who looked like they’d done this forever.

By the time the food was done, the table set, and dishes stacked clean, Babushka was already waiting at her chair, eyes twinkling with mischief. She greeted Asher warmly, her voice lilting through Polish like music, and Nathan groaned inwardly as he realized what was coming.

Sure enough, he became the translator—relaying her barrage of questions about Asher’s home life, his school, his friends. Each answer only seemed to encourage her more, her smile brightening as she leaned in with conspiratorial energy. And then, as Nathan dreaded, she went further—dropping not-so-subtle hints about what a good match Nathan would make.

Heat rushed to his face so fast he swore steam might rise from his ears. He stumbled over words, his translations clipped and hurried, muttering sharp Polish back at her under his breath that only made her chuckle harder.

Across the table, Asher sat steady, golden eyes warm and polite, while Nathan wanted to sink through the floor. He scowled, cheeks blazing, but the worst of it was how—even through the embarrassment—he couldn’t quite shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, his Babushka wasn’t entirely wrong.

-fin-Asher sat through the barrage of questions like he’d been through a dozen family dinners before. His posture stayed respectful, his answers steady, his words softened at the edges by the effort to meet Babushka’s warmth with his own.

When Nathan’s hurried translations started tripping over themselves, Asher caught on fast. The flush on Nathan’s cheeks, the sharp mutters in Polish—it didn’t take a genius to know Babushka was matchmaking. The realization almost pulled a laugh from him, but he covered it with a small smile, dipping his head in deference.

“Dziękuję, Babushka,” he said carefully, the Polish thick on his tongue but true in intent. Thank you.

Then, with a glance at Nathan—cheeks still red, eyes narrowed like knives—he added softly, “Your Babushka’s got good instincts.”

The words were simple, but the weight in them lingered. Not a joke, not a deflection—just honest. He let them hang in the quiet between clinking dishes and the faint hum of the TV in the other room.

And if Nathan’s scowl deepened, if his hood came up even though they were indoors, Asher just leaned back in his chair, steady as ever, like he could weather every storm Nathan threw his way.When the last fork clinked down and Babushka settled back in her chair with a satisfied hum, Asher was already on his feet. He gathered the plates with quiet efficiency, stacking them just so, slipping bowls into the crook of his arm like he’d done this in his own kitchen a hundred times.

Nathan blinked, caught mid-reach for his own plate, only to have Asher pluck it from under his hand with a calm, “I’ve got it.”

He carried everything to the sink, rolled his sleeves to the elbow, and set the faucet running until the water steamed. A squeeze of soap, a swirl of suds, and soon he was sliding the first plate beneath the surface, methodical and steady.

“You cooked,” he said over his shoulder, gold eyes warm in the lamplight. “I clean. Fair’s fair.”

The wolf in him hummed with satisfaction at the simple rhythm—work, water, the quiet clatter of dish against dish. It was grounding in its own way, more soothing than he’d expected. He didn’t even notice the lace-trimmed apron still tied at his waist until Babushka chuckled knowingly in the background.

He just smiled faintly, kept scrubbing, and added, “Besides… my sister burns everything, and my dad’s never home early enough to help. Kind of my job at home too.”

Then he rinsed a plate, set it carefully in the rack, and reached for the next without missing a beat—like sliding seamlessly into Nathan’s kitchen was the most natural thing in the world.
--Fin--Nathan lasted the whole dinner by sheer force of will—jaw set, answers clipped, cheeks blazing hotter each time Babushka’s questions swerved from “do you like pierogi?” to “does your father cook?” to very obvious matchmaking. When Asher said her instincts were good, Nathan’s glare could’ve cut granite…but he didn’t argue. He just cleared his throat, busied his hands, and survived.

After, he slipped back into routine: tea poured, pills sorted into the little weekday tray, blanket tugged over Babushka’s knees, a kiss to her crown while the soap opera murmured on. By the time he padded back, Asher had the last plate racked and the lace apron still tied like it belonged to him. That did something weird to Nathan’s chest he pretended not to notice.

“Thanks for cleaning up,” he muttered—gruff, but real—then jerked his head down the hall. “C’mon.”

He pushed open his door with a hip and stood aside like he always did, letting the space speak for him.

The room was a study in contradictions. Black walls, horror posters (Nosferatu, The Thing, a sun-faded Japanese one with too many teeth), and a crooked gallery of vintage VHS spines. A red string of fairy lights cast the whole cave in bloody glow. The bed was charcoal with a lavender throw at the foot; a small, soft moth plush perched on the pillow like it owned the place.The desk was weaponized order. Three spiral notebooks lined with color-coded tabs, margins dense with tiny, precise handwriting. A TI calculator gleamed beside a mechanical keyboard with skull keycaps; on a sticky note: “Dual-enroll exam Fri // limits → epsilon proofs.” Open on the surface: advanced precalc problem sets, a battered physics workbook, and a dog-eared paperback of Gödel, Escher, Bach wedged under a stack of lyric pages.

And then the things that didn’t match the armor. A little ceramic dish holding silver rings and a delicate moon pendant. A strawberry lip balm. Two bottles of nail polish—black and a glittery rose that didn’t belong to any goth cliché. A pastel scrunchie looped over the lamp. A perfume sample tucked under a horror zine. None of it apologized for existing.

“Sit wherever,” Nathan said, tossing his hoodie to the chair and hanging the floral apron on the back of the door like it hadn’t fit him perfectly five minutes ago. He dropped to the desk, flicked his pen, and slid into the problems with frightening efficiency—derivative rules ghosted from memory, a neat epsilon-delta sketch blooming in the margin while his foot tapped to a low, thrumming playlist that sounded suspiciously like horror scores and lo-fi stitched together.

He spoke without looking up: “It’s advanced precalc and some physics. Dual credit crap.” A beat, softer, almost offhand: “Not like I’m going to college or whatever.”

He flipped a page, the pen moving quick. “You want music louder? Or…less people screaming in Latin?” The corner of his mouth twitched, betraying a smile he didn’t quite let happen. “Seriously—sit. I’ll help you with anything if you’ve got work. I’m fast.”

And for once, the storm in him didn’t feel like it would eat the walls. It just hummed—contained—while he solved, while Asher existed in his space like it wasn’t a performance to be survived but a room to share.

Asher lingered a second in the doorway, golden eyes sweeping the space like he was cataloging every detail. The walls, the posters, the bloody glow of the lights, the meticulous desk—all of it was so Nathan that it made something in his chest tighten. It wasn’t just a room; it was a map of the guy sitting at the desk, sharp edges and soft contradictions tangled together.

His gaze paused on the little dish of jewelry, the nail polish bottles, the moth plush that looked like it had been through wars but still sat proud on the pillow. He didn’t comment—just filed it away with the quiet respect of someone who knew what it meant to leave pieces of yourself uncovered.

At the offer of sitting, Asher let a small huff of amusement escape. He dropped into the chair Nathan had tossed his hoodie on, leaning back with the loose ease of someone who didn’t care if the space was “goth lair” or not—it was clearly Nathan’s, and that was enough.

The music thrummed low in the background, eerie strings and whispering Latin stitched through lo-fi beats. “Don’t mind it,” he said after a moment, tone even but warm. A corner of his mouth tipped upward. “As long as it’s not Barbie Girl on repeat, I’m good.”

He shook his head, chuckling softly. “Addy had that song on for a month straight when we were younger. I thought my ears were gonna bleed. She still knows every damn word—don’t let her rope you into karaoke.”

The laugh settled, softer, more real. He leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees, letting the glow of the string lights catch in his eyes. “This though? Fits you. Dark, sharp edges, but…” His gaze flicked to the moth plush, then back to Nathan, a faint smile tugging at him. “…softer in the corners than you let on.”Letting that hang, Asher dug into his bag, pulling out a worn English folder and a half-crumpled essay prompt. He smoothed the paper against his knee, flipping a pen between his fingers. “Got an analysis due on Of Mice and Men,” he said with a faint grimace. “Not exactly my favorite, but I’ll get through it.”

He glanced at Nathan, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Math’s not really my strongest subject, but I do alright. If I get stuck, I might take you up on that offer. Better than trying to figure it out at two in the morning.”

He bent over his paper, starting to scrawl an opening line in slow, careful handwriting—but the air between them stayed steady, almost easy, like the two of them had done this side-by-side more than once.
--Fin--Nathan kept his head down, pen skating over paper, but his pulse did a weird little jump when Asher didn’t flinch at the room—at the polish bottles, the moth plush, the soft edges he tried to bury under black paint and Latin choir.

“Cool,” he said, like that covered the way his chest unclenched.

He nudged the volume on the speaker down a notch, swapped to an instrumental track, then fell into the numbers. Derivatives, limits, non-linear systems—done in neat, fast strokes; check marks in the margins; a tiny skull doodled beside a particularly ugly proof. By the time Asher had written his opening line, Nathan was closing his calc book with a soft snap.

A beat. He flicked his eyes sideways, clocked the essay prompt, and the half-formed thesis.

“Your topic sentence is trying to do pull-ups with no bar,” he muttered, reaching for a clean sticky. He scrawled without looking precious about it and slid it over.
Thesis: it’s not that Lennie is the tragedy—the dream is. Steinbeck keeps killing small soft things to show the big soft thing was never going to live.”

He cleared his throat, like he hadn’t just tossed out a full spine for the paper. “Use the mouse, the pup, and the farm pitch. Clean, three-body structure. You can keep the ‘mercy’ angle for the closer.”

Another beat. He capped his pen, set it down, then—because the silence felt too heavy—added, deadpan, “If anyone asks, you’re here to copy my notes, not babysit me.”

His phone buzzed face-down on the desk. He didn’t touch it.

Nathan leaned back, finally meeting Asher’s eyes in the red wash of the string lights. “And… thanks. For dishes. For not laughing at the apron. For…” he gestured vaguely at the room, at himself, “all this.”

The corner of his mouth ticked up—sharp, but softer than usual. “Also, if you ever tell anyone the moth’s name is Marigold, I will deny everything and haunt you.”

-fin-Asher leaned over just enough to scan the sticky note Nathan slid across. His brow arched, impressed despite himself. “You just rewrote my whole paper in two sentences,” he said, a quiet laugh under his breath. “Guess I owe you more than dish duty for that one.”

He started scribbling along the margins of his own draft, slotting Nathan’s structure in like puzzle pieces that actually fit. It came easier than he expected, the words lining up where before they’d been a slog. He glanced sideways, caught the little skull doodle in Nathan’s math notes, and smirked. “You even make death look organized. That’s a talent.”

