#like look at Benji and his judgmental stares

[day0walkersdrafts]

Xavier realizes he’s nervous when someone bumps into him and he fucking jumps. Makes a noise and everything, a small yelp of surprise that causes him to almost throw his cell phone. The stranger whose shoulder had grazed Xavier’s gives him a judgmental eyeful before tucking herself closer to her small children—which doesn’t help the nerves. One of them stares up at him owlishly, a crust of snot around their nostril. Xavier takes a step away from them as well. His hands sweat, clammy and slick, as he shoves them into his pockets, along with his phone.

He’s waiting for that text. The ‘just landed’ text, but staring at his phone isn’t going to make it magically appear. Or make him less nervous.

Which he shouldn’t be—except, it’s just—it’s that he hasn’t seen Benji in two months. And Xavier thinks when he does see him again, right in front of him, physically present and not just a little image on his phone, he might lose his mind.

They figured out quickly that they don’t do long distance well. Benji had just kept Xavier after their first tour together ended; took him straight home with him, practically until their next one started up. So for a while, it almost didn’t even feel long distance—only this time, between Ratspit’s Summer tour and their Spring one, Xavier couldn’t just go to the UK. He had a downtown Boston apartment that needed rent paid every first of the month—he had bills. He had a job, off tour, that he needed to keep.

Sort of. He sat in a booth at night and watched security cameras for a museum. Walked through the long halls in semi darkness with a flashlight to make sure nothing was amiss. No little characters come to life, or cat burglars dropping from spotlights in the ceiling. Felt cinematic almost, cliche in a way that was sort of endearing. Wes Anderson like, until he had to sit there and stare at the clock and realize he was lonely.

Really, really lonely.

Not just for Benji; but he couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t…mostly for Benji. But the first year of touring with The Band had been, arguably, the best year of his life (was that sad?). Even when it was draining or stressful or frustrating—or he’d slammed his head on a concrete barrier and had to get stitches and now had a scar he could still run his fingers over. Xavier missed them. He missed Lark’s hovering concern, or Matilda’s gentle fingers brushing through his hair to trim off the sides.

Xavier missed being kissed at random times, when there was a spare moment. A small, stolen thing back stage (and Benji laughing against his lips as he had to walk backward to the starting line, drum sticks in his hands). He missed having to plug his ears and smile at Tino when the music was getting louder and louder and louder—and the older man smiling back at him (paternal, soft, kind). He missed eating an entire large pizza with Benny, Maran perched over his shoulder, darting for slices.

Xavier even missed Mouse—who messaged him frequently on Instagram, terrifying memes he couldn’t decipher. But that she sent them at all, the soft reminder that she was thinking of him, made his heart hurt anyway.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. The vibration feels loud and his hand’s weak and fumbling as he pulls it out. The screen is cracked in the corner, a winding splinter down the front. Benji stares at him from his lockscreen, his eyes crinkled mid laugh. His hair is wild and Xavier’s pale hand is pushing it back. He’d taken it on the tour bus, after show, when Benji was exhausted, but still offering him a grin. Would always save one for him, no matter how tired he was. It was a little blurry and the aspect ratio fit horribly on his phone—and he didn’t care. It was his favorite photo.

He looks at the notification, his chest feeling tighter and tighter. Somehow lighter.

Just landed.

—

All the anxiety seems to swell up inside his chest and pop when he sees Benji in the crowd.

His eyes don’t have to search hard to locate his boyfriend; not because Benji is obvious. Because he’s not. He’s in a faded, fraying hooded sweatshirt, his crazy waves of black hair sprouting out from underneath like little snakes, sunglasses on and headphones around his neck. To anyone else maybe he’d blend in with the rest of the sleepy crowd, not unique or special. Maybe nothing about him would stand out in sharp contrast, or everyone was just looking for their person. But to Xavier, his chest pulls in one heavy breath and his gaze swings slightly left and Benji is just there.

Magnetic pull.

Boston Logan International is deafeningly loud around them, throngs of people crowding together as happy families reunite, or businessmen dart through the crowd on cellphones, talking above the undercurrent buzz of noise. It feels distant to Xavier when he steps forward and his hand falls directly to Benji’s hip. It feels like being underwater, like waves keep crashing down on him, pulling him under somewhere. Airports have always felt liminal; awkward junctions between real places. Standing in front of Benji for the first time in so long, yeah. It doesn’t necessarily feel real. But it feels so right.

He watches Benji pull off the sunglasses and lean forward until his chin is touching Xavier’s sternum—and he stares up at him, with tired brown eyes that blink softly and slowly.

“Hi.”

“Holy shit, I missed you so much,” Xavier blathers out, his other hand cupping Benji’s cheek. His heart kickstarts with an aggressive thump when Benji leans into it, flutters his eyes closed and sighs out, long and slow. Xavier’s hand slips back behind the nape of his neck and then suddenly they’re hugging. Just hugging. No dramatic reunion kiss, slow motion in the middle of the airport, move scene worthy. He’s just got his arms around Benji, who loops his own around Xavier’s waist.

Xavier does sneak one poke of his nose into the wild mess of black hair hair, nuzzling until Benji laughs at him.

—

They do kiss on the elevator ride up to Xavier’s apartment, however. Long, slow, lazy kisses that keep making Benji sigh whenever their lips part. Xavier’s hands become possessive paws enclosed around Benji’s hips, height difference making him hunch. Sometimes, Benji will rise up on his toes, arms slung around Xavier’s shoulders, in an attempt to close that gap. But Xavier pushes him down, pushes him to the elevator wall instead and continues kissing, as if neither of them need air.

And they get distracted by the push and pull of each others bodies, the warm press of their mouths together, their tongues and constant roaming hands—because the elevator dings on Xavier’s floor. The doors open. Then close. It brings them right down to the lobby again and Xavier finally pulls away, panting as he slaps the number eight on the panel of buttons. Benji’s mouth touches under his jaw, a warm laugh tickling across his skin and making him feel buoyant. Lighter than air. In love.

When they do finally get out of the elevator, Xavier hefts one of Benji’s bags up over his shoulder. It isn’t everything—apparently some of it is getting shipped straight to Lark, who organizes the tour bus. But enough to carry him through the month (the entire thirty one days) they’ll have together. The significant weight of Benji’s clothes and personal items feels metaphorical almost, strap of the duffle bag straining down his shoulder a little.

“I have a surprise,” Xavier says, subconsciously tucking Benji’s hair behind his ears as he pauses outside his apartment door. He still looks jet lagged, sleep clinging to him in the slow way he blinks. But he looks content, if not tired. He looks dreamy and subdued, with a little tilt of a smile to his slightly kiss swollen lips. It makes Xavier feel like tearing into him, pushing him against the wall again and devouring him in more places than just the mouth. Instead he fishes out his keys and unlocks the door.

“M’gonna trip,” Benji weakly complains with a laugh as Xavier loops his hands around his eyes.

“No, no, I got you.”

They do that comical sort of dance into the apartment, moving together like a strange four legged beast as Benji’s hands touch Xavier’s forearms. The duffle bag drops from his shoulder and onto the floor and Xavier nudges it with a foot toward his couch. For a moment, he thinks to be self conscious of his place. It’s not big. It’s a downtown, one bedroom and he’s shoved all his things inside it haphazardly.

The coffee table has a gun magazine that he panics over, thinking he should have stowed somewhere. And there’s an embarrassing amount of rubber ducks across his entertainment center, no two the same design. His hockey gear should have been put away, but instead leans in a corner, because his closet has most of his winter things packed up, so he has no other place. It’s neat, at least, because he keeps things clean habitually, but it’s filled to the brim.

So, he really shouldn’t have bought the drum kit.

“Tada!” Xavier hops around Benji, dropping his hands and standing in front of it. The massive things been shoved into the awkward space between his bedroom and the tiny kitchen that doesn’t get much use. “I figured—if you’re here for a month, maybe you’d want to practice.” He settles down onto the stool, picking up drum sticks. “It’s not as satisfying as a real kit, but I couldn’t get anything loud. Apartment complex and all.” He twirls one of the sticks in his hand (just like how he’s seen Benji do a hundred times over), only to send it flying across the room.

“Uh, still learning.” Xavier’s cheeks go red hot as he tucks the other one back into place. But Benji is silent in a way that makes Xavier perk up like he’s being loud. He blinks a few times before inhaling sharply and standing.

“Oh. Oh—Benji,” he says softly, striding forward. His foot lands on the drum stick he’d just tossed and it rolls underneath his heel, sending him nearly careening backward with comical pinwheeling arms. Only Benji catches him by the shirt and immediately pulls him closer. Xavier makes a soft huff of a sound when their bodies crash together.

“Menace,” Benji sniffs, the tears making his eyes look glassy, but beautiful. His brows are upturned, pulled in, creating a little line that Xavier wants to kiss away. His hands come up, cup Benji’s cheeks how they always seem to do. He feels like he has no control over that gesture, like his body works on it’s own accord when this man is around him. It’s a dizzying feeling, like he’s swept into currents that are peaceful and warm and soothing. His thumb brushes a tear that manages to escape, wiping it away before Benji’s forehead tucks against his sternum.

He sniffs again, hard and Xavier smiles to himself as he kisses the top of Benji’s head.

—

When the pizza arrives, he has to run down and get it, because the buzzer to the apartment building never seems to work. Benji’s left on the couch, sprawled out with some shitty action movie playing in the background. Xavier has to be normal about the amount of glances he gives him before leaving—catching Benji smiling on the last quick look before he’s out. Xavier bounces on the heels of his sneakers the whole ride down, a smile pulling at his cheeks until he tries to tamper it down—just for it to spring back on anyway.

And he’s running on auto pilot a bit as he stops by the neighbor across from him. His scarred up knuckles rap slightly on the door and Mrs. Fisher answers with a plate already in hand. Her fat tabby cat winds in and out of her legs before winding in and out of Xavier’s as well, tail flicking across his calves. He bends slightly, doing a balancing act with the pizza to scratch the old cats head a little.

“My, my, Xavier,” Mrs. Fisher says in her tiny old lady voice. She blinks behind her giant rectangular glasses, smiling up at him. The cat makes a demanding sound that goes unanswered by her owner. “That’s a lot of pizza for just you.” She’s gesturing with the plate to the two boxes in his hands. He quickly sets them down on the ground (and the cat tries to get at it immediately, so he has to tuck her under an arm) and goes about opening one. He crouches, smiling up at her. As he kneels, she’s about the same height as him anyway.

“Uh, I have company actually.” She holds the plate out as he slips two slices onto it for her. The tabby meows again. Xavier tucks his knuckles to his jaw and smiles, feeling his cheeks go warm again, feeling that smile going too wide again. The cats tail smacks at his side. “My boyfriend is visiting.” The cat gets out of his arm and darts into the apartment, meowing on every stomp of her paws. As he slowly stands and picks up the two large pizzas Mrs. Fisher beams.

“No more lonely holidays for you!” She says, patting his arm with her tiny, wrinkled hand. “Does he cook? I’ll never have to make a Christmas casserole again.”

“You don’t have to do that to begin with, Mrs. Fisher.”

“And you don’t have to share your pizza with me,” she says, slowly tottering into her apartment. “But you do every time!” Xavier closes the door for her, the pizza boxes nearly upending before he catches them and stumbles back to his own apartment.

—

“Why am I not surprised that you’re the tallest one?” Benji taps a finger on glossy paper, snickering as Xavier leans to look. They sit (or lay, rather) on the couch, half tangled—satiated from the pizza and comfortably high from the joint that Xavier had pre-rolled hours before the plane had even landed. One of Benji’s legs splays across his lap, the other underneath. Xavier’s laying sideways, arms folded around his boyfriends thick torso, head against his bicep. He’s tucked comfortably between Benji’s body and the cushions, in a way that squeezes him soothingly.

The yearbook is propped up on Benji’s thigh, an embarrassing relic he’d managed to yank out of a box in his closet for no reason—other than he was high, both on marijuana and the intoxication of time alone with Benji. The picture in question has Xavier lined up with all the other wrestlers, but he is almost a head taller than his awkward, teenage peers. He’s also distractingly pale and his hair is more orange in the terrible early 2000’s photo.

“I was six-three by junior year,” Xavier says proudly, grinning toothily up at Benji. He turns a little and the yearbook slaps to the floor because no hands are holding it any longer. Both of Benji’s have found their way into his hair making his eyes roll close. They’d smoked hours ago, so it’s wearing down, but the body high feels comfortable. Benji’s fingers work softly and make him sigh.

“Thanks for letting me stay, Xavier.”

His eyes pop open and blink rapidly, brows digging in as he looks up from his awkward angle.

“What do you mean?” Benji laughs, air through the nose sort, not the real laugh Xavier loves getting from him. And Xavier is high so he might be wrong, but there’s some sort of self conscious set to Benji’s lips, his teeth tucking against his bottom lip. His eyes, glassy from the weed seem to skate off him and toward the drum kit and then back before he closes them and puts his hand on his forehead.

He doesn’t want Benji to answer then; to have to pull out words that might be difficult to find. Xavier inches his way up, pulling Benji’s body as he does until they’re even. Face to face at the very least. Xavier tucks his lips against Benji’s bearded jaw, giving it a soft peck. He works his way up, listening to the stutter in Benji’s breathing. Hands fist into his shirt as he moves those kisses back down instead, to his neck. Xavier kisses a little harder, little more part to his lips.

“Always gonna be a place for you, Benji.”

The hands in his shirt move into his hair than, tugging him. They kiss once more, pressed together on the couch. Xavier thinks of moving those kisses south, thinks of getting Benji’s belt off and zipper down. Thinks of ways he can say I want you with more than just words, but they keep kissing instead. They kiss and kiss, until they’re panting and they’re tired and Xavier has to pull away and whisper bedroom to get Benji just to move off the couch.

—

The next day, Xavier let’s Benji sleep in.

He wakes up earlier than he means to, because the sunlight catches his eyes, startles him to consciousness from the dream he’d been having. Sharing the bed puts him on the other side of the mattress, the side that’s usually empty (the side he’d been looking at, nightly, wondering if Benji would fit there, just for Benji to steal the portion of the bed Xavier usually sleeps on), so the part of his curtains lets a shard of sunlight hit him directly in the face at seven in the morning. And once he’s up, Xavier is just up.

So he cleans, because that keeps his hands busy. Not that the two of them had made any sort of mess of his apartment the night prior. Benji’s shoes are two separate areas of the living room, because he’d kicked them off. Xavier gathers them and chucks them next to his own by the door before he jogs over and puts them right. The pizza boxes get taken to the trash chute and the cups they’d used to drink from get put in the sink until he stares at them long enough he rinses and dries them. Xavier thinks to roll another joint until he wanders his way back into the bedroom.

Xavier realizes he doesn’t want weed or to clean, or to distract himself any longer with either of those. He wants to crawl back into the bed. Xavier wants to be with Benji so bad it feels like there’s a hook around his spine dragging him forward. But there’s also something so incredibly special about Benji asleep in his bed, that he doesn’t want to ruin it.

They’d not had sex last night; Benji had fallen asleep almost immediately once he was down on the mattress. Xavier had even helped him out of his jeans and shirt. Jet lag, or prolonged lack of sleep to begin with, or the weed. Or safety. Comfort. Love. Xavier’s brain blinks a few times, like someone is throwing the light switch on and off as he looks at Benji curled up. He sleeps like that if Xavier doesn’t intervene. A hand tucked under his cheek, the other arm around his torso. Knees raised, spine bent.

So Xavier gets into the bed again, determined. But careful, so he doesn’t wake the drummer. His side rises and falls in a beautiful, soothing rhythm. He wants to flatten his hand there, feel both the cadence of his breathing and his warm, brown skin. Instead he hovers a little, hands on either side of Benji’s unconscious form.

In the tender, vulnerable morning light that splashes across Xavier’s bed, across Xavier’s lover, he tries to recall ever feeling like this. It’s not that Benji is the first person he’s ever felt for. There have been others; but it’s like having a headache—and then not having a headache. Not being able to conjure the idea of pain without being in pain. Xavier can’t remember what love felt prior to this moment, prior to gently taking Benji’s shoulders and moving him so he’s flat on his back.

He can’t ever remember wanting someone as much as he wants Benji, though he must have, at some point. There must have been someone else he looked at and loved, with his whole heart beating through his chest. Pumping electrified blood through his veins. There must have been. There couldn’t have been. It’s just not possible that Xavier has ever felt this way before; he would remember. So it’s new—and a little terrifying. Like the peak of a roller coaster, or leaning out of a boat with his fingers skimming the water and his grandfather telling him to be careful. It is so scary and so exhilarating.

“Xavier?” Benji breathes in, voice sleep husky.

“Sh,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to Benji’s temple. He presses more down his cheek to his neck. “Sh,” he continues, his hands brushing up and down warm sides. He can feel the way they expand and contrast on a heavy, deep breath. Benji’s soft ‘mmnh’ in his sleep. His hand raises, slips tiredly across Xavier’s chest and then tucks itself underneath Benji’s chin. He watches his eyelids fluttering.

Xavier continues kissing.

He feels a spike of something that tastes like guilt. Something like worry, that he’s being soft and slow and deliberate, that he’s not trying to wake Benji up. That he likes looking at him, sleepy like this, likes kissing his collarbone and hearing a tired sigh. It’s not that Xavier wants Benji asleep—not that he’d ever cross some boundary, that clearly defined line that everyone recognizes. It’s just that Benji asleep feels so special, in a way that he can’t articulate.

Comfortable. Safe. Loved.

Xavier’s teeth touch the skin of Benji’s pectoral. He bites gently and feels his own moan winding through his throat. Unable to stop it, he half silences it by sealing his mouth there. Tongue appreciating the taste of Benji’s skin. The blankets rustle, hands touch his shoulders, fall down his forearms. Xavier doesn’t stop, sucks a mark there and continues on. His mouth moves until he presses a sweet, soft kiss to a nipple. Benji makes a sound then, a soft inhale.

“You’re so beautiful, Benji,” Xavier whispers, his warm breath pressed right against the other mans skin. His tongue flattens, touches Benji’s nipple. He wedges his knees to either side of Benji’s thighs as he continues, teasing bites. His other hand moves, up and down, up and down, a steady rhythm over Benji’s shivering side. Xavier’s open mouth and hot tongue travel once more, to the other neglected side.

He spares a glance to Benji, whose face has pinched with pleasure, but his eyes remain close. His chest draws in heavier, harder. Xavier drags his tongue up, memorizes the taste of Benji’s morning warmed skin.

“Do you know that?” The whispered reply is only Xavier’s name, softly spoken, barely a mumble. He presses another kiss to the corner of Benji’s mouth, subduing him. His legs cage him more, his hands brushing over Benji’s neck and down his shoulders. “Do you know you’re the most beautiful fucking person alive?” Benji’s arm slings around his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin. His eyes blink open a few times so Xavier softly lays a hand across them. He kisses him, parts his lips with his tongue.

They kiss, with Xavier’s hand over Benji’s eyes, with Benji’s arm slung around Xavier’s shoulders, until they’re both breathing hard. And then Xavier is tearing away. He’s moving faster, hurried as his palm slaps at his beside table. He feels Benji’s lips on his chest, on his shoulder. No, stay asleep, he thinks wickedly, his breathing heavy and hard as he jerks open the drawer to the table. Sleep and let me make you feel good, wake up feeling good, wake up safe in my bed, feeling good. He blinks rapidly, drawing away and looking down.

Benji lays beneath him, a hand looped around the back of Xavier’s neck. His eyes are barely cracked open, brown pools that feel hypnotizing. Xavier could fall into them—keep falling. Just never fucking stop. He cups Benji’s cheek again, his thumb brushing over his lips until he parts them with the digit and feels Benji’s tongue touch his skin. He moans then, eyes falling shut as he leans forward.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” he whispers.

“M’not awake,” Benji replies and Xavier’s spit slick thumb brushes out his mouth, down his chin. Benji’s eyes close again, his back arching up a little as he adjusts and gets comfortable. His head tilts back, bares his beautiful, brown throat. Xavier kisses there, hungrily, so it’s messy when he starts to lube fingers because he’s not even looking. Benji shivers when the cool liquid drips on his stomach, makes a throaty sort of laugh that has Xavier’s mouth going harder. There will be little bruises there, from his teeth and lips that will linger for days.

It becomes something languid then, something warm and unhurried. Xavier’s knee parts Benji’s easily, his hand between his thighs. He likes watching, but his eyes stay up inside, watch the graceful curve of Benji’s brows when he’s penetrated.

“I missed you,” he admits through the amber hued lethargic foreplay. Benji’s heavy breathing become pants, shallow and quicker than the movement of Xavier’s wrist and fingers. He makes a desperate and high sound when another finger joins the first and his body twists upward. Xavier merely uses his other hand to flatten him back down. “I thought about you every night.” He hears his name again, in that sleep soaked tone. Xavier’s lips travel across Benji’s chest again, leaving marks everywhere he can.

All at once, he pulls away—leaves Benji gasping, making a whining sound, like don’t go, but he can’t focus on that. Instead he grabs Benji by the hips and turns him over. He doesn’t mean to make it that fast, definitely not that rough, but Benji’s hands are reaching out, grabbing at a pillow. Xavier breathes heavy against the nape of Benji’s neck, his hands flexing and curling around his waist. He bites once more, and that whine is back in Benji’s voice.

“I want you,” Xavier manages to slur out, moving his teeth. He finds a shoulder blade, biting, and kissing again. He’s only barely managed to yank his own sweatpants down—barely even registered that he had.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Benji moans out, his voice muffled because he’s facing the pillow he’d grabbed. His body curves, inviting and beautiful. Xavier’s eyes drag down his spine, lower. His hand fists his own erection, his body shivering at the sensation of lube and skin. “Give—fuck—I want it, Xavier.”

His name is almost cut off because Xavier gives it then—a shallow thrust, a slow start. It makes Benji’s head snap backward, his back arching more. Xavier’s hand flattens down his spine, his face burying into Benji’s hair. He murmurs something loving, something soft and barely there as his hips thrust forward again, as he feels Benji’s body. He cuts his own words in half with a moan and then a throaty laugh. Both is fists brace onto the bed on either side of Benji as he lays there, on his stomach, prone and under Xavier.

And that starts slow too, just as the foreplay had. Starts with Xavier rolling his body forward and Benji bracing back. Every thrust gets him deeper, makes Benji’s legs splay further, accepting. His arms stay wrapped around a pillow, face into the fabric as Xavier continues. His own face stays buried into those dark curls, his breathing harder. It stays that way for a minute, until Benji turns his face to the side. And the mere glimpse of one of his eyes, rolling slightly from the sensation of Xavier fucking deeper makes it hard to stay fucking sane.

I want to see more, he thinks, the only rational thought he can manage when his hand sinks into Benji’s hair. Maybe he means to continue slow, or for it to be romantic—soft? Instead, his hand jerks Benji’s head back, elicits a loud whimper that practically echoes in his bedroom. His fingers curl, tighten to hold his head still so he can look at Benji’s face. The way his jaw drops, his eyes roll up and close, squeeze shut. Xavier’s body bucks forward at the mere sight of that pleasure and Benji whimpers again. His hands slap against the wall. Xavier realizes all of his weight is pressed down, trapping Benji on the bed.

