surf the surge of fics

why did you choose your url?

It’s a play on Teen Wolf. “werepup” due to their ridiculous combinations of were-coyote, were-jaguar, etc. etc. and of course for the pup pack in the later seasons. The second combo “sweetwolf” is a play on the quote “don’t be such a sour wolf” but I changed it to sweet for it to fit the tone of my fics as I tend to enjoy writing sweeter, cuter, cuddly and cozy fics. So the url in completion is for the lighter side of Teen Wolf that makes you go “aww, how cute. I want it” and I’m here to try and deliver some of it.

any side blogs?

This is a side blog. Lol.

how long have you been on tumblr?

4? 5? years?? I never knew about it until freshman year of high school. A friend told me I’d like it, so I got into it. This account is probably like 2 or 3 years old. It took me a LONG time to figure out if I wanted to publish material on here and if I wanted it under my main or create a safe side blog where my wonders💭 may be whimsical✨

do you have a queue tag?

I don’t even know what that means, lol. I tag my posts??? Is that considered queue?? Idk?? Someone comment what a queue tag is.

why did you start your blog in the first place?

Things in my head want out.

why did you choose your icon?

So...I used to have a theme that matched the url, but I’ve changed it all to match an OC in one of my fics. One of her nicknames is Seagull...hence a seagull.

why did you choose your header?

I made it. Used an app called Over, searched for an aesthetic friendship that matched my OC and a character in my fic: Beach Babes & Sail Mates🐚⛵️, so now it’s their aesthetic. And it motivates me to write and publish (I know, I’m sorry).

what’s your post with the most notes?

Every day. More notifications. It’s this one. Can’t y’all like anything else? How are people even finding it?

how many mutuals do you have?

A few. They’re all v cute and supportive.

how many followers do you have?

Eeeeeeh, a vague few hundred. Do y’all really care to know? I surprised y’all follow in the first place.

how many people do you follow?

Where do I even find that information out? Like half a dozen blogs?? Look, if I wanna see something, the search feature exists for a reason. Because I know if I follow all willy-nilly, I’ll be scrolling for hours. So for me, personally, I just search something I’m currently needing to be fed with. I like organization. Especially the type of organization I can control and doesn’t distract me from what I came on here to do.

have you ever made a shitpost?

Probably??? More likely on my main than on this blog.

how often do you use tumblr each day?

mmmmmmm. I either use it for a few hours searching for my current obsession or I’m painstakingly copying from my notes and saving every paragraph to ensure I don’t lose another fic because fuck that random glitch feature. And editing. I’m a perfectionist who has to plan 5 steps ahead in order to be comfortable publishing (why else do you think it’s either a bum-rush or ghostville), and then there’s still sOmEhOw?!?! a mistake that dozens of you n e v e r tell me but INSIST on reblogging, like wow, thanks. Just send me a DM real quick. Please let me know. You won’t offend me.

did you have a fight/argument with another blog once?

I don’t have the time of day or capacity in my soul to waste energy on people who dare to comment or reblog looking for a fight/argument. A discussion?? Sure. As long as you don’t start coming at anyone, let’s discuss. But I’ve learned that there will always be people who are close-minded, ill-mannered, and other under the rainbow and over the moon of unpleasantness and they are not worth the mental pain and frustration online if I wouldn’t give them the light of day face to face. So I don’t. Their comments are quickly deleted and if they continue to aggravate, they get blocked. I have enough negativity in my head, I don’t need them on my blogs potentially affecting other people. Toughen up, Buttercup. Cut the strings tying you down.

how do you feel about “you need to reblog this” posts?

I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen one of those. I don’t know if I properly remember one to give an accurate vibe of approval/disapproval level.

do you like tag games?

Yeah, some are nice and simple and are easier than others. The copying is the hardest part when on mobile.

do you like asks games?

I haven’t tried any. If people wanna get to know me better, they can send in an ask/ask game. I’d be down for that.

which of your mutuals do you think is tumblr famous?

A lot of my mutuals are little writer buddies so I’d imagine they all have a well known reputation for their target audience. But none are dreampai level if that’s the comparison bar.

do you have a crush on a mutual?

