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sharkbait ooh ha ha

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Van ➡️ the Bay Area

A Ghibli-inspired baby Mack.

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do u mind if i stare at u with my big wet anime eyes

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The best friends of our childhoods are the loves of our lives, and they break our hearts in worse ways. Fredrik Backman, Us Against You (Beartown, #2)

The babies before hearts (and noses) got broken.

(please don’t repost to twitter!)

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Sleepy baby sharks inspired by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec’s Le Lit (1892).

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inspired by ekky and his snoopy: a little baby sharks fic 🦥

The Sharks media team have let them loose with half-a-dozen rolls of quarters and a camera guy trailing them round.

As media goes, it’s not too bad - they both love any kind of game, no matter how dumb, and they’re so competitive they end up getting way too into everything, which apparently is what the fans love. If Mack can’t be playing hockey, then beating Will at the coconut shie by the pier is a pretty good consolation. At least no one’s asking him questions.

It’s nice to see Will so relaxed too, throwing his head back to laugh at Mack’s terrible rifle shot, his perfect teeth bright in the fairground lights. It’s busy, and after a while they manage to accidentally-on-purpose lose their social media handlers in the crowd. They wander, aimless and contented, through the stalls, passing a churro back and forth now there’s no one to confiscate any contraband.

“Oh hey,” says Mack, stopping in front of a stall garlanded with stuffed sloths. He reaches out, strokes a gentle finger over one of their weird little faces. “I used to have one just like that when I was a kid. He was like, my favourite thing.”

“Yeah?” says Will, taking advantage of Mack’s distraction to swallow the last of the churro.

“Yeah, Slothy, I think he was called. My dad tossed him out after I got benched in some Midget game.” He grins and turns to Will, expecting some chirp about naming a sloth Slothy. But Will’s staring at him.

“What? He, like, threw it away?”

“Well, yeah,” says Mack, “But I was probably like, seven? So not like it wasn’t time anyway.” He bumps Will’s shoulder companionably to try and smooth out that unhappy furrow between his eyes that Mack hates. It doesn’t work.

“Jesus fuck, Mack.”

Mack’s frowning now, starting to feel actually upset, which is dumb. “It’s not a big deal, dude.” Will opens his mouth, as if to argue but Mack spies the Sharks camera guy craning his neck through the crowd and elbows him. “C’mon.”

Will doesn’t look convinced but lets Mack steer them over to the hoops stand anyway. He’s quiet, doesn’t even demand a rematch when Mack smokes him at tiny basketball and barely acknowledges a dachshund dressed like a hot dog. Mack glances at him all the way back to the car park, trying to catch his eye long enough to pull stupid faces but Will barely notices.

“Hey, sorry, think I forgot something,” Will says, when they’re almost at the car. “Here.” He fishes his keys out of his sweatshirt pocket and tosses them at Mack.

“Dude, what?” Mack starts, but Will’s already heading back towards the fair.

“I’ll be quick!” he shouts over his shoulder, breaking into a jog. Will never jogs. Mack stares after him, trying to shake the feeling that he’s missed something here but not quite managing it. He sighs and clambers into the car, resigned to actually answering that email from his agent and texting his dad back, earlier happiness vanishing like bubbles.

***

When Mack steps out of the bathroom, damp from his shower, Will’s exactly where Mack left him: slumped in bed on his phone. But he’s not alone. There’s a stuffed sloth sitting upright in the opposite bed, it’s long furry arms holding Mack’s sleep shorts and t-shirt.

Mack stares at it, then at Will scrolling TikTok. He picks it up. It’s very soft, softer than Slothy was at the end, because he went everywhere, but the button eyes and little sloth-hands are just the same. Its smell is different though, like Will’s detergent - like the Marleau’s detergent, Mack mentally corrects, because Will doesn’t know how to work a washing machine - like maybe it travelled in his suitcase, folded between his clothes. He strokes a hand over its belly, along its arms.

“Will, I-” he breaks off around the sudden lump in his throat, and stares down at his sloth in his hands, unsure what to say.

“It’s not a big deal, dude.” Will parrots Mack’s own words back at him, but he’s clicking off his phone, and rolling over towards Mack, smiling at him, warm and teasing. “Ekky’s already ruined our street cred. You can have a little buddy too.”

Mack nods, risking a watery glance in Will’s direction. “Thanks man.”