Something possesses him then. The overwhelming need for more. More whimpers, more moans, more of Benji’s body, more pleasure for them both. He pulls, ever so slightly and Benji makes another harsh, high sound, his head falling back. His eyes blink open, pupils dilated and big. Wet. He can see tears gathering on his pretty black lashes. More. The hand in his hand moves. Both do. They capture of Benji’s that were flat on the wall.

He adjusts so that both their arms are under Benji, completely enclosing around him. His chin to Benji’s shoulder, his body continuing a harder thrust. Deeper. More and more. Every inch he can give. Benji’s head falls forward, resting on Xavier’s forearm as he continues.

“Benji,” he moans it, or it’s a growl really. Something dark and obscene and hungry inside him is driving him forward. “Tell me it feels good,” he continues. His nose touches behind Benji’s ear. His teeth touch there too. The sounds from his thighs clapping against the back of Benji’s almost drown his words out, so Xavier asks again, asks directly into Benji’s ear—tells, rather. Tell me.

“Yes,” Benji gasps out wetly. His head tilts back then, falls against Xavier’s shoulder. “Oh fuck,” he continues. Dissolves into less words and more moans, but it makes Xavier’s adjust again.

“Harder?”

“Yes, yes—harder—”

So he braces up and puts his hands to Benji’s lower back. He looks at the beautiful body sprawled underneath him. The way Benji’s back muscles flex as he’s being fucked, the sensual curve of his biceps, the slowly darkening hickie he’d left on his side. All his tattoos and dark body hair. Xavier’s thumbs brush along as his hands curl around his middle. Harder. He’s blinking sweat from his eyes as he watches Benji bite into the pillow—all thoughts seem to blink out of existence then.

But he does fuck harder. Brutally so, savage jerks of Benji’s body back and forth as his own hips drill forward. The sounds get louder then, from both of them. The bed slaps against the wall with the movement, because Xavier’s strength seems unbound. He’s unraveled at the seams and can’t hold back. And Benji’s loud encouraging moans only make it easier for him to continue. Waves of pleasure, from how tight and warm and good Benji feels make him toss himself forward.

Xavier gasps as the feeling punches through his chest. He slumps forward with his head between Benji’s shoulders. His body throbs, a warm feeling draining through all his limbs. His eyes flutter shut as he pumps into Benji, as his thrusts run slow. His hand goes into Benji’s hair again, softer now. Holding, curling through strands of hair as he pants. The sweat slicked body beneath him trembles, little shivers. So Xavier’s other arm slips up underneath him, to hold them together. He feels the tacky sensation of Benji’s cum on his stomach but doesn’t mind.

Their labored breathing becomes the only sound as they lay there.

Benji’s face stays to the pillow, so Xavier gently moves his hand around, cups his chin and turns it. There’s tear stains across his cheeks, brown eyes partly closed, a vulnerable tilt to his eyebrows. Xavier moves forward and kisses them, moving their bodies. He listens to Benji groan a little as they part, as he slides so their stomachs are pressed together, laid on their sides. Benji’s hand braces against Xavier’s sternum. He absently begins tucking back his hair and that vulnerable look smooths into something content, still tired.

“Sorry for waking you up,” Xavier whispers.

“Helluva fuckin’ way,” Benji replies, his lips tilted into an almost shy smile. Xavier practically has to ignore it, because he could go again if Benji makes an expression like that. He could fold him right over and go again. Instead, Benji blinks a few times then frowns. “What time is it?”

“Little past noon.”

“You let me sleep too late,” Benji snaps, burrowing closer, with a slight glare to his blown out, pleasure dilated eyes. Sweat has made his hair flatten slightly, little S curls of black hair sticking to his temple. Those pretty dark lashes still have a few wet tears that Xavier brushes at with a thumb. “Only got thirty days left now.” His heart beat swells up and then goes funky, a little stutter that threatens to really hurt him as his palm folds around Benji’s cheek.

“You’re counting days?”

Benji moves until his head is under Xavier’s chin, their legs sliding against one another. He huffs out a sound, a hand resting on the red heads hip. His thumb presses a little into soft, pale skin there and makes Xavier shudder.

“I missed you too,” Benji says then, his breath tickling Xavier’s collarbone.

—

Despite Benji’s grumbling, they actually do sleep more. They stay tucked together, spooning chest to chest, as the morning light turns to mid afternoon orange glow. Every time Xavier’s eyes flutter open, he’s greeted with curly black hair, or Benji’s face tilted slightly away. The relaxation is what had made him feel so…wild.

The nature of their relationship was accidentally frantic. Benji’s lifestyle was, inherently chaotic. The constant traveling, the back breaking shows that made him exhausted, drained. The time apart, that couldn’t really be solved. Their first year of dating had been a revolving door of snatching time together when they could between shows, when they could be alone. If they could even be alone.

So it wasn’t that Benji was sleeping, or that he was tired—though he looked unforgivably cute when he was. It was just that he was at ease. Calm. Comfortable. Safe. Fucking loved enough to pass out the second he touched a mattress.

When they do wake up, they don’t go out. They order in again, after a long shower that washes off all their sticky residue. Xavier makes jokes of it as he brushes his teeth while Benji puts his shampoo and conditioner into the shower stall. He stares at those bottles, feels a little empty headed thinking about them there.

“It’s not a waste of a day,” Xavier comments idly as he sits on the floor between Benji’s knees. They’ve tossed on something to play in the background, while Benji’s fingers move deftly through red hair. He’s putting braids here and there, in no design or fashion forward way. It’s just something soothing that is making Xavier feel jellied and content. “If you’re—I mean. Just having you here. Not doing anything. I kind of wish we could do that more.”

Benji is quiet for a moment, the terrible movie in the background not loud enough to cover up his small inhale. His fingers move until they’re under Xavier’s jaw and they tilt his head back. He blinks up at Benji, upside down.

“Yeah, me too, Xavier,” he says. It feels heavier than it should, but before he can ask about it—what do you mean, are you okay, are you getting tired, is touring took much, sometimes you look so exhausted you might faint—the buzzer on his door crackles to life. The food’s arrived. Xavier sits there, looking up at Benji until the drummer smiles and leans down to press a kiss.

“Introduce me to Mrs. Fisher, yeah?”

“Oh, man. You’re gonna love her.”

—

He coaxes Benji into sleeping on the train too. He lays across Xavier’s lap, hands tucked under his cheek. Xavier’s fingers make a constant gentle massage through his dark curls as he watches the scenery blur by. The months over—so they’re meeting Lark and the bus in New York. The dark circles that once seemed permanent under Benji’s eyes have lightened enough that it almost worries Xavier. Like, they don’t have to be there all the time. Benji could sleep as much as he’d like, if he was encouraged into it.

Not that encouragement cures insomnia, but sometimes, it seemed like Benji just needed someone to kiss him; remind him, that letting go and relaxing was fine.

The ticket master slaps the door open and even that rudely loud noise doesn’t disturb Benji. Xavier, used to ticket masters, holds his out and gets them inspected quick enough.

For some reason his day dreams on the train ride have been unusual. He looks forward to the tour—looks forward to getting out of his shitty graveyard security position. Misses Matilda and even Benny. Secretly misses Tino the most—aside from Lark of course. But, before, when he’d think of tour and all the excitement, he’d day dream of all those little glimpses of time with Benji. The stolen hours when they’d wedge into the same cot. When Benji would steal him backstage for a quick kiss, where no one could see them.

Feeling Benji’s boot on his shoulder, shoving playfully at him while they arrange the stage and he stands there, to look menacing at Ratspit fans.

Xavier daydreams about the beach for some reason. About swimming in open, salty water. He thinks of how Benji would look, bobbing along in the waves. Under the sun. He thinks about laying on the pale, burning sand. He daydreams about drinking orange juice while Benji makes his tea—he’d even bought an electric kettle just for him to use. He daydreams about holding hands—something simple, maybe even dumb. He tucks self consciously around Benji’s sleeping form.

Feels a little guilty, because, dating Benji sort of meant dating this kind of lifestyle. This four hour train ride alone, is the longest stretch of time they’ll have together once tour starts again.

And Xavier let’s Benji sleep. Because it’s not a waste, for him to relax. For him to be comfortable. His throat bobs and his lips touch Benji’s temple, his eyes closed. It’s not a waste.

[cakepoppresent]

Who Even Invited You 1?

Malcolm: Veronica! I missed you!"

Veronica notices Malcolm in the common rooms and runs into his arms, he catches her easily and spins her around "You better miss me! How was your vacation"

"It was great but we need to talk" Malcolm's face looked stern and a little worried

Veroinca: Talk? About what?

Malcolm: About Luna and her /friend/

Veroinca: What? Which friend? We're her only friends

Malcolm: It's that dude she met last Summer, I think there is something up with him. We stayed with him when we were in Mt. Komorebi

Veroinca: Oh! Yeah, we met him last summer, and he seemed nice. What's the issue?

Malcolm: Be serious! That dude was so scary, he isn't good for Luna. Luna is like cotton candy and that dude is like...like..." Malcolm stutters trying to find the words "Like a TIGER!"

Veronica gives Malcolm a pointed stare "I think you are being dramatic, he was really sweet when they met. I'm sure you're just overreacting"

Malcolm groans in frustration "That's what Benji said, but this is my gut feeling! As her older bro-"

Veroinca: You guys are twins

Malcom groans in annoyance "Can I finish talking?"

Veroinca: Malcolm, babe I think you are overreacting, I'm sure Luna is fine

Malcolm: Veronica! This guy was so secretive and he was always having these late-night meetings, he was so scary

Veroinca: Malcolm. Luna is a grown woman, you gotta trust her judgment. Maybe you just need to spend more time with this "friend" of hers"

"I refuse" "Malcolm." "Veronica."

Veronica sighs in resignation "Fine I'll talk to Luna if you think it's that serious"

"That's why we are besties" Malcolm's eyes shift to something behind Veronica and he kisses his teeth "Another fucking nuisance"

"What?" Veronica turns to look at what Malcolm was glaring at

Behind them leaning on the door frame was Vaughn with a smile on his face Malcolm glares at Vaughn and bites out "What the hell are you doing here? This is for Britechester students only"

Vaughn: Wrong, it's open to everyone before curfew"

Malcolm rolls his eyes and looks back at Veronica "Let's go eat, I'll buy you lunch"

Vaughn: That's great I'm hungry too and I have something to give Veronica"

Malcolm: I don't remember extending an invitation to you

Veroinca: You're both annoying rn

"Let's all go out to lunch! Malcolm behave yourself" Veronica turns to Vaughn with a smile on her face "What are you doing here!"

Vaughn: I missed you, Princess, You didn't talk to me all break

Veroinca: My dad had a no-phone rule during the break. Don't take it to heart

Vaughn: You always know how to wound me, Princess"

Vaughn turns to Malcolm and with a cocky grin says "You don't have to worry about lunch little man I'll pay"

Malcolm: Go to hell too long limb bastard

"Malcolm!" Veronica turns to Vaghun "Don't mind him he is just hungry. Let's go eat!"

Vaghun and Malcolm have a mini standoff and Veroinca can't be bothered and walks out of the common room "Im going to lunch follow if you want or make out for all I care" Malcolm gives Vaghun one last glare and follows after Veroinca "Wait for me!"

[unknownjpegs]

not a waste

Xavier realizes he’s nervous when someone bumps into him and he fucking jumps. Makes a noise and everything, a small yelp of surprise that causes him to almost throw his cell phone. The stranger whose shoulder had grazed Xavier’s gives him a judgmental eyeful before tucking herself closer to her small children—which doesn’t help the nerves. One of them stares up at him owlishly, a crust of snot around their nostril. Xavier takes a step away from them as well. His hands sweat, clammy and slick, as he shoves them into his pockets, along with his phone.

He’s waiting for that text. The ‘just landed’ text, but staring at his phone isn’t going to make it magically appear. Or make him less nervous.

Which he shouldn’t be—except, it’s just—it’s that he hasn’t seen Benji in two months. And Xavier thinks when he does see him again, right in front of him, physically present and not just a little image on his phone, he might lose his mind.

They figured out quickly that they don’t do long distance well. Benji had just kept Xavier after their first tour together ended; took him straight home with him, practically until their next one started up. So for a while, it almost didn’t even feel long distance—only this time, between Ratspit’s Summer tour and their Spring one, Xavier couldn’t just go to the UK. He had a downtown Boston apartment that needed rent paid every first of the month—he had bills. He had a job, off tour, that he needed to keep.

Sort of. He sat in a booth at night and watched security cameras for a museum. Walked through the long halls in semi darkness with a flashlight to make sure nothing was amiss. No little characters come to life, or cat burglars dropping from spotlights in the ceiling. Felt cinematic almost, cliche in a way that was sort of endearing. Wes Anderson like, until he had to sit there and stare at the clock and realize he was lonely.

Really, really lonely.

Not just for Benji; but he couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t…mostly for Benji. But the first year of touring with The Band had been, arguably, the best year of his life (was that sad?). Even when it was draining or stressful or frustrating—or he’d slammed his head on a concrete barrier and had to get stitches and now had a scar he could still run his fingers over. Xavier missed them. He missed Lark’s hovering concern, or Matilda’s gentle fingers brushing through his hair to trim off the sides.

Xavier missed being kissed at random times, when there was a spare moment. A small, stolen thing back stage (and Benji laughing against his lips as he had to walk backward to the starting line, drum sticks in his hands). He missed having to plug his ears and smile at Tino when the music was getting louder and louder and louder—and the older man smiling back at him (paternal, soft, kind). He missed eating an entire large pizza with Benny, Maran perched over his shoulder, darting for slices.

Xavier even missed Mouse—who messaged him frequently on Instagram, terrifying memes he couldn’t decipher. But that she sent them at all, the soft reminder that she was thinking of him, made his heart hurt anyway.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. The vibration feels loud and his hand’s weak and fumbling as he pulls it out. The screen is cracked in the corner, a winding splinter down the front. Benji stares at him from his lockscreen, his eyes crinkled mid laugh. His hair is wild and Xavier’s pale hand is pushing it back. He’d taken it on the tour bus, after show, when Benji was exhausted, but still offering him a grin. Would always save one for him, no matter how tired he was. It was a little blurry and the aspect ratio fit horribly on his phone—and he didn’t care. It was his favorite photo.

He looks at the notification, his chest feeling tighter and tighter. Somehow lighter.

Just landed.

—

All the anxiety seems to swell up inside his chest and pop when he sees Benji in the crowd.

His eyes don’t have to search hard to locate his boyfriend; not because Benji is obvious. Because he’s not. He’s in a faded, fraying hooded sweatshirt, his crazy waves of black hair sprouting out from underneath like little snakes, sunglasses on and headphones around his neck. To anyone else maybe he’d blend in with the rest of the sleepy crowd, not unique or special. Maybe nothing about him would stand out in sharp contrast, or everyone was just looking for their person. But to Xavier, his chest pulls in one heavy breath and his gaze swings slightly left and Benji is just there.

Magnetic pull.

Boston Logan International is deafeningly loud around them, throngs of people crowding together as happy families reunite, or businessmen dart through the crowd on cellphones, talking above the undercurrent buzz of noise. It feels distant to Xavier when he steps forward and his hand falls directly to Benji’s hip. It feels like being underwater, like waves keep crashing down on him, pulling him under somewhere. Airports have always felt liminal; awkward junctions between real places. Standing in front of Benji for the first time in so long, yeah. It doesn’t necessarily feel real. But it feels so right.

He watches Benji pull off the sunglasses and lean forward until his chin is touching Xavier’s sternum—and he stares up at him, with tired brown eyes that blink softly and slowly.

“Hi.”

“Holy shit, I missed you so much,” Xavier blathers out, his other hand cupping Benji’s cheek. His heart kickstarts with an aggressive thump when Benji leans into it, flutters his eyes closed and sighs out, long and slow. Xavier’s hand slips back behind the nape of his neck and then suddenly they’re hugging. Just hugging. No dramatic reunion kiss, slow motion in the middle of the airport, move scene worthy. He’s just got his arms around Benji, who loops his own around Xavier’s waist.

Xavier does sneak one poke of his nose into the wild mess of black hair hair, nuzzling until Benji laughs at him.

—

They��do kiss on the elevator ride up to Xavier’s apartment, however. Long, slow, lazy kisses that keep making Benji sigh whenever their lips part. Xavier’s hands become possessive paws enclosed around Benji’s hips, height difference making him hunch. Sometimes, Benji will rise up on his toes, arms slung around Xavier’s shoulders, in an attempt to close that gap. But Xavier pushes him down, pushes him to the elevator wall instead and continues kissing, as if neither of them need air.

And they get distracted by the push and pull of each others bodies, the warm press of their mouths together, their tongues and constant roaming hands—because the elevator dings on Xavier’s floor. The doors open. Then close. It brings them right down to the lobby again and Xavier finally pulls away, panting as he slaps the number eight on the panel of buttons. Benji’s mouth touches under his jaw, a warm laugh tickling across his skin and making him feel buoyant. Lighter than air. In love.

When they do finally get out of the elevator, Xavier hefts one of Benji’s bags up over his shoulder. It isn’t everything—apparently some of it is getting shipped straight to Lark, who organizes the tour bus. But enough to carry him through the month (the entire thirty one days) they’ll have together. The significant weight of Benji’s clothes and personal items feels metaphorical almost, strap of the duffle bag straining down his shoulder a little.

“I have a surprise,” Xavier says, subconsciously tucking Benji’s hair behind his ears as he pauses outside his apartment door. He still looks jet lagged, sleep clinging to him in the slow way he blinks. But he looks content, if not tired. He looks dreamy and subdued, with a little tilt of a smile to his slightly kiss swollen lips. It makes Xavier feel like tearing into him, pushing him against the wall again and devouring him in more places than just the mouth. Instead he fishes out his keys and unlocks the door.

“M’gonna trip,” Benji weakly complains with a laugh as Xavier loops his hands around his eyes.

“No, no, I got you.”

They do that comical sort of dance into the apartment, moving together like a strange four legged beast as Benji’s hands touch Xavier’s forearms. The duffle bag drops from his shoulder and onto the floor and Xavier nudges it with a foot toward his couch. For a moment, he thinks to be self conscious of his place. It’s not big. It’s a downtown, one bedroom and he’s shoved all his things inside it haphazardly.

The coffee table has a gun magazine that he panics over, thinking he should have stowed somewhere. And there’s an embarrassing amount of rubber ducks across his entertainment center, no two the same design. His hockey gear should have been put away, but instead leans in a corner, because his closet has most of his winter things packed up, so he has no other place. It’s neat, at least, because he keeps things clean habitually, but it’s filled to the brim.

So, he really shouldn’t have bought the drum kit.

“Tada!” Xavier hops around Benji, dropping his hands and standing in front of it. The massive things been shoved into the awkward space between his bedroom and the tiny kitchen that doesn’t get much use. “I figured—if you’re here for a month, maybe you’d want to practice.” He settles down onto the stool, picking up drum sticks. “It’s not as satisfying as a real kit, but I couldn’t get anything loud. Apartment complex and all.” He twirls one of the sticks in his hand (just like how he’s seen Benji do a hundred times over), only to send it flying across the room.

“Uh, still learning.” Xavier’s cheeks go red hot as he tucks the other one back into place. But Benji is silent in a way that makes Xavier perk up like he’s being loud. He blinks a few times before inhaling sharply and standing.

“Oh. Oh—Benji,” he says softly, striding forward. His foot lands on the drum stick he’d just tossed and it rolls underneath his heel, sending him nearly careening backward with comical pinwheeling arms. Only Benji catches him by the shirt and immediately pulls him closer. Xavier makes a soft huff of a sound when their bodies crash together.

“Menace,” Benji sniffs, the tears making his eyes look glassy, but beautiful. His brows are upturned, pulled in, creating a little line that Xavier wants to kiss away. His hands come up, cup Benji’s cheeks how they always seem to do. He feels like he has no control over that gesture, like his body works on it’s own accord when this man is around him. It’s a dizzying feeling, like he’s swept into currents that are peaceful and warm and soothing. His thumb brushes a tear that manages to escape, wiping it away before Benji’s forehead tucks against his sternum.

He sniffs again, hard and Xavier smiles to himself as he kisses the top of Benji’s head.

—

When the pizza arrives, he has to run down and get it, because the buzzer to the apartment building never seems to work. Benji’s left on the couch, sprawled out with some shitty action movie playing in the background. Xavier has to be normal about the amount of glances he gives him before leaving—catching Benji smiling on the last quick look before he’s out. Xavier bounces on the heels of his sneakers the whole ride down, a smile pulling at his cheeks until he tries to tamper it down—just for it to spring back on anyway.

And he’s running on auto pilot a bit as he stops by the neighbor across from him. His scarred up knuckles rap slightly on the door and Mrs. Fisher answers with a plate already in hand. Her fat tabby cat winds in and out of her legs before winding in and out of Xavier’s as well, tail flicking across his calves. He bends slightly, doing a balancing act with the pizza to scratch the old cats head a little.

“My, my, Xavier,” Mrs. Fisher says in her tiny old lady voice. She blinks behind her giant rectangular glasses, smiling up at him. The cat makes a demanding sound that goes unanswered by her owner. “That’s a lot of pizza for just you.” She’s gesturing with the plate to the two boxes in his hands. He quickly sets them down on the ground (and the cat tries to get at it immediately, so he has to tuck her under an arm) and goes about opening one. He crouches, smiling up at her. As he kneels, she’s about the same height as him anyway.

“Uh, I have company actually.” She holds the plate out as he slips two slices onto it for her. The tabby meows again. Xavier tucks his knuckles to his jaw and smiles, feeling his cheeks go warm again, feeling that smile going too wide again. The cats tail smacks at his side. “My boyfriend is visiting.” The cat gets out of his arm and darts into the apartment, meowing on every stomp of her paws. As he slowly stands and picks up the two large pizzas Mrs. Fisher beams.

“No more lonely holidays for you!” She says, patting his arm with her tiny, wrinkled hand. “Does he cook? I’ll never have to make a Christmas casserole again.”

“You don’t have to do that to begin with, Mrs. Fisher.”

“And you don’t have to share your pizza with me,” she says, slowly tottering into her apartment. “But you do every time!” Xavier closes the door for her, the pizza boxes nearly upending before he catches them and stumbles back to his own apartment.

—

“Why am I not surprised that you’re the tallest one?” Benji taps a finger on glossy paper, snickering as Xavier leans to look. They sit (or lay, rather) on the couch, half tangled—satiated from the pizza and comfortably high from the joint that Xavier had pre-rolled hours before the plane had even landed. One of Benji’s legs splays across his lap, the other underneath. Xavier’s laying sideways, arms folded around his boyfriends thick torso, head against his bicep. He’s tucked comfortably between Benji’s body and the cushions, in a way that squeezes him soothingly.

The yearbook is propped up on Benji’s thigh, an embarrassing relic he’d managed to yank out of a box in his closet for no reason—other than he was high, both on marijuana and the intoxication of time alone with Benji. The picture in question has Xavier lined up with all the other wrestlers, but he is almost a head taller than his awkward, teenage peers. He’s also distractingly pale and his hair is more orange in the terrible early 2000’s photo.