No, no crushes. More like squishes. I miss hugging people. But on my terms, like a cat. Mutuals are so nice to have, vibe so easily.

no pressure tags:

Just a few of the constants in my activity feed💕

A JJ Maybank x OC series

previous parts

“And then we were right outside like this,” JJ leaned against the Château, imitating what he and John B had done earlier in the day. “And all we hear is just, ‘Bam! Bam! Bam!’ Knocking paint off the wall, G! From the inside. All right? And I’m just looking at him, like—” JJ hurried to them, leaning over and running his hands through his hair, “Wait, first off, look at this shit. Look at it. The house.”

“That’s dandruff, disgusting.” Kie crinkled her nose. Marina hushed her giggles at John B’s gaze landing on her.

“Okay, thank you.” Pope stopped JJ, pushing his hands away from his hair.

“Look at all that. All right? That’s paint. At that point, I was just, like...I’m waiting for death.”

“Oh, okay, so you saw the guys that shot at us, right?” asked Pope.

“Yeah.”

Marina glanced from JJ to John B, “Did they see you?”

John B shook his head, “No, I don’t think so.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Kie mumbled.

Pope sat on the edge of the couch, his gaze returning to JJ. “Did you get a good description of them? What did they look like?”

Kie nodded, adding, “Yeah, anything helpful?”

Pope continued, “Anything we can bring to a police report?”

JJ looked away from the water and at them, his brain clicking, “Burly.”

“Burly?” Pope’s brows arched.

“Yeah,” JJ nodded. “You know, like...like Mario.”

“That’s not very helpful,” Kie sighed.

Marina quipped her head to the side, “I don’t even know what burly means to argue that.”

“Imaginez Hercule, mais suspect.”

“Oh.”

“Okay, well, no, like the type of guy at my dad’s garage. I mean, you guys know he made cargo hides for drug smugglers.”

Kie nodded, “Yeah. Yes. No, we know.”

“So then, I can tell you in full confidence, guys, these boys, these killers—” JJ inhaled a hit from his juul as he leaned against the brick siding, “—they’re square groupers.”

Pope’s eyes widened, a bit of concern with disbelief mixed in them, “They’re square groupers, like narco square grouper? Like Pablo Escobar square grouper?”

JJ took another hit, exhaling the vape, “Yeah, man.”

Marina watched as JJ’s fingers clung to the device. It shook in his grasp as his chest rose and fell in rapid breaths. She glanced at the others. No one noticed how wired JJ was.

“Okay.” Marina rose from her spot beside Pope, stepping around the table. She reached JJ, gently grabbing his wrist to prevent him from taking another hit from his juul. She rubbed small circles with her thumb as she plucked the juul from his fingers, tossing it to Pope to deal with. Marina laid her other hand on JJ’s chest, her palm flat over his heart. It was racing as if he just competed in a marathon. “Calm down,” she softly whispered.

JJ’s eyes locked with hers and Marina offered him a small smile. He covered her hand laying on his chest with his. His fingers pried to be with hers, to feel her gentle and soft palm against his. And she let him. Marina let JJ take her hand in his, the back of her hand against the soft material of his shirt as their palms collided. His fingers were rough with callouses, but still smooth and an addiction to touch. With her other hand, she traced faint lines across his forearm.

JJ rested his head against the brick wall, his eyes fluttering shut. Marina stared at him, her dark eyes examining every inch of his face. His blonde hair was tousled by the wind ruffling through it, whispering to her to smooth it over like she’d done hundreds of times before, but Marina didn’t want to interrupt the peace JJ had found. The muscles in his face were relaxed and she could hear his faint breathing, the air expelling out through his lips. His lips were slightly parted, pink and a bit chapped. Marina looked away, blinking back the thought of wondering if the touch of his lips were just as welcoming as the feeling of his fingers along her skin.

JJ broke out of her grasp, stepping closer to the others, “Dude, you weren’t there, bro!” Marina hadn’t heard what the others said to prompt JJ’s outburst. She was too busy admiring him, admiring his beauty as if he was a Greek sculpture. In an odd way, JJ was one.

She gnawed on the inside of her bottom lip, her brows furrowing. Her back was to the group as she collected her thoughts, convincing herself she already knew everything about JJ and there was nothing else to learn. Especially not the feeling of his lips when she’d already felt them against her cheeks, hands, shoulders, and other innocent locations of comfort. There was nothing else to know about them.

Pope continued, ignoring JJ’s interjection, “Because apparently you don’t know what to look for!”