When Nathan finally looked at him—really looked—Asher didn’t look away. He held the gold of his gaze steady in the bloody string-light glow, quiet and unflinching. At the thanks, his expression softened, tension easing from his shoulders.

“You don’t have to thank me for any of that,” he said, voice low, almost a rumble. “I’m not here to laugh at you, Nathan. Or… whatever this is.” His hand waved lightly at the walls, the moth plush, the desk clutter that told more truth than any scowl ever could. “I like it. All of it.”

He let that sit, then added with a crooked grin, “And don’t worry, Marigold’s secret’s safe. Though if she starts haunting me, I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Settling back, Asher tapped his pen against the notebook, his tone slipping back into easy teasing. “And for the record? I’m not here to babysit. You don’t need that. I’m here because…” He trailed off for a beat, the words heavy in his throat, then finished simply, “...because I wanted to be.”

The gold in his eyes caught the low light, steady and warm, before he ducked back to his paper, letting the scratch of pen on paper fill the silence again.

+--Fin--Nathan stared like Asher had grown a second head, pen paused mid-tap. The red glow made it easier to look away first.

“Yeah, okay—gonna need you evaluated,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “ ‘I like it. All of it.’ Nobody sane says that about… this.” A vague gesture at the horror wall, the string lights, himself.

A beat. He slid the sticky note closer.

“…But—thanks. For not laughing. And for… wanting to be here.”

He snapped his calc book shut—it was already finished—and snagged a highlighter, pushing it and an extra pen toward Asher. “Make yourself useful, golden boy. Mark the quotes you actually need, then hand me the draft. I’ll tighten it.”

He leaned back in the chair, a little less guarded. “You can stay. I’m done with my stuff anyway.” A dry huff. “Might as well bully Steinbeck together.”

-fin-Asher blinked, half expecting Nathan to snap harder, but the muttered thanks slipped through the armor and landed heavier than anything else could’ve. He didn’t call it out, just let a small, quiet smile tug at his mouth before catching it behind the rim of his notebook.

“Golden boy, huh?” he teased lightly, taking the highlighter and pen without complaint. “Better than jock, I guess. I’ll allow it.”

He flipped back through his essay, careful and deliberate this time, marking lines with steady precision. The kind of methodical patience that said he wasn’t just doing it to get by—he wanted to actually learn something from Nathan.

When he passed the draft across the desk, his fingers lingered for a beat too long on the edge of the paper, a small flicker of hesitation. Then he leaned back, folding his arms loosely, gold eyes warm in the red glow.

“Alright. Your turn to bully Steinbeck,” he said, smirk tugging at his lips. “But fair warning—if you make me look too smart, my sister’s gonna expect miracles from now on.”

He tilted his head, watching Nathan settle with the draft. “Not that I mind. Better here than anywhere else.” The words were low, almost casual—but steady enough that they couldn’t be mistaken for anything but honest.
--Fin--Nathan’s pen hovered, then he snorted. “Golden boy’s about to watch me put Steinbeck in a chokehold.”

He slid a fresh page in front of him, winked—quick, almost careless—and went to work. Lines bracketed, arrows stitched margins to thesis, a couple sentences gutted and rebuilt cleaner, meaner. Fifteen minutes later he tapped the page twice and handed it back.

“Draft two. Structure’s tight, quotes actually earn their keep.” A faint, crooked smile. “Left a few grammar bruises so your teacher doesn’t think you sold your soul.”

He leaned back, shoulders looser than they’d been all night. “Proof it, type it, you’re golden. And if anyone asks how it got this good? Tell ’em dinner clicked something. Or don’t.” A shrug, softer now. “Either way… this was—” he searched for the word, gave up with a small huff— “good.”

-fin-Asher took the pages like they were something more than paper—like Nathan had just handed him a win that actually mattered. He skimmed the edits, slow at first, then faster as the shape of the essay sharpened into something solid. A quiet whistle slipped out before he caught himself.

“Damn,” he said, not even trying to hide the admiration. “You don’t just chokehold Steinbeck—you body-slammed him through the mat.” His grin tugged wide, easy, though there was a thread of real gratitude behind it.

He set the draft down carefully, leaning his elbows on his knees, gold eyes catching the red wash of the lights. “Seriously, Nathan… thanks. I usually scrape by on English with muscle and luck. This? You just made me look like I actually belong in that class.” He scratched at the back of his neck, almost sheepish. “Feels good. Better than good.”

For a beat he let the silence stretch, just the faint hum of the lo-fi track and the muffled TV down the hall. Then, softer: “I meant what I said before—better here than anywhere else.” His mouth tilted into something more subtle than a grin, almost shy if it weren’t for the steady way he held Nathan’s gaze.

“You make… this—” he gestured vaguely at the desk, the room, the night “—feel like it doesn’t have to be a fight all the time.”

He leaned back then, giving Nathan his space again, though his wolf prowled just under his skin, itching to stay close.Asher shifted in the chair, golden eyes flicking to the clock glowing faintly on Nathan’s desk. The numbers made his brows lift—later than he thought. He exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his face before glancing back over.

“Didn’t realize it got this late,” he said, voice low, careful not to break the ease that had settled between them. His fingers tapped the edge of the paper once, twice. “Tell me straight—am I overstaying?”

He tried to keep it casual, but there was a thread of something quieter in his tone. He’d been in enough rooms where his presence was tolerated, not wanted. And Nathan’s space—the polish, the moth plush, the walls that weren’t meant for anyone else—felt different. Like trespassing, unless Nathan said otherwise.

A lopsided grin ghosted across his mouth, not quite cocky enough to hide the honesty underneath. “’Cause I can jet if you’re sick of me. Just say the word.”
--Fin--Nathan lined the pages up with the edge of the desk like he could iron his pulse flat. The whistle, the praise—too much, too bright. Heat crawled up his neck and he yanked his hood up like that could hide it.

“Yeah, well… don’t get sappy on me,” he muttered, voice smaller than the words. The pen clicked twice, stilled. “You did the work. I just… pointed.”

When Asher mentioned the time, Nathan seized it like a lifeline. He cleared his throat, eyes skittering off to the glowing clock, the wall, anywhere but those gold eyes.

“You’re not overstaying,” he said finally. “I was gonna shower and crash once you bailed anyway.” A beat. “Not a hint.”

He hesitated, then slid his laptop across, charger snaked over the desk. “If you wanna type it up, you can—while I rinse off. Printer’s under the bed, don’t judge. Keep the music on low. Babushka’s asleep.”

Another beat, softer around the edges. “Door locks behind you. If you’re done before I’m out, just… go. Or—” His mouth twitched, fighting itself. “—leave it on the chair and kick me tomorrow if the teacher buys it.”

He risked a look, quick and bare. “And, uh… for the record? This—” a vague gesture at the quiet, the papers, them “—doesn’t feel like a fight either.”

The admission startled him enough that he stood too fast, ears pink. “I’ll be ten minutes,” he said, already backing toward the door. “Don’t touch my playlists.”

He paused in the doorway, glanced back once. “I’m not sick of you.” Then he vanished down the hall.

-fin-Asher sat there a moment longer after Nathan slipped out, the sound of running water drifting faintly down the hall. He let out a slow breath, his wolf restless under his skin, not from the hunt or the fight but from something far more unnerving: wanting to stay.

He slid Nathan’s notes closer, opened the laptop, and set his fingers to the keys. Normally he hammered essays out quick, efficient—get it done, move on. Tonight, though, his pace was deliberate, almost lazy. Every line Nathan had scribbled in the margins felt like a trace of him, and Asher found himself reading them twice before typing, lingering where he didn’t need to. His wolf huffed, satisfied to soak in the scent that clung to the room—ink, metal, lavender, something sharp that was just Nathan.

The words built line by line, clean and structured. He could’ve been finished in ten minutes, fifteen at most. Instead, he let himself stretch it, pausing to glance at the posters, the moth plush, the scattered contradictions that were all Nathan and none of them a joke. Each keystroke felt like a reason to linger.

When he finally hit save, the essay gleaming back at him in neat Times New Roman, he didn’t close the laptop right away. His hands rested on the keyboard, still, golden eyes soft in the glow of the string lights. He told himself he was just proofing, just making sure. But the truth was simpler: he wasn’t ready for the night to end.

His wolf rumbled quietly inside him, a thoughtless sound that felt almost smug. Ours, it whispered—not in command, but in contentment.

Asher leaned back in the chair, arms folded loosely, and let himself sit in the stillness of Nathan’s space a little longer. Just until the water stopped. Just until he had to leave.

Because for once, it didn’t feel like he was intruding. It felt like being allowed.
--Fin--Nathan came back toweling damp hair, hoodie thrown over a black tee, the last of his eyeliner smudged to a soft shadow. He clocked the open doc and the way Asher was… lingering.

“Times New Roman? Nerd,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth tipped up as he slid into the chair. His eyes skimmed the screen—fast, precise. “Clean thesis, no filler, you fixed the parallel structure. Nice pull on the foreshadowing, too.”

He yanked the printer from under the desk, uncoiled a cable with practiced violence, and had it humming in two taps. “One-inch margins or Steinbeck’s ghost shows up and fails you,” he deadpanned. Pages spat out; he squared them, stapled once at a perfect 45°, and passed the packet over with a little two-finger salute. “There. Academic homicide.”

For a beat he stood there, thumb worrying the edge of the stapler. The red glow made his ears look warmer than he liked.

“You’re not… overstaying,” he said, quieter than his usual blade-edge. “I—” a breath, a twitch of a shrug, “—didn’t hate this. You here.”

He cleared his throat, reaching for a sticky note and a pen. “If you’re heading out, text when you get home so I don’t assume you got eaten by, I dunno, a rogue lit teacher.” He scribbled a number, slid it across. “That’s mine. Use it for essay emergencies… or not-essay emergencies.”

A hint of a smirk returned as he stepped back toward the door. “I’m gonna crash. You can hang five, let the printer cool off, whatever. Just kill the red lights when you go or they burn into your retinas.”

He hesitated, then added, softer, eyes flicking up to meet gold just once, “Night, Golden Boy.”

-fin-Asher took the packet, holding it like it was something heavier than paper. The corners of his mouth tugged upward at the salute. “Academic homicide, huh? Guess I’ll plead guilty,” he murmured, warmth edging into his voice.

When Nathan slid the sticky note over, Asher’s wolf perked up sharp and pleased, though all Asher did was tuck the number carefully into his pocket like it was worth more than anything he’d carried home from school. “Don’t worry,” he said, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “If a rogue lit teacher comes for me, you’ll be the first to know.”

He stood, shouldering his bag, but lingered a beat longer than necessary. The glow of the string lights caught on Nathan’s damp hair, his smudged eyeliner, the small vulnerability in his posture. It made Asher’s wolf want to stay planted, to guard. To claim.