He doesn’t put the sloth down when he pulls on his pajamas; has to swap hands so he can tug his t-shirt over his head. When he shuffles over Will takes it gently out of his hands and makes it pat the bed next to him.

“Did you win it for me? At the fair?” Mack whispers, sliding in under the thick comforter and pulling a pillow under his cheek.

“I tried.” Will grins and tucks the sloth in against Mack’s chest. Mack’s arms immediately come up around it, holding on tight. “I was worried that you’d come find me, kept flubbing the game - you had to knock all these little bananas down. And then I ran out of quarters.”

“That‘s ‘cause your hand-eye coordination goes to shit under pressure,” whispers Mack, shifting closer. There’s a warmth rising up from his toes, slowly filling his whole body. Will reaches over and tucks the blankets right up to his ears, then gives him a flick on the nose for good measure.

“So I offered him twenty bucks, which was all I had, but he said no, they can’t do that, so I told him that it’s for a guy I really like who lost one a long time ago.” He grins ruefully at Mack. “I think I’ve been watching too many romcoms.”

“Oh,” breathes Mack. He inches closer, emboldened, until they’re touching: foreheads, hands and knees. He wonders if Will can feel his heart thumping through the sloth. “Did it work?”

Will winds an arm around Mack and rolls them until Mack’s on top and the sloth is flattened between them. “Yeah,” he whispers, catching Mack’s smile with his own. “It did.”

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Innocentius blessing turtles

(Inspired by icons of St Francis of Assisi)

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LOVE LOVE LOVED YOUR FIC ABOUT THE BRACES

Ugh so cute love the dynamics between parents and siblings 😭😭

The more I learn about this trio the more I envy those with older brothers

Ellen is me fr at the end 🫢

Thank you so much! I love exploring the family dynamics and writing them as kids. It’s fascinating to me. And, Ellen is my idol, always!!

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Basilica di San Vitale 

Late antique church in Ravenna, Italy. The 6th century church is an important surviving example of early Christian Byzantine art and architecture. 

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codependent baby sharks 🦈 🦈

“Will.”

“Hmm.” 

“Will.” Mack nudges Will’s side with his foot. Will rolls his head against the tub, sinking a little lower into the hot water. He’s loose-limbed and warm all over, and if he could tune Mack out Will thinks he could fall asleep like this. But Mack’s big toe is insistently seeking out the most ticklish parts of Will’s ribs. He opens one eye and glares. 

“What?’

“Do you think we’re weird?”

Will opens his other eye. Mack’s worrying the scab on his lip again. Will kicks him gently. 

“Knock it off. No, we’re not weird.” A pause. “Who thinks we’re weird?”

“I dunno.” Mack runs his teeth along his bottom lip. Will frowns. He’s gonna reopen it if he carries on. “The vets, maybe.”

Will shrugs. They got two points apiece tonight and right now he can’t bring himself to care. The bath had been Mack’s idea - one of many steps in his highly complicated bedtime routine - but Will’s willing to admit it's actually pretty sweet. Not out loud of course. “You want me to do your back?” 

Mack visibly brightens, cheeks flushed pink from the water and wet hair going every which way. ”Yeah,” he says, leaning forward so Will can rub a soapy washcloth up and down his back, careful to avoid the red marks on one side - perils of the tap end - and the usual smattering of multicoloured bruises. 

“C’mon dude,” Will nudges him upright when Mack drops his forehead to Will’s shoulder with a sleepy sigh. “Water’s gonna get cold.” He hops out, lightheaded for a moment from the steam and wraps a towel around his waist; reaches back down by Mack’s ass to find the plug and pull it out. Mack’s a little unsteady too, his limbs always noodly after a postgame bath. He lets Will help him over the edge and into one of the huge hotel towels. 

“Mmph.” Mack smiles when Will uses the corner of the towel to dry his face, giggling when it’s dragged back and forth over his head.

They putter around in companionable silence, getting changed and brushing their teeth side by side, and leaving a trail of wet towels to trip over in the morning. Will pisses while Mack sets up his white noise app. 

“Watch something?”

It’s a little tricky to position a laptop in a way that they can both see it and be comfy in bed, but they wriggle and readjust; pull the top sheet out from where it’s tucked under the mattress and toss half the pillows on the floor and eventually Will ends up slumped with his head against Mack’s chest. He’s got just enough baby fat still to make a decent pillow, Will decides, tugging the comforter up.

