#denim jacket benji

[itscooltoskate]

la voz ausente [cap. 5]

[roblogging]

omg ok so i LOVE peter and i love hearing about your thoughts on him SO do you have any fav peter pairings?? im pretty sure you’ve mentioned peter/sybill (is the ship name pebill? idk i thought it was but now that i’ve typed it out, it looks wrong 😭) and prongstail (which a big fat YES to both of those) but, any others? they literally don’t even need to have fics i just need more brainrot fuel xx

OKAY SO:

this post here is about reg/pete which i KNOW is a bit random but trust me there's thought to the madness and this video is me yapping about pebill and regupete

i just. hear me out on that one. idk how i got here but i fw it so hard and i'm fighting the voices everyday not to write a long regupete fic

not a ship as such but i fw the idea of remus and pete being each others first kisses in the way people say prongsfoot are. remus and petes friendship is so special to me.

AHEM PETE AND BENJY !!! PETE. AND. BENJY. benjy piercing petes ears in the bathroom with a needle, pete finding patches for benjys jacket and sewing them on, pete being the biggest lightweight ever and benjy having to carry him home, benjy being this big buff scary guy who can put his chin of petes head so easily and then pete just has to raise a brow 🤨 and benjys apologising and blushing,,, just !!! PETE. AND. BENJY. (noone fw benjy the way i fw benjy)

i know this kinda fell off a bit but,,, i still fw pete/mary. i still fw them

i really want to read something about pete/barty or partyvan just,, idk. i just can't see it but i'm now realising i'm saying that after literally pairing him with benjy who we know nothing about

[ellecdc]

We need dating remus lupin general headcanons with YOUR wonderful writing. Please. 🫶🏻

I don't know if this is my best work - but hopefully this is what you were looking for. Thanks for being here with me <3

Dating Remus Lupin Headcanons

This man was completely oblivious to the draw he had on other people – including you. His quiet, sarcastic, mischievous but kind persona meant he had a lot of admirers that he never did anything about 

I fully believe Remus Lupin was the biggest flirt without necessarily realizing it (or if he did realize it, it wasn’t a conscious action - he really didn’t mean to be flirty, he just was)

Also don’t believe he knew how fuckin’ hot he was: denim jackets, oversized cardigans and knitted jumpers, converse, beanies - like he always looked so comfortable and casual but so put together despite of it?

Stealing his clothes is actually a dream of mine – his denim jacket with patches sewed on and a hole or two????? Need it

Curling up in one of his sweaters and warm socks by the fire? Fuckin’ hell 

His friends knew better than to ever try to (outwardly) set him up with anyone since he was so damn stubborn, so they would just happen to be in the library at the same time as you [the person they’d seen him bantering with in class time and time again] and also just happen to say hey and decide to catch up with you and then also just happen to sit at your table since they were already standing here talking to you anyway.

Forced library dates that neither of you really realized were dates, courtesy of his friends 

Remus caught on after a little while what his friends were trying to do, but didn’t mention anything in case you hadn’t realized yourself; he wouldn’t want to embarrass you

And welcome to the one thing we all sort of hate about Remus Lupin: he of course believed nothing would/could/should ever come about between the two of you

I believe him to be somewhat flighty – the second he realizes he’s falling for you, or, God forbid, realizes you’re falling for him – he hightails it 

Not for long though, I really don’t see James Potter letting him get away with that (Remus is stubborn so he gets ‘his way’ for at least a little before James forces the two of your out of your mutual misery)

I think you guys would grow closer and closer without ever actually saying anything about it:

Sitting beside each other would turn into leaning against one another

Leaning against one another would become the odd cuddle session 

Walking together to class would turn into a gentle hand on the small of your back guiding you through the castle (but also to keep you close) [this is that mentioned unknowingly flirty side] 

Hand on the small of your back would turn into his arm around your shoulder or your hand in his 

And he would prefer it this way, afraid that saying anything would make it too real (flighty), or, that you would deny having feelings for him and that would hurt in an entirely different way

You tried to be okay with it – to pretend that you were satisfied with whatever Remus was willing to give you because, come on, he was one of the most popular boys in school, he was the most well-liked Marauder, he was super smart and a powerful wizard, and he was so sweet to you.

But after a while, you couldn’t deny how much this unspoken space between you was weighing on you – particularly the somewhat routine periods where he’d completely shut you out

Was it you? Had you done something? 

Was he seeing someone else?

Were you just imaging this whole ‘thing’ between you?

He’d get increasingly agitated – almost like he simultaneously wanted you closer to him and further away from him; you’d never know how to help him in these moments

He’d speak more sharply to you, spoke less in general, and downplayed your friendship/relationship when other people would comment on it 

“We’re not even that close, we just study together sometimes” you head him say to Marlene McKinnon

“It’s not like that” he told Benjy Fenwick when he asked if you two were dating 

“She’s just a friend.” He’d said to Sirius, and that one hurt because why would he lie to his best friend? And what about you made it so difficult to see you as more than a friend?

Maybe you really had completely imagined the whole thing in your mind? Maybe he really didn’t care for you at all.

You began to pull away – less study dates, more excuses as to why you couldn’t meet up after class, sitting with Lily or Mary at quidditch games instead, staying at Hogwarts on Hogsmeade weekends – anything to avoid having to face the friend that you quickly realized you were halfway in love with who never even gave you a second thought

He did give you a second thought, though – in fact, he gave you a first thought as well as a third, fourth, fifth and sixth

“Do you think I did something to offend Y/N?” He asked James and Sirius one day – the two exchanged a knowing look 

“Why do you ask?” James asked with a smirk

“I think she might be avoiding me.”

“Does that bother you, Moons?”

Remus scoffed “of course it bothers me”

“I thought she was just a friend?” Sirius taunted

“Sod off...”

Remus couldn’t ignore it anymore – you weren’t just a friend. Never could be in his mind, he doubts. He would be your friend for the rest of your life if that’s all you ever wanted from him – but he’d probably always hold a candle for you; that’s why this divot you seemed to be carving between you two hurt like hell

He decides to do something very un-Remus like and face this head on (thoughts and prayers)

“Hey Y/N” he said gently as he approached your table in the library 

You seemed surprised at seeing him and started packing your things up

“Oh, hi Remus...” and the lack of your usual ‘hey Rem’ furthered his suspicions. “I was just finishing up, actually.”