Instead, Asher lifted a hand in an easy little wave. “Goodnight, Nathan,” he said softly. “Sleep easy.”

He pulled the door half-shut behind him, moving quiet through the hall so Babushka wouldn’t stir. The cool night air wrapped around him when he stepped outside, steadying him for the walk home.

The streets were quiet, lit in broken stretches by tired lamps. Asher’s wolf padded alongside in his chest, smug and satisfied, purring at the weight of Nathan’s number in his pocket. The protective streak hummed like a live wire, pleased that Nathan had let him close, if only for a night.

By the time his house came into view, Asher’s steps felt lighter. He leaned against the porch rail, tugged his phone free, and typed out the simplest thing he could manage:

> Made it home safe.

He hovered a second, then added—

> Night blue eyes.

He hit send before he could second-guess it, sliding the phone back into his pocket with a faint smile.
--Fin--The door clicked shut and the room felt too big again—string lights humming, fan whispering, the last curl of steam from his shower fading off the mirror. Nathan sat on the edge of the bed longer than he meant to, thumbs worrying the frayed sleeve of his hoodie while his head replayed the way Asher had said goodnight like it wasn’t a trap.

His phone buzzed.
Made it home safe.
Night blue eyes.

Something stupid fluttered in his chest. He stared at the screen until the words blurred, typed three different replies—cool, you too, don’t call me that—and deleted them all. Jaw set, he went with the smallest thing that still felt like him.

> night golden boy

He hit send, winced at himself, then smirked despite it. The phone went face-down on the nightstand. He killed the lights, slid under the covers, and told his stupid heart to shut up. It didn’t. The words blue eyes pulsed in the dark like a low-beat melody until sleep finally dragged him under.

-fin-The alarm didn’t even have a chance to blare. Alastor’s eyes snapped open before it could even *think* about ringing, the weight of something pressing at the back of his skull. It wasn’t the usual restless stirring of an early morning—it was something sharper, colder, like the first chill before a storm.

He lay still for a moment, as if hoping whatever it was might pass, but it didn’t. Instead, it sank deeper, that gnawing feeling in his gut. Something off. Something... *wrong*.

It was too early for this. Far too early for him to be wide awake, feeling the fire crawl under his skin, making his fists clench and his jaw tighten.

His room was still dark, the sun not yet having the decency to start waking the world outside, and yet, here he was—sitting up in bed, breathing hard like he’d run a mile.

The clock read 5:12 AM.

*Way* too early.

But the instinct was already there, clawing at him: Get up. Get moving. Don’t *think*. Do.

He threw off the covers and stood, the cold floor biting at his feet as he made his way downstairs. The house was quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator, the soft creaks of floorboards he knew too well. It was too quiet, in a way that felt suffocating.

The air was thick with the remnants of sleep, but Alastor was already shaking it off, his body moving on its own accord. He grabbed the cereal box from the pantry, but it wasn’t for him. No.

It was for his younger siblings.
>>>The thought of sitting and eating, letting the minutes drag by like everyone else, didn’t sit right with him today. He’d been up for hours now, and yet, there was a franticness in his movements—one that he couldn’t quite shake. It was the same feeling that had him making sandwiches for his little brother and sister, packing their lunches with an intensity that felt like it was all he *could* do.

Peanut butter and jelly for Sofía, turkey and cheese for Carlos. It would be like this for the twins, who liked the same things just cut differently. The rest the usual touches, fruit in neat little bags,Water bottles with the caps on tight, just like their mom always made sure.

*Go, go, go. Pack it, and move.*
He didn’t even notice how fast he was working until the sandwiches were done and the lunch boxes were packed. He slid them into the fridge and grabbed his own bag, feeling the weight of the day already beginning to press against his shoulders.

It wasn’t even 6 AM yet, and there was an unsettled buzz under his skin that he didn’t quite understand. He felt it every day, but this morning? It was worse. The air felt like static, buzzing, making his muscles twitch and his nerves tighten.
>>>Before he could think about it too much, he grabbed his coat off the hook by the door, threw on his shoes, and grabbed his backpack. He didn’t check the mirror. He didn’t bother with a second look. Today wasn’t a day for the usual routine.

He planned on walking instead of by bus. He needed the time alone—the quiet before anything*happened*.
As he pulled the door open, the first gust of morning air hit his face, the coolness biting at his skin as the world outside slowly began to wake. The streets were empty, save for a few early risers, the hum of streetlights buzzing in the distance. He pulled his collar up against the chill, stepped out onto the porch, and went to pull the door shut behind him.

And then—

“Alastor?”

His mother’s voice came from the kitchen, soft, questioning, tinged with the exhaustion of a long night spent somewhere between sleep and waking.

He froze.

There she stood in the doorway, still in her robe, hair a little messier than usual, sleep still clinging to her eyes. She looked at him like she wasn’t sure if she was seeing a ghost or her son. The words on the tip of her tongue hung there—*What are you doing up so early? Where are you going?*

But she didn’t ask. She never had to. It was like she already knew.

“I’m going to walk to school,” Alastor said, his voice low, tighter than usual.

“...It’s still dark out,” she said, the concern creeping into her tone. But there was no judgment. Just curiosity, a touch of weariness, and maybe a hint of something else—something that had her pausing.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, his words clipped as he started to turn away, the rest of the world already buzzing beneath his skin, louder than the questions she didn’t ask.

“Alright,” she said softly, though the worry never fully left her eyes. “Be careful, okay?”

He didn’t look back. The door clicked shut behind him, the weight of the morning pressing in as he stepped off the porch and into the cold air.
>>>He wasn’t sure why he was leaving so early, why the fire felt so much closer to his skin today. Something felt pressing that he couldn’t explain. He felt if he didn’t move now- the fire beneath would begin to show.

His feet carried him to school, his senses heightened as he noticed something unusual. Blaze all bruised up- and Donovan were with a short blonde girl, talking. She seemed shocked before seeing him. A brief sense of fear appeared on her face—not at them, but at him. He saw her tug Donovan’s sleeve, and he glanced back. Small ghost of a smile and him taking her hand to pull her away.

He sighed and rolled his eyes to make his way in.

Those two together felt dangerous- that he knew.
—fin—

Inkglitched · « **Reply #10 on:** February 10, 2026, 09:42:24 pm »

The door barely shut behind him before Adara swooped in, arms crossed and an eyebrow cocked in full big sister on a mission mode.

“Well look who finally strolls in,” she teased, tone all light and pointed. “Where were you, huh? Out late with some mysterious ‘friend’ you won’t tell me about? Spill it, Ash.”

Asher dropped his bag by the door and gave her his most innocent look, which only made her narrow her eyes further. “Just… hanging out,” he said vaguely, kicking off his shoes. “You don’t need the full play-by-play, Ada.”

“Oh-ho, so now you’re being all cryptic? Uh-huh.” She smirked and leaned in, poking his shoulder. “Your vibes are all different. I know you. Don’t think you’re getting away with this.”

Asher rolled his eyes, moving past her toward the hall. “Maybe I just don’t feel like being grilled tonight.”

Before she could pry further, Adara’s expression shifted—more serious now. “Oh, speaking of being grilled… Dad found out about detention.”

Asher froze halfway down the hall, shoulders tensing. “…And?”

“And,” she said with a little wince, “he’s laying down the law. No car for the week. We either take the bus or hitch a ride with somebody.”

Asher groaned. “Ugh, seriously?”

Adara crossed her arms, smug now. “Yup. So tomorrow morning, unless you’re pedaling that bike of yours, you better have a plan.”

Asher sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, since you like to sleep in super late, maybe you should just ask Crys for a ride.”That earned him a sharp smack to the arm. “Oh, no you didn’t!” she gasped dramatically.

Grinning, Asher rubbed the spot, feigning injury. “Ow! What was that for?”

“I’ll show you,” Adara said, sticking her tongue out. “I’m getting there ahead of you tomorrow, bike or no bike!”

Asher’s laugh followed him down the hall as he grabbed a towel. “Sure you will.”

---

Later, freshly showered and half-asleep, Asher dropped into bed. His phone buzzed once on the nightstand. He thumbed it open, grin spreading when he saw Nathan’s reply waiting for him:

> Night. Golden Boy.

Simple. Sharp. Somehow perfect.

Asher’s wolf purred in satisfaction. He read it twice, then set the phone down and slipped into sleep with a rare, easy calm.
---

The next morning, Asher’s alarm cut through the dark before dawn. He was up and lacing his sneakers for his run while the house was still quiet, pounding out miles on the cool, mist-damp streets until the sky started to pink at the edges.

By the time he rolled his bike into the school parking lot, his hair was damp with sweat and his muscles warm, a good edge to start the day. He locked it up, leaned back, and waited.

Ten minutes later, Adara’s ride screeched into the lot. She hopped out and spotted him instantly. Her face fell into a dramatic scowl.

“Don’t you dare say it!” she barked, finger already wagging.

Asher’s chuckle was low and smug. “Didn’t have to. It’s all over your face.”

She huffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder and stomping toward the school doors. “Whatever, Ash.”

Still grinning, Asher fell into step beside her, his golden eyes already scanning the hall ahead. He wasn’t looking for trouble this time, though his wolf prowled just under his skin.

He was looking for them—Nathan’s familiar dark hoodie, Alastor’s quiet shadow nearby.

-----The ride to school was a blur of nervous energy and stolen smiles at the thought of seeing Rook again.

When the bus hissed to a stop, Cosmo leapt off and darted toward the school doors, clutching his bag close. The hallway buzzed with morning chaos—lockers slamming, voices overlapping—but his focus was only on one thing.

His eyes scanned the crowd, sharp and eager, looking for a familiar messy-haired skater boy as he made his way to his locker.

The moment he spotted Rook, Cosmo’s whole face lit up like the sun breaking through clouds.Cosmo spotted Rook leaning against his locker, skateboard tucked under one arm, and immediately beelined toward him—practically vibrating with energy.

“There you are!” he blurted, a little breathless from weaving through the crowd. His face was bright, half-hidden under the hood of his sweatshirt, but his grin gave him away.

“So, um—Bubbe officially issued the invite this morning.” The words tumbled out in a rush, hands flapping for emphasis. “Like, her exact words were that if you want more cookies, you have to come over and help bake the next batch. Which, y’know, is her very subtle way of saying she wants to meet you.”

Cosmo’s ears went pink even as he forged ahead, his excitement outpacing his embarrassment. “Also! She sent food for us to share.” He swung his backpack around and patted the bulging pocket where the lunch was stashed. The warm, savory smell was already seeping through the paper bag.