“They’re weird.” Mack says halfway through his narration of the second episode, fingers looping absently through Will’s chain. “We’re normal, and they’re weird for thinking we’re weird.” 

“You tell ‘em bud,” Will mumbles, and lets his own white-noise machine lull him to sleep.

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we're already wet (and we're gonna go swimming)

Luke fucking hates My Tie.

or, a back-door luke hughes character study

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Hello! I recently came across your hughes brothers fics and binge read most of them last night :). Would you be open to writing anything about the time Luke said quinn ripped jack’s braces out of his mouth? (If you’re not taking requests feel free to ignore this!!!)

Luke never feels like eating much before cross-country. He likes it fine - he likes it more than fine actually, at least compared to Jack and Quinn, because it’s one of the few things he’s better at than them - but the thought of slogging it through the mud straight after breakfast makes his stomach roll.

He swirls his spoon around his bowl of cereal instead, trying to corral his Cheerios into a pleasing formation. He’s got a kind of Great Lakes thing going on but he’s eaten Lake Superior and it’s doesn’t really make sense for the milk to be the land and - 

“Time to go, kiddos!”

He swallows Lakes Erie, Michigan, Huron and Ontario, and the surrounding landmass with a grimace, and shuffles into the hall. Jack and Quinn are already sitting on the stairs wearing matching fleecy headbands and looking miserable. 

“It’s cold,” Jack whines. 

“Run faster then,” their mom says, rummaging through her purse. “You’ll soon warm up.” She looks real pretty today, Luke thinks. Like maybe she did her hair extra nice or something. He pulls his headband on and sits on the bottom step, cheek resting on Quinn’s knee, to wait. 

“Jim!” she bellows. “Hurry up! I’m already running late!” 

“For what?” Their dad’s head appears through the basement door, followed by his golf clubs and then the rest of him. “Where are you going?”

“Where are you going?”

“The PTA fall fundraiser,” says his mom, at the same time his dad says, “Golf.” 

“It’s on the calendar,” they both say at the same time. 

“Well, you’ll have to reschedule,” says his mom in that voice that means no arguing. “Boys have a meet in Sunnybrook.” 

“But -” splutters his dad. “I can’t reschedule. I put it on the calendar, like you told me to.” He lowers his voice, pleading. “El, it’s with the guys.”

“It’s okay mom,” says Quinn, standing up to lean over the bannister and pat her shoulder consolingly. “We’ll miss cross-country this one time.” 

“Let me see this,” she growls, and they all trot into the kitchen after her to peer at her Wildflowers of Texas calendar. 

Fall Fundraiser shift 9-12 is written in today’s box in his mom’s neat handwriting, and below that: 

Q, J & L Prep 2 XC 9am (don’t forget headbands!!)

Someone’s drawn a skull next to cross-country, almost- but-not-quite obscuring a tiny and unmistakable golf printed right at the bottom. 

“See?” says his dad, jabbing a finger at it. 

“Well, just go after the race and take the boys with you,” she says, already fishing out her car keys. 

“But - tee time is at nine! Ellen!” 

“It’d better be a quick race then, hadn’t it?”

She kisses each of them, pinching Jack’s scowling face and adjusting Quinn’s headband. Luke turns his face into her fleeting pat on the cheek before she’s out the door in a waft of perfume.

“Run fast and don’t fall in the lake!” she calls ominously over her shoulder, just before the door swings shut behind her. 

Their dad waits for her SUV to pull out of the drive and down the road before he flicks the curtain back into place and motions for them all to huddle in. 

“Come here, rink rats.” He tugs them in close, lowers his voice like he’s about to reveal some top-secret play. “And listen up. This is the plan.”

***

The plan turns out to be the ODR, a bag of pucks and a cheery, “I’ll pick you up in a coupla hours!” before Luke’s even out of the car. 

Jack whoops with happiness the minute he hits the ice, spinning and sending the pucks scattering in every direction. Quinn’s right behind him, thwacking puck after puck into the net. 

“Fuck.” Thwack “Cross.” Thwack “Countryyyyy.” Thwack

“Forever,” Jack sing-songs, sweeping one up onto his stick and slinging it through the air. It bounces off the metal with a twang.

“C’mon Lukey,” he calls, scuffling playfully against Quinn. “Don’t pretend you actually like that shit.”