“Have I done something to upset you?” He blurted suddenly. His assertiveness threw you off kilter – was he...talking? About feelings? You paused in your haste to pack your things

“No?” you said in the form of a question – you knew he picked up on it when the space between his eyebrows dwindled 

“Are you sure? I just feel like you’ve been avoiding me lately.”

You were starting to get frustrated. “What do you want, Remus?” You asked sharply. He winced.

“I just miss you, is all.” He admitted quietly as he played with a fray on his sweater between his tantalizingly long fingers.

“What exactly about me do you miss, Remus? You have plenty of friends; I hardly see how Sirius, James or Peter can’t fill the same role.”

He guffaws – actually guffawed! The bastard. “What are you on about?”

“What are you on about, Lupin? I’m tired; I’m tired of being called a friend while you keep me closer. I’m tired of feeling like I’m being played by arguably the most important person in my life. I’m fucking exhausted – so tell me exactly what you’re ‘on about’ Remus, and make it count because I’m done.”

“No! No, not done; don’t be done.”

“What do you want, Remus.” You whispered dismally. 

“You.” He whispered back

“Don’t fuck with me, Lupin.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at you a little bit. “I’m not. I’m not, I swear it – I’m sorry if you’ve felt played by me. I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel anything but loved because... because I do – I love you.”

“Love me?”

“Love you. So much.” He professed as he dared to step closer to you. When you didn’t seem entirely averse to his proximity, he moved to close the gap – enveloping you in a long-needed hug. “I’m sorry.” He apologized again.

“You should be” you murmured petulantly from his chest.

He chuckled and pressed his lips to the top of your head “let me make it up to you?”

And he did – you spent that evening on the astronomy tower, enjoying the view of the stars as they melted into the forbidden forest along the horizon and the rest of the Hogwarts grounds – and he told you his secret, that he was a werewolf

You were the first person he willingly told – James, Sirius, and Peter just figured it out on their own and there was no hiding from them

You were the first person he chose to let in – so uncharacteristic of the lycanthrope, but that just went to show how serious he was about making it up to you and garnering your trust

This changed everything 

There was no more pushing you away near full moons, in fact – he got nearly downright territorial 

No one else was allowed to sit beside you – that was Remus’ spot

He was irritable and snappy with everyone, but instinctively melted at the sight of you

“I can’t believe we survived Moony all these years without Y/N – she’s like a sedative” Peter muttered as he picked up the cards Remus had thrown at him in a fit during their game of exploding snap. There was no sign of that Moony now – smiling down at you as you sat curled up in his lap like he had nowhere else he’d rather be

I believe Remus was the king of trinkets – his dorm was littered with little bits and bobs he found that he thought were cool/interesting

He started gifting you little things once you began dating 

An enamel pin that made him think of you 

A small pewter wolf 

A cool rock that he thought looked like the colour of your eyes (you didn’t see it, but who were you to argue?) 

Little themed snow globes

Flowers he found on his walks 

Pretty beads/crystals 

Tealight candle holders 

The ribbon from a box of chocolates he got from his mum that he thought you would like

Acts. Of. Service. This man didn’t come from money, the way he saw his dad spoiling his mum was through his actions – so this caring attitude came super naturally to him 

Fixing up your tea/coffee the way you like before you’ve even thought about it 

Carrying your bags/books for you 

“Your shoe’s untied, dovey. Give ‘er here.” He said as he patted his thigh for you to place your foot so he could tie it for you

If you got sick/under the weather, he’d totally do your homework for you (his friends have done the same for him due to the moons – pay it forward)

I think he’d be so soft and needy after a moon – just melt into whatever love and care you’re willing to show him; give you complete control and take care of him.

It may have been super hard to get Remus to give love a chance – but once you got it, you were stuck with him because he was not going anywhere 

Loyal to a fault 

He’s so afraid of losing good things that he’s willing (and desperate) to do anything and everything he can to keep it [i.e., you]

Thankfully, you make it very easy to do <3 

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Hit ‘Em Up! (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Cowboy!Gojo Satoru x Cowboy!Geto Suguru x Black!Cowgirl!Reader (Slow Burn/Enemies to Lovers)

Synopsis: You get to meet Geto & Gojo the Gunslingers, the notorious outlaws that have every town and law enforcement in a twist, when your bum-ass BF offers you as payment to avoid going to prison. Little do they know that this is only a part of your plan to get what you desire. But when you realize that the infamous gun-slinging, smooth-talking cowboys could be everything you want and more when they offer you a deal to team up with them, will you successfully be able to go through with it? 

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINOS GTFO); poly!SatouSugu; Reader is Black & Fem; Mention of other JJK characters; Porn with Plot; Tragic Backstories; T/W for Childhood Trauma, Parental Death, Violence, Panic Attacks & Torture; Angst/Hurt/Comfort; Hand Kink; Masturbation; Voyeurism; Gay Sex; Polyamorous; Double Deepthroat; Mutual Oral; Fingering; CMNF; Spitroast; Riding; Unprotected PiV Sex; Creampies; Outside/Public Sex; Shotgunning; Multiple Positions; Spit Kink; Facials; MDom/fsub Undertones; Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer's Note: This was one of my all-time favorite chapters to write despite how sad it is. Be wanted, y'all, this one is HEAVY. Warning for parental death, violence & childhood trauma. -Jazz

Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen PT I & PT II. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Epilogue. Soundtrack.

********

EIGHT: GOOD DAMAGE.

“So you got a mom or dad?” Gojo asks, wearing Geto’s denim jacket as he slurps on your goodies. 

The question is so random and hard-hitting that it makes you pause from eating the bowl of soup inspired by your mother’s recipe and made with ingredients given to you by the townspeople of Bull’s Creek. 

After seeing Benji’s former bandits off to prison and receiving the thanks of the townspeople, including Miwa, Momo, Mechamaru, and Kuskabe (who does so with a nod your way), you and the gunslinging duo left Bull’s Creek and got on the road. It was only when the sun began to set and twilight sett in that you all decided to take a rest for the night. 