“It’s probably brisket sandwiches,” he said with a dreamy sigh, clearly a fan of the dish himself. “She makes the best brisket ever. Like… melt-in-your-mouth, change-your-life-level brisket.”

He bounced on his toes, practically glowing as he met Rook’s eyes. “So, uh… lunch is basically gonna be amazing today. Just saying.”

Cosmo’s voice dipped a little, sheepish but still hopeful. “And… maybe after school, we can talk about date three?” His grin widened, nervous but thrilled, like the words themselves were a promise he couldn’t wait to keep.
--Fin--Sleep hit Nathan like a blackout; when it finally let him go, the alarm felt like a punch. He scraped himself out of bed and did the morning circuit on autopilot—containers labeled and stacked in the fridge, meds set out by the chipped mug, Babushka coaxed upright with tea and a kiss to the crown of her head.

“Call me if you need me,” he murmured. She swatted him away with a fond “Go, go—be brilliant,” and that was enough to get him to the door.

He pushed off on his board, the air knife-cold and clean. It should’ve cleared him. It didn’t.

By the time he hit the quad, the static already had a name.

Rumors travel faster than bells. He caught snatches—violent, grabby, boys, bathroom—his name slotted into uglier sentences like a blade. Alastor’s too. The nausea was instant and chemical. He didn’t need to guess the source; Donovan always did prefer a crowd to swing from.

Nathan kept his head down and his hands steady. Locker. Books. Breathe. The metal door was safer than faces.

A flash of gold in his peripheral—Asher with Adara, easy stride, damp hair from a run. Relief and dread slammed into each other in Nathan’s chest. Say something, his better sense urged. But the ground felt tilted, like one wrong word would send him skidding.

He closed the locker softly and leaned his shoulder against it, letting the cool bite through his hoodie, letting himself have five silent seconds before the day demanded blood.

---The roll to school was quiet; Nathan’s wheels hummed beside his and said more than either of them felt like saying. Inside, the noise sharpened—gossip like broken glass. Rook heard Nathan’s name first, then Alastor’s, then his own and Asher’s floating on the edges, and something mean in him went very, very still.

He planted himself near Nathan’s locker anyway—just a shadow with a board and a don’t-try-it stare—until a different kind of brightness cut through the hall.

Cosmo.

Bubbe, cookies, brisket, baking invitations—Cosmo tumbled all of it out like confetti, and Rook felt his jaw unclench without permission.

He tipped his chin, grin sliding in. “Tell Bubbe I can wield a whisk and a wooden spoon like a pro. I’m in.”

Then, lower—just for Cosmo—“And yeah, date three’s already set. Tonight, if you’re up for it.” A quick, conspiratorial flick of his eyes toward the roofline outside. “Bring that stargazer brain. I’ll bring the view.”

He let his knuckles brush Cosmo’s backpack in passing—quick, secret—and then shot a look back down the hall, gaze hardening as another ugly whisper rippled past.

“Lunch is ours,” he added, voice easy again but edged with intent. “Brisket diplomacy at noon. After school, we bounce.”

The grin came back for Cosmo alone. “Try not to make me fall in love with your grandmother’s cooking in one day.”

And then he settled again at Nathan’s six, casual as a lamppost, the kind that happens to light up trouble before it gets too close.Alastor emerged from the bathroom after spending part of the morning there, his presence marked by the sharp scent of cologne masking the faint trace of smoke. Sliding effortlessly between Asher and Adara, he greeted with a casual, "Morning, sunspot."

As the murmur of voices carried his name along with another—Nathan—entwined in some rumor about being overly familiar with Donovan, Alastor resisted the urge to engage. He knew better than to fuel the gossip mill.

Turning his attention to Asher, he asked with a mild grin, "Did you and ojos azules have a good talk?" Despite a simmering unease and a quiet rage about the school, Asher exuded a surprising calmness, even a hint of happiness. His demeanor was noticeably lighter than usual, punctuated with more chuckles than solemnity.

Alastor was trying to keep himself together given the rage he was feeling-it seemed to simmer among the students. They varied but the more intense ones seemed to be those connected to blaze or close to Donovan- or even a fan.

“No alimentes la máquina de rumores hoy...blaze gotta new amigo.. ignore, and try to not react.” He told him. He saw Nathan to get a smile and make his way to him, Cosmo,and rook.

“Mornin amigos, que pasa?” He asked as he got into step.
—fin—Asher’s brow furrowed at Alastor’s smooth greeting.

“Sunspot? Me?” he echoed, incredulous, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “What does that make you, Mr. Shadow?”

Adara snorted, shaking her head as she shoved her locker closed with a sharp clang.
“Morning, Alastor,” she said with an easy grin before jerking a thumb toward her brother. “Ignore him—he’s still on a high from his homework date with Nathan last night.”

Asher’s head whipped around, eyes wide. “It wasn’t a date!” he protested, the tips of his ears going bright red. The way his voice **** on date didn’t help his case at all.

Adara just smirked like the cat that caught the canary.

Asher groaned, rubbing the back of his neck before adding quickly, “Last night… went well.” His tone was deliberately vague, dodging details like landmines.The warning in Spanish had Asher frowning slightly, not quite understanding. He was about to ask what he’d meant when another sound ripped through—clear, cruel, unmistakable.

Nathan’s name.

The insult rolled out like poison, his old teammate spitting it through a smirk.
“Figures. Trash hangs with trash. Should’ve known Nathan couldn’t keep his hands to himself—probably teaching Alastor how to—”

Asher didn’t hear the rest. His wolf surged like wildfire, golden eyes burning under his human skin. The words barely registered, just raw intent: **Pack. Threat. Defend.**

His feet moved before thought caught up, slamming his palm against the lockers right beside the jock’s head. The metallic crack silenced the whole hall. Asher loomed over him, voice low and lethal.
“Say. That. Again.”

The jock’s face paled, but before he could stammer an answer, another voice sliced in—fierce and sharp.

“You really wanna go there, dumbass?”

Adara.She stormed forward, small but fierce, braid swinging like a battle flag. With surprising force, she shoved the much larger boy against the lockers.
“You think running your mouth makes you a man?” she snarled, jabbing a finger into his chest. “All you’re proving is you’ve got nothing between your ears.”

Her voice carried, biting through the air.
“You don’t ever get to spread lies about people who are ten times better than you. Keep Nathan’s name—and anyone else’s—out of your mouth, or you’ll regret it.”

The jock sputtered, face red. “Y-yeah, whatever,” he muttered before bolting, tail tucked.

Asher stayed tense, his wolf pacing under his skin, but he forced himself to breathe. Adara shot him a cocky smirk as she dusted off her hands.
“See? You’re not the only scary one in the family.”Cosmo was still bubbling with energy when he noticed Alastor walking over to stand beside them. Cosmo quickly pivoted, fumbling a bit as he tried out the Spanish he’d been practicing.
“Uh—Buenos días, Alastor,” he said carefully, then winced with an awkward laugh. “Sorry if I butchered that.”

Before Alastor could reply, Cosmo’s attention snagged on the sudden, sharp crack of a locker slamming down the hall. His eyes widened as he caught sight of Asher pinning a jock with pure alpha fury, while Adara stood in front of them like a storm with teeth, tearing into the bully with righteous rage.

Cosmo froze for half a second, startled by the intensity of it, then instinctively slid closer to Rook, his shoulder brushing the skateboarder’s arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. His voice dropped a little, nervous energy giving way to tentative hope.

“So, uh… maybe this weekend,” he said, quieter now, “you all might wanna come blow up some rockets with me? Science club thing. Totally safe… mostly.”

His attempt at levity came with a small, sheepish smile, clearly trying to shift the mood back toward something lighter—even as his eyes kept flicking to where Asher and Adara had just scared the life out of half the hallway.
-Fin-Nathan clocked the crash of metal and the way the hallway went silent around Asher. He didn’t move—just watched, chin tipped down, letting the heat in his chest settle into something steadier. When the jock bolted and Asher’s shoulders eased, Nathan dragged his gaze away before it could show too much and shut his locker with a clean, final click.

“Morning,” he echoed, flat on the surface, but the corner of his mouth tugged like he couldn’t quite smother the satisfaction. He gave Asher a small nod he pretended was for no one in particular, then turned back to Cosmo and Rook.

Rook lit up at the word rockets like someone had handed him fireworks. He bumped Cosmo’s shoulder, grin wide. “Explode things safely with my favorite scientist? Obviously yes. I’ll bring duct tape, a blanket, and whatever snacks your Bubbe will forgive me for eating in bulk.”

Nathan huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. “Text me the details,” he said, voice low, eyes already skimming the hall again. “If I ghost, don’t wait on me. I’ve got… stuff.” A beat. “But I’ll try.”

He slid a pair of beat-up goggles from his bag and tossed them to Cosmo without looking. “For when ‘totally safe… mostly’ turns into definitely wear eye protection.”

Rook leaned in, softer now, boot nudging Cosmo’s. “Lunch is still ours. And stargazing plans? Not canceled.” He tipped his head toward the quad. “Meet me after last bell—we’ll plot trajectories and cookie theft.”

Nathan shouldered his bag, the set of his jaw calm again. “See you,” he said, and peeled off into the flow of students—armor back on, but lighter than it had been five minutes ago.

-fin-Alastor chuckled softly, ready to reassure asher that he had done fine, when his shoulders tensed at the sudden crash echoing nearby. His gaze snapped back to Asher, sharp with curiosity. "Mm, things go boom outside? Now you’re listening," Alastor joked lightly, attempting to ease the tension. His eyes then drifted to Nathan, who was scanning the halls, though Alastor couldn’t quite tell what he was looking for.

Shaking it off, Alastor moved on to his next class, brushing shoulders with Blaze in the hallway. The brief contact sparked a quick glance and a cold glare before they continued on their separate paths. The day unfolded with its usual chatter and clamor, but one thing nagged at the back of his mind—Donovan and Blaze. Something felt off. Alastor knew Blaze wasn’t exactly eloquent; he was more likely to rely on his fists than his words.

By lunchtime, the atmosphere felt different—tense, even. Blaze’s clique seemed oddly closer to Donovan’s group, who sat quietly eating. A blond girl among them appeared deeply focused, her furrowed brow betraying her concentration. Alastor noticed Donovan’s sudden lean in and a look of surprise crossing the girls face. Straining to listen, he caught faint words: "thinking," "next level." His curiosity deepened; something was definitely up.