Luke tries to sulk for a bit, taking his time with his laces. His brothers hadn't even laced them up for him, which, rude. But it’s a perfect November morning, as crisp and perfect as a snowglobe before you turn it upside down. They’ve got the whole rink to themselves. It’s been way too long since they did this: no adults, no cones or drills or gear, just the three of them together, playing hockey. 

“Yeah, well some of us can actually outrun old ladies pushing little dogs in strollers,” he chirps, darting out into the middle. 

Quinn and Jack exchange a look. “Get ‘im,” growls Quinn, with a wolfish grin, lurching towards Luke and trying to hook him in with his stick. Luke squeals, twisting away and rocketing as fast as he can up to the other end of the rink, Jack in hot pursuit. They chase him all over, dodging pucks and their abandoned sticks and gloves, until they’re all wheezing with giggles. Quinn eventually manages to get an arm around his neck from behind and pull them both down and Jack belly-flops on top. 

“One day,” Luke pants from the bottom of the dogpile, trying to knee Quinn in the balls so he’ll let him up and getting a facewash for his troubles, “I’m gonna be bigger and faster than both of you.” 

“But until that day,” Quinn replies, finally rolling off and tugging Luke to his feet, “You can get in goal.” 

They play shinny until they’re hot under their sweatshirts and jerseys, hair sticking to their foreheads and breath coming in short pants, and Luke thinks he’s never had so much fun playing hockey, playing anything. It’s hard though, just as gut-churning as a whole weekend tournament or relentless drills in the basement with his dad. Jack and Quinn never give an inch, never care that he’s smaller and younger when it comes to this, and he loves them for it, because when victory comes, he knows he’s earned it. They push each other just as hard, sometimes too hard Luke thinks, watching Jack cuss and elbow Quinn in the gut as they're scrabbling against the boards. Quinn shoves his face back, and the next minute they’re rolling around on the ice in one of their completely shitty fistfights. 

Luke hovers next to them, glancing around and praying no one he knows from school is about to walk past. 

“Stop. Trying. To. Bite.” pants out Quinn. He’s managed to roll over and pin Jack with his weight, and is trying to push his face away. Jack’s a slippery eel though - especially when he’s an eel on ice - and he seems to be trying to lick Quinn to get him off. Which is not a tactic Luke would use himself, honestly, but whatever works he guesses. It must work, because he manages to sink his teeth into Quinn’s forearm and they’re rolling all over the place, gloves and sticks forgotten - thank God. What happens next is a blur of flying arms and legs (and in Jack’s case teeth, the weirdo), but suddenly Jack lets out a shriek of pain - a real one - and Quinn lets go of him like he’s been burned. 

Jack curls up, one hand over his mouth, and whimpers into his knees. 

“Jack? What’s wrong?” Quinn tries to make him look up, pull his hand down. Jack’s eyes are huge with unshed tears. “Jackie?” Quinn asks again, really worried now.

“Um,” says Luke. He squats down next to Jack and picks up the little piece of metal off the ice. Cradling it in his glove, he holds it out to Jack, who gazes at it for a moment and then promptly socks Quinn square in the jaw. 

***

“Someone’s arm better be hanging off,” growls their father when he pulls up to the curb they’re huddled next to and flings the car door open. Luke wordlessly holds out the braces to him. “The fuck is that?” 

“Jack’s braces,” mumbles Quinn, with a guilty glance at the unhappy figure hunched on the other side of the lot. 

“Jack has braces?” Sometimes Luke thinks he could grow a tail and his dad wouldn’t notice unless it affected his play. Last week he had to check Quinn’s date of birth so he could fill out some paperwork.

“He doesn’t anymore, Dad,” Luke pipes up. 

“Jack! Get over here!” he bellows. He takes the braces from Luke’s hand, holding them up for a better view. “These things just click back into place or what?” Jack stomps over, scowling and sniffing. He won’t even look at Quinn, and when Quinn tries to reach out his hand Jack smacks it away viciously. 

“Fuck off.”

Their dad gets a handful of Jack’s jersey and tries to prise his mouth open like he’s a dog that’s eaten something bad. “Oww", whines Jack, trying to twist out of his grip. “You’re hurting me!”

“Open. Up.” Their dad grunts, trying to push the braces back across Jack’s front teeth with one hand, and hold him still with the other. 

“Dad, no! Stop!” Quinn pushes himself between them, trying to protect Jack from being force-fed a mouthful of metal. “You can’t do that! We have to go to the orthodontist.”