“I was six-three by junior year,” Xavier says proudly, grinning toothily up at Benji. He turns a little and the yearbook slaps to the floor because no hands are holding it any longer. Both of Benji’s have found their way into his hair making his eyes roll close. They’d smoked hours ago, so it’s wearing down, but the body high feels comfortable. Benji’s fingers work softly and make him sigh.

“Thanks for letting me stay, Xavier.”

His eyes pop open and blink rapidly, brows digging in as he looks up from his awkward angle.

“What do you mean?” Benji laughs, air through the nose sort, not the real laugh Xavier loves getting from him. And Xavier is high so he might be wrong, but there’s some sort of self conscious set to Benji’s lips, his teeth tucking against his bottom lip. His eyes, glassy from the weed seem to skate off him and toward the drum kit and then back before he closes them and puts his hand on his forehead.

He doesn’t want Benji to answer then; to have to pull out words that might be difficult to find. Xavier inches his way up, pulling Benji’s body as he does until they’re even. Face to face at the very least. Xavier tucks his lips against Benji’s bearded jaw, giving it a soft peck. He works his way up, listening to the stutter in Benji’s breathing. Hands fist into his shirt as he moves those kisses back down instead, to his neck. Xavier kisses a little harder, little more part to his lips.

“Always gonna be a place for you, Benji.”

The hands in his shirt move into his hair than, tugging him. They kiss once more, pressed together on the couch. Xavier thinks of moving those kisses south, thinks of getting Benji’s belt off and zipper down. Thinks of ways he can say I want you with more than just words, but they keep kissing instead. They kiss and kiss, until they’re panting and they’re tired and Xavier has to pull away and whisper bedroom to get Benji just to move off the couch.

—

The next day, Xavier let’s Benji sleep in.

He wakes up earlier than he means to, because the sunlight catches his eyes, startles him to consciousness from the dream he’d been having. Sharing the bed puts him on the other side of the mattress, the side that’s usually empty (the side he’d been looking at, nightly, wondering if Benji would fit there, just for Benji to steal the portion of the bed Xavier usually sleeps on), so the part of his curtains lets a shard of sunlight hit him directly in the face at seven in the morning. And once he’s up, Xavier is just up.

So he cleans, because that keeps his hands busy. Not that the two of them had made any sort of mess of his apartment the night prior. Benji’s shoes are two separate areas of the living room, because he’d kicked them off. Xavier gathers them and chucks them next to his own by the door before he jogs over and puts them right. The pizza boxes get taken to the trash chute and the cups they’d used to drink from get put in the sink until he stares at them long enough he rinses and dries them. Xavier thinks to roll another joint until he wanders his way back into the bedroom.

Xavier realizes he doesn’t want weed or to clean, or to distract himself any longer with either of those. He wants to crawl back into the bed. Xavier wants to be with Benji so bad it feels like there’s a hook around his spine dragging him forward. But there’s also something so incredibly special about Benji asleep in his bed, that he doesn’t want to ruin it.

They’d not had sex last night; Benji had fallen asleep almost immediately once he was down on the mattress. Xavier had even helped him out of his jeans and shirt. Jet lag, or prolonged lack of sleep to begin with, or the weed. Or safety. Comfort. Love. Xavier’s brain blinks a few times, like someone is throwing the light switch on and off as he looks at Benji curled up. He sleeps like that if Xavier doesn’t intervene. A hand tucked under his cheek, the other arm around his torso. Knees raised, spine bent.

So Xavier gets into the bed again, determined. But careful, so he doesn’t wake the drummer. His side rises and falls in a beautiful, soothing rhythm. He wants to flatten his hand there, feel both the cadence of his breathing and his warm, brown skin. Instead he hovers a little, hands on either side of Benji’s unconscious form.

In the tender, vulnerable morning light that splashes across Xavier’s bed, across Xavier’s lover, he tries to recall ever feeling like this. It’s not that Benji is the first person he’s ever felt for. There have been others; but it’s like having a headache—and then not having a headache. Not being able to conjure the idea of pain without being in pain. Xavier can’t remember what love felt prior to this moment, prior to gently taking Benji’s shoulders and moving him so he’s flat on his back.

He can’t ever remember wanting someone as much as he wants Benji, though he must have, at some point. There must have been someone else he looked at and loved, with his whole heart beating through his chest. Pumping electrified blood through his veins. There must have been. There couldn’t have been. It’s just not possible that Xavier has ever felt this way before; he would remember. So it’s new—and a little terrifying. Like the peak of a roller coaster, or leaning out of a boat with his fingers skimming the water and his grandfather telling him to be careful. It is so scary and so exhilarating.

“Xavier?” Benji breathes in, voice sleep husky.

“Sh,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to Benji’s temple. He presses more down his cheek to his neck. “Sh,” he continues, his hands brushing up and down warm sides. He can feel the way they expand and contrast on a heavy, deep breath. Benji’s soft ‘mmnh’ in his sleep. His hand raises, slips tiredly across Xavier’s chest and then tucks itself underneath Benji’s chin. He watches his eyelids fluttering.

Xavier continues kissing.

He feels a spike of something that tastes like guilt. Something like worry, that he’s being soft and slow and deliberate, that he’s not trying to wake Benji up. That he likes looking at him, sleepy like this, likes kissing his collarbone and hearing a tired sigh. It’s not that Xavier wants Benji asleep—not that he’d ever cross some boundary, that clearly defined line that everyone recognizes. It’s just that Benji asleep feels so special, in a way that he can’t articulate.

Comfortable. Safe. Loved.

Xavier’s teeth touch the skin of Benji’s pectoral. He bites gently and feels his own moan winding through his throat. Unable to stop it, he half silences it by sealing his mouth there. Tongue appreciating the taste of Benji’s skin. The blankets rustle, hands touch his shoulders, fall down his forearms. Xavier doesn’t stop, sucks a mark there and continues on. His mouth moves until he presses a sweet, soft kiss to a nipple. Benji makes a sound then, a soft inhale.

“You’re so beautiful, Benji,” Xavier whispers, his warm breath pressed right against the other mans skin. His tongue flattens, touches Benji’s nipple. He wedges his knees to either side of Benji’s thighs as he continues, teasing bites. His other hand moves, up and down, up and down, a steady rhythm over Benji’s shivering side. Xavier’s open mouth and hot tongue travel once more, to the other neglected side.

He spares a glance to Benji, whose face has pinched with pleasure, but his eyes remain close. His chest draws in heavier, harder. Xavier drags his tongue up, memorizes the taste of Benji’s morning warmed skin.

“Do you know that?” The whispered reply is only Xavier’s name, softly spoken, barely a mumble. He presses another kiss to the corner of Benji’s mouth, subduing him. His legs cage him more, his hands brushing over Benji’s neck and down his shoulders. “Do you know you’re the most beautiful fucking person alive?” Benji’s arm slings around his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin. His eyes blink open a few times so Xavier softly lays a hand across them. He kisses him, parts his lips with his tongue.

They kiss, with Xavier’s hand over Benji’s eyes, with Benji’s arm slung around Xavier’s shoulders, until they’re both breathing hard. And then Xavier is tearing away. He’s moving faster, hurried as his palm slaps at his beside table. He feels Benji’s lips on his chest, on his shoulder. No, stay asleep, he thinks wickedly, his breathing heavy and hard as he jerks open the drawer to the table. Sleep and let me make you feel good, wake up feeling good, wake up safe in my bed, feeling good. He blinks rapidly, drawing away and looking down.

Benji lays beneath him, a hand looped around the back of Xavier’s neck. His eyes are barely cracked open, brown pools that feel hypnotizing. Xavier could fall into them—keep falling. Just never fucking stop. He cups Benji’s cheek again, his thumb brushing over his lips until he parts them with the digit and feels Benji’s tongue touch his skin. He moans then, eyes falling shut as he leans forward.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” he whispers.

“M’not awake,” Benji replies and Xavier’s spit slick thumb brushes out his mouth, down his chin. Benji’s eyes close again, his back arching up a little as he adjusts and gets comfortable. His head tilts back, bares his beautiful, brown throat. Xavier kisses there, hungrily, so it’s messy when he starts to lube fingers because he’s not even looking. Benji shivers when the cool liquid drips on his stomach, makes a throaty sort of laugh that has Xavier’s mouth going harder. There will be little bruises there, from his teeth and lips that will linger for days.

It becomes something languid then, something warm and unhurried. Xavier’s knee parts Benji’s easily, his hand between his thighs. He likes watching, but his eyes stay up inside, watch the graceful curve of Benji’s brows when he’s penetrated.

“I missed you,” he admits through the amber hued lethargic foreplay. Benji’s heavy breathing become pants, shallow and quicker than the movement of Xavier’s wrist and fingers. He makes a desperate and high sound when another finger joins the first and his body twists upward. Xavier merely uses his other hand to flatten him back down. “I thought about you every night.” He hears his name again, in that sleep soaked tone. Xavier’s lips travel across Benji’s chest again, leaving marks everywhere he can.

All at once, he pulls away—leaves Benji gasping, making a whining sound, like don’t go, but he can’t focus on that. Instead he grabs Benji by the hips and turns him over. He doesn’t mean to make it that fast, definitely not that rough, but Benji’s hands are reaching out, grabbing at a pillow. Xavier breathes heavy against the nape of Benji’s neck, his hands flexing and curling around his waist. He bites once more, and that whine is back in Benji’s voice.

“I want you,” Xavier manages to slur out, moving his teeth. He finds a shoulder blade, biting, and kissing again. He’s only barely managed to yank his own sweatpants down—barely even registered that he had.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Benji moans out, his voice muffled because he’s facing the pillow he’d grabbed. His body curves, inviting and beautiful. Xavier’s eyes drag down his spine, lower. His hand fists his own erection, his body shivering at the sensation of lube and skin. “Give—fuck—I want it, Xavier.”

His name is almost cut off because Xavier gives it then—a shallow thrust, a slow start. It makes Benji’s head snap backward, his back arching more. Xavier’s hand flattens down his spine, his face burying into Benji’s hair. He murmurs something loving, something soft and barely there as his hips thrust forward again, as he feels Benji’s body. He cuts his own words in half with a moan and then a throaty laugh. Both is fists brace onto the bed on either side of Benji as he lays there, on his stomach, prone and under Xavier.

And that starts slow too, just as the foreplay had. Starts with Xavier rolling his body forward and Benji bracing back. Every thrust gets him deeper, makes Benji’s legs splay further, accepting. His arms stay wrapped around a pillow, face into the fabric as Xavier continues. His own face stays buried into those dark curls, his breathing harder. It stays that way for a minute, until Benji turns his face to the side. And the mere glimpse of one of his eyes, rolling slightly from the sensation of Xavier fucking deeper makes it hard to stay fucking sane.

I want to see more, he thinks, the only rational thought he can manage when his hand sinks into Benji’s hair. Maybe he means to continue slow, or for it to be romantic—soft? Instead, his hand jerks Benji’s head back, elicits a loud whimper that practically echoes in his bedroom. His fingers curl, tighten to hold his head still so he can look at Benji’s face. The way his jaw drops, his eyes roll up and close, squeeze shut. Xavier’s body bucks forward at the mere sight of that pleasure and Benji whimpers again. His hands slap against the wall. Xavier realizes all of his weight is pressed down, trapping Benji on the bed.

Something possesses him then. The overwhelming need for more. More whimpers, more moans, more of Benji’s body, more pleasure for them both. He pulls, ever so slightly and Benji makes another harsh, high sound, his head falling back. His eyes blink open, pupils dilated and big. Wet. He can see tears gathering on his pretty black lashes. More. The hand in his hand moves. Both do. They capture of Benji’s that were flat on the wall.

He adjusts so that both their arms are under Benji, completely enclosing around him. His chin to Benji’s shoulder, his body continuing a harder thrust. Deeper. More and more. Every inch he can give. Benji’s head falls forward, resting on Xavier’s forearm as he continues.

“Benji,” he moans it, or it’s a growl really. Something dark and obscene and hungry inside him is driving him forward. “Tell me it feels good,” he continues. His nose touches behind Benji’s ear. His teeth touch there too. The sounds from his thighs clapping against the back of Benji’s almost drown his words out, so Xavier asks again, asks directly into Benji’s ear—tells, rather. Tell me.

“Yes,” Benji gasps out wetly. His head tilts back then, falls against Xavier’s shoulder. “Oh fuck,” he continues. Dissolves into less words and more moans, but it makes Xavier’s adjust again.

“Harder?”

“Yes, yes—harder—”

So he braces up and puts his hands to Benji’s lower back. He looks at the beautiful body sprawled underneath him. The way Benji’s back muscles flex as he’s being fucked, the sensual curve of his biceps, the slowly darkening hickie he’d left on his side. All his tattoos and dark body hair. Xavier’s thumbs brush along as his hands curl around his middle. Harder. He’s blinking sweat from his eyes as he watches Benji bite into the pillow—all thoughts seem to blink out of existence then.

But he does fuck harder. Brutally so, savage jerks of Benji’s body back and forth as his own hips drill forward. The sounds get louder then, from both of them. The bed slaps against the wall with the movement, because Xavier’s strength seems unbound. He’s unraveled at the seams and can’t hold back. And Benji’s loud encouraging moans only make it easier for him to continue. Waves of pleasure, from how tight and warm and good Benji feels make him toss himself forward.

Xavier gasps as the feeling punches through his chest. He slumps forward with his head between Benji’s shoulders. His body throbs, a warm feeling draining through all his limbs. His eyes flutter shut as he pumps into Benji, as his thrusts run slow. His hand goes into Benji’s hair again, softer now. Holding, curling through strands of hair as he pants. The sweat slicked body beneath him trembles, little shivers. So Xavier’s other arm slips up underneath him, to hold them together. He feels the tacky sensation of Benji’s cum on his stomach but doesn’t mind.

Their labored breathing becomes the only sound as they lay there.

Benji’s face stays to the pillow, so Xavier gently moves his hand around, cups his chin and turns it. There’s tear stains across his cheeks, brown eyes partly closed, a vulnerable tilt to his eyebrows. Xavier moves forward and kisses them, moving their bodies. He listens to Benji groan a little as they part, as he slides so their stomachs are pressed together, laid on their sides. Benji’s hand braces against Xavier’s sternum. He absently begins tucking back his hair and that vulnerable look smooths into something content, still tired.

“Sorry for waking you up,” Xavier whispers.

“Helluva fuckin’ way,” Benji replies, his lips tilted into an almost shy smile. Xavier practically has to ignore it, because he could go again if Benji makes an expression like that. He could fold him right over and go again. Instead, Benji blinks a few times then frowns. “What time is it?”

“Little past noon.”

“You let me sleep too late,” Benji snaps, burrowing closer, with a slight glare to his blown out, pleasure dilated eyes. Sweat has made his hair flatten slightly, little S curls of black hair sticking to his temple. Those pretty dark lashes still have a few wet tears that Xavier brushes at with a thumb. “Only got thirty days left now.” His heart beat swells up and then goes funky, a little stutter that threatens to really hurt him as his palm folds around Benji’s cheek.

“You’re counting days?”

Benji moves until his head is under Xavier’s chin, their legs sliding against one another. He huffs out a sound, a hand resting on the red heads hip. His thumb presses a little into soft, pale skin there and makes Xavier shudder.

“I missed you too,” Benji says then, his breath tickling Xavier’s collarbone.

—

Despite Benji’s grumbling, they actually do sleep more. They stay tucked together, spooning chest to chest, as the morning light turns to mid afternoon orange glow. Every time Xavier’s eyes flutter open, he’s greeted with curly black hair, or Benji’s face tilted slightly away. The relaxation is what had made him feel so…wild.

The nature of their relationship was accidentally frantic. Benji’s lifestyle was, inherently chaotic. The constant traveling, the back breaking shows that made him exhausted, drained. The time apart, that couldn’t really be solved. Their first year of dating had been a revolving door of snatching time together when they could between shows, when they could be alone. If they could even be alone.

So it wasn’t that Benji was sleeping, or that he was tired—though he looked unforgivably cute when he was. It was just that he was at ease. Calm. Comfortable. Safe. Fucking loved enough to pass out the second he touched a mattress.

When they do wake up, they don’t go out. They order in again, after a long shower that washes off all their sticky residue. Xavier makes jokes of it as he brushes his teeth while Benji puts his shampoo and conditioner into the shower stall. He stares at those bottles, feels a little empty headed thinking about them there.

“It’s not a waste of a day,” Xavier comments idly as he sits on the floor between Benji’s knees. They’ve tossed on something to play in the background, while Benji’s fingers move deftly through red hair. He’s putting braids here and there, in no design or fashion forward way. It’s just something soothing that is making Xavier feel jellied and content. “If you’re—I mean. Just having you here. Not doing anything. I kind of wish we could do that more.”

Benji is quiet for a moment, the terrible movie in the background not loud enough to cover up his small inhale. His fingers move until they’re under Xavier’s jaw and they tilt his head back. He blinks up at Benji, upside down.

“Yeah, me too, Xavier,” he says. It feels heavier than it should, but before he can ask about it—what do you mean, are you okay, are you getting tired, is touring took much, sometimes you look so exhausted you might faint—the buzzer on his door crackles to life. The food’s arrived. Xavier sits there, looking up at Benji until the drummer smiles and leans down to press a kiss.

“Introduce me to Mrs. Fisher, yeah?”

“Oh, man. You’re gonna love her.”

—

He coaxes Benji into sleeping on the train too. He lays across Xavier’s lap, hands tucked under his cheek. Xavier’s fingers make a constant gentle massage through his dark curls as he watches the scenery blur by. The months over—so they’re meeting Lark and the bus in New York. The dark circles that once seemed permanent under Benji’s eyes have lightened enough that it almost worries Xavier. Like, they don’t have to be there all the time. Benji could sleep as much as he’d like, if he was encouraged into it.

Not that encouragement cures insomnia, but sometimes, it seemed like Benji just needed someone to kiss him; remind him, that letting go and relaxing was fine.

The ticket master slaps the door open and even that rudely loud noise doesn’t disturb Benji. Xavier, used to ticket masters, holds his out and gets them inspected quick enough.

For some reason his day dreams on the train ride have been unusual. He looks forward to the tour—looks forward to getting out of his shitty graveyard security position. Misses Matilda and even Benny. Secretly misses Tino the most—aside from Lark of course. But, before, when he’d think of tour and all the excitement, he’d day dream of all those little glimpses of time with Benji. The stolen hours when they’d wedge into the same cot. When Benji would steal him backstage for a quick kiss, where no one could see them.

Feeling Benji’s boot on his shoulder, shoving playfully at him while they arrange the stage and he stands there, to look menacing at Ratspit fans.

Xavier daydreams about the beach for some reason. About swimming in open, salty water. He thinks of how Benji would look, bobbing along in the waves. Under the sun. He thinks about laying on the pale, burning sand. He daydreams about drinking orange juice while Benji makes his tea—he’d even bought an electric kettle just for him to use. He daydreams about holding hands—something simple, maybe even dumb. He tucks self consciously around Benji’s sleeping form.

Feels a little guilty, because, dating Benji sort of meant dating this kind of lifestyle. This four hour train ride alone, is the longest stretch of time they’ll have together once tour starts again.

And Xavier let’s Benji sleep. Because it’s not a waste, for him to relax. For him to be comfortable. His throat bobs and his lips touch Benji’s temple, his eyes closed. It’s not a waste.

[atemy]

[Art] Three Steps to Inferno

Bonus:

My art for the 2020 Spideypool Big Bang for WaterMe’s amazing Noir opus! I ended up so attached to these losers I even drew a chibi version, imagine that. Be sure to read this absolute masterpiece! (fic link in image source and on the first reblog)

Please check out my AO3 art masterpost for my Artist Statement and for the painting titles, dimensions and thank you’s! 

Hey you 

Yeah you. Did you like the paintings and or little chibi children? Do you think it would be cool to have a print or a magnet or sticker of these to always remember this flaming hot Noir story? 

Well you’re in luck! Please consider supporting me and having your very own copy of these works in your possession! Check out links to my Society6 for the oil paintings and my RedBubble for the chibis! 

[quixotic-writer]

Stormed In

It was a dark and overcast day, rain drizzled from the sky tapping on the windows quietly as cold air coated the land. It was the perfect day to just be lazy and unproductive, which is exactly what you and Q were doing. You both sat in the living room bundled up in your pajamas lounging on the couch with the cats scattered about snoozing the day away. Q sat on the couch rewatching old 80s movies while you sat next to him propped up on the couch using Q as a backrest with your nose in a book.

The day was quiet and calming. It wasn’t often where you both had just a calm day off. It was always activities with friends, conflicting schedules, meetings upon meetings, or just errands to run meaning every day had to be a productive day. It was always something. But today was a day where you both could just do nothing and truly enjoy each others company and relax without a worry or care in the world.

The time was passing and the hours bled into the afternoon and Q shifted around realizing exactly how sweaty and greasy he was feeling after sitting around and doing nothing. He taps you making you pause your reading to look up at Q.

“Hey baby, i’m gonna go shower, feeling a little gross.” You rolls your eyes but smile. Grabbing your bookmark, you gently place it between the pages and lean forward to allow Q the guiltless freedom to get up. He stretches a bit and his shirt rides up, you stare in wonder at the small sliver of bare flesh that was exposed with hunger in your eyes. You didn’t think Q would take notice, but he did. “I feel so gross right now, no way.” He says with a devilish smirk. With that he went off to the hit the showers leaving you to pout on the couch and continue on your literary journey.

He undresses and steps into the steamy hot water of the shower. The moment he stepped into the shower, a low rumble comes from outside and he sees a small flash of light in the small window of the bathroom. It was really storming outside now. It didn’t bother him though, he carried on with what he was doing. What he was oblivious to was how his girlfriend was reacting to the start of the storm.

He steps out of the shower feeling refreshed and puts on some clothes heading back down to the living room with anticipation only to see an empty and quiet room. The book you were reading was left carefully placed on the couch and the cats were nowhere to be found. Thunder rolls in and the sky illuminates with lightening.

“Meow!” Q half jumped out of his skin and turned around to see Benjamin standing there.

“Hey Benji. Where’s Aya?” Benjamin meows again and sits down, eyes filled with judgment. “Thanks for the help.” He flatly says as he walks past the small feline. He begins to roam the house calling out his girlfriends name.

“Babe, you in here?” He calls out as he poked his head into the guest room, the bathroom, the guest bathroom, the closet, everywhere. He then walks into the main bedroom and looks around to see Brooklyn cat sitting outside the closet door almost as though she was on guard. Q doesn’t say anything but he slides open the door and inside was just what he thought he would find: His girlfriend cowering in fear holding Chessie close with her eyes sealed shut. You opens your eyes and they dart to Q towering over you in the frame of the entrance and he sees they’re filled with anxiety. “What are you doing in here?” He asks softly. Another roar of thunder comes storming in and you holds Chessie a little tighter and close your eyes again. That’s when it all pieced together: “Are you... scared of thunder??” He says almost like he couldn’t believe it.