At that point, you had entered the mountains and found a tiny alcove near a cave and a brush of bushes and trees whose branches serve as hangers for your and Geto’s soiled clothes from the creek. Above the cave is a hot spring bubbling with hot water while down below the rocky mountainside, a field of wildflowers and fireflies that float up to meet you, lighting up the darkness the further the sun sets.

“Why don’t we rest tonight?” Geto suggested. “This will be a decent place, I think.” 

“And there’s a hot spring just above us!” Gojo excitedly said. “Ah, I could use a hot bath.” His stomach rumbles, evidently so by the sound that escapes his stomach. “And somethin’ to eat,” he sheepishly chuckled. 

You had already begun to shed your bags after tying Reneigh up with the duo’s horses up at the hot spring, letting them chomp on the wildflowers that sprout there. “Well, we’ve got all these goodies the townsfolk gave us,” you said, digging into the sack of food.

In total, the Bull's Creek folk gave you two sacks: one of food and the other of fresh clothes. Between the three of you, you divided the coin you received and kept them for yourselves. 

You looked inside the sack, pulling out each item: “Bowls, plates, bread, butter, rice, oooh, chicken broth!” Your excitement grew, happy to see such goodies.

Geto kneeled beside you, smiling fondly at the ripe tomato and the head of broccoli he found. “And all kinds of fruits n’ veggies,” he hummed, pleased with the turnout. “This will last us the whole trip if we ration well.” 

Your hand touched something soft and you pulled out a whole raw chicken. Holding it up to the duo, you gaped at it. “Uh…anybody know how to cut a whole chicken?” Two began to laugh, mostly at your hilarious reaction. “Why? You cookin’ it?” Gojo joked. 

You thought about tossing the chicken at him but decided not to. “Well, we’ve gotta eat and nothin’ beats chicken soup and wild rice.” Geto looked at you, shocked. “Oh…I was gonna cook for us.” But Gojo is pleasantly surprised, hands on his slim hips. “What a change of heart, little miss! Ya must like us now.” 

You glared at him as you began to set up the steel pot for cooking. “Don’t push ya luck, boy,” you snapped. “You two can set up camp while I cook.” You stood up and hurried up the slanted, smooth rock to the hot spring to wash your hands, mostly to get away from them. “Ah, so you tryna do the easy work!” Gojo called out to you, but you didn’t answer. 

Once you finished, you busied yourself building a small fire using some loose twigs, branches, and one of Gojo’s matches before preparing to cook. You roasted the chicken first which Geto kindly sliced the chicken up for you using one of your pocket knives. You had to turn the spit periodically on the fire while chopping vegetables (carrots, peas, broccoli, corn), so it was a lot of running back and forth. 

But you didn’t mind. You love cooking. Fixing something to eat is the one time you feel normal. It’s what makes you feel close to the people you left behind in your childhood, including your old self. 

Once the chicken is done roasting, its skin golden brown and juicy, you slice in into strips. You then fill the pot up with hot water from the spring, boil it, and fix the rice until its fluffy and white. Finally, you pour the chicken broth into the pot with the rice, sliced vegetables, and chicken, stirring it with a big wooden spoon you found in Geto’s bag. 

Speaking of Geto, he and Gojo set up camp during your cooking session. They set up sleeping bags, yours included, and place a blanket underneath to keep the dirt out of them. They set their boots, hats, and jackets aside, separated from your things. It seemed that they gave you your own spot, allowing you privacy and space. You appreciated that. 

Once the soup was finished, you announced that dinner was done and stood in front of the pot when they came running with their wooden bowls. “Hold up!” you exclaimed, putting out a hand to stop them. “Y’all wash y’all hands?”

The two looked at each other cluelessly which gave you you’re answer. “Hurry up before it gets cold,” you said and they went scurrying up the hill like rabid dogs, making you giggle to yourself. 

Minutes later, they returned and helped themselves to the meal. You sat down on a log with your own bowl, stretching your legs out. The duo sat on either side of you in a circle, passing a bottle of Jack between the three of you and ripping off pieces of bread to dip in your soup.

Gojo was sloppy, slurping greedily at his meal and making you wonder about some naughty shit. “Mmm, shit!” he moaned. “This is the best soup and rice I’ve ever had in my life!” 

In contrast to his partner, Geto was neat, taking his time eating his meal and (once again) making you mind wander. “I agree,” he sighed. “You’re quite the cook, little miss. Truly gifted.” Both compliments made your stomach flip. “Thank you,” you softly say, barely above a whisper as you took a sip of the Jack. It let a burn in your throat that you eased with the warm, hearty soup. 

Then came the burning question: “So you got a mom or dad?” 

You sit here now, the soup just at your mouth. Gojo looks at you expectantly, still slurping down his bowl. “Satoru,” Geto firmly says and shakes his head. Gojo raises an eyebrow, not understanding that this is a hot button topic. 

“No, it’s fine,” you protest. I suppose it’s only fair to tell you since y’all have told me so much about your lives.” You lower your spoon into your bowl, the fire crackling in front of you. “I have a mom and dad, yes, but adopted. I never knew my birth dad, but my birth mom always told me he was a rollin’ stone.” You chuckle to yourself. “Guess that meant he was a playboy.” 

You nod at the simmering pot on the ire. “This is my adopted mom’s recipe.” Geto smiles fondly, taking a swig of Jack. “Well, now I can see who you got such a gift from. Is she a cook?” 

You shake your head. “Not professionally, no. She’s a schoolteacher. My adopted dad is a farmer.” Gojo hums thoughtfully, chomping on some bread. “Where’s your birth mother now?” he curiously asks. “Still in your hometown?” 

You don’t think twice about it. You don’t even hesitate. “She was murdered,” you blurt. The silence that follows after this is deafening. The duo stare at you as if you just told them you’re pregnant. Placing the bowl aside, you tu​​rn to the crackling fire, not wanting to look at them and see their pity. 