He was tucked in a normal part of his lunch- sort of hidden away and lighting up where the teachers couldn’t see him. He needed this today. It felt stormy- and particularly with the words flying around. Made him that much more wary.
—fin—Cosmo’s face went pink at Rook’s talk of stargazing and cookie theft, his grin wide enough to be ridiculous. He gave Nathan a small, grateful nod for the goggles, clutching them to his chest like a prized relic.

“You guys are seriously the best,” he said, voice bubbling with excitement. “I’ll send the group text tonight with all the details. Saturday’s perfect for rocket launches, and don’t worry, Nathan—we’ll keep it safe and low-key.” A sheepish laugh escaped. “Well… as low-key as rockets can be.”

His gaze flicked curiously toward Alastor when the older teen’s joking remark about things going boom reached him. Cosmo’s brows knit briefly in confusion—he didn’t quite get the context, but he caught how Asher seemed to tense up at the sound of it.

“Uh, hasta luego, Al,” he added quickly, careful with his pronunciation. The words were awkward, like a kid balancing on a tightrope. Maybe with practice, he’d finally stop tripping over his Spanish around Alastor.

"See you at lunch!" Cosmo called brightly to Rook, giving him one last grin before hurrying off toward his first class, the bell ringing overhead.
----Asher’s pulse still pounded, anger buzzing beneath his skin, but the sound of Nathan’s calm, simple “Morning”—paired with that small, fleeting smirk—helped the red haze ebb.

He exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders, and gave Adara a look. She only smirked back and patted his arm in a rare show of sisterly comfort before darting off to join her friends.

Asher turned to Alastor at the “boom” joke, shaking his head with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I suppose you could say that,” he murmured back in Spanish, a faint edge in his tone as his golden eyes flashed briefly.

Adara, already halfway down the hall, caught just enough of it to grin like a cat. “A boom, huh? About time, Ash!”

Asher’s ears burned red instantly. “It’s not like that,” he muttered under his breath, but he didn’t dare raise his voice and draw more attention. His gaze slid toward the crowd, settling for a moment on Nathan’s retreating hoodie. His chest eased slightly just seeing him walk away safe, even if he couldn’t explain why.

The bell rang, sharp and insistent, cutting through the remaining tension. Asher let out a sigh, raking a hand through his damp hair, then fell into step beside Adara as they headed to their classes.By the time lunch rolled around, the morning’s edge had dulled, though whispers of gossip still clung stubbornly to the air.

Cosmo, on the other hand, was back to full brightness. The moment he spotted Rook across the cafeteria, his entire face lit up like a flare.

“There he is!” Cosmo grinned, clutching his lunch bag like it was sacred cargo. He wove through the packed tables without hesitation, leaving Asher and Adara to find seats at a quieter table near the back.

Sliding onto the bench across from Rook, Cosmo leaned in eagerly. “Okay, so Bubbe went overboard this morning. I’ve got brisket sandwiches, her famous pickles—basically, a full-on picnic.” His smile softened as he unpacked the food. “She said to share, which is basically her sneaky way of making sure you eat half of it.”

Rook’s grin was probably enough to make Cosmo’s ears turn even redder, but Cosmo ducked his head, pretending to focus on unwrapping the sandwiches.By the time lunch rolled around, the morning’s tension had thinned, but it hadn’t fully burned off. Gossip still clung to the cafeteria like smoke, whispers trailing behind Nathan’s name wherever he went.

Asher grabbed a tray and slid into a seat beside Adara, who was already watching him with a sly, mischievous gleam in her eye. He didn’t even have to look to know she was up to something.

“You know,” she said casually, sipping her soda like it wasn’t loaded ammo, “you could just go sit with him.”

Asher froze mid-motion, a fry halfway to his mouth. “…Excuse me?”

Adara smirked. “Nathan. You’ve been staring at him like a broody lone wolf all morning.” She leaned in just enough to lower her voice. “Go on. Sit with him. Or are you scared?”

The word scared was like a spark to dry tinder. Asher’s wolf immediately bristled, a growl curling low in his chest that only he could hear.

His golden eyes flared, pupils sharp. Ours, his wolf pressed, hot and insistent. Go to him. Now.

“Adara—” he started, trying to shut it down, but his wolf shoved past his hesitation like a force of nature. By the time he realized what he was doing, his body was already moving.He rose from the table, ignoring the burst of surprised chatter that rippled across the cafeteria like a wave. A few kids gasped, others whispered behind their hands—some clearly relishing the drama. Blaze’s cronies at the far table even sat up straighter, their smirks curling into something ugly.

Asher didn’t care. His stride was steady, shoulders squared, his wolf’s possessive hum rattling through his bones. Every instinct screamed to claim space and shield Nathan from the stares, the lies, the poisonous gossip.

Asher slid into the seat opposite Nathan like it was the most natural thing in the world, letting the whispers crash and fade around them. His wolf purred, smug and satisfied.

“So,” Asher began, voice deliberately calm, “got anything planned later? Or this weekend?”

He leaned his forearms on the table, gaze steady on Nathan’s face. “I’ve got a brand-new paper due Monday. Could use a skilled writer to give me some pointers.”

The corner of his mouth curved ever so slightly, a glimmer of challenge beneath the words. “What do you say? You up for helping me not fail English?”

The cafeteria buzzed louder at his boldness, but Asher didn’t look away—not from Nathan, not even for a second.
--FinNathan spent the rest of the morning with his nose buried in his journal, bleeding ink across the page in jagged lines. Lyrics came easier than conversation—misery had a way of sharpening the pen. He hardly noticed the bell or the shifting halls until Rook hooked a hand on his sleeve and dragged him toward the cafeteria.

He sat quiet while Rook and Cosmo were nauseatingly adorable over Bubbe’s packed feast. Brisket sandwiches, pickles, even cookies—Cosmo’s grin bright as he shared every detail. Nathan might have sulked through it if Rook hadn’t nudged half a sandwich his way with a careless, “Eat, dude.” Nathan muttered a thanks and took it, trying not to look as grateful as he felt.

The rumors buzzing around the cafeteria were background noise, dull static—until the sound of footsteps cut through. Nathan looked up just in time to see Asher crossing the room, golden eyes steady, presence bold enough to make the gossip grind to a halt. He dropped into the seat across from Nathan like he belonged there.

The words that followed—something about another English paper—should have been casual. But Nathan’s chest tightened all the same. His cheeks heated, and his eyes darted to the side, searching for an escape that wasn’t there.

It took a long moment before he could force his voice out, brisk and offhand, as though it meant nothing.
“Mean… tonight I’ve got detention. Then band practice. So…” He shrugged, feigning indifference even as his pulse hammered. “…if you want, we could meet up after that.”

The words hung between them, sharper than he meant, softer than he wanted to admit. His chest felt too full, like he’d just given something away without meaning to.
-fin-Alastor leaned back in his chair, balancing on two legs with the kind of careless grace that never quite tipped into recklessness. Having stopped smoking to grabbing an apple from some persons tray that never was eaten.

Now half-eaten apple turned lazily in his hand, but his eyes were anything but idle.

He watched Asher cross the cafeteria like he *meant* it, each step full of intent. No scowling. No storming. Just presence. When he dropped into the seat across from Nathan—bold and deliberate—Alastor couldn’t help the small curve of his mouth.

“Well,” he murmured to himself, voice wry. “Look who took my advice.”

He didn’t need to hear the words to feel the shift in the air. Nathan’s guarded posture. Asher’s quiet confidence. That brief flicker of something real between them, sparking right there in front of the whole room. The teen had chosen to stop hiding. To *show up*.- to try.

Alastor felt something warm at the edges of his chest. Not envy. No. He wasn’t foolish enough to covet what wasn't his. But there was an ache there, a familiar one—the soft kind of lonely that didn't always show on the surface.
>>He tossed the apple core, the lunch bell only seconds from shrieking. As he passed behind Asher’s chair, he let his voice drop, smooth as velvet, pitched just for him:

“Careful, *lobo*,” Alastor murmured, a low smile curling on his lips. “Make bold moves like that, means you gotta commit.”

A beat passed. Then something quieter, sincere:

“…Proud of you, though.”

His fingers ghosted over the back of the chair—light, brief—and then he moved on, disappearing into the crowd like smoke.

He didn’t look back.

But the moment he hit the hallway, the soft pride in his chest began to twist—subtle at first, then sharp. Because beneath everything—the flutter of teenage drama, the wide-eyed curiosity, the hushed *oohs* and *did you see that?*s—there was a darker hum.

Alastor had heard it before. That whispering edge in the cafeteria, the silence that followed something *different.* Something that didn’t play by the unspoken rules.

They watched Asher and Nathan with wide eyes and half-laughed comments, but underneath it? Something colder. Small-minded. Hungry.

It sat wrong in his gut.

He walked a little faster, jaw tight, hands in his pockets like anchors. The hallway noise blurred into a distant thrum, but that *murmuring rage* at the back of his mind sharpened—thin and dangerous.

They didn’t *deserve* to see a moment like that. Not really.

And if any of them tried to poison it—if one of those smug little voices twisted something innocent into a threat—

Well. Alastor would stop watching from the sidelines.

And they’d remember why he never had to raise his voice to make someone *shut up.*

Still, as he turned the corner, he exhaled slow and even. Smoothed his expression. Let the smirk return—cool, easy, detached.

The loneliness could wait. The rage could wait.

But he was *watching* now. Closely.

And heaven help the first fool who gave him a reason to step in.

—fin—Adara sat at her usual table, chin propped on her hand, watching the drama unfold with a grin sharp enough to cut. The second Asher crossed the room with that steady, unshaken stride, her smirk turned positively smug.

“Told you,” she murmured to her friends, loud enough for them to hear over the din of gossip. “Just wait. Those two are so going to be a thing before long.”

Her friends giggled, tossing glances between Nathan and Asher like they were watching the best soap opera on live TV. Adara just leaned back, satisfied as a cat in a sunbeam.

Across the room, Cosmo sat cross-legged on the bench beside Rook, his lunch spread out like a tiny feast. Bubbe’s brisket sandwiches were already half gone thanks to Rook’s bottomless appetite, and the stack of cookies sat between them like a peace offering to the whole table.

Nathan had been quiet, brooding over his food, until Rook nudged half a sandwich his way with a casual, “Eat, dude.”

Nathan muttered a thanks and tore into it, pretending not to notice how Cosmo’s soft smile lingered on him. Cosmo didn’t press—he just slid the biggest cookie across to Nathan like it was no big deal.

“Try this one,” he said gently. “Bubbe went heavy on the cinnamon.”

Cosmo beamed and turned to offer another to Asher, his excitement bubbling over. “You too! Bubbe made extra so you’d get some too, Asher.”

Asher accepted the cookie with a small nod and a quiet, “Thanks,” though his attention was clearly locked on Nathan.