“Yeah and what?” You heighten your internal defenses and bury your face in Chessie’s fur in utter shame. Q quickly realizes his mistake and softens his attitude and sits himself outside the closet door.

“Hey i’m sorry I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?” He gently graces you cheek with the backs of his fingertips tracing your jaw down to your chin and he turns your head so that your eyes meet. Your eyes automatically drift to the side in humiliation heat rising to your face.

“Thought you’d make fun of me. I’m a grown woman scared of thunder.” Another grumble from outside comes and Q quickly but gently grabs you and holds you close in a warm embrace as the noise passes.

“And i’m a grown man with a severe phobia of spiders and yelled pumpernickle repeatedly in a warehouse. We all have our fears, but I want you to know i’m here to help. I’m sorry for jumping the gun and teasing you.” He hugs you tight and gets up. “I’ll grab a few things.”

Blankets, laptop, headphones, and some pillows and he was right back to the closet. He moves a few things around and out of the closet to make it a little comfortable secret spot just for you. You sit yourself in there, cozy now with Brooklyn cat snuggled on your lap purring away enjoying the newfound comfort of the closet.

“Now if you need anything, text me. I’d hang out in here with you, but i’m too fat to do that, i’d probably crush you and poor little Brooklyn cat.” He pets the kitten’s fur and you let out a dainty giggle and look up with glistening eyes at your caring boyfriend. “I’ll let you hang in here where you’re safe and I can grab you when the storm is over and the thunder stops rolling. Will you be okay?” You look in his eyes and feel safe, a smile stretches from ear to ear.

“Now i’ll be okay. Thank you, love.” He leans down and places a gentle kiss on your lips and runs his fingers through your hair.

“I love you my darling.” he says in a gentle quiet voice.

“And I love you Brian.”

[poppy-battenberg]

a visit with auntie  //  self

The party was nearly over. Poppy knew she should go home, but she knew why she came in the first place.

Drunk and with feet and hands clumsy, she made her way down a hallway where the lights were already turned off. She could hear the noise at the end, where there was a strip of light slipping out of the kitchen door. There was no talking, of course not. But there were dishes clinking, water running, food being scraped off plates with barely a bite taken probably. She took a deep breath, tasted the alcohol still sticky on her lips. 

When she pushed open the door, everything fell silent. Her eyes took longer than usual to adjust to the sudden brightness, and she stared around at a handful of Avoxes. Their figures were blurry, doubled. A warmer light entered her periphery, but she didn’t turn. They all looked young. Probably too young to have been here when the raid happened. None of them knew Arissa, yet they were probably holding the same dishes she once did. Probably cut vegetables and fruit with the same knives she once held.

Arissa used to love to cook. She dreamed of opening a restaurant. Poppy used to be her certified taste-tester when she tried out something new. If approved, she’d make enough for the whole family to enjoy. Her mother’s latest design sketches would be moved from the dining room table to an old desk in the corner, her father would pour fresh water for the kitchen flowers, and the whole family would eat together. Sometimes her mother even had a new candle, but the home was so full of flowers it wasn’t necessary. Her family would laugh and smile and argue over that table. 

Her family was once happy.

Poppy threw a fire extinguisher at the dining table last year and broke it in the middle of an argument with her father. She knew he missed his sister in the same way she missed Arissa, that he was grieving for someone living. At least she was living.

“Poppy, getting into things you shouldn’t. As usual.”

She turned and swung, but instantly, a Peacekeeper had her wrist in a tight enough grip to bruise. She was off-kilter and she would’ve missed anyway. They couldn’t catch her saliva, though, and she spit at her aunt. It was tinged with something red she’d drank earlier, and it didn’t even reach her aunt’s shoes. 

She’d spoken to her aunt maybe a handful of times since she became president. Every year, her family obliged to sit next to her at the Reapings in the Capitol, but they did not speak. The first two years she came to visit with Adam on Hearth Day, but that stopped after Poppy threw a vase at them. The few words they’d exchanged in five years were sharp, cold. It cut her the first time she heard her aunt match her tone. She’d thought she was the secret favorite. Apparently not. 

“How’s Adam?”

“He misses you.”

“Tell him I wish it was him instead of Benjy.”

She almost choked on her own sudden vileness. Her brother. Her brother, and she’d said such a thing. Her eyes stung as she felt a familiar ball of phlegm rise in her throat. The grief usually choked her around this time of night.

“I’ll tell him you miss him, too,” Titaniara said, and it sounded so gentle and tender that for a moment, Poppy wanted nothing more than to hug her aunt. She hadn’t hugged her since she was barely five feet tall, and now they were staring at each other eye-to-eye. 

Poppy sniffled, blinking to try to pull herself together. There was a reason she’d come down here, and the sudden clinking of silverware and plates reminded her. She swallowed down the lump in her throat for now. “Which room was it?” she asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m not a fucking idiot.”

“I filled it in.”

Poppy tried to swing again, but this time the Peacekeeper latched on and didn’t let go. Her aunt took such a serene step back, it only enraged her more. She started to kick out, and the Peacekeeper twisted both her arms behind her back. A robotic voice told her to stay still or she would be tased.

“Do it!” She was panting as she struggled. “Fucking kill me here, you fucking bitch! Fill in every fucking room where you left your family to die!”

The jolt made her throw up almost immediately. She couldn’t breathe as the electricity raced through her muscles. Her vision went dark as her body spasmed and convulsed. She thought she was going to die. She couldn’t leave. Sara and Ian needed her there. Sara was eligible to be Reaped now. Poppy needed to stay alive for her.

When her body stopped shaking, she was on the floor next to her own vomit. The Peacekeeper reached down to pull her up on weak legs and march her out of the hallway, then off the premises. She was left with nothing, with every car now gone.

Her aunt was nowhere to be seen. 

The sky was already starting to lighten as a new day began in Panem. Her parents would be worried sick. 

The shock of the taser aggravated an old sports injury that hadn’t hurt in months. Still drunk, now dazed, she began limping down the long driveway. She was halfway down the street when a sleek car pulled up. Under the glow of the now-rising sun, it almost looked golden. Her brother looked like a god in the light, rolling his window down with a stone cold expression. He’d never been one to show his feelings.

“Why are you out here right now?” he asked. It was quiet, but judgmental. Scratch that, he could show one emotion: judgment. “Are you hurt? Is it the knee? I’ll take you home.”

She was hurt.

She definitely broke a finger when she punched him in the face.

[ben243s-transformation-stories]

Am I Dreaming?

Am I dreaming? I must be. Things like this don’t happen. They can’t happen. Can they? I reach down and pinch myself. It hurts. A lot. I guess I am not dreaming.

I walk a little further down the street. Once I come upon a store window, I stop and look at my reflection to take stock of my situation.

I still can’t believe what is going on. I stare at my reflection and confirm that I am still completely naked. No, that’s not quite true. I am wearing a dog collar around my neck. A blue nylon one that looks kind of cheap, but is somehow fitting.

Otherwise I remain the same, at least as far as I can tell. Same shoulder length curly blond hair that nearly covers my blue eyes. Same face. Same arms. Same legs. Same chest. Same hands and feet. Same… everything else. Now fully exposed for the world to see.

As I stand on the street staring at myself like a deranged lunatic, several people pass me. I know they can see me, but they walk on by like nothing is out of the ordinary. I’m sure if I saw a virtually naked man standing on the street I would notice. Heck, I would probably stop and take in the sights, but that’s just me.

Something in my mind tells me I am missing something important. Other than my clothes I mean. I can’t quite place it. Every time I think I am going to catch it, it skitters away and hides in some dark corner of my mind.

I glance up at the street signs, and realize that I am not that far from my boyfriend’s house. Seeing as I can’t do much about my situation standing here on the street, I decide to head towards his house.

Kevin’s house is only a couple of blocks away, but it is right through some of the most populous areas in the city. As I walk through the streets, I find myself amid a bustling crowd of people. As before, I am allowed to make my way with hardly a notice. I even see several people that I know, and they simply ignore me.

It’s not that they can’t see me. They are clearly making their way around me. I even walk into people’s way, and they change course to avoid me. They are simply choosing not to acknowledge my existence. No matter how much I rack my brain, I can’t make heads or tails of their behavior.

After what seemed like a lifetime, I finally made it to my boyfriend’s house. I stood outside debating what to do next. Should I just go up and nock on the door? How am I going to explain my current state to him? Heck, would he even pay any attention to me? So far no one else has.

I spend the next several minuets playing out possible scenarios in my head. I could try to go home, but it is a good distance from here, and with no car or money for the bus would take me hours. What if people decide to start noticing me? The last thing I want is to be arrested and charged with a crime. There is a park nearby. I could sleep there and try to figure out what is going on.

No. I need to tackle this head on. The only one I can trust is Kevin. If he ignores me I will just have to make him pay attention. It may be fairly warm now, but it will get colder tonight. I’m going to need a place to stay and something to eat. Something tells me that might not be so easy to find somewhere else.

With my mind made up, I stride up to the door and knock. As I wait for an answer, I am grateful for the hedges Kevin keeps out front. Usually they are a nuisance, their thorns scraping my arms and legs. At least now they were blocking certain sensitive areas from view, making me a little more comfortable and relaxed.

As the door began to open, something in my mind started to get very excited. I was practically jumping out of my skin with joy when the door was finally fully open and Kevin stood there staring at me.

What happened next took me by surprise. Kevin looked me up and down, and said, “There you are Benjy. Good Boy. I’m so glad you made it home. I thought I’d lost you!” Next, he grabbed the leash that was hanging by the door, and attached it to my collar.

I was in shock. Benjy? That isn’t my name. At least I don’t think it is. For some reason I knew that wasn’t my name, but I couldn’t remember what it really was. I tried to say something to Kevin to correct him, but all I could manage was a pathetic sound that could easily have been mistaken for a bark.

Kevin led me around the house and out into the back yard. He kept going on about What a god dog I was, how happy he was to see me again, how he though I was lost forever, and how he would be more careful when walking me from now on.

Apparently, at least according to Kevin, We had been out for our daily walk, and I had seen a squirrel. I dashed off after it, breaking the cheap leash Kevin had bought. He claimed he had looked for me for hours without luck.

No, that couldn’t be right. I am a human. Not a dog. Right? I looked down at myself. Yep, still clearly a human. Why couldn’t anybody see that? I was starting to think I was losing my mind. Which probably wasn’t all that far from the truth. I was finding it harder and harder to recall anything beyond this morning. How in the world did I get into this situation?

I didn’t have much time to think about it because Kevin led me to his fenced off back yard. He led me in through the gate and took off my leash. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a shiny bone shaped tag. I tried to read what was engraved on it, but for some reason the letters made no sense to me. He quickly attached it to my collar, and said, “There, now if you wander off again, someone can help you find your way home.”

While the tag surely weighed only a few ounces, once it was attached I could almost feel the weight pulling down on my neck. Something in me changed. I can’t quite put my finger on why, but for some reason my view of Kevin changed. I was starting to think of him less as a boyfriend and more of an owner.

Kevin reached out and started to pet my hair, and rub his hand along my back. This sent waves of pleasure through me. While this still seemed very strange to me, with each passing second it was starting to feel more and more natural.

Soon Kevin decided he wanted to play with me. He picked up a stick and threw it out into the yard. I looked at him for a second. The something compelled me to run out, chase it and bring it back to him. The first time, I picked the stick up with my hands. When I brought it back, Kevin seemed happy, but he gave me an odd look. The next throw, something made me scoop it up in my mouth. The taste made me sick.

I can’t explain what was happening, but as Kevin and I played in the back yard, I started feeling as if an outside force was trying to take over my mind. The force was getting stronger with each passing moment. It wasn’t long before I realized that my mind was being overtaken by the instincts of a dog.

The more I played the more my human persona slipped away, only to be replaced with the instincts of a dog.  It was controlling my actions, making me behave more and more like an animal. It took all the concentration I could muster to avoid dropping on to all fours.

Before I knew it, I was tired and panting. Kevin was about ready to take me inside for the night, but insisted that I take care of my business while I was out there. A wave of embarrassment passed over me. I wasn’t sure I could do what I needed to do outside with him watching me.

I found a nice spot where I was hidden behind a bush, and against my better judgment, gave the dog a little more control. Before I knew it, I was done. I had to admit I felt much better. Only now the dog was insistent one thing. Food.

Regaining what little composure I had left, I carefully made my way back to Kevin. He praised me for being a god dog, and petted me a few times before leading us back into the house.

Once inside, He made his way to the kitchen. I followed close behind to find him placing two bowls on the floor. One was filled with water, the other with what appeared to be dog food. The smell hit my nose and I thought I would gag, but for some reason it turned into the most delicious thing I had ever smelled.

Without thinking, I dropped onto all fours and proceeded to eat every last scrap of the food, and drink nearly all of the water. Once I was finished, my face was covered in water and dog food. I did my best to lick it off, but my tongue just wasn’t long enough.

Kevin laughed and cleaned my up as best he could. Normally I would have resisted, figuring I could do it myself, but for some reason I found myself enjoying it. Kevin’s attention sent waves of pleasure through my body. I was disappointed when he stopped. Tossing the rag into the sink, he made his way into the living room.

I stood there on all fours in the kitchen for a few minuets trying to decide what to do. A little voice in my head kept telling me this was wrong. I wasn’t his pet. I was his boyfriend. That sounded somehow both right and wrong at the same time. Using what will I had left, I managed to pull myself up onto two feet and walk into the living room.

Walking was more difficult that I could have imagined. I didn’t remember having this much trouble when I was just a toddler learning how to walk. I had to stop every few steps to steady myself; clinging on to anything I could reach to avoid falling on my butt.

When I finally made it to the Living room, Kevin was seated on a couch on the far side. There was nothing but open floor between me and him. I made up my mind that I had to get closer and try to talk to him, and figure out what was going on. That turned out to be a huge mistake.

As I started into the room, my legs gave out. I started to fall forward and caught myself with my hands just before my face smashed into the rug. Great. Here I was on all fours again, and try as I might, I couldn’t get up. I seemed to be stuck in this position by an unknown force.

I crawled the rest of the way over to Kevin and, without thinking about it, sat like a dog at his feet. He looked down at me and smiled. He reached out and patted my head, calling me a good boy. Immediately I was filled with pleasure at his touch. The feeling totally overwhelming my human mind. I tried to say something, but all that would come out were barks.

Before I could regain any semblance of my humanity Kevin dozed off, leaving me to my own devices. It took almost an hour before I could think clearly enough to make any progress on trying to find out what was happening to me. I decided to explore the house and see if I could find anything that would give me a clue.

As I made my way down the hall, I passed in front of a full-length mirror.  I spent a few minutes taking in my reflection. Everything seemed normal, other than my being on all fours, wearing just a collar. For some reason, the more I stared, the more I saw myself as a dog. It started to feel more and more real to me. Obviously being a human was just a dream.

Luckily Kevin dropped the remote he had been holding, and the noise broke me out of the trance. I quickly moved down the hall and away from the mirror before I lost myself completely.

I was shocked when I reached the bedroom. Inside I found a large dog bed that I knew hadn’t been there earlier. Fortunately Kevin wasn’t big on neatness, (Like I’m one to talk!)  and I managed to pull on some of the clothes hanging out of the drawers with my teeth to get the drawers open.

No matter which drawer I looked in, there was no sign that I had been there. Kevin had given me a drawer to store some underwear, and some sweats for when I spent the night. That drawer was now filled with pile after pile of unmatched socks.

Thinking Kevin had put my things in the closet, I tugged it open, only to find a fairly large heap of mostly dirty clothes on the floor. After digging through it for a minute I found nothing of mine.

I thought about grabbing some of Kevin’s clothes to put on, but I just couldn’t make my body move in any way that would accomplish that.  I was also strangely repulsed by the idea of covering myself. I could tell that no matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t going to get anywhere. Frustrated, I made my way back to the living room to see if I couldn’t communicate with Kevin.

I couldn’t help but notice as I moved around the house that I was starting to get more and more comfortable on all fours. It became easier to walk, and I was moving with more speed and agility. Being on all fours seemed right to me, and I was having trouble remembering moving around any other way.

Kevin was still sleeping when I got back to the living room, so I jumped up onto the couch. I inched closer, and intended to give him a push with my hands to wake him. My body interpreted the commands my brain was sending a little differently. Instead of a gentle nudge to wake him up, I leaned over and licked him in the face.

I was starting to panic. At the rate this was going, I would be completely a dog, at least mentally, in no time. I was sure I didn’t fancy spending the rest of my life as my boyfriends pet, but something inside me kept telling me that it wouldn’t be so bad and that’s the way things were supposed to be.

Upon feeling my wet tongue on his face, Kevin awoke and sat upright. After a second or two of confusion, he looked over at me. I thought for sure I saw some hint of recognition from him, but it faded quickly. A look of displeasure crossed his face, which resulted in me being kicked off the couch.

I tried everything I could to get some kind of message across to him. I even tried charades. I really hate that game!  Either I was really bad, or Kevin was dumber than I thought. Maybe both. Nothing seemed to make any impression on him. To him I was nothing more than his dog.

By now I was exasperated and resigned to my fate. I was going to be this way forever. At least I still looked human. Right? Little did it register that subtle changes had already begun to my body. My body hair had already started to thicken, and my legs were reshaping themselves.

I decided to return to the dog bed to curl up and sulk. It must have been more comfortable than it looked because I was out like a light as soon as my head hit the cushion.

After a few minuets, I began to dream. It seemed like a normal day to me. I was out with Kevin and we were having a good time. It wasn’t long before I noticed that although I was walking upright in the dream, I was still wearing just the collar. Attached to the collar was a leash, which Kevin was holding in his hands.

We walked through the main areas of town this way, everyone complimenting Kevin on his cute dog. I couldn’t help but blush each time I heard it. Once we came to a large park in the center of town, Kevin let me off the leash and we spent the afternoon playing fetch. I would catch the ball in my mouth and run it back to him so he could throw it out into the field again.

After playing a few other dog games it was starting to get dark, so Kevin leashed me back up and started to lead me back to his house. I felt tired yet excited at the same time. It was the most fun Kevin and I had ever had together. Even better than when we made out. I could hardly believe it.

It seemed so real to me. I couldn’t tell if I was recalling an actual event or if my mind was making it up. Maybe this is how I got to be lost this morning? It still didn’t explain how I got into this mess in the first place.

As I continued dreaming the story continued to unfold. We were walking the path we had taken dozens of times. I recognized all of the buildings and even some of the people. As we were crossing a street, something caught my attention. I veered away from Kevin as the walk sign changed. He was surprised enough he dropped the leash as I went running away.

I pursued my prey through several alleys and ended up nearly choking myself when the leash caught on a fence. I pulled a little harder and the ring snapped freeing me. I ran a few streets more, but had lost whatever it was that had caught my attention.

I looked around and realized I was lost. I didn’t see anyone or anything I recognized. I started trying to find my way back home. All of the back alleys looked the same. I was afraid I would never get home.

I must have been thrashing about in the bed because the next thing I knew, I was awakened by my head banging against the floor of the bedroom. Judging by the light streaming through the window, it was early morning. The first sensation I felt was hunger, and an urge for more dog food. Then another more pressing urge hit me.

I ran to the bathroom, but finding my face about eye level with the toilet, everything that had happened yesterday flooded back into my mind. I had to get outside. Quickly. I ran into the kitchen to see Kevin sitting there enjoying his breakfast. When he saw me he opened the back door and let me out into the yard.

I was disappointed at how easily I relieved myself. It meant my transformation was progressing. If I had the presence of mind to check, I would have noticed that I was now almost completely covered in a nice layer of blond fur. And my, I guess now, rear legs had almost totally reshaped themselves. My feet were now more paws than anything else. I wouldn’t be walking upright again anytime soon.

Returning into the house I found a nice bowl of dog food waiting for me. I was starving, so I quickly gobbled it down. As I ate, the memories of eating anything other than canned or dry dog food faded from my mind. This time I didn’t have any trouble licking the food from my face. I also noticed that I had done a better job getting the food in me instead of on me this time.

With my immediate needs taken care of, I tried to process my dream and what was happening to me. It seemed reasonable, with the information I had access to, to believe that my dream was a fairly good replay of how I came to be wandering the streets. Now I just had to pin down how I got into this mess, and how to get out of it before I became nothing more than an ordinary dog. Easy.

I tried to formulate a plan to get the answers, but I was never good at that sort of thing. I was always better at improvising, and it looked like that might be exactly what was called for in this situation.

Kevin was still sitting at the kitchen table working on his computer. I made my way around the table, careful not to make too much noise, and positioned myself in a place where I could see the screen. I could barely make out what he was working on from the odd angle and my decreasing ability to understand written words. The pictures gave me a pretty good idea of what he was doing.

I waited patiently until Kevin went to the bathroom, and then reached out putting my front legs onto the table. My fingers were getting stiff, and felt numb, but I was still able to manipulate the computer well enough to look at his emails and web history. It took all the concentration I could muster to make any sense out of it. I was crestfallen when I couldn’t find anything. I just barely got things back to where they were when Kevin came out of the bathroom.

Kevin suggested we go for a walk. I was hesitant at first, still not thrilled with the idea of walking around in public naked. I gave in quickly when I realized that I wasn’t finding anything of use here in the house. Maybe a quick trip around the neighborhood would give me the information I needed. At least it was a nice warm day.

As we walked through the streets, my body continued to change. My fingers grew shorter and reshaped themselves into toes. I now had full paws on both my front and rear legs. I hoped that wouldn’t keep me from doing whatever I needed to do to change back.

My fur had now mostly come in. It was nice and thick and gave me at least a little sense of being covered and made me feel more comfortable. Though it was warm. I soon found my tongue hanging out. Much to my surprise, panting is a very effective way to keep cool.

I caught a look at my body in the glass of one of the office buildings as we walked by. (I had long since given up trying to make heads or tails of the business names.) With the exception of my still human head, and body shape, and lack of a tail, I could tell that I was becoming a yellow lab. Could be worse I thought. I could be turning into one of those awful yappy dogs. Thinking that way made me feel a little ashamed of myself, but only for a second.

As we walked, something must have triggered my mind. Perhaps an unusual sight, sound, or smell. A memory came floating to the surface. It was hard to make heads or tails of the isolated memory, but as we continued more and more pieces floated to the surface. Before long I had the beginnings of a story.

Kevin and I were walking down a street not unlike this one. In these memories much to my surprise, I was fully dressed and human. Kevin had been lamenting the fact that he had never been allowed to have a dog as a kid. He went on and on about how jealous he was of the other kids when he saw them with their dogs. I mumbled something about wishing I could help him with that. I had always had dogs as a kid, and they were part of the family. I couldn’t imagine growing up without one.

Just as I finished speaking, a strange man stepped out of the alley and said one simple word. “Granted”. With that he disappeared. Kevin and I looked at each other, but we were both baffled.  We were about to continue on our way, when a sudden light hit me. When I could see again, I was standing next to Kevin naked save for my collar.

The memories faded at that point. Although my mind was running a little slower than normal, I managed to put two and two together. Obviously the strange man was some kind of wizard or genie. He mistook what I said for an actual wish, and though he was helping by turning me into the dog Kevin had always wanted. Great, me and my big mouth. At least now I knew what was going on.