“I was a little girl when a bunch of outlaws invaded my town,” you explain to the flames. “They ransacked every store, destroyed every home, and killed nearly every single person…including my mom.” You can feel yourself going back to that time, your mother’s terrified eyes behind your eyelids when you blink. A hot rush of tears begins to build.

Sensing your discomfort, Geto steps in. “You don’t have to go on,” he soothingly says. But you shake your head. “It’s okay.” “No, it’s not,” you argue, forcing the tears away. “I need to tell you why I hate outlaws so much. I need to tell you why I am the way I am.” 

You turn back to them, staring them in the eye. “But y’all are sure you wanna hear this?” you wryly joke. “I have to warn y’all that it’s quite long and tragic.” And the two stare you right back in the face. “I thought we already established that we’re ones for long and tragic backstories, darlin’,” Gojo replies. “Take your time.” 

Geto passes you the bottle of Jack and you take a much-needed swig. “I was nine years old when they came,” you begin and the memories come flooding back like a tidal wave. 

********

The summer you turned ten years old was supposed to be a joyous one. 

It was supposed to be a day where you and your mother spent the day in your hometown of Pinewood, known for its farms and heavy population of flowers.

Your mom would usually wake you up with pancakes covered in strawberries and whipped cream (your favorite), presents, and then take you into town to the bakery, the library, the movies, the fruit orchard to pick peaches and plums, or any other place a young girl like you would love to visit for her special day. 

But that was further from the case. It was only two weeks until you turned ten that your home was destroyed and burned to the ground. 

Pinewood was once a small but humble town of a couple hundred people. Everyone knew each other and there was community. Adults looked after neighbors’ children late at night and pies were brought over to welcome newcomers to the town. Farmers, teachers, landscapers, florists, bakers and cooks, etc…you would find them all here, building their lives and careers. 

The autumns were crisp and the summers were warm. This particular summer night you remember you were asleep in your bed, the sound of buzzing cicadas having hummed you to sleep earlier. Your bedroom, pink, cozy, and girly, was still except for you–the sleeping girl in her pony PJs. But late into the night, you awakened, feeling compelled by something to do so. 

You sat up in bed and looked out the window. Your backyard of honeysuckle and your mom’s prized vegetable garden looked back at you. The sweet summer breeze blew your curtains around like pink wisps. You don’t know why you woke up. You usually can sleep through a tornado. But this time, you couldn’t. 

Something felt…wrong.

You couldn’t quite put your finger on it. And then you realized it: the cicadas had stopped singing. A warm night that was usually filled with the buzzing song of the cicadas in the trees had ceased, leaving the night eerily quiet.

Then, suddenly, your bedroom opened, and in rushed your mother. You were too deep in your sleep fog to see that she was frazzled and scared, still in her nightgown and slippers. 

“Mama?” you mumbled sleepily, rubbing at your eye. “What’s going on?”

She came over and ripped the covers off of you. “Baby, get up,” she hurriedly said, pulling you out of bed by your arm. “C’mon, get your slippers on and follow me.” 

You stared at her, confused and still sleepy. “But, Mama–” 

“Stop it, Y/N!” she yelled. You are startled, confused, and afraid. Your mother had never yelled at you like this before.

And then you saw her eyes: wild and scared like a cornered animal. It scared you. “We need to go now,” she firmly said. “Now get on your slippers and let’s go.” This time, you didn’t argue or protest. You slipped on your slippers and took your mom’s hand. 

She squeezed it as she led you out of your bedroom and down the hallway, walking past the bathroom, kitchen, dining area, and laundry room. Your home was a ranch, so it was only one floor with the bedrooms located at the back. Your mom guided you to the front door but looked back at you before she opened the door.

“Follow me,” she instructed. “Don’t let go of my hand, understood?” She didn’t wait for you to answer. 

After unlocking the door, she yanked the door open. You still wish she hadn’t. Your town, once blossoming with businesses, cozy homes, and life was now burning.

Flames that exploded from buildings licked the night sky. Crops were on fire. Guns exploded in your eardrums that sounded like firecrackers. People and animals alike ran for cover and safety. People in black clothing and bandanas covering their mouths ran after them, hooting and hollering. Some of these intruders also ran in on horses, rifles and pistols drawn. 

You didn’t see any bodies, thank God, but it didn’t matter. The trauma was already set in your body from that very moment you and your mother stood outside of your home in the chaos. 

“Mama, what’s happening?!” you yelled, pulling on her hand. 

She then began to run with you, hurrying down the road. “I don’t know, baby,” she answered, “but we’ll be okay! Just don’t let go of me.” You didn’t, but someone did it for you. As you were running with your mom, you unfortunately didn’t get that far away from your house when you suddenly felt two arms snatch you away. 

You screamed, wriggling around in the stranger’s arms. Your mother looked back and rushed to help you, but she too was grabbed by another stranger in black and tossed to the ground. “Mommy!” you squealed.

You tried to struggle out of the arms binding you, but your mom’s assaulter took out a long-barreled pistol and pointed it at your mother’s temple. “Shut up, you little brat,” he snarled. “Keep that mouth shut or your ma gets it.” 

You immediately went quiet and the bandit behind you cackled. Despite his own bandana covering his mouth, you could smell the booze on his breath. You looked down at his hands around you. One of them had a rose tattoo on his knuckles. 

The bandit nodded at your ranch. “Nice house ya got here, bitch,” he chuckled. “Even nicer land. I bet ya got some pretty pennies for a pad like this, eh?” He crouched down beside your mother. She lied in the dirt on her side, her clothes ruined and her knee scraped by her fall. 

“No,” she whimpered. “My people are humblefolk. We don’t have much money and neither do I, especially with a child.” 

The bandit took a handful of her coiled hair in his fist, yanking her up. “So you callin’ me a liar?” he snarled. “I don’t like bitches who talk back, y’know.” He cocked his gun at her, but your mother was afraid like you were watching. “I don’t have what y’all are lookin’ for!” she snapped. “Please just let us go!” 

The bandit tossed her down and shared a look with his partner. “If you don’t give us money then you’ll have to give us somethin’ else,” he growled at your mother. “How much you think her kid will cost, man?” The bandit hugged you to him, making a show of caressing your face. “Mmm…’bout a couple hundred at least.” 