“Guys,” Marina faced them, speaking softly despite Pope and JJ’s loud volumes. She gently pulled JJ back as he reached for his juul.

“Dude! I wasn’t taking little mental Polaroids the entire time, man. I was under duress, okay?” JJ’s voice pitched, cracking and revealing how shook up he was over the event.

“Hey, hey,” Marina stroked soothing lines up and down JJ’s back.

He calmed down, regaining his composure, “But I can tell you...I can tell you by the way Ms. Lana was screaming...that these guys are serious, serious hombres, man.” Marina didn’t bother stopping JJ as he successfully grabbed his juul, “It’s a heavy vibe right now, okay? I’m not liking this very much.”

He turned to Marina, immediately flinging his arms around her shoulders and pulling her against his chest. She bobbed her head to the right to avoid getting a forehead full of JJ’s chin. She noticed John B wasn’t anywhere close to JJ’s freak out session, if anything he was the opposite—cucumber cool. Marina wrapped her arms around JJ’s waist, she continued tracing soothing lines along the spread of his back she could reach in their hug. JJ’s heaving panicked breaths died down as Marina cooed him, “You’re okay, mon amour. You’re okay.”

John B hadn’t spoken much since they all gathered on the porch, that when he did, the sound of his voice caught Marina’s attention away from JJ, “The office. My dad. My dad’s office.”

JJ slipped out of their embrace, taking a hit as he listened to John B. John B walked between them, “He always kept the office locked because he was worried about his competitors stealing his Royal Merchant research.” John B disappeared inside the Château not waiting for anyone to catch up.

Marina glanced over her shoulder at Pope and Kie. They all gave confusing looks to one another before following after John B.

“We used to laugh at him like he was gonna find it. But now that he’s gone, I’ve just kinda...I just left it as he kept it.” John B stopped at the door of his dad’s office.

“Yeah, for when he gets back.” Kie encouraged, being optimistic for John B’s sake.

“Yeah,” John B pulled out a ring of keys and unlocked the office door. He pushed the door wide open, immediately looking around for something as the others filed in.

“I’ve slept over here like six hundred times, and I’ve never seen this door open,” Pope said as they all scanned the room.

“Feels invasive.” Marina’s fingertips raced along a bookshelf with assorted binders and books. She scrunched her nose at the dust on the pads of her fingers before wiping it off on her shorts.

“Here, look.” John B laid a bulletin board on top of a pile of dust collecting papers and books. He pointed at a photo tacked into the top of the cork, “This is the original owner, right here.”

“Okay. Robert Q. Routledge, 1880 to 1920,” Kie read. “There’s the lucky compass, right there.”

“Actually, um...he was shot right after he bought it.”

“That’s unfortunate.” Marina rubbed the back of her neck as JJ and Pope squinted at John B.

“Then the compass was shipped back to Henry. Henry was killed in a crop-dusting accident when he had the compass. After he died, the compass was given to Stephen,” said John B.

Marina interrupted, “Is it not Stephen. An ‘F’ sound?”

“Nope. It’s a ‘V’ sound.”

“Then why not just spell it S-T-E-V-E-N?”

John B dismissed her interruption, “Stephen had the compass with him when he died in Vietnam.”

“Let me guess, he died in action, right?” JJ asked.

“Sort of. Uh. actually, he was killed by a banana truck.”

Marina chuckled trying to suppress her laughter, “Sorry. It’s tragic. Really tragic.”

“In country,” John B continued. “Anyways. After that, Stephen passed the compass down to him, my dad.”

“Hm.” JJ looked at John B, “Sounds like there’s a recurring theme here.”

Marina nodded, “An unlucky compass.”

“Not an unlucky compass, a death compass. You have a death compass,” stated Pope.

“No, I do not.”

“Yeah, you have a death compass.”

“Oui. Boussole de la mort.” Marina crossed her arms, arching a brow at John B, “Can we get rid of it now?”

“Seriously, dude. Get rid of it.” JJ practically followed John B, “It’s cursed and it’s made its way back to you.”

Marina sighed, leaning against a wall. “C’est le début d'un film d'horreur où nous mourrons tous. ‘Navigating Death’ starring Canard, Papillon, Nounours, Ange D’or, et moi, Abeille.” She mumbled to herself, but Kie smiled understanding her.