"Just shoot me a text after your practice, I'll come over after." Asher replied easily. "I definitely want to,"

Asher’s head turned slightly at Alastor's soft words. His golden eyes tracked Alastor for a moment, studying the older teen’s calm, shadowy retreat. Then he gave a small, deliberate nod—a silent acknowledgment—before returning his focus to the table.

Cosmo, oblivious to the quiet exchange, practically bounced in his seat. “Hey, Asher—do you wanna blow up some rockets too?I’m planning a launch this weekend. Rook’s coming, Nathan said maybe, and Bubbe’s already packing snacks for everyone.”

His grin turned a little sheepish, his voice dropping conspiratorially as if sharing a great secret. “It’s perfectly safe… mostly. You know. Science safe. It’s gonna be fun! What do you say?”

Asher’s gaze shifted, first to Cosmo’s bright, eager expression, then to Nathan’s guarded but softened face, and finally to Rook’s lazy, wolfish smirk.

Despite the whispers circling the cafeteria like vultures, this little pocket of space felt… steady.
Maybe even like a pack.

"I might be able to come, depends on if I get into more trouble though. So I'll just have to wait and see," Asher replied with a smirk.

-Fin-Rook barely noticed the cafeteria buzz beyond their table; every ounce of his attention was fixed on Cosmo, like the kid had just invented gravity itself. His smirk softened as he listened, nodding along even if half the “science talk” flew right over his head. The only time he glanced away was to swipe another bite of brisket, shameless and satisfied.

Truth was, the only reason he hadn’t tanked science already was because Nathan sometimes slipped his finished homework his way. Not that Rook would admit it out loud—not when Cosmo’s eyes were shining like that.

Nathan, meanwhile, sat quieter than usual. His journal stayed shut for once, the words in his head drowned out by the sight of Asher across from him. That bold stride. That calm, deliberate choice to sit here—with him—in front of everyone. Nathan kept waiting for the punchline, the smirk, the inevitable rug pull. But it never came.

And that unsettled him more than any cruel rumor.

When Asher mentioned “trouble,” Nathan’s brow arched sharply. He couldn’t help himself; the words slipped out low and skeptical.
“Trouble?” he echoed, eyes narrowing just slightly as he followed Asher’s gaze toward the door Alastor had disappeared through. “What kind of trouble are you finding?”

His voice was careful, clipped—but beneath the edge was something else. Not accusation. Not dismissal. Something closer to curiosity. Maybe even concern.

Rook leaned back, catching the shift in Nathan’s tone, and snorted. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” he muttered, smirk curling again as if trouble was something to look forward to rather than avoid.

-fin-Alastor didn’t *mean* to linger by the water fountain. Not really.

But his pace slowed when he spotted them at the far end of the hall—Lucinda’s laugh bright and careless, at least until she saw him. Her smile faltered. Eyes widened. She tugged at Donovan’s sleeve, leaned in like she needed to whisper something urgent, all while glancing over her shoulder like she expected to see a ghost.

Donovan, though—he didn’t flinch. He looked *composed*. At ease in a way that felt deliberate. His fingers brushed hers, then slid lower, curling around her wrist like it belonged to him.

Subtle. Possessive. Intimate.

Alastor’s jaw tightened. A breath hissed through his teeth, and he turned sharply toward the bathroom door.

He did what he came to do, letting the sink run too long. The door creaked open behind him.

Blaze stepped in.

Alastor didn’t acknowledge him at first—just watched the linebacker’s reflection in the mirror as Blaze headed toward the stall, casual as ever. Big guy, always playing it low-effort, like nothing stuck to him.

But the air shifted. And Alastor was nothing if not surgical when he wanted to be.

“So,” he said, his voice calm, but too smooth to be friendly. “When did you and Donovan start hanging out?”

Blaze snorted from behind the stall door. “We don’t.”

Alastor dried his hands with slow precision. “Could’ve fooled me. You were hanging by the bleachers this morning. After kinda close at lunch too.”

A beat of silence.

“You keeping tabs on us?” Blaze asked, rough-edged.
>>>Something flickered across Blaze’s face—fury, panic, shame. Maybe all three.

“You don’t know what the **** you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Alastor’s voice was soft now, deliberate. “Donovan’s good at keeping secrets. But he’s not *discreet*. And you’re too easy to read.” He seethed as he felt a bristle inside.

Blaze’s fists curled, jaw tight. “Keep running your mouth like that, and I swear—”

Alastor didn’t flinch. “You’ll what? Prove me right?”

Blaze’s chest rose and fell like a piston, eyes burning.

“You think you know *everything*,” he snapped, voice shaking with something that wasn’t just anger. “But you don’t know ****** about me.”

Alastor’s gaze sharpened—not mockery now, but something colder. “You think I haven’t seen it before? We were a thing once blaze- and I know what kind of monster you can be.”
>>>And Alastor, acting like a wolf with his prey, stepped forward into that silence, his voice like ice dragged across steel.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” he said. “You’re **** him.”

Blaze snapped his head up, jaw clenched, but the words didn’t come. Not fast enough. Not strong enough.

Alastor’s eye caught the fluorescent light above—no longer just a flicker, but a slow, burning glow at the edges of his iris. Something inside him had split open, and it was as if rage had a human form- as he strained from Turning.

“You let him do to you what you swore you’d never let *anyone* do again,” Alastor went on, his voice low, venom-laced. “After everything you said to me. After everything you did to make sure no one found out—*about us..* “ he laughed .”*you still went back to someone just like you*.”

Blaze’s hands shook at his sides. “Shut the **** up.”

“You’re not his first,” Alastor said, the glow in his eye flaring hotter now, bleeding into his voice. “And you *won’t* be his last.”

“Shut. *Up*.”

“Does he look at you the way he looked at Nathan?” Alastor hissed. “The way he looked at *that girl*?”

The sound that came out of Blaze wasn’t a word—it was a snarl. Raw, animal, fractured.

He lunged—but this time, Alastor caught him mid-charge, shoving *back* hard, slamming Blaze into the tiled wall with surprising force for someone leaner, wirier.

Another fight brawled from behind the bathroom door.

Alastor struggled to keep the wolf inside- as a result the fight went against the tide. He was on the floor when the door swung open- blaze whaling on him.

“*fight!* was the yell as he shoved him off to be barreled back in the lockers. The time of words was over- now it was a fight.Asher chuckled under his breath at Nathan’s question, fingers drumming on the table. “Trouble?” he echoed, gold eyes glinting faintly with humor. “Let’s just say, I’ve got a talent for attracting it. Coach caught wind of the last detention, and my dad’s already on standby with the disappointed look. If I even breathe wrong this week, I’ll be grounded till graduation.”

The smirk that followed was half-teasing, half self-aware—more to downplay the chaos than deny it. “So yeah. Trouble and I… we’ve got history.”

Before Nathan could press, a sharp sound **** the cafeteria buzz. The first shout came muffled—then clearer:

“Fight!”

Chairs scraped. Conversations died.

Asher’s head snapped toward the hall, instincts flaring before his brain caught up. His wolf surged like it had been waiting for the cue, muscles tensing, pulse roaring in his ears.

Then he caught it—the scent. Smoke, adrenaline, blood starting to tinge the air. Alastor.

“Asher?” Adara’s voice broke through, half rising from her seat, but he didn’t slow.. She sighed, muttering under her breath, “Oh, for crying out loud—he’s gonna get suspended again.”

He moved fast, cutting through the gawkers before the crowd could thicken. The moment he cleared the doorway, the scene snapped into focus—Blaze towering over Alastor, fists hammering down, tile **** under a boot.Asher’s voice hit like thunder. He grabbed Blaze by the collar and ripped him backward, slamming him against the opposite wall. “Back. Off.”

For a heartbeat, the hallway stilled. Then Blaze lunged again—wrong move.
Asher ducked and countered, landing a clean right hook that **** against Blaze’s jaw with a sick sound.

The roar of movement followed—Blaze’s friends piling in, shouting, trying to swarm him.

Asher’s wolf surged closer to the surface, each muscle coiled, controlled only by sheer will. He didn’t need claws to fight—his presence alone made half the bystanders flinch back.

Adara barreled in seconds later, binder in hand like a weapon. She didn’t even hesitate—swung it with a resounding whump into the back of one of Blaze’s buddies’ heads.
“Sit down!” she snapped, already winding up for another swing.

Cosmo stood frozen by the doorway, clutching his lunch bag like a shield, his voice a startled squeak.
“This is—this is so not safe!” he blurted, eyes darting between Asher, Adara, and the chaos erupting in front of him. “Someone’s gonna—oh my God, she hit him with notes!”

Adara only smirked, binder raised again. “Physics, baby!”

Asher half-turned at her voice, a grim laugh escaping before another shove hit his shoulder. His eyes flashed gold—just once—but it was enough to make the nearest jock freeze mid-swing.

“Try that again,” Asher warned, low and steady, “and I promise you’ll regret it.”

The hallway went dead quiet for a second—then another yell down the corridor:
“Teachers coming!”

Cosmo exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years, wide-eyed and still pale. “We are so getting detention for this,” he whispered.

Adara just grinned, brushing hair from her face, binder still raised like a trophy.
“Worth it.”
-fin-

Inkglitched · « **Reply #11 on:** February 10, 2026, 09:46:56 pm »

Alastor felt a surge of adrenaline the moment Asher drew Blaze out. "You're just going to land yourself in more trouble, Asher—and I was doing just fine," he muttered, his voice flat and unyielding. He couldn't admit that things weren't going his way, not when his nose throbbed with the telltale signs of a fresh break. His hand instinctively went to his face, feeling the warm trickle of blood.

Blaze, seemingly finding a second wind, stumbled forward with a renewed vigor. His eyes blazed with a fiery anger, a manifestation of the infernal rage that seemed to fuel him.

That's when Alastor, the embodiment of wrath, taunted him with a wicked smile. "Feels like last year, doesn't it? I always wondered why you were so fixated on my eyes—now I know why." His voice dripped with a malevolent glee, as if he were feeding off Blaze's rage, drawing strength from the turbulent emotions that swirled around him. It was a hunger that could never be fully satiated, a thirst for chaos that was as much a part of him as his own flesh.

Alastor's eyes, usually a piercing blue, seemed to darken with an otherworldly glow, a sign of the sin that dwelled within him. His lips curled into a cruel smile, and for a moment, the room seemed to pulse with a dark energy, a testament to the supernatural forces at play.
—fin—Nathan hit the corner at a run, Rook close behind, and the moment he saw the hallway—everything inside him snapped tight.