You shook in terror. What did they mean? Were they going to take you away from your mother? She seemed to know what they meant though and looked like she wanted to murder both bandits. “You wouldn’t do that,” she hissed. “You know damn well that the law is already out for y’all for this, so you’d only be sinkin’ your ship farther if you do anything to my daughter.” 

The bandit pressed the bun to her temple, laughing. “You think we give a fuck about the law, bitch?” he cackled, tossing his head back. “The law won’t ever find us and half of them are pussies anyway. The bossman is like the Boogeyman to them.” Your mother’s expression softened and she suddenly looked hopeless. That scared you even more. 

The bandit smirked and pressed the gun to her chin. “Now what should we do about that mouth of yours?” he whispered. His partner chuckled suggestively. “I’ve got a few ideas,” he sniggered. Despite the gun in her face, your mother turned her head to you, her eyes glassy but filled with acceptance. “Y/N, my little flower,” she tearfully said. “I love you.” 

Before you could even blink, she bit down on the bandit’s hand hard. Hard enough to draw blood. The bandit screamed as he pulled his hand away now coated in deep, bloody teethmark. 

“Oh, you bitch,” he spat. “Now you’ve pushed your luck.” He took her by her hair again and threw her down onto her stomach execution style. 

“Mama, no!” you wailed, reaching for her. She looked up at you, eyes wild and dirt caked to her face. “Run, Y/N!” she screamed. “Run until you reach the fields!” 

As your fight or flight kicked in, you elbowed the bandit behind you in the stomach, loosening his grip. Just as you turned to run, two shots ran out behind you. You never turned around to see if it was your mother. You just knew it was.

So you ran as you cried, your eyes blurred with salty tears and fear pumping in your blood. “Get that little bitch!” the bandit yelled, pointing at you. 

Hooves began to thud against the ground behind you, but you didn’t turn. You didn’t stop. You just ran, something pulling you along despite your fatigue. You still don’t know if it was God, your mother’s spirit, or just your will to live. Either way, it got you all the way down to the cornfields three minutes outside of your town. 

At this point, the sound of the bandits behind you faded, but you knew they would eventually gang up on you. Wheeled wooden carts sat beside the fields that usually were used to deliver food, flowers, and other deliveries into other towns. You chose quick and jumped into the back of one cart of flowers. You hid deep beneath the many plants, petals, and bulbs, keeping quiet. 

Even as you heard the horses and saw torches flash beneath the flowers, you held your breath and imagined yourself as but a rock. A head of corn. A flower like the ones surrounding you. 

“Where’d she go?” he gruffly asked. A light flashed in your face and you coveved your mouth. 

“I think I saw her go in here,” his partner said before they walked into the cornfields together. You didn’t move even as the light vanished. Even as the rustling of the corn stalks got further away. Even when all you heard were the bandits’ horses chuffing to one another.

You don’t know how long you had been there–minutes? Hours?–, but suddenly, you heard footsteps and hooves beside you and then the cart moved slightly as someone got in the front to drive off. And then the cart began to move, taking you away and into the unknown. 

‘The unknown’ turned out to be Elden Valley, a small town a two-day travel away from Pinewood. It is home to humble, quiet folk. Humble, quiet folk like Eren Tokiyami, an older farmer with salt-and-pepper hair and calloused hands, and his wife Yuri, a longtime baker.

Eren and Yuri ordered flowers and seeds specifically from your town’s florist to plant and decorate the outside of Yuri’s bakery. Imagine their surprise to find a scared, dirty, and traumatized little girl lying beneath the bed of tulips and petunias. 

You found yourself in a barn smelling of manure and animals. Yuri covered her mouth while Eren stared down at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. “My God,” he gasped. “Where’d you come from, little one?”

You could barely speak. You hadn’t had water or food in two days. “P-Pinewood,” you whispered, and then everything went black when you passed out in Eren’s arms. 

After taking you to the town’s doctor and nursing you back to help, the couple adopted you as their own. The town of Elden Valley and all others in the county heard of the massacre of Pinewood. Dozens of people died, including your mother, but you didn’t any any detectives or coroners telling you that. 

For nine years, Eren and Yuri fed you, dressed you, and cared for you. But it wasn’t enough to thaw you. It wasn’t enough to melt the ice that had formed and hardened around your heart and soul.

You had grown tough, taking your anger out on kids at school and constantly skipping to ride horses. It was when you turned sixteen that you met Reneigh for the first time who was no more than a stubborn, violent horse that Eren recently saved from an abusive owner. 

You felt like she was just like you and maybe she did too, so she was always calm in your presence and became yours. Eren and Yuri thought that with Reneigh, along with some guidance and love, you would be able to get back on track. You did for a little while. You baked pies with Yuri, planted crops with Eren, studied, and graduated from school. 

Then, one day, you just left.

It was a month after you graduated at age eighteen. You knew you couldn’t spend your life in Elden Valley, pretending that vengeance and bloodlust weren’t inside of you. To do something constructive with that anger, you took one of Eren’s many guns that he taught you how to use and went out to the woods beyond his and Yuri’s house. In the blue of dawn, you set up an old glass bottle there and stood yards away from it. 

As Eren taught you, you kept still and calm, aimed, and shot. You missed. So you tried again. And again. And again. Every morning before your parents awakened, you went out to practice in secret. And every time you drew that gun and shot, you were better. Quicker. Sharper. Then, one day, you finally it: you aimed and the bottle broke. You knew what you had to do from that very moment. 

So after a night of dinner with your parents and telling them how much you loved them, you waited until they went to sleep to pack, tossing everything you could into a bag. Including two of Eren’s pistols. You hid your identity behind a cowgirl hat and bandana, forever your disguise. 

Before you left, you wrote a letter to your parents, not wanting to leave them without any last words: 

Dear, Mama & Papa, 

I’m sorry for all of the trouble I’ve caused you over the last nine years. I thank you both from the bottom of my heart for taking me in as your own. I’ll never forget your kindness. It is what is needed in such a cruel world. Please don’t come looking for me and don’t worry about me. Just know that I’m fine. If I never see you again, I love you both endlessly. Thank you for giving me back my innocence.