Clearly I had to find this whatever and stop him before he could do this to anyone else, and maybe get him to turn me back. A strange feeling interrupted my thoughts. Looking back, I watched as a tail grew from the base of my spine. Without any prompting from me it quickly started wagging, clearly in response to the exhilaration I was feeling. I didn’t have much time left.

I couldn’t tell if Kevin’s senses were allowing him to relive the same memories as I was, or if he was whether or not he understood their meaning. It seemed all to clear that the answer was no when he started to turn around and head home. I had come this close. I couldn’t turn back now.

I had to keep going. I started pulling on my leash, hoping it wasn’t any better quality than the last one Kevin had bought. Unfortunately he seemed to have learned from his mistakes (why now?), and the leash held. I strained and pulled with all my might. I could feel my body changing more and more with each passing moment, but it would be worth it.

By the time I convinced Kevin that I wasn’t ready to go home and wanted to continue on my walk, the only thing even remotely human remaining on my body was my face. I didn’t have time to care, because the longer I procrastinated the dimmer the memories got and the more I lost myself to the dog I was becoming. I had to remind myself I was human every few moments, lest I slip away completely.

Something was driving me towards an alley just a few blocks away. I started to pick up a scent that I recognized. I could feel my nose flattening and getting darker, my face pushing out into a muzzle as I tried to follow the trail.

I was listening for anything that would indicate the presence of the man I was seeking. While I was glad that I was starting to be able to hear more clearly, and from further away, I knew what it meant. My ear had gotten long and floppy and moved upward on my head.

I tried to resist, but couldn’t help sneaking a glance at myself in a window as we passed by. I was now totally transformed. I looked like nothing more than a dog. You would never have known I had ever been human. I just hoped the added fidelity of my senses was worth it, and I hadn’t done anything irreversible.

When we finally reached the alley, I found a scent I recognized. I couldn’t see him right away, but I knew my prey was somewhere among the dumpsters and junk strewn about. Something about the scent triggered another memory- So familiar- Yes! This must have been what I was chasing when I got lost. He must have done something to my memory so I wouldn’t catch him!

I could tell Kevin was hesitant to enter the alley, but I could tell the only way to reverse what was happening to me was in there. I turned and, to my surprise, and I think Kevin’s, growled at him. This surprised him enough for him to drop my leash. I took the opportunity to dash into the alley following my nose.

I didn’t take long before I finally found what I was looking for. Using my snout and paws, I managed to move a few crushed boxes enough to expose a figure lying prone on the ground. He didn’t look like I remembered, but the smell was the same. He had to be the same one.

I wasn’t sure what to do next. I reached out with my paw and gave him a push. He groaned a little, but barely moved. After a few more pushes and some insistent barking, Kevin made his way over to see what had caught my attention. He knelt down beside the little man, and I could see that some hint of recognition crossed his face.

Finding a small box, Kevin scooped the man up, and placed him inside. Grabbing a hold of my leash, he started to lead us home. I only hopped the man would survive long enough to fix me before I lost what little humanity I had left. On the walk home, I tried as hard as I could but found myself slipping more and more.

When I was able to finally retake control of my body, I realized a few hours had passed. I was in the back yard, and could hear Kevin in the kitchen. Luckily he had left the door ajar, and I was able to push it open enough to enter. I found Kevin seated at the table caring for our prisoner.

As I approached the table I could hear that he was doing better. When he saw me, he turned to face me, and got a relieved look on his face. “Thank you for not eating me, and saving my life.” I gave a half hearted bark, letting him know that I was a little hurt with that remark.

“Sorry, Sorry” he continued. “I am not of your world as you may have guessed. I am from the world of the Fay- A fairy if you will. I try to help people as best I can, but my magic has a way of, how do you say? Oh yes, back firing. I am sorry that I caused you so much trouble.” That was the understatement of the year.

“I must return to my home if I am to survive. But I think I have enough power left to fix your problem and rectify my mistake. As you have been so kind to me, I will give you a choice. (A) I can return you to how things were before this happened. You will never have met me, and will lead a long happy life with your boyfriend. (B) I can leave you as a dog, but restore your humanity. You will have a human life span and will be able to think and speak as a man. Kevin will be your owner and I know you will have a full life. (C) I can make you anthropomorphic. You would be able to speak and think like a human, and move on two legs, but you will retain the best features of the dog- added senses and strength, fur, a tail etc. or (D) I can make it so you have always been a dog. You will be nothing more than an animal. You may find this life most fulfilling if you want to leave all the cares of human life behind. I will give you a long lifespan and you will remain with Kevin as the dog he always wished to have. I can think of no greater act of love.  I have limited time. You must choose now.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Each option had its pluses and minuses. I wasn’t sure how I could ever pick one. Taking a deep breath I made up my mind. I choose:

(A). I looked up at the man and barked “A” at him as best I could. Somehow he managed to understand me. He took a moment gathering his energy. After a few minutes of strange chanting I began to feel funny. I looked over at Kevin, and could tell he felt it too. With a final scream a blinding light filled the room. After what seemed like an eternity, the light began to clear. Kevin and I found ourselves sitting at the Kitchen table about to enjoy a nice lunch. As the last of the light faded, we noticed the man and box had gone, but the significance of that quickly faded from our memories. After a second or two, or conversation resumed, and we finished the plans we made, heading out to catch a movie at the Cineplex. Clearly this had been the right choice.

(B) I had to admit my life hadn’t been anything really special, and every time Kevin interacted with me as his pet I felt a level of bliss that was unsurpassed by anything I had experienced as a human. I looked up at the man and barked “B” at him as best I could. Somehow he managed to understand me. He took a moment gathering his energy. After a few minutes of strange chanting I began to feel funny. I looked over at Kevin, and could tell he felt it too. With a final scream a blinding light filled the room. After what seemed like an eternity, the light began to clear. I looked up at the table to find the box and man had vanished. Kevin looked over at me and started petting me. “That feels Wonderful” I said. It took me a moment to realize that I had spoken and not barked. Kevin smiled and continued to pet me as waves of pleasure ran through my body. Over the next couple of days, Kevin and I spent our time the next few days playing and getting ready for our new life. Playing with Kevin made me feel wonderful and I could tell he was enjoying having a pet as much as I enjoyed being his. Every sensation was amplified, and more powerful than anything I ever felt as a man. The only thing I didn’t like was the trips to the vet. Yuck. I let Kevin know in no uncertain terms if he ever tried to have me neutered, he would be sorry. We were closer than we had ever been as people. I knew that I had made the right choice.

(C) Anthrodogs? I had to admit the idea was appealing. I liked the feelings that my enhanced senses provided. This body had potential. But was limited as a dog. I looked up at the man and barked “C” at him as best I could. Somehow he managed to understand me. He took a moment gathering his energy. After a few minutes of strange chanting I began to feel funny. I looked over at Kevin, and could tell he felt it too. With a final scream a blinding light filled the room. After what seemed like an eternity, the light began to clear. As my eyesight returned, I realized my point of view was much higher than before. I looked down at my body, and ran my hands along it. It felt wonderful and powerful. I could hear every little noise. I sniffed Kevin and was practically intoxicated by the scents of his body. I may not be able to go out in the day without a disguise, but we didn’t do that much anyway. While I often go the urge to play like any dog, Kevin and I found the sex to be extraordinary.  We eventually moved out to a more secluded area where we could frolic in the woods together. Kevin and I were never closer, and I know I made the right choice.

(D) A normal pet? I had spent most of the last few days trying to avoid that. I looked over at Kevin, and realized I hadn’t seen him this happy in a long time. I thought back on my own life and it dawned on me that it hadn’t really been all that worthwhile. I had been kicked out by my parents when they found out I was gay. That had really taken a toll on my mental health. I had drifted through life, and if Kevin hadn’t found me when he did, I don’t know what would have happened. I looked up at the man and barked “D” at him as best I could. Somehow he managed to understand me. He took a moment gathering his energy. After a few minutes of strange chanting I began to feel funny. I looked over at Kevin, and could tell he felt it too. With a final scream a blinding light filled the room. After what seemed like an eternity, the light began to clear. I looked over at master and could tell he was happy. This made me happy. I barked at him. Master reached over and petted me. It put me into a state of pure bliss. I wagged my tail, and jumped up on him, licking him in the face. We couldn’t have been happier. As the last of my humanity slipped away, I knew I had made the right choice.

Meanwhile, in some reality just outside our own, a small man appears in a flash of light. He is hunched over and clearly in pain. He stands straighter, drawing power and strength from his surroundings. After a few moments he begins to stagger home, sure that he will face some punishment for his mistakes, but at least he was reassured and bolstered with the knowledge that he had been able to set things right.

[stunudo]

Teamwork Makes the Dream Work:

A Criminal Minds Fan-fiction Case 1 Part B

Featuring: Female Reader as she joins the Team

Setting: Early Season 12                Beginning

A/N: This is a piece about how someone with some quirks fits into the BAU. xoxo Stu

Your name: submit What is this?

They had a jet! She was a gorgeous example of engineering and simple luxury.

“Shiny! How can you fly commercial after using this beauty?” Your approving eyes were flitting through all of the leg room. Alvez and Jareau snickered behind you. You continued inside, quickly counting seats. You didn’t have to sit next to anyone! There were plenty of buffer seats for everyone.

You hummed pleasantly as you found a window seat towards the back. The relief of personal space made you almost forget the embarrassment of the morning. Rossi sat down opposite you, watching you observe the workers on the sides of the runway. His reputation was one of the most noteworthy on the team. But you always held personal interactions above gossip and, even, bureau legends.

“The jet is possibly my favorite addition to the team.” Rossi stated, “Just don’t tell the kids, they’ll be jealous.” He added in a mock whisper.

“Good to know, I would hate to have to live up to all she has done.” You teased. “Penny says you have quite the games collection.”

Rossi smirked, “Does she? Well, that’s it, all of my mysteries have already been revealed.”

Hotch was last on the plane, he sat beside Rossi with his tablet at the ready. “Garcia, what did you find?”

“Sir, sirs and sisters too! Waupaca County Sheriff just got word that state troopers located Abigail Brown’s car in, or near rather Pelican Lake.”

“That expands the comfort zone. It is 93 miles from her last known location.” Spencer jumped into the conversation, leaning down to speak to Garcia over Hotch’s shoulder.

“Alright, Rossi take Alvez to the victim’s car. JJ, I want you to take Y/L/N and Reid to the parents’ house near Waupaca. Lewis and I will coordinate with the locals. We will have rental vehicles, please behave with them.” Hotch emphasized, which made you wonder who was in trouble with “dad” for reckless driving in the past.

“For now, rest up. We have two hours in the air and another hour, hour plus on the road.” Hotch thanked Garcia and the team dispersed to different corners of the jet. You slid your earbuds in, picking up where Simon Pegg’s voice had left you giggling last.

The plane landed on a small airstrip in Oshkosh, WI located on the same campus as the world famous EAA Aviation Museum. The clear skies and bird’s eye view had left a beautiful impression of the surrounding lakes and towns. You waited in your seat to be the last off of the jet, so as not to have anyone behind and not to slow anyone down.

The stiffness of flying twice in such a short time frame left you yearning for a jog. Unfortunately the crisp autumn air rushed your face as you descended from the hatch. You shivered against the wind and followed your new team to the waiting assortment of rental cars. JJ had snagged the first set of keys for a dark four door sedan. You cautiously hauled your Go-bag and messenger to the rear of the car. As JJ popped the trunk, Dr. Reid tossed his bags inside the trunk before you registered his presence. The shock of having him there without catching him in your periphery locked you in place.

You shook your head to clear the unsettling tinge that remained on the air. You looked deeply into the trunk and slowly inserted your belongings while keeping your head down. You made your way to the back door and slid onto the leather seat. Reid was already sitting in the backseat behind Jareau. He glanced at you, surprised.

“Dr. Reid, you can sit shotgun. I prefer the back, backseat.” You tried to look reassuring. “With limbs like yours, I imagine, the front will be more comfortable. For you.” His big eyes taking in your slow to calm nerves. He made a half smile, accepting your offer with a nod. Once Spencer was situated up front, JJ typed in the address for the Brown family and headed out of town.

“So,” you began, “I’m going to pry, full disclosure. Why was the chief so huffy about the team having rental cars?” You leaned between the front seats, ensuring the other agents could hear you. You never meant to mumble, but it happened on occasion.

JJ laughed, “First off, it’s Hotch. Sir is fine, I guess. But everyone calls him Hotch.” You nodded, storing that detail for his approval later.

“You see, Y/L/N, our former colleague, Morgan, had a thing about “vibing” while he drove. There was a pedophile ring, we were on the task force near the end of the case. And Morgan, he, well he-”

“Derek drove into a marsh.” JJ concluded. “The car was unsalvageable and it set back the investigation-”

“An additional eight hours,” Reid continued. “Hotch was not pleased. He hates things that get us billed unexpectedly.”

You sensed the closeness between Reid and Jareau, interpreting their relationship to be greater than simply teammates. As Jareau was clearly married and Reid did not give off any sexuality hints you assumed they were “besties”. Riding in the backseat was refreshingly entertaining. People watching was a specialty of yours, as you tended to fade to the background anyway. You learned about JJ’s family. Spencer’s mother was mentioned briefly, but you could tell it was a touchy subject. He was studying a map, marking it diligently with details from the case.

“Y/L/N, what’s your story? Besides transferring from cyber crimes, of course.” Jareau asked after a patch of quiet. “We’re going to find out eventually. Might as well spill.” Her eyes caught yours in the rear-view mirror, prodding yet kind.

“You tell me, between Reid’s eidetic memory and your past profiling and negotiation experience. I am quite obvious, I suppose. I am curious what you’ve gathered.” You leaned back, waiting for the inevitably judgmental insights.

Jareau and Reid exchanged a look. “We don’t, uh, we have an unspoken rule not to profile each other.”

“Alvez says you all do it. You just don’t talk about doing it.” You explained. Reid pursed his lips, from where you sat you couldn’t deduce if it was in amusement or annoyance.

The family was a mess. Their emotions in dark contrast to their small, cookie cutter, ranch style house and manicured lawn. The Brown’s house interior had no visible blemishes as well. Abigail was their oldest child. Missing her were her father, Mark, her mother, Sandra and brothers Danny and Benji. The boys were at school, so there were more of your agents than family members occupying the cubical shaped dining room.

“Ma’am, would it be alright if Dr. Reid and I see Abigail’s room?” You asked rather abruptly after being introduced by Jareau, the question had been burning in your mouth. You wanted to get to work, but had to tell yourself to be considerate of the family.

“Why would you need to go in there?” Sandra asked defensively. “It’s not like she is hiding under the bed.” You glanced up at Spencer, letting him take over.

“I know you are upset, but we are trying to get to know Abigail. When we investigate we start with the victim. Why her?” Reid explained, his crisp reasoning held both parents’ attention.

“Hey, Doc?” Mark Brown chimed in, “When you figure that out, let me know. I want to reason with the bastard as it is.” You watched Reid hold the father’s stare, knowing words were not involved with his intentions. Reid cleared his throat and Jareau resumed the standard victim’s family questioning. You stepped widely around the compact table, waiting until Reid was in the hall before following his puff of hair.

Abigail Brown’s room was fairly standard college freshman material. She had a Klimt poster on one wall and a bookshelf dedicated to YA novels. The girl had good taste: Clare to Riordan, Steifvater to Rowling. Her desk was cleared of her laptop, as she would have packed it with her to return to school. Dr. Reid’s hands loomed over her dresser, the vanity astonishingly bare for your modern, small town young woman.

“Y/L/N, what don’t you see here?” Reid quizzed you. Your eyes glanced over the space once more before answering.

“There is no jewelry, make up or anything personally or monetarily valuable.” You concluded.

“She wasn’t coming back home.” Reid agreed.

SPEAKERPHONE

Rossi: Everything this girl owned seemed to be jammed into her hatchback.

Hotch: Reid and Y/L/N are suggesting she knew she wouldn’t be coming back.

Alvez: There was no sign of a struggle in or around the car. Maybe she was meeting someone?

Garcia: Sir? Once we get Abigail’s laptop connected to WiFi, I can start digging. Rossi please don’t let the new kid hurt the tech.

Rossi: Y/L/N’s with Reid and JJ.

Garcia: You know who I mean! But, now that you mention it, if Y/L/N is close by, she can dig too.

There was no good place for the team to sync up. Victims went missing counties apart from where their cars were parked. Evidence was in three jurisdictions. According to Reid, the eye of the storm was in Shawano County, but Hotch booked the hotel in Antigo, one county north. Fortunately the hotel had internet access, unlike every restaurant, diner or cafe you had come across.

You plugged your headphones in to Abigail’s lap top and got to work uncovering this victim’s dirty laundry. While you did your “tech thing” the team round tabled. You overheard the highlights, comfortable to be invisible and an eavesdropper once again.

-Victims had all packed above and beyond the usual weekend laundry run of a college student.

-Parents hadn’t heard much from the victims over the few weeks leading up to their disappearances.

-No signs of struggle and no more bodies had been found.

Dr. Lewis was extremely insightful, pulling references to human trafficking rings that ran from Green Bay to Chicago. You reminded yourself to touch base with the sultry voiced agent once you had a decent question for her brilliance. Abigail’s computer was full of malware. But other than that she had an active, yet not obsessive level of social media profiles. She checked her school email inbox between each class.

This victim was a good kid, you didn’t know why she was targeted. It wasn’t until you found reoccurring references to Night Owls that you felt the computer was a dead end. Night Owls was a evening group chat that Abigail had found on a banner ad. It was a chat room coupled with a confessional. It was in Night Owls that Abigail started communicating with a Nocturne1995. It was in one of these very emo and very lengthy chats that you found where Nocturne1995 suggested that they go to the Cabin for an Escape from Everything.

Finally turning off Abigail’s most listened to list on iTunes, you returned to your awaiting teammates. Hotch and Rossi watched you approach the table. Their dark eyes held you and you fumbled trying to wipe the sweat from your palms.

“Sir?” You began, whispering just to Hotchner. “I am going to call Garcia to trace a chat ID, its a long shot, but there are mentions of an escape and a cabin in their conversations.”

“You do what you need to, Y/L/N.” Hotchner agreed. “Y/L/N? Good work.”

To Be Continued...

[athcnvs]

☾✧.° learning to hate you(rself) as a self-defense mechanism

❝ you're on the phone  with someone who doesn't know  about your soul and how it  can't be held by flesh and bone ❞

Her phone in one hand, fist in the other, Athena hesitated before knocking on the door of a certain boy named Tristan, a boy she had not communicated with in a month, yet there she was, standing outside of his apartment. It was an impulse decision, texting him and storming out of the villa in the middle of the, well, storm. She wasn’t the type to act without thinking, but something bothered her when some of the group made plans to tell ghost stories in the living room, joking about summoning demons. It hurt to see Graham actively messaging. It hurt to see him okay. Using their event as an excuse to head out, she hopped into an Uber, heading toward an unfamiliar destination.

“I’m surprised you didn’t ignore my text after what I did to you,” she muttered, her gaze planted to the ground as the boy opened the door.

“And be a petty dick about it?” he scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “No chance.” Tristan stepped aside to let her in, directing her toward the couch in his living room. “I assumed something was up since you wouldn’t have contacted me of all people otherwise. No one ever hits up a person they barely know -- let alone someone they ghosted for a month -- to talk if something wasn’t up.” He took a good look at her, tilting his head. “Why me, anyway? Don’t you have friends you can talk to? You know, someone who isn’t some guy you met at a cafe?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? I feel like you do.”

This is what she wanted. She wanted someone to try. To delve into parts of her soul she didn’t want to touch. Athena was too afraid to open up to anyone inside of the villa. Add in the close proximity everyone was with each other, she couldn’t bring herself to talk about another python, knowing the drama it could start. “I don’t know anyone around here besides the friends I came with,” she admitted, twisting the ring on her finger. “And I’d rather pour myself out to someone who doesn’t know who I’m talking about instead of someone who does.”

“I see.”

“Do you mind?”

“I wouldn’t have told you to come over here if I did,” he reminded her with a light chuckle. “Go for it. I’ll make some tea.” 

I’m a piece of shit. Why are you being nice?, she wanted to blurt out as she watched him get up and head toward the kitchen. You shouldn’t have told me to come.

Tristan returned with two mugs of lightly sugared green tea. She wanted to comment on the fact that hers said “#MUGLIFE” but she withheld. It wasn’t the time.

“So what’s wrong with you?” he inquired, sipping the hot drink before adding, “I should have worded that better. What’s going on?”

Athena took a deep breath before she did what she hadn’t done in a while: talk. She first spoke about the root of her current state -- her fight with Graham -- going over their entire history, not forgetting to touch on the subject of Brandon, Teagan, and everything in between. It was astounding how he sat there, intently listening to what she had to say with no judgmental stares or remarks. She continued to ramble on about the insecurities she had, all of the troubles she seemed to face. It felt cathartic, this release of emotions. Tristan took her free hand into his as she spoke, waiting for her to finish before even thinking of what to respond with. It was a lot to take in, a lot to process.

“Now I know why you decided to take the trip over here instead of divulge all of this to an, as you say, python.” He exhaled. “You’re right, that’s complicated, but you can’t help who you like, Athena. Even if he doesn’t return the feeling, you can’t change that fact.” Tristan continued to present the girl with his own words of wisdom, throwing in a story he had himself. He spoke of an individual he had grown close to in the past, how he began developing feelings for her later on in their friendship. “You could see it in my poetry,” he said. “I compared her to everything ethereal. I was smitten.” His face softened as he went on, his tone shifting. “I didn’t know how he she felt, and I was too scared to find out. So I did exactly what you’re doing right now. It took every inch of my being to suppress how I felt whenever I saw her.” He sighed. “Athena, her smile could light up the darkest of rooms.”

“So what happened?”

“Nothing,” he stated bluntly. “I never told her, and now she’s engaged to my best friend.” Athena frowned as he continued to reveal that a few months ago, he and the girl had been reminiscing about the past when she brought up the fact that she had a huge crush on him and was waiting for the moment he’d ask her out, but he never did. “And that’s why it’s important to take chances,” he concluded. “You’ll live your life in ‘what ifs’ and regret if you don’t.”

“Why are you being so kind to me when I wasn’t kind to you?” was all she could muster up.

He laughed, setting his mug down on the coffee table and covering her hand with his. “Just because you indirectly turned me down, it doesn’t mean I’m not capable of being a good person to you. You have trouble handling people and emotions, I get it. I got over it. I’m not going to hold a grudge because a girl I recently met wasn’t interested in me in that way. What am I, an idiot?"

“Tristan,” Athena began, putting her own mug aside, “you’re amazing, you know that? And I’m not just saying that because I made you listen to me ramble on about my personal problems that you could’ve just not given a shit about.”

“Don’t sweat it,” the boy reassured as he laid a hand on the top of her head, looking into her eyes. “And even though I barely know you, I wholeheartedly believe that you deserve the world. Whether or not Graham wants to be a part of that world, it’s up to him. Just remember what I told you. You can’t live your life for anyone but yourself. That’s a lesson people learn the hard way.”