Blaze was down but not out, blood streaking from his lip as he lunged again. Asher met him halfway, eyes bright gold under the flickering fluorescent light. The crowd had already split back, too scared to interfere, their faces pale blurs around the edges of Nathan’s focus.

And then there was Alastor.

He stood a few feet back, breathing hard, blood streaming from his nose and a look in his eyes that made Nathan’s chest tighten. It wasn’t anger. Not just anger. It was something darker—like the hallway itself was holding its breath around him. The air shimmered faintly, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.

“Asher—!” Nathan’s voice cut through the noise just as Blaze swung again.

He didn’t think—he moved.

Nathan shoved past the nearest onlookers, catching Blaze’s wrist mid-swing and twisting hard. “Enough!” he snapped, voice cracking with force he didn’t know he had. The momentum knocked Blaze off balance; Asher took the opening and stepped back, chest heaving, jaw tight.

Blaze growled something unintelligible, but Nathan’s glare froze him mid-breath.
“Walk. Away,” Nathan said low, steady, like a command rather than a request.

For a heartbeat, it worked. Blaze’s fury faltered—then his friends pulled him back, muttering curses as they retreated down the hall. The crowd’s buzz rose again, filling the vacuum with noise and adrenaline.

But Nathan barely noticed.

His focus shifted to Alastor.

The air still felt wrong—thick, thrumming, like static crawling up his arms. Alastor’s eyes had gone near-black, a shadow coiling behind the color. His smile was small, sharp, too still.“Alastor.” Nathan took a step closer.
No response. Just that same eerie energy rippling in the air between them.

He reached out, slow, careful. “Hey… it’s over. You need to—”

Alastor flinched, a tremor running through him like he was fighting something deep inside. For one dizzying moment, Nathan saw something move—not physically, but behind Alastor’s expression. A flicker of something ancient and hungry pressing at the edges.

That’s when Nathan grabbed him.

His hands caught Alastor’s shoulders, grounding him, forcing eye contact. “Hey. Look at me.” His voice softened, almost pleading. “You’re here. You’re okay. Don’t let it take over. Not now.”

The glow in Alastor’s eyes wavered. The tension broke like glass under pressure—fracturing into a shaky breath. His shoulders slumped, and the darkness ebbed, slipping back beneath the surface.

Only then did Nathan exhale, realizing his hands were still gripping tight.

Rook hovered nearby, eyes wide. “You good, man?”

Nathan nodded once, though his heart was still racing. “Yeah. Just… needed to stop him before he stopped being him.”

He glanced between Asher—still catching his breath, knuckles bleeding—and Alastor, who looked pale but clearer now.

“Come on,” Nathan said quietly, voice steady again. “Let’s get out of here before a teacher shows up.”

Rook shot him a smirk. “You always know how to make an entrance.”

Nathan huffed, slinging an arm around both of them as they started walking. “Yeah, well. Somebody’s gotta keep these idiots alive.”

And as they left the wrecked hallway behind, Nathan could still feel the faint hum of power in the air—the reminder that whatever had just happened wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. He led the group out of the school and to a nearby abandoned building so everyone could collect themselves.

—fin—Asher’s pulse was still roaring in his ears, his knuckles slick with someone else’s blood. The hallway stank of sweat and ozone, his wolf still pacing just under his skin. It took Nathan’s sharp voice and the sound of retreating footsteps for him to pull himself back from the edge.

He dragged a shaky hand through his hair, jaw tight. “Yeah,” he muttered hoarsely, “we should move.”

He turned toward Alastor—just long enough to check that the other boy was standing—and then glanced down the corridor where teachers’ voices were starting to echo. Too close.

Adara appeared first, binder still clutched like a weapon, her braid a little crooked from the chaos. “You’re welcome, by the way,” she said, giving her brother a look equal parts exasperation and pride. “You’ve got teachers coming in hot—if you’re smart, you’ll leave now.”

Asher started to argue, but she smacked his arm before he could get the words out. “Don’t. I’ll handle whoever asks questions. Just… try not to get expelled today, okay?”

A rare smile tugged at his mouth. “No promises,” he said quietly, and Adara rolled her eyes, already heading the other way to intercept the staff.

Asher turned back just in time to see a familiar blur of curls and nerves jogging down the hall. “Cosmo?”The smaller boy slowed, clutching his bag tight to his chest, eyes darting between the blood on Asher’s hand and the wrecked lockers. “I—uh—I saw you leaving,” Cosmo said breathlessly. “You’re bleeding. And Alastor looks worse. I brought my med kit.” He held it out like an offering—compact, organized, and clearly well-used.

Asher blinked, then let out a disbelieving laugh. “You carry that thing everywhere?”

Cosmo’s flush deepened. “Well… you’d be surprised how many things explode when I’m around,” he said sheepishly. “Rocket fuel. Lab experiments. Accidental combustion…”

Adara, halfway down the hall, called back over her shoulder: “That sounds like the perfect friend for you, Ash!”

Asher groaned under his breath. “Ignore her.” Then, softer, to Cosmo, “Thanks. For showing up.”

Cosmo nodded quickly, still catching his breath. “You guys shouldn’t walk alone right now. I’ll come with you. Just—uh—until everyone’s okay.”

Asher hesitated, scanning the mess of the hallway—the blood, the dented lockers, the whispers still humming at the edges—and finally nodded. “Yeah. That’s probably smart.”He started moving toward the back exit, Cosmo falling into step beside him, clutching the med kit like a lifeline. Behind them, the sound of teachers shouting orders grew louder, echoing off the walls.

Adara vanished around the corner with a last wave.
Asher didn’t look back.

The abandoned building sat half-hidden behind a chain-link fence and a sprawl of weeds, the bricks sun-bleached and scarred with graffiti. Inside, dust motes drifted through slanted beams of light, the faint echo of their footsteps swallowed by silence.

Asher shouldered the warped door open, the hinges groaning. He scanned the dim space out of habit—old desks, **** windows, the smell of rust and rain. It was safe enough. “In here,” he said, voice low but steady.

Cosmo slipped past him, setting his backpack down with a soft thud. The med kit was out before anyone could argue, unzipped in seconds. “Okay, uh—who’s bleeding the worst?” he asked, eyes darting between them.

-Fin-Alastor’s breath came in ragged pulls, the echo of that dark hum still thrumming in the back of his skull. For a moment, he didn’t trust his own voice—didn’t trust that something else wouldn’t speak for him. His head dipped, a curtain of damp hair hiding his eyes as he swallowed hard.

The weight of Nathan’s hands on his shoulders anchored him, the world slowly sharpening back into shape—the fluorescent lights, the distant hum of chatter, the faint tang of iron in the air. He flexed his fingers, feeling the tremor in them subside.

“I-I’m here,” he murmured finally, voice steadier but low, as if speaking too loudly might wake the thing he’d just wrestled down. His gaze flicked up for a heartbeat, meeting Nathan’s with a glint of gratitude before dropping again. “I am.. in control…”

He let the silence hang, let the hum fade, and clung to the quiet like a lifeline.

Alastor moved with the group, silent and subdued, the tension of his recent altercation still clinging to him. He didn’t bother to argue or even comment, his mind caught between the thrum of adrenaline and the dull ache of his injuries.

When they reached the abandoned building, he immediately drifted toward a shadowed corner, shuffling through his pockets with trembling hands until he found a cigarette. He lit it with a sharp inhale, the smoke curling in shaky ribbons as he fought for some calm. The bitterness grounded him, if only a little.

With a low, guttural sound, Alastor reached up and carefully adjusted his broken nose, wincing at the sharp spike of pain. He could already feel his werewolf healing kicking in, the bone beginning to settle into place as he exhaled another plume of smoke into the dusty air.

“I’m fine.. treat the others first.” Said Alastor. He didn’t know how to explain himself to cosmo. It was as if something else almost took over. “Lo menos... no me perdí otra vez..." he mumbled more to himself as he calmed down.
—fin—The tension still clung to the air—sharp and heavy, like the aftermath of a storm that hadn’t quite finished passing. Nathan could feel it pulsing under his skin, the leftover adrenaline refusing to fade even as silence took the place of shouting.

He glanced around the dim space, the **** windows filtering in fractured light across faces that all looked too young and too tired for what had just gone down. Asher’s knuckles were raw, Alastor was still bleeding and pretending he wasn’t, Rook was pacing with his arms crossed like he could out-walk the memory of the fight, and Cosmo… Cosmo looked like he’d stumbled into the wrong movie entirely, still clutching that med kit like it was holy scripture.

Nathan exhaled slow, dragging a hand through his hair.
Yeah. This was his pack now. Somehow.

He didn’t know when it happened—when that word started to fit—but standing here with them, all frayed and wired and a little broken, it felt right.

“Alright,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “Everybody breathe. We’re not in a hallway anymore. No teachers, no threats. Just us.”

No one argued, but no one relaxed, either.

Nathan sighed and pulled out his bag, fishing until his fingers found the small metal tin he always carried. “Guess we could use a reset,” he muttered. The familiar click of the lid opening filled the room, followed by the soft crumble of weed and the scrape of lighter against flint.He caught Alastor’s eye across the room—saw the cigarette, the faint tremor still working through his hand—and offered a quiet, knowing nod. No judgment. Just understanding.

Once the bowl was ready, Nathan took a long, slow hit. The smoke burned his lungs before curling out through his nose, softening the edge of the world. The first ripple of calm started to seep in.

“Alright,” he murmured again, voice lower now, almost coaxing. “Let’s change the energy in here.”

He set the bowl down beside him and crossed to the back wall, tugging a dusty tarp away from an old acoustic guitar that had been living here longer than any of them. A few strings were slightly off, but when he strummed the first chord, the sound filled the space—rough, warm, human.

The tension shifted.Rook finally stopped pacing, leaning against the wall with a long breath.the sharpness around him dulling a little in the hum of the strings.

Nathan didn’t try to talk. He just played—slow and steady, something halfway between a blues riff and a lullaby. Music that spoke in the spaces words couldn’t reach.

He glanced around the room again—at his pack. His family, whether they realized it yet or not.

And for the first time since the fight started, the world didn’t feel like it was spinning apart.

Just five wolves, breathing the same air. The hum of the guitar filling the cracks between them. The scent of smoke and dust and safety.

It wasn’t peace, not really. But it was close.

—fin—Asher’s ears pricked at the sound of Alastor’s ragged breathing, but he held himself back, watching as Nathan moved in to help center the other teen. There was something buried deep inside Alastor—dark, ancient, and restless—and though Asher didn’t understand it, he wasn’t about to hold it against him. Whatever it was, Al was still one of them now. Pack.

He grimaced slightly when Alastor realigned his own nose with a muted crack, resisting the urge to interfere.