Love, Y/N.

And like a thief in the night, you hopped on Reneigh and you were gone. And so the Fatale Femme was born. You didn’t feel anything when you caught your first outlaw body…only more vengeance.

It got stronger the more you killed. The more you fled. The more you pulled that trigger. You have been doing this for so long that you believed that this coldhearted tyrant is you now. For so long you thought you had lost yourself and only the Fatale Femme remained. 

But now, sitting here among two outlaws, feared and loved by many, you feel as if you’re finally getting yourself back. Geto and Gojo stare at you in the firelight, sadness in their eyes. You sit there, ravaged by your past and trembling.

“I never thanked y’all for savin’ my life today,” you say. “I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry I didn’t see that y’all are different from the others. I’m sorry that I didn’t want to acknowledge it.” 

Tears begin to slip down your cheeks, too hot and too quick to stop. The real you, outside of the bandana, the guns, and the cool exterior, has been released. “That’s why I do what I do,” you tearfully explain. “That’s why I am what I am. That’s why I need to find Benji.” 

Geto puts his gloved hand in yours, warm and comforting. “And we’ll help you,” he softly promises. “We had a deal, remember? We’re a team now, so do you ever go thinkin’ you’re alone in this.”

His brown eyes are firm but gentle, reminding you so much of Eren’s. “Thank you for sharin’ with us and I know you won’t believe me, but I know your parents are proud of you, includin’ your birth mother.” 

He offers a smile that seems to melt you. When Gojo gets up to move next to you, squeezing you between them, you feel like you’re about to turn into a puddle. You feel nothing but warmth that overwhelms you in the best possible way. It is foreign and weird, but good. Real good. 

Gojo’s blue eyes sparkle at you, as beautiful and as alluring as the fireflies that float amongst you. “Did I ever tell ya about the time I got my ass stuck on a bear trap?” he randomly asks. “Oh, or that one time Geto got eaten up by leeches?”

Geto rolls his eyes as he puts his hair back into a long ponytail. “Damn, you tellin’ her that one?” he sighs. 

And that’s when you realize that the strange warmth you’re feeling is gratitude. You smile at Gojo and wipe your tears, knowing he would ask you to. “N-No,” you giggle through a sniffle. “I don’t believe you have.” 

For the rest of the night, you laugh and drink with the duo, not a single care in the world despite your past and scars. At some point, the alcohol rears its ugly head and pulls you down into the ink black of a booze-induced sleep. You pass out in front of the fire and barely feel Gero cover you with a blanket...and lightly kiss you on the forehead. “The sweetest dreams, Y/N,” he coos. “We’ll try to have the same.” 

When the long-haired outlaw sits up on his knees after closely examining the way the flames of the fire flicker across your beautiful face and the serene expression you wear, he looks at Gojo who wears an equally pained look. “You feel it too,” he states.  

Geto looks down at you again and sighs a heavy, tired sigh. “Yeah,” he replies. 

“So we’re fucked," Gojo once again states.

And Geto, now looking up at the stars for answers, once again sighs, “Yeah.”

[hekateinhell]

Can Armand fly? Like does he have the ~Cloud Gift~ so to speak, or does he not? I can’t remember..

And he doesn’t seem to have/use the Fire Gift too right, or am I wrong?

Armand’s powers are so interesting to me, the way he can make life like illusions like no other (at least I can’t remember an Anne Rice vampire making that kind of illusions, maybe I’m wrong) is somehow so ‘compliant’ with his character.

I remember when Daniel is about to be turned, Armand creates this illusion for him and Daniel’s description is so haunting for some reason, like he can actually smell the flowers, he can see the stars, he can pick a leaf from a tree and he even sees Armand’s damp footprints on the ground(!) Imagine being able to conjure up an illusion like that.. jeez

And he seems to have been able to do it when he was a younger vampire too, right?

Like didn’t he draw mortals who were ready to die from their homes with some kind of illusion, so he could feed on them? (That is also so compliant with his character for some reason now I think about it)

God, he really is SUCH a good character I can’t get over him. I need to have his name tattooed on my body (like Armand definitely tried to convince Daniel to do. ‘Daniel, can’t you get this tattoo of my name on your arm? I want to see how it is done :3’)

Armand does have the Cloud Gift!

The very first mention of Armand being able to fly is in MtD, where Lestat seems rather surprised to realize that he can:

The steel buttons of his [Armand's] denim jacket were icy cold, as though he had come from some far worse winter in a very few moments of time. We are never entirely sure about each other's powers. It's all a game. I would no more have asked him how he got here, or in what manner, than I would ask a mortal man how precisely he made love to his wife. ~ Lestat, MtD

Unrelated but I'm always so thirsty for any insights as to how vampires view their relationships to each other within vampiric norms, and I think it's fascinating that even two vampires who've known each other for so long and have such a complex, intertwined history as Armand and Lestat do don't really know how powerful the other is and it would be taboo to ask. Scandalous!

Thank you to @thecactifindahome for reminding me that Armand actually has known how to fly for quite a while!

By my own will, and with the first explosion of my blood in the light of the morning sun, I had been driven upwards, as high perhaps as I could go. For centuries I'd known how to climb to airy heights and how to move there, but I'd never pushed it to a conceivable limit, but with my zeal for death, I had strained with all my available strength to move Heavenward. My fall had been from the greatest height. ~ Armand, TVA

Armand also has the Fire Gift, which is first noted in PL:

“You go to New York, my friend, and Armand will burn you to cinders,” said Killer. “Oh, not Benji or Sybelle, no, and maybe not even Louis ... but Armand will do it and they won’t bat an eye. And they can do it too. They have Marius’s blood in their veins, those two. Even Louis’s powerful now, got the blood of the older ones in him. But Armand is the one who kills. There are eight million people in Manhattan and four members of the Undead. I warn you, Antoine, they won’t listen to you. They won’t care that Lestat made you. Least I don’t think they will. Hell, you won’t even have a chance to tell them. Armand will hear you coming. Then he’ll kill you on sight. You do know they have to see you to burn you up, don’t you? They can’t do it unless they can see you. But Armand will hunt you down and you won’t be able to hide.” ~ Killer to Antoine, PL

Armand has always been incredibly powerful — even a newborn vampire — which I think is due to a few different factors:

Marius ensured that Armand received plenty of his blood during his turning

Prior to making Armand, Marius hadn't created another vampire since Pandora, some 1,500 years ago so the power in his blood was very potent

Marius's blood was so powerful to begin because of the regular infusions he received from Akasha, so the vampires in his line do tend to be powerful and gifted

This accounts for Armand's early strength and Mind Gift abilities (spellbinding and illusions).

