Jensen's house sits on a quiet street in a upper-middle-class neighborhood, the kind of place where lawns are mowed but not manicured, where cars in driveways are practical rather than flashy. Inside, the living room had been transformed for the Halloween party. The furniture's been shoved against walls that are papered with outdated floral print, creating a makeshift dance floor on the worn hardwood. Orange and purple string lights cast everything in a sickly glow. Fake cobwebs stretch across the doorways, and plastic skeletons dangle from the popcorn ceiling, seemingly bouncing and dancing along to the booming trap music. Empty beer cans litter every surface, and someone had already puked in the corner by the stairs.
Keagan weaves through the crowd like he's made of liquid sex, the white bed sheet draped over one of his shoulders and pinned at his hip with a safety pin in a lazy attempt at a toga. That's it, that's the whole costume, nothing underneath - no underwear, no modesty, just his tattooed body barely covered by fabric that threatens to slip away with every little movement. Full sleeves of cheap tattoos extending down his sides to his hips, hand tattoos with finger ink visible when he raises his arms above his head, his neck is completely covered in even more tattoos. His long dark hair is pulled into its usual messy bun, the braided rat tail swinging against his bare shoulder blade.
He rolls his hips in time with the bass, his hands threading through his hair as his head falls back. The sheet rides up to expose the defined V of his Adonis belt, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the hem. When he drops low, his thighs spreading wide, the sheet barely maintains decency - the outline of his bare cock visible through the thin fabric for a split second. He rises slowly, rolling his spine vertebra by vertebra making every muscle in his lean torso visible.
Jensen tries to get close, dressed in a firefighter costume that probably cost way more than it should have. The volleyball player moves to reach for Keagan's waist with his large, strong hands in an attempt to aggressively push him from center stage.
Keagan spins away, wheezing out a sharp wild sound that suggests he's probably already three drinks and two joints deep. "Nah, Jennay," he drawls, shoving Jensen back with one hand flat against his chest. "You ain't my type tonight, baby."
Jensen grins, totally unbothered, and simply turns to grab some girl in a sexy nurse costume instead. Rafael Barba appears at his elbow, devil horns askew on his head, the red leather costume clinging to his lean swimmer's build. His colorful red and blue dreadlocks swing as he leans in to say something that makes Jensen laugh. The two of them disappear toward the kitchen, probably to raid the liquor stash again.
Dante Castillo lingers near the snack table, dressed in an angel costume that hangs awkwardly on his compact, densely muscled frame. White wings droop from his shoulders and a crooked halo is perched on his buzz cut. His tired blue eyes keep darting toward the door like he's figuring out escape routes, his fingers pick nervously at the veggie tray.
Vaughn shouldn't even be here. The lanky goalie got kicked from the sports club a month ago, relegated to the homework club with the nerds. But there he is near the sliding glass door in what might be a wizard costume - purple robes that look like a thrift store bathrobe, a pointed hat covered in glued-on stars, carrying a painted stick that he's trying to pass off as a magic wand. His lazy eye makes it hard to tell where he's looking, but his body language screams uncomfortable as he nurses a beer, occasionally waving his "wand" at people and muttering under his breath.
Otto's passed out on the couch already, sprawled across the cushions in just jeans and an unbuttoned flannel. His short brown hair sticks up at odd angles, one arm dangling off the edge with his phone clutched loosely in his hand. Someone's already drawn a dick on his forehead in Sharpie.
Keagan angles his body, making sure every thrust of his hips, every arch of his back, and every time his hands slide down his own tattooed chest is visible from one particular vantage point across the room. He hooks his thumbs into the sheet and drops it lower on his hips, exposing more ink, more skin, and the deep V-cut leading down to his groin. The prince albert piercing through his cock creates a visible bump beneath the thin fabric when he grinds against the air.
He spins and backs up against some random partygoer, grinding his ass against them for exactly three beats before spinning away when they try to grab him. His movements are the kind of body control that comes from fucking more than working out.
"Fuckin' look at that try-hard motherfucker," Ewan mutters from his position against the wall near the makeshift bar setup on the dining table. A red Solo cup dangling from his fingers. He's wearing what might be called a costume - a ripped flannel with "LUMBERJACK" scrawled across the back in Sharpie, fake blood splattered across the front from a squeeze bottle. His other hand fidgets with his truck keys against his belt loop. "Terry standin’ there like his dick don't stink."
Terrance Mendoza leans against the kitchen doorway, hockey-honed muscle poured into a firefighter costume identical to Jensen's. His blue eyes track across the room. The broken nose, the scar cutting across it, the heavy stubble framing full lips - he's got that whole damaged pretty boy thing going on. He's not dancing, not drinking, or talking to anyone.
"Dude's so far up his own ass he could taste what he ate three days ago," Tristan drawls beside Ewan, taking a pull from a bottle of cheap beer. His Liquid Chris costume is disturbingly accurate - striped shirt, backwards visor, that particular vacant expression perfected with makeup. He even got the soul patch right. "Hockey cuck probably thinks being brooding and mysterious is attractive. That's some delusional shit...normies think they can just exist and people will want them...it's over."
Lars stands next to him in an identical striped shirt and visor, the Sonichu medallion hanging around his neck on a cheap chain instead of his usual silver. His albinism gives the costume a distinctly uncanny valley effect. His white hair sticking out from under the backwards cap, with his eyes glowing almost red in the party lights - he looks like Chris Chan's ghost. He still doesn't know who the fuck he's supposed to be, just went along with it because Tristan said it would be funny and handed him the medallion an hour before the party.
"What're we even doing here?" Lars asks, his affected street accent creeping in as he adjusts the stupid medallion. "This is normie central. Buncha Chads and Staceys humping each other to shitty music."
"Keagan's business, we follow," Ewan says flatly, then takes a long drink. His eyes haven't left Terrance. "Besides, heard some interesting shit about Mr. Perfect over there."
"Oh yeah?" Tristan's bloodshot gaze shifts to Terrance. "Spill."
"Hockey douche's got a crush," Ewan responds with a cruel edge. "On vous."
"No fuckin' way," Larsen breathes out, then a grin spreads across his face. "Oh, that's too good. That's too fuckin' good."
"Right?" Ewan's laugh is harsh and bitter. He drains half his cup. "Captain fuckin' America thinks he's got a shot."
"Mendoza's probably got some white knight fetish," Tristan adds, that monotone voice somehow making his words worse before scoffing. "Thinking being nice matters. That's cope. Pure cope. Meanwhile Chads like him usually just take what they want anyway...it's over for respectcels."
"Oh fuck, he's got it bad," Lars observes with delight. “Wonder how much he’ll hate it when we get to them first.” The statement functioned like a silent command that brought the mismatched group of four heading towards one very unlucky partygoer.