“Look, my dad used to talk about this compartment in here.” John B sat in the desk chair and fiddled with the compass. “Soldiers used to hide secret notes.” He spun off the cover and shook the compass but nothing fell out. Everyone gathered around him.

Kie pointed at the lid, “What’s that?”

“That wasn’t there before.” John B stared at the carving, “This is my dad’s handwriting.”

Pope scoffed, “How can you know that?”

“Because he does these weird Rs with the—” John B turned the back of the compass towards Pope, “See it?”

“Can I see it?” JJ asked. His brows furrowed as he tried to read the handwriting, “Red—Rout—no, I think that’s an A.”

“It says Redfield,” stated Kie.

JJ nodded, “Right.” There was a frown tugging at the corner of his lips.

“‘kay, well, what’s Redfield?” Kie asked, looking at everyone.

Pope cut John B off, “Beside the most common name in the county.”

“Oh, maybe—maybe it’s a clue. Maybe it’s a clue to where he’s hiding.” John B’s eyes beamed, a new found hope to find his missing father.

“A clue? Come on, that’s—” Pope stopped as he saw Kie’s warning face.

“What about a place?” Marina quipped, her head tilted slightly to the side. She continued with everyone staring at her, “People are named after places and places are named after people. Like the Eiffel Tower. But instead, it’s the Red Field.”

“The Red Field?” Pope rose a brow, “Of what?”

“I don’t know. Flowers?” Marina shrugged.

JJ’s brows pinched together, “Red flowers?”

“Yeah, like roses or tulips. Could be a secret Tuscany Sunflower Field or Provence Lavender Field.” Marina continued, grasping for anything to convince them, “Big John boats so maybe it’s the Red Sea. Or maybe it’s red, like, the uh, um, dead. You know, with the blood and all. Maybe it’s a battlefield which was once called Red Field...because of the, uh, the bloodshed.” Marina grimaced, crinkling her nose.

“Marina,” Kie sighed.

“No one else is theorizing.”

“Maybe it’s an anagram?” Pope suggested.

“Yes. Perfect. Anagram. You need paper.” John B hurried to find materials for Pope.

“Nothing for mine?” Marina mumbled, stepping out of the way as Pope began working, “M'kay.”

JJ’s fingers grazed her temple as he brushed his hand through her hair. A small gesture to let her know he heard her. Marina met his gaze for a second before looking away, focusing her attention on Pope’s anagram.

“How can you concentrate with that thing crowing at you?” Pope asked John B, referring to the rooster which hadn’t stopped crowing since they entered Big John’s office.

“JJ loves the rooster.”

“I love the rooster,” Kie added, slightly offended by Pope.

Marina looked at the letters as Pope rattled off his thinking. “Maybe champion,” she suggested.

“Ch-champion? There’s no C.” Pope blankly stared at her, blinking.

“Field in french is champ. Short for champion in English.”

“I highly doubt Big John would write a secret coded message and then double translate it. Did he even know French?”

“Are we not standing in a French named building?”

“Let’s stick with letters on the paper,” Pope said to Marina. “Defile. Does that mean anything to anyone? Defile.” Pope glanced between the three Pogues hovered around him.

“Whatever that means,” JJ shrugged.

Kie pointed at the paper, “You’re missing a letter.”

“Guys! Somebody’s here.” John B stared out the window.

They joined John B and looked out the windows. Marina’s stomach hollowed as two guys hopped out of their truck and approached the Château.

“Guys, guys, is that them?” Kie asked John B and JJ, her voice pitching with worry.

“No.” JJ, in disbelief, turned away from the window.

Kie repeated herself, “Is that them?”

“This is suboptimal,” Pope commented.

Marina looked at John B, “How do they know? How is this possible?”

“John B, I told you. Why does it always—”

“JJ! Hey, hey, look at me.” John B whisper-shouted as he grabbed JJ, shoving him against the wall.

Marina ran her hands through her hair as she slid down against one of the desk legs. She curled her legs into her chest as her fingers stumbled to wrap around her knees. Marina tucked her chin in the crevice of her knees, closing her eyes as her heart pounded in her chest—an aching muscle no matter how deep of a breath she inhaled.