Seeing as the Cloud Gift didn't come until after QotD, I headcanon Armand received a blood power-up from Marius (or perhaps another of the old ones, similar to how Maharet offered Louis her blood). Vampire powers evolve with time/age, surviving a burning, taking the blood of a much more powerful vampire.

Age gave him the Cloud Gift, and following his suicide attempt, Armand did drink from Lestat — so the combination of the burning and Lestat's blood likely contributed to him developing the Fire Gift soon afterwards.

Armand is also telekinetic:

I have most-powerful abilities to cast spells, to dislocate my vision, and to transmit my image over distances, and to affect matter both at close range and matter which is out of sight. ~ Armand, TVA

And last but not least, he may have the power to astral project although I don't believe it's explicitly spelled out but even as a mortal, he has an out of body experience witnessing himself dying, and later on when he's recounting his suicide attempt in TVA, he says this:

That is, having fallen on the roof, burnt and in unspeakable torment, I might have sought a desperate mental escape, projecting my image and my strength into Sybelle's apartment long enough to kill her brother. It certainly is possible for spirits to exert enough pressure on matter to change it. So perhaps that is exactly what I did-project myself in spirit form and lay hands upon the substance that was Fox, and kill him.

However, he doesn't actually believe that that's what happened in this particular instance, but it's the possibility that he is, in fact, powerful enough to do so. Armand was already so unique and "different" as a mortal child and adolescent (I would call this neurodivergent but that wasn't a term in the 15th century or anytime shortly after), that it makes sense his powers would be easily amplified and exceptional in their own right.

Re: his hunting style, it's described by Lestat when they first meet as:

He [Armand] had learned to summon those who truly wished to die. He had but to stand near the dwellings of mortals and call silently to see his victim appear. Old, young, wretched, diseased, the ugly or the beautiful, it did not matter because he did not choose. Dazzling visions he gave, if they should want to receive, but he did not move towards them nor even close his arms around them. Drawn inexorably towards him, it was they who embraced him. And when their warm living flesh touched him, when he opened his lips and felt the blood spill, he knew the only surcease from misery that he could know. It seemed to him in the best of these moments that his way was profoundly spiritual, uncontaminated by the appetites and confusions that made up the world, despite the carnal rapture of the kill. In that act the spiritual and the carnal came together, and it was the spiritual, he was convinced, that survived. Holy Communion it seemed to him, the Blood of the Children of Christ serving only to bring the essence of life itself into his understanding for the split second in which death occurred. ~ Lestat, TVL

Definitely within character, I agree :') for a character that to me reads as having been passively suicidal for most of his life, there is a bittersweet irony and perhaps even a misguided sense of mercy behind it.

AND YES YOU SHOULD ABSOLUTELY GET AN ARMAND TATTOO I WANT ONE SO BAD!!! character of all time, love of my life, etc etc you guys already know!!!!!

[hauntedjpegcollection]

in my restless dreams, i see that town

wc: 5398 au: silent hill au ch: yasiel, benji, lethe

My favorite memory of you is the swing set. Rusty and neglected, lonely and ignored.

Our backyard, you remember? You finally let me push you until we thought you’d go the whole way around. You didn’t, but it was enough that we thought it was possible. And you let me and I never told you how much that meant to me. You trusted me. No one ever trusts me.

Don’t come for me, Yas.

It isn’t safe. And you’re not strong enough.

I’m sorry.

I love you, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry and I love you.

Don’t

—

The rustle of the forest is like whispers; ominous, cruel, and taunting. So similar to his twin. Nelsy could be a forest, undefinable by map with too many paths that wind to no true destination. Nowhere authentically safe. She was scary and unknowable and cold—and so is Yasiel. Standing on the overpass that leads to Silent Hill, the wind sending murmurs through the leaves, cutting the bare skin of his high, freckled cheekbones.

He's fucking cold.

Yasiel’s lighter clicks a few times before it finally sparks and washes his light brown face in ambers and reds. The flame flickers a few times and threatens to go out before it can complete its simple job of lighting the cigarette dangling between his lips. The nicotine doesn’t warm him up, but it soothes a thrumming nerve inside him. An anxiety that can’t ever truly calm.

Don’t come for me, Yas.

His head tilts back, smoke pluming above him from parted lips. The sky above is cottony with roiling clouds, dark and fat on rain that hasn’t shed yet. Mouse had picked a perfect time to disappear; she always knew he hated fall. The slow death to winter. A season that held too many bad memories for both of them. And he hates the fucking cold. His black denim jacket is all flash and no substance, made to make him look pretty but not offer any actual warmth.

Maybe being warm would just make him feel guilty anyway. What does he deserve, after all? What, indeed.

Yasiel stamps the cigarette out on the railing of the overpass, then flicks the butt out into nature, watching it fall down the steep ravine into the forest surrounding Silent Hill. Adverts online made it seem like a pretty little place, someone’s cozy small town getaway. Writers would book a motel room and finish their next big project, or dads would drag their families to move in and start new. The sheriff from a town over takes a new placement in Silent Hill and feels restless because people aren’t doing cocaine off each other in bathrooms and ending their night jacking cars.

There’s no seeing the town from this far away, but the road into town is shut down. Looks permanent, no less. A rusted gate is padlocked closed, a few plywood boards haphazardly strapped to it. People have dumped trash all around it, like the dumpster off to the side was a suggestion to ignore. Yasiel, if he were athletic like his sister, might have been able to vault over the fence.

Instead, he’s forced to leave his car and take the scenic trail.

According to the map he’d snagged from a rest stop a hundred miles prior, that route funnels directly into Silent Hill’s graveyard before opening up into town.