“The what?” he pants, temporarily letting go of Jack to turn the metal round, as if the reason he couldn’t fit them back on like Lego was that they were upside down. Jack immediately darts behind Quinn and Luke reaches up to swipe them out of their Dad’s hand. 

“Dad,” he says, more bravely than he feels. “I think you need to call Mom.”

The three of them huddle together on the backseat, trying to stay as quiet and inconspicuous as possible as their dad calls their mom for instruction. Luke finds a packet of half-eaten Reese’s pumpkins, no worse for being frozen and unfrozen a few times and settles in for the long-haul. Jack slumps sideways with his head in Quinn’s lap, playing with the strings of his sweatshirt and allowing Quinn to scratch behind his ear in apology.

She’s ominously silent all the way through the slightly edited version of what happened, not even interrupting to yell at Quinn. 

“So let me get this straight,” she says, after a pause. “You didn’t take your sons to their scheduled sports-activity but instead took yourself to golf and allowed said sons out unsupervised to publicly brawl, causing hundreds of dollars of dental bills?” 

“It was on the calendar! It was on the calendar Ellen!” 

“Well Jim Hughes, all I will say is thank God for Canadian healthcare.”

“They cover braces?” says his dad, perking up. He twists round to waggle his eyebrows at them, all looks like we got away with it.

“Oh no,” she says airily. “I meant for you four, when I’ve finished with you!”

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from the likely never-to-be-finished hs au: jack comes out to his brothers

Quinn’s still sulking as they brush their teeth side by side over the room’s tiny sink. He’d tossed Jack a tiny AirCanada toothbrush and a t-shirt and shorts. Jack pulls them on, not even protesting that the t-shirt’s got a Cardinals logo, which means he’s probably wearing Brady Tkackuk’s clothes or worse.

“Becks is staying at his girl’s tonight,” he says shortly, leaning out to plug his phone in. “So, you can have his bed.”

Jack frowns. “I’m not sleeping on some rando’s sheets. Shove over.” Quinn scowls but slides over to the wall.

“No,” Jack gives up arguing and clambers right over him to wedge himself between Quinn and the wall. He burrows under the blankets, wriggling and rotating like a rotisserie chicken until he’s all bundled up the way he likes. Quinn huffs but Jack can’t take him seriously when his tacky lights make him look like that purple lizard from Monsters Inc.

Jack tugs him down and shoves his face into Quinn’s shoulder. “What would mom and dad say if I fell out and cracked my head open on your nasty Ikea shelf? All their hopes for a top-three draft pick, gone.” He snaps his fingers and giggles.

“Probably, that you shouldn’t have rocked up in the middle of the night in the first place?”

“Mmph.” He rubs his cheek against Quinn’s t-shirt like a cat. “Maybe I just wanted to see the world’s first college dorm room without a single book in it.”

Quinn thumps him. “I have a book, asshole. Somewhere.”

Jack leans over him precariously, one hand balanced on Quinn’s chest, to peer across the darkened room. That might be a textbook moonlighting as a dinner tray. “Not on the bookshelf.”

Quinn tugs him down into his arms and squeezes him in a headlock-hug like a boa constrictor. “That’s my protein powder shelf.” Jack struggles manfully for a few seconds, then gives up, sinking bonelessly against Quinn. Oof. His brother really is getting strong.

They lie there for a few minutes, and Jack thinks Quinn must’ve fallen asleep when he pipes up: “So what’s really going on? Nobody buys that bullshit about college.”

Jack’s silent for a moment, chewing his thumb. Quinn’s patient, petting absently though Jack’s hair. He’s always been able to wait Jack out.

“It’s kinda big,” he admits eventually.

“Okay?” Quinn hasn’t stopped stroking his head, which sort of makes Jack want to cry.

He swallows, and whispers, “I’m scared you’re gonna hate me.”

Quinn’s quiet for a second, then: “That could never happen, bud.”

Jack has to take a few deep breaths, and wipe his nose on Brady’s t-shirt, before he can swallow past the huge lump in his throat and mumble almost inaudibly into Quinn’s shoulder:

“I think I like guys. A guy.”

For a few, heartbreaking, seconds Quinn doesn’t say anything. Then, Jack feels the shoulder underneath him start to shake. He pulls back to look at Quinn, terrified. But Quinn is, he’s - laughing? Jack blinks at him, and an unshed tear wobbles dangerously, then rolls down his cheek.