Closing her eyes didn’t bring any ease, just other chaos. She could hear a voice calling out, but it wasn’t to the Pogues and not now, rather a long time ago. Maybe hers, or someone else’s. Marina couldn’t tell whose voice it was shouting and she didn’t want to find out. She didn’t want to remember, she didn’t want to go back there.

A gunshot sounded and Marina jumped, covering her ears with her hands attempting to block out all the noise in the room and inside her head. Her eyes were strained shut and wet when Pope gently touched her wrists, tenderly pulling her hands away from her head, “We gotta go. We gotta go, Ri. Come on.”

Everything was a haze. Pope helping her out the window. Someone asking her about Messenger and where he was. Everyone crawling into the chicken coop. It was like going fifty in a fifteen and then slamming on the breaks and watching the moments before disaster in slow motion. But it wasn’t in slow motion, it was panicked and rushed, and no one really knew what was happening. No one had time to process anything as they tried to stay quiet in the coop with the crowing rooster.

“Do something, Pope. Shut him up.” JJ waved his arm at the rooster.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Pet it, or talk to it. I don’t know.” Kie whispered in a wavering voice.

Pope tried to grab the rooster but failed as it flapped its wings, moving closer to JJ, “You do something.”

JJ grabbed the rooster and aggressively slammed it down on the ground. Marina buried her face into Pope’s shoulder as the rooster’s crowing pitched and then seized.

Pope comfortedly stroked Marina’s hair, letting her cling onto him for as long as she needed. He could hear her mumbling Italian prayers through shaky gasps of air, as if she was on the verge of a panic attack. He lowered his hand from her hair to her arm over his chest deathly gripping his other shoulder and lowly whispered, “Easy breaths, Ri. Follow my finger.” He stroked the pad of his index finger along her forearm, resting for a few seconds before following the same path down to her elbow before resting again. Pope repeated the motion a few times as Marina controlled her breathing.

🌊 🌊 🌊 🌊 🌊 🌊 🌊 🌊 🌊 🌊 🌊 🌊 🌊

“I mean, it’s obvious, right?” John B asked Kie, occasionally glancing away from the road to her in the passenger seat and the others in the back, “A family heirloom. I mean, what better place to hide a message? He had to know it was gonna get back to me, right?”

“Yeah, it’s possible,” Kie shrugged.

“It could also be possible that you’re concocting wild theories to help, you know—”

“Pope?” John B interrupted him.

“—deal with your sad feels.” Pope finished, twiddling the compass in his hands.

“Bro, you know how I process my sad feels. Dank nugs and the stickiest of ickies, that’s how I do.” JJ commented, looking down at the floorboards.

Marina’s brows knitted together, not understanding anything of what JJ said. She sat in the back on the bench, absentmindedly pinching at her scar on her right forearm. A patch of skin growing red and irritated at the bad habit.

“I’m not concocting, okay?” John B sparingly glanced between everyone, “My dad’s trying to give me a message.”

“If it helps you believe, John B,” Kie softly spoke, nodding her head.

“Look, I—I don’t need a therapy session, okay? I’m not trippin’ out.”

“It’s okay to trip, bro, but—”

“Look, my—my dad is missing, okay?” John B cut JJ off. “Missing,” he repeated. It was a tone that held that last drop of hope, almost like he was still trying to convince himself against the worst reality everyone had already accepted and tried to force upon him. “You don’t know what it’s like to have the person closest to you vanish and then have no idea what happened. Just wake up every morning wondering.”

His words hit her hard. Deep in the chest and stomach. Expelling her to a time before the Pogues, to something she missed, something she’d trade all the good moments with the Pogues to have back. To just know if there was a chance she could ever have it again. To feel whole and complete.

“Je fais,” Marina spoke. The first words she’d said since they left the Château. And only John B could understand them, as they were only meant for him. It was a quick moment when he caught her gaze through the rear view mirror, when he could see she was not only tettering on the edge of the bench seat but also from remaining composed.

“It’s been almost a year,” said Kie, taking John B’s gaze away from Marina.

“Hey, he could have been kidnapped. That's definitely a possibility.” JJ looked to Pope for dark, yet slightly hopeful alternatives.

“Yeah, could be in a Soviet sub getting interrogated by the KGB somewhere.”

Marina pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head at JJ and Pope and their not helpfulness.

“Absolutely.” JJ continued, “Uh...or Atlantis.”