Athena was dumbfounded. She couldn’t believe a boy whom she had deliberately ignored had enough room in his heart to not only lend her an ear but also advice during her time of internal struggle. She considered the others in her past, the ones who had a similar fate to Tristan at her own hands. She hated to think of the possibility that they were as accepting as he was. Then she thought about Benji, how the two of them managed to rebuild a friendship even after she had turned him down. She couldn’t help but feel icky. She didn’t want to be like this.

“I’m not sure about the world,” she replied hesitantly, “but I appreciate your sentiment. I’m just hoping that when I return to the villa, I’ll be able to celebrate my birthday without feeling sorry for myself.”

Tristan’s eyes grew wide at the revelation. “It’s your birthday? Today? Why didn’t you tell me?” He got up off of the couch, scrambling to find something, anything he could use as a makeshift cake.

“No, no, it’s tomorrow. Well, it’s not too far from midnight right now, but it’s tomorrow.” 

She watched in amusement as the boy returned with a Yankee Candle and a lighter, placing the jar in her lap as he lit the wick. “Too bad, we’re celebrating now,” he said before singing “Happy Birthday” in the key of C.

Athena gazed at the flame below her, closing her eyes and blowing it out as the song concluded.

“Did you make a wish?”

“Yeah.”

Better days.

[day0walkersdrafts]

kinktober day two - blood

“So you’ve killed vampires ‘fore, yeah?”

Maran goes so red, so quickly that it makes Nomi’s fangs ache. Something physical up inside her bones, like she can’t control the reflexive urge to open her mouth, drip saliva, take his throat in her jaws. She tucks the bottom of her face into the giant jacket she’s swimming in then, to hide that twitching desire. She’s two shining eyes above dark fabric, looking at him. It’s his jacket, and bundled up in all that Maran smell isn’t making the biting urge any easier.

“Well,” he laughs, plucking awkwardly at his shirt, center of his chest. Almost like he’s fanning himself down, even though she knows it’s proper chilly out. When he fidgets like that, Nomi gets an urge just as strong to bite, but instead of fangs, it’s in her hands. Flexing a bit. Like she wants to grab his and hold them, tuck them into the jacket to join her. Instead she stays as she is, sitting perched on the hood of Benny’s borrowed mustang.

The parking lot they’ve stopped in is not romantic in the slightest, yet it’s hold on her is nostalgic; something about it reminds her of being human. The gas station light flickers in and out, a distinct bzzz sound every once in a while. Middle of the night, it’s devoid of all cars except the employee’s parked close to the building they’d just exited with armfuls of snacks. No one passes by the lonesome road, so there’s a sense of privacy. Solitude, except for the sounds of the forest behind the gas station. The rustling of trees in the wind.

And Maran’s heart beat.

“Some deserve it,” Nomi concedes, realizing the question had been a bit much. She’s like that, though. A bit much. Too much, sometimes. Maran doesn’t seem to mind, which makes her suspicious. Like one day he might finally dust himself off and say ‘you know you’re too much, right, Nomi?’ and then leave. She wedges the can of soda between her stocking clad thighs and cracks the tab open. It fizzes and she quickly holds it to her mouth to catch the sugary drink. Her fang catches a bit on the metal, makes a tiny tink sound.

“Why are you asking?” Maran prompts, instead of answering. Nomi know’s he has and isn’t sure why he’s so hesitant to say so. Like he’s afraid of judgment, when they’re sitting on the hood of a car that belongs to a man that would eradicate vampires with his fucking mind if he could.

Boom, Ben had whispered to her once, grinning in the low light of his room. He was so pretty when he smiled like that, with his crooked teeth and his pale lips. Kill them all, but you, Nomi. You and Lark. Benji, too, I guess. The number of allowances was going up. She didn’t point that out to him.

“Mouse and Guts have to go away for a bit,” Nomi explains, hands tucked around the soda can. She’d painted her nails yellow, because he’d bleached his hair. She wonders if he notices. Maran’s jacket slides a bit down off her shoulders, exposes the bare skin to the night. Sometimes, she misses the chill. “And I’ll be—” Her eyes swing over to him. The dark makes the shadows on his face drastic, really carve out his cheekbones. The plush set of his lips distracts her, makes her stare at them and remember what it felt like to kiss them.

He is so beautiful it catches the imaginary breath in her chest.

Nomi moves toward him, faster than she means to. A little navy blur in the night. Sometimes Maran makes her feel like yarn off the spool, all unwound, and so she forgets to hold herself back when she should. The soda can rolls across the pavement, yellow green making a puddle as her arms wind up around his broad shoulders. Maran’s hand tucks against her tapered waist, inside his opened jacket. He’s warm and she can feel that, unlike the chill of wind.

“I don’t want to be alone, at my place.”

A beat passes between them as Maran seems to catch up.

“Oh,” he says. Then his face widens into a bashful smile, brows upturned, head tilted. She wants to press in closer, chest to chest. His heart beat would be so strong, it would reverberate her whole body that way. It would make her feel alive again. He’s bracing himself up by one hand on the mustangs hood, leaning to accommodate the way her body curves against him. She wants to kiss him—and Nomi really doesn’t usually stop herself when that urge takes over, the desire to have his lips against hers. Touch his tongue with her own. Taste the chocolate he’d been eating before she’d started this line of questioning.

But she needs a yes. She needs to hear him say—

“Could I stay there with you, for a bit?”

Nomi melts, her smile making her cheeks hurt as she finally presses her lips against his.

—

In her dream, she’s outside, during the day. The sun touches her skin, warmly intimate across her bare collarbone, her shoulders, her upturned cheeks. Nomi would shrink if this were anything other than a dream—draw back hissing, terrified, tucked into the dark to avoid the death. But it’s a dream, so she can touch daylight and not burn. She doesn’t mind midnight, so she never understands why all her dreams are buttery and yellow like this.

I gave up the sun, I didn’t mind losing it. I knew what it cost. I liked paying the price.

Some vampires can survive what Nomi only imagines in her dreams. Ina would never let the sun tell her what to do; Mouse might be like that one day, Nomi thinks fondly. In her dream, she looks at her cupped hands holding sunlight. It becomes dappled, as if filtering through tree’s. I wouldn’t do that to her, foggy thoughts whisper. I wouldn’t make her choose.

The landscape is nondescript, it’s just the sun that matters. It’s a park and then it’s a city and then it’s the beach and sometimes a forest. It’s the parking lot she’d sat in just days prior, on the mustang. It’s all hot, like she imagines it. Nomi isn’t old enough to have forgotten what being outside during a July afternoon was like; so her brain fills in the memories of it. Her pale forearms are almost glowing, spidery snakes of her blue veins practically fluorescent and ugly.

Blue is her favorite color, but she hates the way it looks through the thin white marble of her skin. She thought she’d be rid of that after the turning. She thought these little odd intricate human parts of her would smooth over, gaussian blur gone.

“I think it look’s pretty,” he says, cupping a hand up underneath her elbow. He’s warmer than the daylight then, his palm searing her in a way that makes everything hotter. A liquid heat that licks across her, reminds her of...

In her dream, he’s her favorite color. His shaved down hair is turquoise, beautiful against his tan skin. She doesn’t remember turning to greet him, but her long fingernails drag through that buzz cut anyway, making his pretty dark lashes flutter. His lips part, pretty and alluring and soft. Her mouth fills with saliva reflexively. Bite, something inside her says. Bite. Tear. Drink. She feels full bodied with it, the overwhelming desire to wrench his head back in her grip, fangs to his throat, that pulse inviting, throbbing just under the surface.

“Maran,” she moans when her mouth meets there, kissing instead.

—

“Are you okay?”

Nomi jolts up onto her knees so quickly that Maran stumbles back. He nearly collides with her messy desk, stacks of mechanical keyboards almost tumbling to the ground from their precarious perch. Her mountainous amount of blankets puddle around her, conflicting shades of yellows and blues and pinks. Everything is washed mostly cyan from the monitors and their ocean texture screensavers—even Maran, his skin tinted with it as he stands there. He holds one hand up, his face concerned.

“I think you were dreaming,” he explains with an awkward upraised shoulder.

Nomi puts a hand over her mouth as she sinks onto the bed, knees spreading as she settles her weight. His shirt hangs off her, loose around the neck, brushing the tops of her thighs. She pushes back her messy navy hair, strands of it curling and tangled because she’d forgotten to take the buns out. She snaps the ties free then, shaking her head aggressively to let all her hair down. It puffs around her head, in disarray.

When she blinks at Maran, he’s standing there with a battered look about him, as if he’d been smacked around by something.

“I didn’t know vampires could dream,” he says, in an oddly winded voice. He’s bare chested, but still in his loose fitting jeans. They have little tears in the knees, his skin peeking out there to. They sit low on his hips, enough to show the band of his briefs. Nomi looks at that tight black material for a second longer than she means to before she blinks back up to his face.

“Do you want your shirt back?” She begins to ask, hands at the hemline to tug up.

“No,” he says quickly. “Unless you—want to give it back?” The sentence ends like an awkward question that he almost seems to regret asking. Nomi can’t help but smile, tuck her teeth into her lower lip and begin brushing her hair behind her ears.

“Have you just been sittin’ there?”

Maran glances toward the computer chair behind him. His cheeks are a dark color underneath all his freckles. They stand out in pretty contrast across the bridge of his nose, his sharp cheekbones. He has them on his shoulders as well, a few scattered on his bare torso. Nomi likes the soft give to his sides, the way he is not washboard flat, but rather human soft.

“I forgot the password to the computer,” he admits, laughing softly under his breath. He’s still looking behind him as Nomi crawls to the edge of the bed. When he looks back, her hands are already lifted, fingers sliding into his belt loops. She gives him her most gentle tug and still finds herself too strong for him. He comes toward her, a little stumble like his knees are too weak to hold him up.

“You could have gotten into bed with me,” Nomi whispers, looking up at him from under her dark lashes. He doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands, so they stay slightly raised. Almost hover near her shoulders, just so close to her. Suddenly, she does wish the shirt was gone. Wishes she had already pulled it off. Instead, she continues pulling until Maran’s thighs are flush with the bed. His heart beat has gotten louder, so loud that it beats inside her head like a drum.

“Okay,” Maran says just as quietly, maybe softer. He starts to climb into the bed and Nomi feels the way the mattress sinks with his weight.

“I was dreaming about you,” Nomi admits. She loses a bit of patience—a bit of her calm—suddenly twisting them both so Maran is flat to the bed. Her strength makes him feel light as a feather as she maneuvers him. On his back, he looks up at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly, warm breath washing over her forever cold skin. He has a freckle at the hollow of his throat that Nomi stares intently at.

“I mean,” she smiles as she settles onto his thighs. “You were in it.”

“Was I doing anything cool?” She laughs, her head falling back unconsciously. It’s enough of a laugh to peter into a little hard exhale, dangerously close to a snort that she has to cover with her hand. When she looks back down, he’s smiling at her and his hands have finally found a home at her hips. Yes, she thinks. Touch me. Keep touching me.

“You were juggling knives,” she tells him. “While, like, riding a zebra.”

“Circus shit?”

“Certified, very cool.”

“Really?”

Nomi’s cool palms spread over his bare stomach. The ripple of his skin and muscles makes her mouth water; that bite sensation comes back with a force that startles her. She wants to put her tongue to his skin, taste it. Lathe up between his pectorals, find his jugular. She finds herself breathing hard, when she doesn’t even need the oxygen. His hips shift up underneath her.

“Why didn’t you sleep?” She asks, leaning down. Her hands rise up, cup his ribs, her head tilted curiously. Her blue hair falls across her shoulders, dangles on either side of her face, tickles across his chest. His hands push their way underneath the shirt she’d stolen from him, slow crawls that she could stop if she wanted to. Nomi doesn’t. She doesn’t ever want to stop him. The desire for him fills her so painfully full, the ache inside her like a fresh bruise when she can’t even be wounded by him.

“I was—uh—standing watch. Keeping you safe.” Maran’s voice is small and breathless, like she’s stolen it away. His eyes flicker across her face, as though he can’t find which feature is best to continue staring at. Nomi leans back, shifts her weight again so it’s on his thighs. One of her hands draws down across his impossibly warm skin. She can feel the vibration of his blood, pumping through his gorgeous body, fueling his muscles to work. Her fingers toy with the button of his jeans.

“Mar, that was an excuse,” Nomi admits, laughing softly. “I sent Mouse and Guts somewhere.”

“Why?”

Nomi plucks the button off his jeans as easily as one might take a flower petal. Maran makes a soft sound that is so genuinely quiet she’s unsure if he’s aware—an inhale and something higher pitched. Closer to a whine; but she can’t think of it like that. Nomi can’t imagine Maran whining because it makes her head spin. Makes her dizzy. She puts a finger to the zipper, draws her inhumanly long nail down it. The teeth make a pleasant sound against the sharp tip.

“I wanted to be alone with you,” she confesses. “Really alone,” she continues with a shy smile. Her messy blue hair keeps falling into her face. She blows at a stand and suddenly his hand is there, tucking it back. Cupping her cheek, making her sigh and brush against it. Her lips touch his palm. The smell of him is an aphrodisiac, an intoxicant that makes her body feel syrupy, on fire, turned on, alive. She thinks it would be an insult to tell him, I’ve only ever felt this way with Ben before, so she doesn’t—only part of her thinks he’d get it. Understand what she means.

It makes her want him more.

“Nomi,” Maran starts, his hands inching further up her ribs. His face has gone red again, his eyes shining against the all blue of her room. She feels him shifting below her, his body unable to stay still with the weight of her on his hips. Nomi can feel the desperation for friction and it makes her feel in control. The warm crawl of his palms electrifies her further. She leans back and without preamble, pulls his loose fitting shirt away.

“Oh.”

He moves faster than she’s ever seen him, bracing a hand to the mattress to keep himself up right. His arm loops around her waist, tugs her body closer and she’s shocked to find herself going. Nomi’s hands touch his bare shoulders and the sudden press of their chests together makes the ache inside her grow teeth.

“You are so beautiful, Nomi,” Maran whispers before they’re kissing. She almost has to ignore the compliment, the way it makes her dead still heart feel like beating. Instead she moans into the kiss, lips parted for their tongues to meet. It’s slow building, the tilting of their heads to find new and better—perfect—angles to kiss deeper. Her arms tighten around his shoulders, push them that much closer, and his warm hand at the base of her spine makes her hips dig forward.

Maran’s head falls back with a gasp at the sensation of their bodies together.

“Your jeans are uncomfortable,” Nomi complains, licking his lower lip, kissing the side of his jaw, grazing a fang across his skin. Maran sounds strangled for a moment. “Take them off.” She rolls away from him, onto her back and he moves practically with vampiric speed to begin yanking at the denim. In that moment, she finds him…cute. Endearingly sweet—and then when he joins her on the bed again, that feeling becomes something else with teeth.

Maran is cute.

Crawling over her, a hand to her rib, moving up and touching more of her, warm palm exploring—he is not cute. His eyes look like pretty, dark jewels as they stare down at her. She feels hypnotized for a moment, loss of breath actually palpable when she doesn’t even need it. Nomi feels a tightening burn in her lower stomach she wasn’t aware she was capable of, even when she was fucking human. She feels desire flood her so potently that it makes her dizzy. He looks looming and dark and encompassing and suddenly, all Nomi can think is—

Oh.

She wants him. Wants him. Wants him. Her arms grasp around his shoulders, pull him down to her. He follows, mouth open to capture hers. They kiss again, but this is less soft. It’s less gentle too. Their mouths move together, tongues rolling. Their chests press tight. Nomi’s leg hooks around his waist, yanks him closer. The hard outline of his erection presses to her and she feels mad for a moment.

Distantly, inside her something clicks. This is arousal; real arousal. This is what wanting to fuck is like, this is what wanting someone inside you is like. Wanting to feel them that deeply. She’s panting by the time Maran pulls away and he’s equally gasping, because he’s the one that does need air. Nomi’s hands cup his cheeks and she looks at him—looking at her fangs, her mouth open enough its not just a hint of them. She wasn’t aware of the predatory drop of her jaw, but it’s there.

Maran stares.

And she feels reflected in that stare; that he wants, just as badly.

“I’ve never,” she whispers. Bitten. His eyes draw up from her fangs to her eyes. He looks just as bludgeoned and under water as her. His shoulders heave with his efforts for air. Maran’s hands tuck into her waist, his thumbs drawing appreciative circles against her soft stomach. She smiles then, bashful, with her fangs still tucked to her lips. “You’d be my first.”

His head falls forward, tucks into her neck. She can feel the groan he suppresses, with her hands against his sides as they are. It makes her smile wider, eyes closing to the sensation.

Nomi moves him again, puts him to his back. She settles herself on his hips and his eyes pop open. She glances down to look at the press of his cock against the cotton of his briefs. She’s never—well—she’s never thought much of anatomy, like this. Had always thought it strange the way people fawned over it, could get themselves worked up just looking. Nomi felt like there was something wrong with her, because it was just—

She got it then, though. Her fingers hooked into the dark band of his briefs, peeling them down. Maran’s body wiggles, like he isn’t in control of it. His hands grasp at her thighs. She can feel a strength there that wont touch a vampire like herself. But she’s suddenly imagining how strong she knows Maran actually is and it winds her. She wants to feel that sometime. Feel how strong he is.

Instead, Nomi simply brushes herself forward. Traps his erection between his stomach and her. His head falls back, one of his hands shooting to his mouth to cover the noise he makes. She watches his throat bob—and the vein in his neck throbs.

“I know you’ve been with another vampire,” Nomi says. She regrets it, because, she thinks she should replace it with something sexy. She knows that’s what people are meant to do during this sort of thing. Work each other up. Say things that get the other to the edge. But Nomi can’t always be like them, can only ever be like herself. And she knows Maran slept with Sunshine. The burn in her chest turns from arousal to hate for a moment until she tucks it deeper inside herself. She’ll puzzle out that possessive mystery later.

Maran’s head falls forward a bit to look at her. She can feel his cock twitch, which makes her swell with some kind of pride—looking at her undoes him and she can’t help but grow a monstrous ego at that. She kisses the back of his hand as it stays over his mouth. Her hips glide forward and his pupils dilate to eat at all the pretty brown of his irises.

“Did she bite you?”

There’s a pause of momentum as Maran’s eyelashes flicker. His hand pulls away. It cups her cheek. The warmth of him makes her melt further. The slide of her body on him makes him close his eyes. Maran seems incapable of words—but he shakes his head in a definite no. Nomi’s claw tipped finger draws down his throat, touches the pulsing vein that has been whispering to her ever since she first met the man.

She inhales the smell of him, his deliciously human scent. Maran reminds her of the sun. She can’t explain the way pressing her nose to his throat makes her think of that dream, dappled sunlight in her hands. Her tongue touches his skin.

“Nomi.” The moan of her name makes her senses go haywire for a second. She can feel him, trapped between her thighs, thrusting up for sensation. She grinds her hips and makes him gasp and on that gasp, she opens her mouth.

There’s the popping sensation she doesn’t expect. The sound of her fangs puncturing through his skin. Maran’s body gives a jerk, both his arms wrapping around her. One of his hands holds to her waist for stability. Nomi’s eyes roll up at the sudden rush of blood into her mouth. She gasps wetly, her mouth sealing over the new found wound. Maran writhes again, hips bucking up against her.

Nomi wraps arms around his shoulders, pulls him that much closer to her. She’s hiked them up, to a seated position that Maran has to keep himself braced for with a hand behind him. His head has fallen back, as if off the hinge. Nomi can hardly pull away from the blood to look at his face, but she does. The ecstasy plastered there is enough to drive her briefly insane.

Blood has dripped from her mouth to her neck, run down between her breasts. Nomi grabs for Maran’s face, unable to stop herself as she kisses him. His moaning gets louder. He’s not able to hold himself upright, falls back to the bed. He continues a relentless movement of hips, his hands taking her waist firmly. Nomi suddenly realizes how good that feels.

The blood on his neck is dark and alluring, but she finds his face to be…more. She keeps hands to the bed, bracing herself as she gyrates her hips back and forth. The warm, hot slide of him between her thighs makes a shiver run up and down her spine. The sensation climbs up her body. She goes faster—admittedly harder. Her head falls back down to his neck, the smell of blood and him making her hungry. That hunger isn’t for blood any longer.

Maran’s body tenses and trembles, his arms tightening around her. His bucking hips stop and his breathing goes shallow and harsh. Nomi’s tongue flattens, lathes over the wound she’s put on his neck, still leaking sweet blood for her. She runs that tongue pointed, across his jaw and finds his mouth. The taste of him and his blood makes her feel feral. He’s weakly pliant as she kisses him, soft and subdued in a way she finds she likes.

When she draws away, it’s only then that she notices how much of a mess she’s made of him. The blood on his neck, on his cheek and lips. His blood on her as well, covering her mouth and running paths down her chest. Her gaze lowers, travels down his body to the cum on his stomach.

She has an urge to put her tongue to that too, to taste everything he has to offer. But when she moves, his hands catch her biceps. He holds her so softly. His eyes look wet and tired and—affectionate. He looks…at her. Looks at her in such a way—she slinks forward, pressing their bodies together. The blood and cum dry and make it sticky and she’d hate that usually but with him…

—

After the much needed shower, Maran changes the bed sheet for her.

Nomi finds that so endearing that it makes it hard not to rip into him again. Bite, bite, fucking bite because he is so unbelievable at times. To think a man like him existed—I might have stayed human, if I knew he was out there. The thought makes her freeze up, look at her computers, instead of Maran as he tucks corners into the bed. He throws himself onto it, boyish about it. He smiles at her and Nomi tucks her chin down.

“I didn’t mean to be so messy,” she admits as she crawls forward on the bed. Nomi nestles herself against him. They face each other. His impossibly pretty stare makes her feel naked again, even though she’s thrown on shorts and a t-shirt. She’d rifled until she’d found a pair of sweatpants that he could wear. But she’s glad he stays shirtless. Her hand can’t stop touching parts of him, soaking in the warmth.

Maran is quiet for a moment. He pulls her closer, his eyes flickering across her face.

“I mean,” he smiles, bashful. Sweet for her. “I liked it.” He pauses and then tilts his head back and forth. “I mean, blood doesn’t taste great, but—I mean, to me. Doesn’t taste great to me. But—kissing you is,” he lets the sentence die. She’s surprised he even has blood left to blush, but there it is.

Nomi contemplates for a moment, tapping a finger against his chin.

“Would you like some of mine?” When he blinks in response, hitch to his chest, she presses forward. “It wouldn’t—you’d not turn or anythin’. Promise. It’s not like that. But.” She cups her hand around the puncture marks on his neck. She can feel him flinch, because she knows it has to hurt. A part of her also thinks Maran might like the hurt a little, but it doesn’t make it easier to think of him in pain.

“It’ll help it heal.”

Not fully. It’s likely Maran will have two little scars from her, because she’d not had finesse about the bite. Her first try—she’d be better on another. The thought of more makes her briefly dizzy. More of Maran. She likes the idea of that so much it makes her put her palm to her mouth. She winces at the feel of her own fangs, eyes squeezing shut so she doesn’t have to think about the crunch.

Then she offers the palm to Maran.