Quinn stops laughing, but he’s still smiling. He reaches up and wipes Jack’s cheeks with the corner of his top sheet. “Hey. Jackie, buddy, look at me, okay? Is that all this is about? You might be gay?”

“Yes?” Jack’s still so confused but he lets Quinn pull him back down so they’re lying nose to nose on the nice memory foam pillow.

“I’m just relieved, is all. Dude, I thought you were going to say something really serious!”

“It is serious,” Jack pulls back slightly, affronted. “I’m having a crisis here!”

“Well there’s your first problem, you’re having a sexuality crisis here,” Quinn giggles. “That’s what training camp is for!” He pauses. “Is this about Zegras?”

“No. No one from Plymouth.”

“Okay?”

Jack’s pointedly silent but Quinn just snorts. “Well you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. If you’re not ready.” Quinn pushes himself up one elbow and stares down at Jack. “You were really scared I would take it badly.” He says it slowly, like it’s not a question. “That I would hate you? For real?”

“No? No, I just-, I didn’t know, I guess. I haven’t told anyone else.”

“Not mom and dad?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

Quinn assesses him, clearly thinking. “I really think they’ll be fine, dude. They’re liberal people. And they love you to bits.”

Jack rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling, considering.

“You’d probably have to like, murder someone for mom to be disappointed with you.” Quinn trails off, and they let the unspoken rest of that sentence linger between them. “Dad is dad,” he continues after a beat, “He might take a while to come around, but he’ll love you just as much. You know that right?”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“How do you think they’d react if it was me or Lukie?”

It’s different, Jack wants to say. But maybe it’s not, not really.

He rolls over, pushing his face into Quinn’s chest, hoping he can convey all the overwhelming love, and how fucking grateful he is that of all the people in the world he gets Quinn as his big brother.

Quinn gives him another of his patent suffocating hugs and pretends not to notice Jack wiping his eyes again on his t-shirt.

“So college makes you smart, huh?” Jack sniffles, when can trust himself to speak.

Quinn just hmms pulls the blankets right up round their shoulders and wraps an arm around Jack’s shoulder, tucking him close like always done, ever since they were little kids and Jack had nightmares, or didn’t want to admit he was scared of the dark, or later, when he was upset, or worried about a game, or just plain bored and in need of entertainment.

Jack can tell he’s grinning in the dark when Quinn whispers: “Yeah, dude. Just watch out for all the books.”

***

In the end, as always, his mom sees straight through Luke and she’s up waiting for him when he shuffles in at four a.m. the next morning.

But in the end, as always, Quinn saves the day by making up some bullshit about Jack stressing out about a trig test and needing help. It’s double bullshit because Quinn is currently failing his freshman stats class, and anyone would pay not to be tutored by him, but their mom lets it drop.

Jack hides his Datsyuk jersey under his mattress and has to buy Luke off with a giant slushie and an entire gas card top-up’s worth of sour candy, which they immediately fall upon in Jack’s car like a pair of sugar-crazed raccoons.

“You know, I don’t think mom and dad would be mad,” Luke says conversationally once they’re surrounded by empty plastic wrappers. He shakes his drink, trying to hoover up the last bit of flavored ice.

Jack’s heart suddenly starts thumping in a way that has nothing to do with all the high-fructose corn syrup he’s just ingested. “Mad about what?”

“Nico.” He gives up and pulls the lid off, crunching up a mouthful of ice. Jack cringes. “He’s really nice and mom kept going on about how polite he was at dinner.” Luke wipes his mouth on his sleeve and considers the snowy lot, as if he’s actually thinking about it. “Like, sure it might be hard to accept at first, but they’ll come around.”

Jack stares at him. “Have you been talking to Quinn?” Luke has a phone, but as far as Jack knew, it’s only ever used to send memes and bottle flipping videos.

Luke shrugs, and stuffs a handful of candy into his mouth. “No, I just have eyes,” he grunts, or at least that’s what it sounds like through half a bag of Sour Patch Kids. Jack grimaces. Luke chomps his candy and swallows. “I’m just saying, even if he doesn’t play hockey, they’ll still love you.”

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warm winter tones

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Hi stephanie,

I hope this email finds you, as the search and rescue team is otherwise completely out of ideas

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hello kitty and gaspard et lisa by georg hallensleben