The silky polyester cloth is defiled— marred, crusted with white smears and harder dark blotches. The mixture of blood and cum tack onto each other, tangling together in woven webs until Adam forces them apart.

Adam promised he’d return the sweatshirt to Skeeter himself. His palm drags against the silk, wiping his mess off his fingertips. It’s clammy, and damp, like his palms, he swallows— tries to, but his throat aches.

“Fuck,” He mutters, sucking on his teeth as his breath leaves him in a sharp huff.

It’s disgusting, unforgivable. Nothing short of _abhorrent_. And yet, he can’t stop. He doesn’t even try.

Skeeter lingers in his mind like a parasite, infecting the softest parts of himself. His very existence gnaws unforgivingly at Adam, like cold fingers clawing into his skin.

His teeth grind together as the thought of Skeeter touching what slithers through his mind, sharp and unbearable. It isn’t fair. _It’s not fucking fair. _He takes and takes, never caring who’s left hollow in his wake. And Adam— Adam is the one stuck in the wreckage, left wanting what he could never, _ever_ have.

He presses the sweatshirt to his face, his fist balled tightly as if it’d be snatched away at any moment. He inhales, slow and sharp. Despite the mess, It still smells like him.

“Look at what _you’ve done to me_. This is all your _fault_.” He blames him. In the dark of his room, where nobody could hear him sigh, he touched himself, imagining what it’d be like to be Skeeter—the cool clothes, the shiny hair, the perfect face. The way girls giggle and bat their eyes at him, even when what he says isn’t the least bit funny.

*God*— if Adam could get his hands on him he’d—

He choked out a groan, his fist dragging the sweatshirt tighter against his nose as his hips jerked upward. The scent floods his senses, and in the next breath, he comes—warm, sticky ribbons streaking his stomach.

He grits his teeth, shoving the sweatshirt away as if it burned him. This wasn’t enough. It never was.