That was when Cosmo moved—quiet, determined. He knelt in front of Asher and flipped open his med kit, hands trembling only a little. “Okay—uh—let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, trying to sound steady but not quite hiding the worry in his voice.

Asher leaned back against the wall, rolling one shoulder. His knuckles were raw and streaked with red, but he barely glanced at them. “I’ve had worse,” he muttered.

Cosmo shot him a look—half scolding, half fond—as he pulled out gauze and antiseptic. “That’s not the point,” he said softly. “You can’t just punch people and walk it off. Sit down.”

There was something oddly commanding about the tone. Asher blinked, then huffed a low laugh and obeyed, lowering himself onto an overturned crate. “You sound like my sister,” he said, voice rough but amused.

“Your sister sounds smart,” Cosmo replied without missing a beat. His focus narrowed as he cleaned the split skin across Asher’s knuckles, gentle but precise, the scent of alcohol cutting through the dusty air. “You’re lucky nothing’s broken.”

“Trust me,” Asher murmured, “it’s not the first time I’ve hit a guy like Blaze.”----
Cosmo paused, glancing up. The light caught the gold in Asher’s eyes, warm and steady—and for a heartbeat, Cosmo forgot what he was doing. Something stirred under his skin, a flicker of awareness he couldn’t name.

Asher noticed it too. He inhaled—and froze.

That scent. Subtle, but undeniable. Fresh pine. Wild rain. The undercurrent of something old and alive. Not human. Not quite wolf, either, but somewhere in between. Born blood.

Cosmo.

How the hell had he missed it?

He stayed silent for now. No sense startling the kid when he clearly didn’t know. But questions swirled in the back of his mind—about Cosmo’s parents, about whether anyone in his family even realized what he was.

“Alright,” Cosmo said finally, straightening. “All done.” He gave a small nod toward Asher’s shoulder, the faintest pink creeping into his cheeks. “You really should let me check that too.”

Asher’s smirk softened. “Alright, doc. Have at it.”

Cosmo rolled his eyes but smiled a little as he worked—careful, focused, hands warm where they brushed against Asher’s arm. His scent was faint but wild, and it lingered in the air like something Asher couldn’t unhear, couldn’t unfeel. Something shifting.

When he was done, Cosmo packed up the kit and crossed over to Rook, who’d been pretending he didn’t need the same attention. Cosmo wasn’t having it.

“Let me see,” he said, already reaching for a wipe. The smell of antiseptic cut through the stale air again as he dabbed gently at the split on Rook’s lip, then pressed a cold compress against his ribs. “Hold that there for a few minutes.”---
Once satisfied, Cosmo stood and made his way over to Alastor, handing him a wet towelette. “At least clean off the blood,” he murmured, tone soft but firm.

He hesitated then, gaze flicking toward Nathan. The music he played—soft, rhythmic, grounding—filled the room and smoothed the jagged edges of everything that had just happened. It steadied the air, and something in Cosmo unclenched.

He looked around at them—tired, bruised, and a little battered—and smiled faintly. “So…” he started, brushing his long hair from his face, “are we, uh… playing hooky for the rest of the day? Or are we actually going back?”

He tried to sound casual, but his voice came out a little sheepish. “I’ve never really… skipped before,” he admitted, cheeks pinking.

Asher laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re adorable, you know that?”

Cosmo groaned. “You sound like my Bubbe.”

That earned him another soft laugh, low and warm. And for a moment—just a moment—the weight of the fight, the fear, the blood—it all faded. Just two wolves in the making, sitting side by side in the ruins, learning what it meant to belong.
-fin-Alastor accepted the wipe with a muted, “Thanks,” his voice tight, nearly breaking. He dared not say more, afraid that any extra word might shatter the fragile dam holding back his emotions. If Asher hadn’t pulled Blaze away—if Nathan hadn’t distracted him long enough—they would have seen him unravel completely.

A thin stream of smoke trailed from his lips as he listened. Then Nathan’s voice mentioning that of a reset. Without thinking, Alastor’s hum joined in with the music, low and resonant, vibrating in his chest like a distant echo.

Fragments of memory stirred—shards of something that felt almost real, yet not entirely his. In the black corridors of his mind, a voice drifted, soft and warm, like the faint glow of a flame. The sound of humming wrapped around him like a gentle embrace. The presence lingered at the edge of his thoughts, nameless but achingly familiar, as if it had always been waiting there. The tension in his chest began to ease, the coil of unease slowly unwinding with each breath.

The entity pressed against his consciousness, a tide of wrath and confusion that left him unmoored. Buried beneath that storm was something heavier—a sorrow that had no name, the echo of something lost, endlessly searching.

*It’s not hope… but—he helps..*
whispered through his mind.

His face twitched, the faintest break in his control. He didn’t know why the thought came, or what it meant—only that Nathan’s song kept the storm from swallowing him whole.
—fin—The smoke curled lazily in the still air, catching the muted light that filtered through the **** windows. Nathan’s fingers moved on instinct now—soft, steady chords spilling out of the guitar like the last breath of a storm. The tension that had held the room tight finally began to loosen, thread by thread.

Even Alastor was humming—low and steady, his voice blending with the strings in a way that made the air hum with something almost peaceful.

Nathan let out another slow exhale, the weed taking the edge off the adrenaline still burning in his chest. He sang quietly, not to perform but to anchor—his voice a low rasp that filled the gaps where words weren’t needed.

He watched them all without seeming to: Asher leaning back with a faint grin, Cosmo fussing over a med kit that didn’t need fussing, Alastor retreating into the corner smoke, Rook pretending he wasn’t softening by cracking jokes under his breath.

When Cosmo admitted, shyly, that he’d never skipped school before, Nathan nearly missed a chord because Rook’s reaction was so loud.

Rook sat up straight, disbelief painted across his face. “Never?” he said, voice booming in the echoing space. “You mean to tell me you’ve never ditched class? Not even once?”

Cosmo shook his head quickly, cheeks pink.Rook groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes like he was mourning a tragedy. “That’s criminal, man. We gotta fix that. First offense—arcade, obviously. Maybe pizza. It’s about education, you know? Life skills.”

Nathan huffed a quiet laugh around a plume of smoke. “You would want to go to the arcade,” he muttered, fingers never missing a beat as the song rolled on.

Rook grinned over at him. “Hey, I’m just sayin’, if we’re fugitives for the day, might as well go down in style.”

Nathan let the melody dip into something lazy and easy, the kind of tune that didn’t ask for anything but quiet. “Do whatever,” he said finally, tone half-drawl, half-command. “I’ve got band practice later anyway.” His gaze flicked up, brief but steady. “Just… probably not a bad idea to stay together. For now.”

Rook caught the weight behind the words. The grin softened, becoming something more real. He nodded once. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, alright.”

The song drifted on—smoke, strings, and the faint hum of voices filling the hollowed-out room. For the first time all day, it almost felt like home.

—fin—The last chord faded off Nathan’s guitar, ringing softly against peeling concrete and dusty glass. Silence settled in its wake—quiet, but not uncomfortable.

Asher stretched, rolling his bruised shoulder. His stomach gave a low, traitorous growl.

“…Okay,” he muttered, pushing upright. “Reset’s great and all, but we should get food. And put at least, like—two city blocks between us and that homicide hallway.”

He threw Alastor a pointed look.
“You especially. You haven’t eaten since—this morning? Yesterday? Ever?”

Cosmo perked instantly. “There’s a deli two streets over. They do brisket and knishes and—oh!” His eyes lit up, already digging through his bag. “I still have snacks, too.”

Asher chuckled. “Of course you do.”

They filed out the back way, slipping through alleys until the school disappeared behind industrial brick and graffiti. The deli’s neon sign buzzed lazily overhead. Inside, Asher ordered something protein-heavy, Cosmo ordered half the menu “to share,” and he kept quietly pushing bites toward anyone not eating enough—especially Alastor.

Afterward, the arcade’s pulsing lights swallowed them: beeps, laughter, flashing colors, tickets spilling like treasure. Cosmo was electric—eyes bright, hair bouncing when he practically skipped toward a cannonball-launch game.He hovered close to Rook as he talked—animated voice carrying just enough to reach Asher’s ear:

“…and then he kissed me—on the cheek—but it still counts, right?”

Asher laughed quietly to himself listening to Cosmo and Rook teasing one another, leaning back on the railing near a pinball machine. The sight—the normalcy of it—felt good in his ribs.

Cosmo turned to him suddenly, cheeks still pink. “You should play this one with me later—Rook isn’t allowed to because he cheats—”Asher’s wolf rumbled fondly.
These were his people. His pack.

Still, the edges of his attention tugged elsewhere. Between Cosmo’s rambling, Rook’s laughter, and Alaster and Nathan half-smirking in a reflection of neon—

—Asher felt like he was intruding on something soft.

He exhaled through his nose, shoulders loosening as he made a decision.

He leaned toward Cosmo, voice low so only he heard:

“Hey. I’m gonna duck out after a game or two. You guys need time together. And—” His gaze flicked to Nathan across the room, chin tucked, hoodie shadows hiding a smile, “—I’ve got homework to get started on.”

Cosmo blinked, then nodded, understanding blooming easy and warm.
“You’ll text when you get home? So I don’t assume you got eaten by a—uh… rogue lit teacher?”

Asher snorted. “Deal.”

Cosmo’s grin widened.

Asher let the noise and neon wrap around him for a few minutes more. Cosmo was in his element — winning tickets, losing tickets, babbling about rocket fuel ratios — and Rook was right there to fuel every tangent.
-fin-Alastor sat quietly at the deli’s booth, fork in hand, methodically cutting into the brisket Asher had all but shoved in front of him. He didn’t say much, just nodded in thanks when someone slid a drink his way. The clatter of plates and the low hum of conversation filled the space between Cosmo’s chatter and Rook’s occasional quips.

When Asher nudged a piece of knish toward him, Al glanced up briefly, then down again. “Thanks,” he murmured, and took the bite without further comment.

Halfway through the Meal, he cleared his throat softly. “I can’t stay too long,” he said, voice low, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted it to cut through the noise. “My mom needs me home.. With the sibs and stuff.”

At the arcade, he trailed close behind the group, letting the neon and noise wash over him without demanding his attention. He let Cosmo press a few tokens into his hand and even played a round of skee-ball, lips twitching in something close to amusement when the balls ricocheted wildly. But mostly, he stayed quiet, watchful, saving his energy for the walk home—and the weight of responsibility waiting there.

After the second game, he drifted toward the exit, catching Asher’s eye. “Gonna head out now. Mom’s waiting. Alejandro’s… probably already asking for me.”

-fin-

MinyaRPs

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