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#Post#: 1220--------------------------------------------------
The pack
By: Inkglitched Date: February 10, 2026, 8:55 pm
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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 cracked 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 shit,”
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.”
—-
#Post#: 1221--------------------------------------------------
Re: The pack
By: Inkglitched Date: February 10, 2026, 8:58 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 cracked 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—
#Post#: 1222--------------------------------------------------
Re: The pack
By: Inkglitched Date: February 10, 2026, 9:02 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 cracked 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 fuck 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.
“Shit,” 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. “Shit—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.
"Fucking 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 fuck 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, shit.”
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 fuck* is going on?!?”
—fin—
#Post#: 1223--------------------------------------------------
Re: The pack
By: Inkglitched Date: February 10, 2026, 9:06 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 fuck’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 cracked 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. “Shit. 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 cracked 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 cracked 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 cracked 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 cracked—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 cracked 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—
#Post#: 1224--------------------------------------------------
Re: The pack
By: Inkglitched Date: February 10, 2026, 9:13 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 bitch, 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 cracked 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 fucks.
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 cracked 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 cracked 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 assholes!”
The car door cracked 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--
#Post#: 1225--------------------------------------------------
Re: The pack
By: Inkglitched Date: February 10, 2026, 9:16 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
shit 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 asshole.”
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—
#Post#: 1226--------------------------------------------------
Re: The pack
By: Inkglitched Date: February 10, 2026, 9:20 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 cracked 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: cracked 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 fuck 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 shit.
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 cracked 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—
#Post#: 1227--------------------------------------------------
Re: The pack
By: Inkglitched Date: February 10, 2026, 9:26 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
cracked 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 cracked *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 cracked *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—
#Post#: 1228--------------------------------------------------
Re: The pack
By: Inkglitched Date: February 10, 2026, 9:31 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
cracked 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-
#Post#: 1229--------------------------------------------------
Re: The pack
By: Inkglitched Date: February 10, 2026, 9:36 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—
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