“JJ,” Kie dismissed his theories, turning to John B. “Look, what do you think the message is?”

“Redfield. Redfield Lighthouse. My dad's favorite place.”

John B stopped the van at the white picket fence. They all disembarked after each other.

Marina gazed at the top of the lighthouse, “I’m not going up there.”

“You don’t have to.” John B turned to JJ, “Right, here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna post up and look out for bogeys, okay?”

“Wait,” JJ pointed to himself, looking between John B and Pope, “why me?”

“Because you’re not coming,” Pope stated.

“Why?”

“Look, JJ, there are independent and dependent variables. And you’re an independent variable.” Pope explained to JJ who shouted back to shut up. “We don’t know what you’ll do.”

“Just listen to me for a second. Listen.” John B stopped Pope and JJ’s argument. “Pope, you stand look out with JJ. Okay?”

“Et moi?”

“Just...stay here with them.”

“Canard.”

“If we get split up, we meet back at JJ’s house.” John B nodded, looking at Kie to join him.

Kie huffed, “Great.”

“Be safe.” Marina reached out to Kie, squeezing her hand.

Kie softly smiled, “You too.”

Marina watched John B and Kie jump the picket fence and disappear into the Lighthouse, leaving the three of them together. She crossed her arms, hugging herself as she turned and eyed Pope and JJ.

“I’m gonna work on my merit scholarship essay, as I’m trying to keep felonies to a minimum.” Pope walked away from JJ and Marina, nearing the van.

“All right, would you just shut up already?” JJ hissed, kicking his hackysack up into the air.

“I’ll stay with the van,” Marina mumbled, retreating inside. Her hands shook as she rifled through the compartments, searching for one of JJ’s blunts. She took one from his stash, holding it up in her fingers. She tucked the compartment back together, clutching the blunt in her hand while doing so.

“Could you?” she went to JJ, extending the blunt towards him, keeping her distance—more than an arms length away.

JJ looked her over, nodding his head. He took the blunt from her shaking fingers, placing it between his lips and lighting it. He took a long draw before offering it back to Marina.

“I don’t think that’s really—”

“Relax, Pope,” JJ interjected. “She wants to smoke, let her smoke.”

“JJ.” Pope frowned, disapproving.

Marina took the blunt from JJ, bringing the roll between her lips, “One for me is one less for him.” She turned her back on the boys, retreating towards the van again.

Pope thought better about pressuring her when she wasn’t in a mood to talk, but JJ didn’t. He lunged after her, gently pulling her back by her wrist.

“Non toccarmi!” Marina ripped her wrist out of JJ’s grip, taking a few steps backwards to distance herself from him.

JJ’s hands went up in front of him as if he was approaching a scared and delicate animal. His gaze was soft and gentle, full of misunderstanding and confusion, but also held despair and desperation. Never in six years had she raised her voice and ran from him, and seeing her do so shattered his heart. JJ never wanted to hurt any of the Pogues, especially not Marina. He couldn’t help think she shied away from him out of terror, afraid he may actually hurt her. But JJ didn’t know about the terrors in her head and the skeletons in her closet.

“Just...don’t,” she meekly whispered, stepping backwards and avoiding both of their gazes. “Please, don’t.”

Pope waited until Marina hid herself in the van, closing the sliding door behind her. He faced JJ, “I warned you.”

“What the hell was that about?” JJ waved an arm in Marina’s direction. “What’s with her?”

“She’s traumatized, JJ,” Pope stated. “You of all people should see that.”

“What?” JJ hitched a brow, advancing a step.

“You know what I mean. You’ve got similar past tragedies.”

JJ scoffed. “What are you talking about? Kie was scared, she’s fine. Marina’s fine.”

“Dude, how can you be obsessed with her and be completely blind?”

JJ hushed Pope, “I am not obsessed.”

“Sure, whatever.” Pope passed on teasing JJ as it wasn’t the right time to do so. “But you seriously can’t tell that she’s not steady? You were the first one to sense something off with her or is that ability all messed up because your relationship is off-kiltered?”

“No, no, we’re okay. Nothing is wrong with us.” He ran a hand through his hair, “By relationship, you mean—?”

“Friends, JJ. You know the rule.”

“Which rule? There are a lot of rules.”

“No Pogue-on-Pogue macking.”