Watching his mouth open, his pink tongue greet her dark black blood—Nomi instantly feels like fucking again. She feels like actually having him inside her; cum inside her. She thinks of it, thinks of how he’d feel, filling her. Her eyes hood, her mouth open just because the thought is so strong, her instincts for bite kick in. Maran’s eyes flicker close as he drinks her blood. He pulls back with a surprised look.

“Oh that tastes different,” he says quietly. The look of the blood on his lips makes Nomi lean in. He’s smiling. “You taste sweet, Nomi.”

She dives in to kiss him, and he’s laughing between their mouths and Nomi realizes with deep fucking certainty that she loves him.

[unknownjpegs]

someone else

They stand backstage, center-left. Their guitarist has a solo; no reason for keyboard, bass. The backtrack does the work. What it leaves blank Lark fills. And fuck, does he. No one performs like him, she attests in every single interview. She gets teased for it during some, because the bias isn’t private, but she means that. She would mean it even if they weren’t together. If she didn’t —

Matilda watches him belt, bent slightly so his shoulders curve. The stretch of muscle beneath his simple t-shirt catches her attention and pulls a frown. She forces her focus instead to the VIP section. Family and friends, only. She glances over Benji’s sister, her dark skin lit and shadowed in tandem with the thump of music. Beside her, Maran bounces excitedly to the beat. His big smile and endless cheering are infectious; the people around him look happier for it.

Her gaze drags again to Lark, then snaps away. He won’t get the satisfaction of watching her drool.

So instead, Matilda notes: “Your dad’s hot.”

Mouse grimace is hilariously immediate. “Ew, what?”

Matilda tilts her chin, shielding her eyes from the flashing spotlights. She raises her voice even though Mouse stands to her immediate right.

“Is that not your dad?”

“The white guy? Nick?”

“No relation, I guess.” Matilda makes a show of licking her lips. “Less awkward.”

“Not really.” Mouse pouts. She tugs Matilda’s hair. “I didn’t think you two were open—“

“We’re not.” She rolls her eyes, trying not to let them stray. “But we are on a break.” They give each other a look, and Matilda sighs. Some of the rancid energy leaves her, and she hates mouse for it. “Okay, fine. We got in a fight.”

At that, her tiny bassist’s expression shifts. Matilda gossips — often. She tells the girls everything that’s going on in her life. Bunny’s latest fuck-up, her mom’s response. Which magazine is reaching out for who, the staff editor that forgot to put Lark’s name on the question summary sheet, what deuxmoi blinds are definitely true because she’d been at that club that day and witnessed that affair herself —

She doesn’t gossip about Lark. And although she tells Nomi and Mouse mostly everything, she wants some things for herself. Later that month, she might end up drunk in their laps and crying about why do I start them I don’t even feel like fighting I just think about someone looking at him and want to di-di-die! Until then, she’ll retain a little dignity, thanks. 

“What about?”

“Something stupid.”

*

“I’m kind of worrying about doing something stupid, and I think it would make Mouse upset.”

Nomi lifts a headset cup to make a face at her. “What are you thinking of doing?”

Matilda lifts her phone screen. 

“Babe.” Nomi says dryly. “No.”

*

Naima stares blankly at her. Her massive, fatale-lidded brown eyes hold so much unfiltered judgment that Matilda winces.

“Is he that bad?”

“He’s bad alright.” 

They grin at each other. Naima quickly wipes it into something stoic again, arms crossing.

“But it’s definitely a bad idea.” 

“Are you going to be weird about the gap?”

Naima pinches her fingers together but then shrugs. “I think what’s more weird is that…you know what, nah. I’m not shoehorning myself into the advice role. You come to your own realizations and conclusions on your own.” Matilda receives two quick pats to the ass as Naima lifts herself from their cold-limbed tangle on the curb. “Here’s your vape back.”

The slim rectangle, customized with her sequined intials, is tucked in her fuzzy coat’s pockets. 

*

She only feels a little gross about leaning against the door coquettishly and smiling coquettishly and giving her best I don’t do this often act coquettishly. It turns out she doesn’t need it — the doctor, as she later discovers his profession, needs no convincing to be a bit depraved. The whole point of it is that, because despite what people might believe about her, Matilda’s only had two partners in the past. And after tonight, she really doesn’t anticipate having any more. Not because she expects to go head over heels, or take a vow of celibacy. 

No. The entire time she’s fucked (because it really is just that, not revenge, just fucking), it’s nice. It feels good. It’s new and taboo and a little gross because he insists, as respectfully as he seems able to manage. But Matilda doesn’t really feel anything, no sweet sharp crest of an orgasm or chest-hitching pleasure. At least, not until her eyes slip shut. The second they do, the situation turns to mist. The thighs bumping into the back of her own, hand in her hair and clutching her shoulder — no longer belong to a man who is a stranger. 

Nick leans down to put his mouth to her ear. The scratch of chest hair to her shoulder immediately takes her from a vision of over-toned blond hair, adorably purple in places. Matilda elbows him savagely in the stomach. 

“I’m close. Just go harder, don’t talk.”

“Mais oui, I only meant to—”

She pushes up to all fours, head falling loose between her shoulders. Her curtained hair flutters with the heaving gasp she lets out at the switch in angle, and she rocks backwards. Squeezes her eyes closed, tightens her fists in the sheets. 

“Shut. Up.”

It’s not the alien fullness of being fucked in a new place, the sexiness of being attractive to someone experienced, not even the discovery of an angle that made her vision blur and jaw drop.

It’s Lark’s stupid fucking face in her head.

“Oh fuck,” Matilda whines, back arching so hard it hurts.

*

Lark chases her up the bus stairs, takes two at a time to account for her long-legged stomp. Just as she’s reached the last, his hand shoots out like he means to snatch her waist or wrist, then falls limp. They’re mid argument, voices rising and overlapping; Matilda shakes him free and moves away, but not too far. He follows, but not too close. He respects her space. For all she knows about him, it’s next to impossible to imagine him touching her when they get like this. 

“Can you stop?” 

“Be specific.”

“Can you stop walking away during an argument?”

Matilda twirls around and knows how nice her hair probably looks. She’s been taking extra care of it; last week he’d complimented the color, the shine. He’d rubbed a strand between his fingers then slid that same hand to the back of her neck before pulling her into a kiss.

“Who’s arguing?” She puts a hand to her chest. “I’m not arguing. I’m informing you. We are discussing.”

“Fine. Not arguing, discussing. I just want to discuss —“ Lark throws his hands up in the air, brings them back down to slap his thighs. “I don’t want to know specifics, Til. I’m just asking why!”

She sneers at him. “I said what I said, didn’t I? Right, baby? What did I say — it’s none of your business. You don’t own me. I get some business of my own. I’m allowed to be a person outside of this. I can fuck who I want if we’re on a break. I’m an equal. It’s even split on the checks, last time I checked.”

His face shatters a little. Matilda’s heart does, too. 

“Is that what this is about?” 

“Don’t fucking Yoko me.”

Lark stares at her. “Are you, like…what, done?”

Matilda squeezes her hands in the air in front of his face, her frustration peeking again. “Why would I do that? I love this fucking band and these people and doing this and our friends, Elias. I love — this. I love this, okay? It makes me so happy. It’s everything. Why would me fucking somebody else—“

His face scrunches at the reminder. 

“While we were on a break that you suggested.”

“I suggested?" Lark laughs thinly, hands coming up to brush through his hair as he paces a tight, quick circle. "Shit. I — I guess, Mati, but I don’t...even remember what the fuck we argued about that day.”

Neither does she. Guilt collides with her chest like a solid wall. They argue often because Matilda pushes for it. She would be lying if she said he never tried to prevent it. Most of the time, she drags him along by the ankle into a fight. And they do it so often neither of them remember what the fight was about in the first place?

Her eyes burn suddenly. Lashes sticking together. She hadn’t planned to cry today; clumps of shitty cheap CVS mascara run down her cheeks. Sometimes she makes sure to wear it when they have sex, because Lark’s such a boy about it. Now, he only makes a softly wounded sound and moves forward to wrap arms around her waist. 

I was just yelling at you, she thinks, accepting the gentle tug as he sits and pulls her into his lap. He holds her tight, guiding her to bury her face in his neck while she cries. It’s a hard kind. The sort she can’t really quite place the source of. Somewhere deep, at least. Lark finds it with splayed hands rubbing up and down her spine. She thinks about that — how often they fall into touching or tasting after something nasty like this, but now…

Aren’t you angry? You should be angry. You’re so sweet, why did I do that? Why do I do this? I don’t know what’s scarier. If you’re it for me, or that I’m it for you.

*

With long, outstretched legs clad in artfully torn black tights, Matilda pushes herself back and forth. The chairs across from Bunny’s luxurious chestnut desk are plush and comfortable, so she sinks into them like she has a thousand times in the past to take a nap.

Bunny won’t let her, though. She rises to her full height and leans across the surface to shove Matilda’s booted feet off the edge. Righting a name plaque that she’d stolen from the studio of another famous producer, his etched name crossed out in favor of a messily markered Dr. Sullivan, Bunny sneers.

“Would you get your homeless fucking footwear off my antique, please?”

Matilda lifts a hand and snaps it like a jaw, eyes rolling. “Get a job.”

“I have one.” Her stepdad shoots back. “It pays the bills of your kitschy-tacky ‘boho industrial maximalist’ apartment, brat.”

“Actually that’s my money.”

“Um, actually,” her voice goes nasal, “I fucked your mom and will do it again.”

Matilda snorts. 

Bunny sinks back into her own chair, one leg crossing over the other. She looks as though she’s fighting a smile as her elbow rests there, fingers steepled. “Sit up straight and tell me what you need before I have the security guard trespass you.”

Matilda sobers a little; Bunny rarely just offers aid. She must look more kicked than she thought.

“It’s two things.”

“You better have two stacks ready, then.”

“Inflation,” Matilda swears with a shake of her fist. “I used to pay you in quarters.”

“That was the tooth fairy.” Bunny responds matter-of-factly. “Spit it out, kid.”

“It genuinely is two things, though.”

Bunny waves her hand: go ahead, if you must.

“Okay. Uh. I’m going to go with the least shocking thing first, okay?” She sits up straighter, as requested, but her fingers tangle. “I want to merge my percentage with Lark’s. I don’t know — I’m not sure what I have to sign, or if I like, need to do a contract negotiation. If I do, just — I mean I guess we could just deposit it to his account, if it’s easier? I might need a CPA for that, though, Happy keeps track and I don’t want him to lose some of it like he does your cut—“

Bunny interrupts with an impressed gasp. “Happy. Clever fucking bastard.”

“Can we focus? The perctange, dad. Is that possible?”

“No,” Bunny says. She waits a beat for Matilda’s face to fall, then smirks. “But I can make it happen.” One slim finger raises. “One condition, though. You have to tell me if you’re trying to move funds for an elopement.”

Matilda’s face heats so quick to such a stark, incredible red that she feels it tingle her hairline. It isn’t that they haven’t spoken about it. Haltingly, shy; possessive and insane in the heat of the moment. I’m going to fucking marry you, once growled into the back of her neck as it was curved by a fistful of hair. Thinking about that does nothing for the blush. 

“No.”

“That means yes, but not right now. Whatever. Thanks for the answer.” Bunny sits back in her chair and pushes far enough away to kick red-bottomed loafers up. The silver-plated rim wrapping the heel makes a harsh ch-lunk against metal, no doubt scratching it. “What’s the second thing?”

“Less serious.”

“God forbid.”

“It’s about the tour.” 

Bunny groans. “Don’t tell me somebody else fucked somebody and now somebody has to quit and we have to cancel their contract last minute and handle the PR and find an empty bed at —“

“No, definitely not. But, um. The doctor. Mouse’s —whatever he is? The one who’s handling medical for the European half?”

Bunny’s brow wrinkles a little bit. “What’d that French fuck do now? Jesus, Nick. Always up to something.”

“Well.” Matilda wringes her hands. “Tiny conflict of interest.”

The well-dressed music executive seated across from her isn’t just a step parent. Bunny raised her. And when Matilda speaks, her darkly amused gaze flicks up. All the mirth drains.

“No. Matilda Mary Rhodes, no.” 

She grins cheesily, all teeth and gums. Bunny’s got a picture in her wallet of Matilda at eleven with the exact same expression and a shattered vase blurred in the background.

[unknownjpegs]

leave

The figure in the doorway is imposing, terrifying, for only a moment. 

“Password?” Benji cheeks. Although he knows who it is underneath the kevlar, the black vest, the obscuring balaclava, his trigger finger remains in ready position. The gun slightly lifted, not quite pointing at the floor. 

Sorry for that. S’the training. You know. Sorry anyway. He thinks, hoping to convey the apology as their eyes meet. And the second they do, the oppressive anxiety of the shell-destroyed room the two soldiers occupy lifts. Benji watches something human soften those mean, poison-green eyes. Despite his better judgment, he finds a bubble of hope: because of me. They did that because of me, because it’s me standing here, because it’s us.

Us. Unusual thing to think, gun in your hands, looking dead-on with the enemy. Dangerous one, at that. Xavier’s splattered with blood and a particularly nasty glob of mysterious pink tissue clings to the dark tactical pants he wears. It shines a little in the sun’s receding light, still sticky and wet. Just above the knee. Benji assumes he’d connected that bone with someone’s face, maybe. Or stood above them, smoking barrel and a new hole in a stranger. 

Wouldn’t be a stranger, though, would it? It’d be one of his own. Another soldier. Because they’re enemies. Because —

Xavier yanks the fabric from his head, revealing tufts of fluffy, sweat-slick hair. He goes from terrifying to boyish that quick, the slip of black over his face. Benji tries hard not to romanticize that, the transformation. That it happens around him in particular. He tries real hard. 

(He fails.)

“Uh,” the American mumbles around a massive smile. He’s starting at Benji, eyes doing little looping circles around his face, the gun in his gloved hands, his chest to boots and back up. Benji shuffles in place, suddenly a bit shy to the observation and trying to hide it.

“Shit. Sorry. Password, password…I totally — I was thinking it all the way over here, y’know? So I wouldn’t forget. Because that would wicked fucking suck, getting all the way across to see you and just end up with a hole in my head ‘cuz I forgot you said  oh man!“ Xavier whistles and snaps his fingers, pointing a finger gun at Benji. “Red Vine. Dude, that’s the worst password ever. It’s not even what they are. We do Twizzlers and we do them better.”

Holy shit, Benji thinks, an uncontrollable grin cracking his face. Is it mental to miss somebody this much?

“Maybe we scrap the password then, with your shit memory?”

“Fuck you!” Xavier laughs, tossing his balaclava aside, the velcro straps of his vest loud in the empty concrete room. He strides forward and crosses it with just two swings of his long legs, and Benji hopes his gulp isn’t as audible as it echoes in his head. “I do not have a shit memory.” 

The way he mocks Benji’s accent, and poorly at that, shouldn’t be so endearing. 

“Shit memory, shit aim.” Benji teases back. Xavier stops directly in front of him. Their chins tilt in opposite directions — up, down — as they stare at each other. 

“I’d smoke you at the range.” Xavier snips. “Easily. Like, so easily.”

“Yeah? That all you smoke, mate? Way those bullets fly, seems like you lot get up to smokin’ worse during down time.”

Xavier’s cheek crease with the force of his grin. It grows somehow wider. “Speaking of downtime…” he trails a gloved hand over Benji’s hip, switching to a impish walk of fingers up the center of his vest. “Your leave okay?”

Benji is a little struck by that. Not that Xavier knew where he’d been the past month, because it should concern him that an enemy soldier — and a fucking corporal at that — knew when he was and wasn’t going to be in combat. When he had leave. But it would only be a concern to entertain if Benji hadn’t slipped that classified information himself. On a tattered, rain-stained notebook paper left in a rotted tree’s hollow:

X, I’m gone following dates. RSVP for coordinates as follows? PW: Red Vine (you’re disgusting). B x

“S’fine. Not really, y’know. Relaxing.” He backs up a little, towards the shattered window. The wind comes in strong, but Xavier follows each step he takes in retreat. Keeps the distance between them the same. His big hands are tucked behind him, push out his chest and make him look broader in the shoulders, bigger, taller. Benji’s mouth goes a bit dry. He clears his throat and glances away towards a suddenly very entertaining pile of rubble across the room. 

“No?” Xavier leans at the waist a bit, brings them closer still. Eats up that space like he’s hungry for it. Like he’s hungry for — 

“Nah.” Benji swallows again. The way Xavier’s focus snaps down to his throat, he figures its audible how he’d feared. “Nah, it’s…it never is. You know, I guess. Usually sit there thinkin’, get too — hm.” 

A hand cradles his cheek. He hadn’t even noticed Xavier had done away with the black gloves until warm, calloused skin cups his jaw. 

“Caught up in your head?” Xavier breathes. Has he come closer? “Yeah. Same. Lately, though…” Benji’s spent a lot of time imagining this man, especially over the past month. But he doesn’t imagine the wash of pink over his pale, freckled cheeks. “Lately it hasn’t been as bad. The…y’know.” His free hand twists in a circle near his temple, drawing Benji’s attention back to the shock of vibrant hair. He’d wondered about that sometimes. If Xavier was the only person on the planet with that exact shade. It felt that way, sometimes. Felt like Benji’s never seen red hair before, when he was around.

And that was as dangerous as standing there, letting an enemy corporal touch him at all — even if that touch lacked violence entirely.

*

They don’t have time, because they never do. But it’s nice to pretend. Nice to give in to the good feelings, the warmth of another body, the press of a mouth. And Benji thinks that way because he can’t think otherwise: that it’s a particular feeling, a particular warmth, a particular mouth. 

He’s fighting those thoughts and worse as he rocks in Xavier’s lap. The bite of straps and buckles to the back of his thighs isn’t comfortable. But with their messy kissing, the grip of someone else’s hand around his cock, it’s easy to ignore.

It wouldn’t be good if it wasn’t this, Benji thinks. If it wasn’t him. And then he shoves that all away, because it’s frightening. More than an imposing figure stood in the door, backdropped with a storm that Benji will have to navigate through to get back to camp. More than a combatant’s gun not two meters away, loaded with bullets meant for him — or at least, men like him. And Benji’s rifle is even further out of reach.

Hard to care, though. Xavier has a hand in his hair, five points of pressure massaging his scalp as their panting mouths press together noisily, withdraw with a goal of jaw or neck or shoulder, fabric tugged away.

“Oh man,” Xavier groans, his head falling back to the wall. He’s sat with his knees up, Benji in his lap, their hands wedged down the other’s pants. “Oh, fuck. I missed this.”

Benji bites his pink, kiss-swollen lip, squeezes his cock a little too mean, tugs red hair much too hard: shut up. Shut up, he wants to tell the Shadow. Shut up, stop following me, stop agreeing to meet, stop feeling so good, tasting like that, making me want this more, every time.

Shut up, Benji thinks. When does it stop? What if it doesn’t?

“Next time,” Xavier gasps, his own hand expert as he tugs at Benji too. “Next time you should — oh — come see me. I have a place. We could…fuck, Benji please. I’m — I even have a couch. It’s like, an actual apartment. We could do this there, maybe? Oh, fuck, I’m gonna—“

Benji darts in to kiss him silent, because he wants to say no. He needs to say no. It has to end, doesn’t it? It has to. Visiting like that, like it means something, like this is more? It would be the end for them both. How much longer could they keep up the smoke and mirrors, really?

 But the only thing he can manage to say is yes. Yes, next time, promise, cum for me, I missed watching you do that, you look so good when you do that, come on Xavier.

He tips his head back, pale throat shiny with sweat and Benji’s saliva, and does. 

*

“This should be the last time,” Benji says coldly. Thirty minutes later, after they’ve cleaned up and talked and joked. He doesn’t want to ruin it, the mood, but he should. He has to. Otherwise—

Otherwise he might not see the next leave. 

It isn’t until Benji is back in camp, tucking his boots under his cot and stowing his kit and ribbing back a private that just won’t leave him the fuck alone, that he realizes that ‘he’ hadn’t been self-referential. 

He might not see the next leave.

He stares up at the canvas roof, the rain pattering softly against it. Wonders what Xavier gets up to on leave, what sort of things he’d been talking about when he’d said, lately it hasn’t been as bad. 

What do you think of? Benji had wanted so badly to ask him. Because I think of you. I think of you holding me. I fall asleep.

[unknownjpegs]

apology

When Benji finally musters the bollocks to do it, the evening is wetly humid. The air heavy and full, ready to burst like a swollen gut. The downpour starts around dinnertime, announces with a bright flash and clap of thunder so loud it makes a candle on the windowsill wobble. 

“Well,” Tino says, swiping at his beard with a napkin and standing. “Mighty strong storm incoming, I guess. Gonna go check that we got enough juice in the backup generator, just in case. Close the windows upstairs, too.”

Benji doesn’t move, and neither does Lark But Xavier, all proper soldier’s posture, jerks into a standing position to follow. To help. 

(Benji does not smile about it.)

“Nuh-uh,” Tino says quickly, flapping his hand at Xavier until he slinks back into place. “You stay there and finish your food, son. I can handle a couple latches.”

“Yes sir,” Xavier says, watching the priest’s form retreat with a kicked sort of but I can help eagerness. 

Benji snickers. Two pairs of eyes land on him — brown and confused; green and peevish.

“Uh.” Lark says, a note of what the fuck to it. "Chill?"

The tension goes above his head, but its fizzing between the other two men is palpable enough to feel. And he would shut his mouth, but there’s such a punchable look of victory set over Xavier’s face that he decides on another course of action.

“Never mind sir,” he says to Lark in, what he thinks at least, is a rather good American accent. He tops it off by offering them both a saucy two-finger salute. 

“You’re not funny,” Xavier volleys across the table, glaring. Musta had a bad day.

“Lark laughs.” 

And usually, yeah. He does. Big, wonderful peels of it. Lark has a good laugh.

But he doesn’t now. And somehow his silence, his confusion at Benji's sudden attitude, is the worst sort of response. It makes him feel senseless, silly, unwarranted in his sourness. It makes his shoulders curl in dismayed embarrassment. It fucking smothers him harder than a verbal reprimand, one of Lark's cutting, steely looks that he loves watching slice across the room at someone else. It makes him feel as though Lark has just strode deliberately across one side of a line.

He knows what the bitter touch of jealousy on a tongue tastes like. A family coming together in am amoeba hug, crying and holding each other at the end of a particularly nasty exorcism. Watching Tino being similarly folded within the arms of his siblings. 

Lark's lack of laughter doesn’t hurt in a I want you, you’re supposed to be mine, it’s supposed to be us, you chose someone else way. There’s no burning bitterness on his tongue left by his silence, no twist of jealousy. 

It feels like: you’re gone again.

The subsequent moments are incredibly, unbearably uncomfortable. Without Tino to buffer the strange, triangular energy, Benji spirals a bit more under Xavier’s stare: fuck. Lark's not laughing. He knows. He knows, and he fucking hates me, and I have got to fix this. We can’t keep going like this, or somebody’s gonna get hurt. And that’ll be on me too, because this is on me. This is my fault. I gave in. I’m the one who keeps letting my emotions get the better of my judgment.