“We aren’t—I’m not—”

“Uh-huh.” Pope nodded his head, encouraging JJ to continue, “Dude, just don’t try anything with her. Not when she’s like this.”

JJ walked backwards to the van, “She’s fine, Pope.” He opened the sliding door, peering inside, “She’s gone.”

Pope’s brows shot up, not sure if he heard JJ correctly, “What?”

“Seagull has left the nest. I repeat, Seagull has left the nest.”

Sirens sounded as police cars drove up the street. JJ and Pope shared a look between each other before scrambling into the van. They didn’t wait for John B and Kie before fleeing the scene.

I guess I’ll take requests for these shows. If you happen to send something in, I may do it.

Thank you love!!

Summary: JJ goes to you for comfort after an incident with his father.

Warnings: I’m sorry, please don’t cry too much.

You weren’t aware what time it was when JJ climbed into your room through your window. He’d done that for over a decade—slinking in and out of your house undetected just to climb into bed beside you, to see you.

And every time he did, you paid attention. It was never just an ‘I need to see you’ it was ‘I need to get away. Can I stay?’ You always let him stay.

JJ wormed into bed beside you, immediately draping an arm over your waist and pulling you into his chest. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his hair tickling your cheek.

“Wanna talk ‘bout it?” You tried turning over, but JJ wouldn’t let you. He kept you still against him, not daring to let you slip from his gentle iron grasp.

You felt the vibrations of his response against your back, “No.”

“Okay.” You stopped fighting him and laid your head back on your pillow—well, one of your pillows.

Your fingers trailed along his arm, his fuzz hair soft and almost unnoticeable against his toned curves of muscle. Your fingertips ran from the bend of his elbow up to his forearm where you could feel just how tightly he was holding onto you. Then your hand slipped over his, tucking it underneath your chin. Hard, crusted skin grazed the bottom of your chin. You glanced down, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed at JJ’s hand. The skin over his knuckles was broken and battered, like he punched something or someone until he couldn’t anymore.

“JJ.” You softly spoke, your heart breaking upon knowing what happened. His father. His father likely said something—or worse, did something, and JJ reacted by blowing up.

JJ shook his head, not lifting it to meet your waiting gaze, “Don’t.” His voice was broken, lost of his usual confidence. He was porcelain. Porcelain with cracks and breaks repaired far too many times and it was a miracle he was still together. An absolute miracle.

You brought his chapped knuckles to your lips, kissing them softly before tucking it underneath your chin again, intertwining your fingers with his. Water drippled across the back of your neck, racing to your hair. JJ was crying. Not sobs or anything of that sort. He was crying silent tears. The type of tears that held the most pain.

You broke JJ’s iron grasp, turning over to face him, “JJ. Please say something.”

He wouldn’t open his eyes. But you could tell by the puffiness and the streaks along his face he’d been crying long before he got to you. You cupped his cheek, slowly stroking your thumb just below his eye.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” His hand between the two of you caught your wrist, his fingers slightly shook as he held you.

“Just know I love you, JJ.” You whispered, your voice sweet and gentle with the fragile porcelain so close. Any louder in volume and he might shatter into dust, collapsing beneath the only thing keeping him together. “I’m here. Always.”

His lips brushed against the underside of your wrist. It was a silent thank you, a sign of appreciatation. You rolled back over once JJ released your wrist.

He nuzzled his head back into the crook of your neck. His lips butterflied your skin showcased from under your shirt. You thought nothing of it other than his token of appreciation being extended, a bit bothered you rolled over too soon. And then his lips found the corner of your jaw, lazily marking it with rougher kisses.

You laid on your back, scooting slightly away but never leaving his side, “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry.” JJ mumbled, ashamed he caused you any discomfort by his actions.

But you couldn’t care less about that. His eyes were open. And they were worse than the porcelain of his skin. They were glass. Broken, shattered glass. Glossed with a coat of wavering water like the foam of the ocean. Except nothing you looked at brought you joy. It did the opposite, you felt his pain. All his past tears he bottled up and chucked into the ocean he longed to forget had came back with unforgiving power. They were the ocean entirely and he was a victim of its brutal waves crashing and plundering against him. He was trying not to drown, but it was hard. It was hard to lift his head above his ocean of tears drowning him, sinking him beneath the surface like he was a shipwreck. And in a way, he was.