*

The rain has ceased a bit by the time Benji feels ready. Or, at least, as ready as he can be. How the fuck does he do a conversation like this? An apology?

He finds Xavier on then back porch, temple propped to one side against the crumbling stairs’ stone railing. 

“A’right?” Benji greets, feeling frozen in the doorway. 

Xavier tucks his chin to his shoulder, barely assessing Benji. His eyes briefly flash — Benji wishes he was turned more, so he could try to read that expression better. Yet…he’s glad he doesn’t, because he’s entirely sure it’s just cold, immature dislike. And for some reason, the idea of seeing it there makes his stomach curdle. 

Can’t blame him, can you?

Xavier kicks a foot out, pointing his trainer down at the ground past the bottom step.

“Watch out. Rain made it all gross. Don’t, like, trip and absolutely eat shit into the mud. That would be so unfunny and not make my day whatsoever.”

Benji glares at the back of his head, a bubble of annoyance nearly strong enough to overtake the anxiety. “Could make mine. I could push you.”

“Do it.” He clips back cheerfully. “And I’ll take you down with me, asshole.”

At his sides, Benji’s fist clench. It is an incredible act of willpower to stop his foot from lashing out square into that lean back, to follow through on Xavier’s brattish request. 

“Go fffff—” He grits his teeth. “Mate, I do not want to fight, okay?” 

And that…isn’t entirely true. From the moment Lark had introduced them, the tension had been thick and short-fused. If he was being entirely honest, Benji might say something like: it’s fun to rile you up. I can tell getting angry makes you embarrassed. I can tell when you’re embarrassed because you scrunch your nose and blush. It feels a little like a victory to get that expression, to watch you stomp around like a petulant cartoon character with steam out your ears.

 It feels like something else, too. Something that isn’t allowed. 

So Benji refrains from being entirely honest, because yeah. He isn’t allowed. The last time he allowed himself, the last time he gave in to the emotion that beat at his chest — 

Well. That’s why they’re here in the first place, isn’t it?

Benji swallows and shakes his head. He takes slow, deliberate movements out under the awning. Crouches and settles himself down next to the other man. He’s careful to keep the distance proper, elbows balanced on tucked knees.

Xavier looks at him sidelong. “Why. ‘Cuz you’d lose?”

The fuck.

“Sorry?” He scoffs. “You think you’d win a fight with me?” A sweeping gesture over Xavier’s form — tall with more reach, but certainly lighter than Benji. Certainly less strong. Benji knows who’d win. It’s funny that Xavier seems not to. “Naw, c’mon. Don’t be daft.”

That makes Xavier twist, shoulders tight and rolled back, to glare at him. There’s no confusing his expression now. Benji has been unintentionally successful in pushing him square past bristly annoyance. Needled directly onto the other end: proper fucking furious. 

“Think I can’t?” Xavier fumes. His nose wrinkles, lip curling ferociously. “What, you think I’m fucking weak just because…” A threatening, humorless huff leaves him. His eyes are steely and spine-chillingly hard on Benji’s face. “Only reason I won’t is because it’d make Lark—”

Lark.

Reminded of why he’d come out in the first place, Benji puts his hands up. He’s sure his face is also twisted with a faint hint of his own cold, rising tide of anger. Hopes the gesture placates a little.

“Xavier. M’serious, okay. I do not want to fight — I…” he shakes his head. “Really. I want to apologize.”

He’s still hackled like a short-leash dog, brow furrowed. Except now it smooths a bit in confusion. His eyes widen from slitted anger to perplexed. 

“You capable of that?”

“Fuckin’ hell.” Benji rolls his eyes and draws a deep breath. He looks away from Xavier’s glinting, mossy glare. Occasionally (often) finds its hard to meet because of how pinned he feels. How intense it gets, like they’re lit from behind.

Benji swallows. “Right. You have every right to be pissed.”

Nothing. Silence. 

He rubs his hands on his thighs. “It was a bit ago, now. When you —” came home. “When you both joined back up. Um. It was just one kiss. And it was weird. When we were younger we had - not a thing, but kind of? And we decided...well it was weird. So it was weird this most recent time."

Xavier stares at him. Benji's stomach flips with anxiety. The words keep spilling out.

"Not that it makes it better. So I get it, y’know. I understand.” He spreads his hands, wrings them. Quickly, fiercely, he asserts: “And I’m not trying to absolve myself. Not trying t’speak for him, either. But it wasn't anything. Other than weird. We were just confused, and we've been through a lot together, and were trying to figure out - well that’s his business. Yours, I guess.” A nervous chuckle. “Yours, plural. Not, like. Yours, Xavier yours.”

“What,” Xavier says after a beat, “the fuck are you talking about?”

Benji looks out over the green, wet grass and wishes it would open up in an awful sinkhole, mantle-deep, and swallow him the fuck up. 

"I feel like you took him from me." Benji admits in a whisper barely audible above the rain. "I feel like you're taking him from me every day. He's so much more — him. Happier. I guess I was trying to hold onto something that wasn't meant to be held onto? Does that make sense?"

The rain is a steady, thrumming beat against the ground. Against the makeshift tin awning — the original had crumbled years ago, and Benji had been meaning to help Tino repair it. Hard to find the time with all the travel, all the work. Now he’s a little thankful for the rhythm. Lets him focus on something else instead of the curdling, sour fist of emotion in his chest as he waits for Xavier to speak.

I’ll apologize, Benji says, studying ripples in a puddle forming near the toe of his boot. He dips the tread in. Watches the reflection of the grey sky waver. But I don’t regret it. It's good to know. It's good to have him. Have each other. Be normal, again.

He tips his chin up at the sky. A streak of heat lightning flits across the gloom, illuminating everything in a brief flash of white-gold. Benji squints. Feels eyes on him. He tilts to look at Xavier, whose chin is turning away.

“I’m sorry.” 

Not that it happened. What were the types of love again? Tino taught us, at some point. Pragma is commitment and time — Tino, Lark. Agape is universal — Tino, Lark. Philia’s like friendship, also Lark. Storge is family. Them again. And the others -

Benji watches him, pale fingers tapping on his knees. They’re bare, jeans torn and fraying at the seams. The white elastic looks time-worn, almost fluffy and soft. Old pair. 

He can't remember the other types of love. Or he does. Is scared to bring them to the surface. Fuck it all up again.

 Xavier is quiet for a long, long moment. He wishes he were any better at reading silence. Outside of his noisy, spinning head, the lack of sound has always made him feel starkly seen but unable to observe. No noise to dissect —as if he were stuck in a one way glass cage.

“Why?”

“What d’you mean why?” Benji echoes in disbelief. “Why am I sorry?”

Xavier waves his hand, and for some reason it’s almost enough to spark his temper to the tiny quick.

“Well, why then fuck else would I be sorry, Xavier?” He snaps. “Because I ...because that’s a boundary, right?  I crossed it. Lark is my — ”

Companion, confidant, first, equal. Friend. More, when I realized that was an option. Less, when we realized it didn't have to be. We didn't really think. We just did it. Talked after. Like I am with you, now. Always talking after the fact. Cleaning up after the mess’s been made. Fuck’s sake, Saha. Now would be nice.

“Well, whatever. It’s complicated. That isn’t important. Because he's your…” He searches for a word, and realizes he doesn’t know. Nothing to articulate with any cleanliness from a messy assumption.

“Your?” Benji repeats, trailing off. “Shit.”

“I —yeah, shit. This is weird. Uh.” Xavier shoves a hand back through his hair, which is a motion that Benji has tried to stop watching so closely as of late. Found it more than a bit difficult. “We’re friends?”

Benji stares at him, mouth slightly open. “There is…okay. There’s a question mark at the end of that.”

“We’re friends.” Xavier says again. Then, more firmly: “Best friends. He's my my best friend.”

He stares in circles around Xavier’s face, searching. Not for dishonesty or indecisiveness but…more. 

“You — listen, not to get in your fuckin’ business, since we don’t know each other, but. I thought that…that it was —” Benji fans the air. “I mean, you’re both always…” He clears his throat, glancing away now with cheeks that have begun to feel hot. “Tino gets three rooms.”

Xavier’s eyes narrow with the tight pull of his brow. “Three?” 

“Three rooms.” He repeats, tilting his head down expectantly and holding those fingers up. “Him, me, Lark. Not four. Because he has you in there too?” 

Any other situation, one that wasn’t so supremely fucking uncomfortable, Benji would find the quick, immediate red flush to his face funny. 

“I — Jesus!” Xavier laughs too loud, puts both hands on the back of his head. He leans back a bit, stomping his feet on the concrete step in a frustrated, dancing mini-tantrum. It’s almost cute. “Jesus Christ, wow. Okay. Didn’t realize we were, uh. That you were paying attention like that. Ew, first off. I'm not -” he shivers like it's truly a disturbing. "God, no. We're friends."

Oh, shit. No, no. He thinks I’m a proper fucking pervert.

“I’m not,” Benji says quickly. In his head, a voice goes: lie. “I’m not. Paying attention, that is. It’s just noticeable.” 

Xavier stares at him.

He coughs.  “Ah, fuck. The r-room sharing, not anything else.”

Xavier laughs. Rather than loud, it wheezes out at the end. Thin like tissue paper, a breathless sort of huff. He drops a hand to his chest then brushes the back of his knuckles over his jaw. Fidgeting. Benji glances down at his tapping boot, his bouncing knee. Fidgeting.

I’m so fucking uncomfortable, written across his face, both of theirs, when they make eye contact once more. This is exactly why I don’t do this shit — talk. Make a fucking fool of myself, because what? Because we’ve — well. In this situation because there’s been no talking at all, right? Fuck. Avoided, because it would be uncomfortable. And now…

His turn to chuckle at the washing machine spin of his brain. He fishes the pack of cigarettes from his jacket, taps two out, and hands one to Xavier. 

“Sorry. If —” he tucks it between his teeth. Nearly fucking swallows the thing when their fingers brush as Xavier takes the offering, does the same. “I need it.”

“Yeah.” Xavier agrees. Benji does not look at him when he holds the lighter up, arm outstretched, but he feels the soft puff of air against his knuckles. “Thanks.”

He snorts. Feels absurd, gratitude. Especially from Xavier, especially now, especially — 

“We’re friends too.” Benji says. To his own ears, he sounds petulant. He hopes Xavier can’t pick that up. The space lingers quiet at the end of that; at one point, Benji might have tacked on best friends with a challenging sneer. 

Some days, it feels like that Lark's out of reach completely; just as nebulous as his younger self. Like they’ve both died, in a way. That they're a thing of the past. Benji huffs a laugh at the morbidity of that, coughs out smoke. 

“Lark and I. We’re friends but, I mean, back before —” He snorts. “Never mind. It’s complicated. Always fucking is, with them. But that, y’know, it was just the once, this go ‘round. And I figured I owe you an apology. Didn’t take into account…y’know. Feelings.”

He looks over at Xavier, even though the embarrassment, the vulnerability rises steady and burning in his chest. Wonders why he wants to bother about sparing feelings, now. 

“I am now. I’m choosin’ to make it right, best I can.” Benji stares up at the sky again, because looking into Xavier’s knowing eyes is like staring at the electric green grass, tinged bright and vibrant by the dark storm. “Might be a little too late, but I gotta try. So.”

So. So what? There’s a bunch under the surface, multitudes of explanations and questions and clarifications that he could offer. That he wants to request. From Lark, from Xavier. The words don’t come, though. They never do when he really, really needs him.

Xavier doesn’t seem to need them at the moment, anyway — he pulls on the cigarette with a distant gaze cast across the grass.

“Nah, I don’t think it’s too late.” His long leg knocks against Benji’s, frayed elastic sticking to his own pants with all the staticky ozone in the air. “I still think you’re an asshole, though.”

Benji grins, a sense of relief accompanying the next rumbling crack of thunder.

“Yeah, well.” He tilts his head to the side. “And you’re a prick, so we’re good.”

[unknownjpegs]

hike

Xavier’s visiting family for the week when it happens. 

And Benji is trying real fucking hard to give him a bit of space about it; not that things are bad, or that he feels the need to keep distance. It’s just that they’d rather have none at all, and sometimes that gives him a bit of pause. Codependent, right? That’s the word.

He knows himself well enough that he won’t ever prop up on somebody like that; would never fucking dare think of shoving off responsibility for himself to another. But if ever a person tempts him to — if ever there’s another soul that gives him the urge to melt in, combine, form a shape that never needs to pull apart into distinct pieces again, it’s Xavier. It is always fucking Xavier. 

So he’s being very, very mindful. Trying hard not to stay glued to his phone and run up the international minutes. Trying hard not to hover or be too available, even if he knows he’d not receive judgment for either. 

When the door goes off, Benji’s phone is in his hand. He’s watching a dumb video of Saha and Xavier, both blasted well out their minds, elbowing and shoving at each other, each attempting to win a round of some game with poor sportsmanship.

He’s grinning as he locks his phone and shoves it in a pocket. He is not grinning when he pulls the door open, and there is a man stood there. A man in a nondescript navy blue uniform, looking like a delivery person.

He is not a delivery person.

“Hullo,” the man says. Quite monotone, no friendly chirp or nervous waver. 

Benji’s ears rush with blood, dark stare focused in the center of the man’s face and then sweeping quickly down and around him in a looping circle of assessment. Gun tucked in the back of his pants — little taut pull of fabric at his hip gives it away. Knife in his boot, probably, there’s a bit of a bulge by the top of his sock. 

Benji steps slowly out the front door, pulling it shut behind him. The man takes a step back. Takes a step to the side, rather. Angles himself. 

“A’right? Wrong address?” 

The man’s mouth does not quirk into anything humorous, but the corners of his lips twitch. “Nah, think this is the right one.” He glances over Benji’s shoulder. “House call.”

“He’s not here.” It comes clipping out of him. Anger seeped into the tone dull and heavy. How a pile of wet clothes is heavier than it ought to be, stuck to a body gone water-logged. Dripping and poisonous but so, so even. 

“Pity.” The man says. And coils tight. And moves.

Benji’s not sure why he throws an elbow. Punch would be better, out in the open, but maybe — 

He catches it in one hand, reflexes still blessedly in his brain. Pushes it to the side.

The man stumbles. Looks up at Benji. 

Ah. That’s why he’d gone with the attack he had.

You’re scared, Benji’s stare says to the stranger. Are you feeling claustrophobic? Feel trapped? Elbow blow’s a tight-space maneuver. When you’ve not got room to wind a punch, find the angle; throw an elbow. We’re standing out here in the open, mate. Why’d you throw an elbow? ‘Cuz you’re scared, huh. ‘Cuz I scare you. Are you feeling trapped? Do I make you feel trapped?

Good.

Benji’s got a grin of his own working to the surface now, but he stifles it. Keeps his eyebrows tight with concern, but rest of him neutral. Palms up between them, as non-threatening as he can make himself seem. 

Not doing a good job of it.

Stranger narrows his eyes. Benji’s got on a silly shirt, a pair of sweats, and he’s standing out here in the gravel with mismatched socks — and yet the submissive, white-flag gesture isn’t at all convincing. 

Hard to make his demeanor offer I won’t hurt you when the I will fucking kill you glare won’t dampen, no matter how hard he tries.

“Listen.” Benji slowly reaches to pat the pocket that holds his phone. “You want him? Wanna know a weak spot — ” The hand slides up his chest. “He’ll come, yeah? I go with you, we make a call. He’s here next flight.”

The man knows he’s being manipulated, but maybe not to what extent. Because he jerks Benji forward with a hand in his shirt, pulling him a stumbling step forward — a stumble Benji’s real convincing with, he reckons he deserves the next fuckin’ BAFTA.

“All right.” The man hisses. He pulls a gun (knew it, Benji thinks) from the back of his belt and waves it. “But we do this on my conditions. Not doing shit here, yeah? Don’t trust whatever you’ve got in that house.” He points it at Benji’s chest. “Walk.”

Could knock that out of your hand, mate. Could get you to your knees with a sweep. Form’s shit. Guard’s down. But it’s not supposed to rain for another week, and your brains would be real fucking hard to clean out the path. And I’d have a gun to dispose of. And a body. On my fucking property, at this house — 

Benji  swallows the wave of rage, keeps his hands up, and walks. 

*

They don’t go past the house, but rather into the woods across the street. Place is far out in the countryside. No neighbors for at least a couple kilometer. Originally, when he’d bought the place, that had been one of the big sellers. Maybe forty minutes from his parents’ place, thirty from conveniences, and fifteen into town, where he or Xavier will pick up mail. 

Because they don’t even have mail dropped at the house, Benji’s that careful. No deliveries. 

And this is not a deliveryman. 

He’s got the wits and the training to keep Benji at arm’s length, and the muzzle of the gun 

You got a hotel room or something? Got a getaway car? Got a benefactor waiting for you to come back with proof that you killed my fucking boyfriend, huh? They’re not walking particularly fast, but the man’s breathing is getting more intense. Because Benji’s not said a word, hasn’t begged or pleaded. And he’s sure, from watching him walk for so long, that the guy can tell how much muscle Benji’s got on him. How the rolled-straight line of his shoulders betrays a history maybe the guy wasn’t expecting. Training that he certainly isn’t expecting.

“So, we good enough friends yet?” He glances over his shoulder. Eyes the weapon, eyes the man’s stance, the back-and-forth dart of his eyes. Nervous, even though Benji’s unarmed.

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

Benji pouts. And then he tenses, and he moves.

It’s too easy to get him to the ground. Benji stops walking, and the fucker thinks to snap at him about it first, rather than prepare and tense up. He’s loose-limbed and unaware when Benji’s leg snaps back, catching him in the left thigh.

Forceful kick. Good momentum on it. Still got proper form, which washes a strange ebb of pride-laced dissatisfaction through him. 

I’ll never forget how to do this, will I? Benji thinks. I’ll never forget how it feels to break bone with a blow like that. Ever.

To give credit where it’s due, because Benji’s a fair competitor, the fight is a bit fierce. Maybe because he’s just out of practice. They kick and punch and fall atop each other, but it’s quick. He catches a fist to the chest, though it’s not a lasting sort of pain. He isn’t feeling a lot right now, except a cold, sweet blanket of anger. 

So he gets the man to the ground. Watches the man lose his air as his back meets hard earth, watches his chest heave to replace it, as he wipes the back of his hand over a split lip. 

“Got me,” Benji deadpans, holding up a couple red-stained fingers. “Damn.” 

“I’ll tell you who —”

“You actually think I fuckin’ care who sent you?” 

Benji’s laugh is absolutely humorless. Scary-like, he can tell — because those eyes bulge with wild, genuine fear. He stares down at them, into the struggling man’s face. Head tilted slightly to the side, dark eyes focused and unblinking. A bit cold. 

Because it’s been skittering up him the entire walk. Building frigid with every slow, pacing step. 

At my fucking house, mate? At our house? Naw, not there. 

He’s not felt it like this in a long fucking time. He’s viciously enraged to the point that his breathing comes out in a slow, even crawl. Long spaces between, like he’s asleep. 

He is very much awake. Benji has never once, in his entire career, entered a skirmish with the intent to kill.

With the desire to.

He has never felt this pulse of rage in the back of his head, only the dull ache of inevitable regret, the heavy weight of a life snuffed by his hands.

He feels it now though.

The man squirms free — Benji lets him, rather. He’s scrabbling across the leaves and through the dirt for four crawling knee-paces before the stomp of a foot smashes his heel into the ground at a painful angle. Something within his foot must snap. Maybe the Achilles tendon.

Right fucking awful angle, Benji thinks as he pulls himself upright and strides after him. Pulling himself along the ground now, kicking uselessly with his good leg. When Benji’s unperturbed, still moving closer, he seems to give up on that tactic. Flings himself a bit away, back to the ground, and fishes out a knife from the boot attached to his ankle — bent nearly ninety degrees. 

“You,” Benji says, parrying the swing that slices through the air with ease.  “You think I care about some daft — what. Mercenary?” His chuckle is lower, less dragging, quiet. “Hitman? C’mon. You think I care about you or your half-arsed training, y’fuckin’ idiot?”

The man bares his teeth, and Benji mocks it. “I’ll kill you.” 

“Sure, mate,” Benji scoffs dryly. “Yeah. You’ll kill me. You wanna know why I brought you out here? ‘Cuz — that’s what happened, if you’ve not figured it out yet. I brought you out here.” He gets to his knee and they tussle a moment, a fist glancing off his cheek until Benji pins the man with full weight. Two heavy knees on his wrists. Looming over him, probably unmasked about the bone-deep anger. Written all over him, he’s sure. “And I did it — let us take a nice little hike — because…y’wanna know why? Wanna know why I did that? Because I didn’t want to kill you on my front step.”

The man struggles again, but it’s less wild and desperate. More scared and accepting. Benji, at least right now, isn’t a walk away and don’t come back sorta guy. He seems to understand that. 

Bit late.

“Know who he is, yeah?” Benji asks, and adjusts a knee across the man’s neck. He can’t answer verbally now — only with a desperate, jerking nod. “Yeah you do. But d’you know who I am? What I’ve done?”

Poor fucker is turning near purple. He hesitates before shaking his head in the negative. 

“No?” Benji tsks. “Pity.”

Knife is too personal. Gun too impersonal.

So Benji uses his fists. 

*

And then Benji scrubs his hands in their new kitchen sink. There’s a pile of dishes that he’s not done yet, because Xavier doesn’t mind doing them and he hates it. But after he’s finished with his hands, knuckles raw, Benji runs the dishes through the washer three times. The sight of translucent, blood-pinked water sluicing off a plate Xavier’d chipped makes something in him recoil. One cycle through the wash doesn’t feel like enough. Two worries him there might be some evidence of a dead man. Three, and they’re sparkling.

There are stains on his sweats, on his shirt — Xavier’s sweats, Xavier’s shirt— so he goes and tosses them in with a load of sheets. Runs it through twice. Cleans the washer with bleach after, runs it all again. And a third time.

It is the first person he has killed in nearly a year.

Benji finds he’s not got a lot of regret or pity about that, which will scare him later. He usually does. Usually eats him up. Death had followed after him, heavy hands on his shoulders, for nearly a decade. Weighted and weighted and weighted until he’d felt like he was sinking a bit deeper in mud with every life on his hands.

This one doesn’t bother him like that.

Sure, he’ll have nightmares about it. See the man’s face. Have visions of a shallow grave out in the woods, a blue uniformed arm of a not-delivery person sticking out beneath branches and leaves draped half heartedly over the body to which it is attached. Bloke’ll rot, out here in the middle of the woods. About a kilometer from his nearest neighbors property line. He’ll rot, and the animals will get to him, and Benji’ll have nightmares about that, too.

He will have nightmares. Except he will turn over in bed, find a warm body sleeping soundly beside him, and seek comfort there. Nose pressed to the back of a head, into a chest. 

Comfort — because Xavier knows what it’s like to kill with anger. Xavier knows about the wild, edged buzz muscles get after you’ve gone white-hot blank and then slipped back into yourself. Like a dream. Like a nightmare. Xavier gets it.

So, sure. Benji’ll have a nightmare about it. And he’ll roll over and he’ll slip a hand over ribs he likes to count and he’ll think only:

 I’d fucking do it again.