You shook your head, your own eyes brimming with tears. Tears for the boy desperate for anyone to save him before he succumbed to the depth of his own despair. “Don’t be.”

JJ’s gaze flickered over your face. Your features changed so suddenly. You were content, welcoming, and warm, and now you were caught in the same storm. But you weren’t with him in his waves, you were safely distanced—an onlooker watching a tradegy of history play out right before their eyes. One that would be recorded in books for school lessons and made into movies just like the Titantic.

JJ’s palm caressed your cheek, “Please don’t cry for me.”

He didn’t deserve to be written as a tragedy. He deserved a happy ending. One where he survived and lived. You just wanted him to live so fucking badly.

“You don’t have to go back.” You whispered, your voice was desperate to be heard—just like his shouting was lost in the raging wind of the storm. “You don’t ever have to go back. You can stay. For as long as you need. Stay, JJ. Please. Don’t go back there.”

For a millisecond, JJ was shocked. He had no words to shout against the wind and spatter at the waves. His eyes were unreadable as they stared at you—the onlooker safely on land, far, far away. And the boy battling his own despair said ‘fuck it’ and swam. His arms were tired—hell, he was tired and more than willing to let a kraken drag him under. But he saw you, someone shouting just as loud against the wind, shouting for him to swim, to live.

JJ’s lips captured yours. It was a slow and tentative kiss with a delicate tenderness and care. A soft composure broken glass shouldn’t be able to leave on uncharted skin. They should’ve cut deep and shared its pain of being forcibly shattered without permission, but they didn’t. Just as the porcelain didn’t weight its crippled structure, posing a threat against its fellow porcelain neighbor.

JJ retreated, his forehead pressing against yours, mumbling, “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

A hand of yours went to the collar of his shirt, grabbing a handful to keep him from slipping away and fleeing out your window—just like the onlooker stayed to guide the survivor to safety.

“Don’t be.” Your nose rubbed against his. You leaned forward pressing a trail of soft kisses from his cheek to the corner of his lips. Your fingers ran through his hair, combing the golden blonde strands away from his gorgeous face. “Don’t apologize.” You hushed him, your hand ran through his hair again and JJ’s eyes fluttered shut at the sensation. You quickly leaned forward, pressing a peck against his lips, too nervously to do anything more. As the onlooker, all you could do was stand still and watch as the survivor battled the ocean waves. If you moved from your spot, he could be lost at sea forever.

But the survivor couldn’t be saved if he didn’t swim. So JJ swam. He tallied kiss for kiss. Anytime you touched him, he touched you. A graze of fingertips on his jaw. A ghost of his hand along your hips. You didn’t dare apply harder kisses against his skin. You didn’t want to hurt him for a single second with a single touch. He needed to be touched softly. To be held with compassion and care not a rush for a good time.

JJ sat up with you in his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist as you captured his face with the tips of your fingers. Your foreheads pressed against one another and your breathing mixing. Your fingers traced along his jaw and down his chin, lifting his chin up for his eyes to met yours.

His curls ruffled against your forehead as he looked down—the boy stopped swimming, “You don’t have to.”

Your thumbs stroked his temples as you kissed his forehead, “You deserve to be loved, JJ.”

His gaze met yours. His ocean eyes—in more than one way—bore into yours. JJ’s eyes weren’t as glossy as they were but the remnants of the destruction remained behind. They explored the meaning tucked and intertwined in the pigmentation of your irises, searching for a hidden agenda, a lie amongst the truth, any alarms screeching at him, ‘No! No! No!’ There weren’t any. Not a single one. For you were a beacon showing the way to safety—for the survivor of the shipwreck, for JJ.

JJ wanted to be saved more than anyone could imagine. He wanted to be safe. But parts of him, his memories of pain would linger like the dust of his porcelain self. While not every single speck could be vacuumed and made into something new, he was willing to try. Perhaps added to a mix for a sculpture. One which would be adorned by an entire city. Just something new, something without any trace of what he had to deal with, or what he no longer called home.

As for his shattered soul, the brittle glass trail, in due time, all the broken bits and pieces would be picked up, saved and stored somewhere safe until there were enough pieces. And once there were enough pieces, an imagine would start to form. Blues, whites, greys, browns. A storm in a dark night, a ship at sea, a lighthouse on the coast. And a survivor on land.