“My fucking luck,” he mutters aloud to no one but the haughty, laughing wind. Yas folds the map, tucks it into his back pocket along with his lighter.

Then he descends.

—

The fog only seems to thicken the closer Yasiel gets to Silent Hill, and with it a palpable sense of dread. What starts as a modest mist quickly turns into a heavy blanket—and the way forward becomes trickier and tricker. He stumbles over forest roots, slides down the path as it suddenly becomes a gravely hill. More than once, he slips and palms a tree beside him and comes away with a scrape on his hand. The sting follows him.

So does the growing frustration that simmers into fury.

A farm sits desolate beside the trail as it opens from forest into wide open dirt path. A rusted windmill creaks slowly in the wind, the shadow falling over him. The sun is barely able to peek through the grey fog, the heavyset clouds. The farm makes him feel uneasy. It reminds him of an empty airport at four in the morning, or a lot to a gas station where the OPEN light flickers nonstop where he’s the only car parked. He’s reminded of the stairwell in his apartment building, how it goes on and on and on forever as he stands at the top and stares down. It’s a place abandoned except for him.

Yasiel’s heartbeat is loud in his ears as he walks past the abandoned farm. His breathing is uneven and raspy and he can’t entirely blame it on the hike. Grass and dirt crunch underneath his sneakers but otherwise, there is no noise. The severe lack of it is almost loud. He pats down the inside pocket of his denim jacket, reminding himself of the inhaler kept there. It does little to comfort him.

He resolves to hate his sister a little harder as he finally finds the winding path to the graveyard. Flowers, dying of course, line the path like droopy used tissues. The gate is as worn down as everything else Yasiel has encountered, but the rusted chain that barely keeps the back entrance together is easily yanked off. He rubs the metallic dust from his hand onto his jeans, slipping in through the little opening he’s made.

A “Welcome to Silent Hill” sign would have been appreciated and yet all he has is the fog, the tombs like broken teeth burst from the ground and a dark silhouette just a few paces in front of him.

—

“Hello?”

The stranger whirls to face him and Yasiel regrets saying anything. He’s not sure what made him approach in the first place—herd mentality perhaps. The fear of being alone and spotting the singular other person he’s seen since the rest stop prior to entering Silent Hill’s radius.

Rusty and neglected, lonely and ignored.

Whoever they are, they’re angry. The word might not even justify it. Their jacket hood is up, but snakes of curly black hair peek from underneath it, framing his furious expression. Thick, dark brows pull in tight, creating a crease on their brown forehead. The stranger’s eyes are red rimmed and shiny, deep set with purpling bruises underneath them. His lip curls up, revealing teeth in a snarling expression.

Yasiel instinctively steps back.

“You from this fuckin’ town?”

“What? No, I—”

“Is this a joke? Some dickhead havin’ a proper fuckin’ laugh at me, then? Who did this?” The graveyard stranger throws a hand toward the tombstone he’d been standing in front of. Yasiel only realizes then that there is a hole in the ground, coffin shaped and six feet deep. A plot freshly dug for a burial. Nausea wells in his stomach.

“Man, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about! I don’t live here, I just—I just got here. I’m looking for—” He cuts off as the stranger’s face flickers with fear and pain and then lastly, worry. All three mingle into something devastating before it’s wiped clean, flat and apprehensive.

Yasiel looks at the tombstone once more. There doesn’t seem to be anything else he can do.

XAVIER WOLFFE

1996 – 2024

ARE YOU GOING TO STOP IT, BENJI?

YOU SHOULD TRY, IT MIGHT BE FUN!

A booted foot kicks out, striking the tombstone and sending it falling backward, the sound of marble slapping on loamy soil a wet smack. Yasiel flinches, taking a sidestep from the man—from Benji? He’s shorter, but broad and his hands, clenched at his sides, shake with unrepentant fury. There’s a glint of something gold at his neck, but Yasiel doesn’t look closer.

“Who is it?” he asks, taking another step away, cautious. Yasiel glances down into the grave to make sure it really is empty—there’s no dead body or even an empty casket, just a depression in the dirt, man sized. The hairs along his arms and the ones at the back of his neck stand to attention. The fog rolls in on the two of them, no less heavy, no less dense. It’s day time and yet the ever present grey makes this graveyard feel like a bog.

Mouse had read Wuthering Heights to shreds, he remembers. Her paperback copy had fallen apart in her hands one night, as she sat bent over in bed, a pen behind her ear. She would have loved this graveyard, and this chilling stranger.

Benji—if that’s who he is—doesn’t answer the question. He stares down at the tombstone, a muscle in his jaw feathering. He looks like he hasn’t slept for days, his clothes rumpled. There’s a drawstring bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey, listen,” Yasiel says quietly. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Who isn’t?” Benji snaps back, black eyes sliding upward to him. “I’m looking for him.”

“For—For Xavier?”

“He’s not dead if that’s what you’re thinkin’. Someone did this, someone fuckin’ sick and disgustin’ did this.”

Yasiel can’t place the man’s accent directly, besides distinctly British. His voice is rumbly, from the chest and deeply hurt. Words fracture a bit here and there, notably on dead and disgusting. Yasiel goes to ask another question—when’s the last time you saw him or where are you from—any semblance of polite socialization that might lead him down a path where he can ask about Mouse.

Instead, he sees another figure. Not that far from them, partially hidden by a statue of a crumbling angel. The mist in the graveyard has made it almost impossible to see anything other than the smattering of graves and Benji. It thins, only just barely. As though the graveyard wants them to see this.

Only, Yasiel doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to know. He steps back, eyes wide as the dark silhouette materializes little by little. Fear makes his veins cold, make his limbs feel limp and useless. His hand twitches to his lower back, underneath his jacket. He’s horrified at himself, at the sudden dread and terror that seems to be controlling his actions. So, his hand pauses.

That’s when the figure shambles forward.

“Xavier?” Benji asks, startled, his voice tipping high with hope. Dirt scatters into the open grave as he steps closer. Mist unravels around them. Yasiel’s hand shoots out and grabs him by the bicep, earning a dangerous look—he misses it entirely. Benji’s warning glare is wasted on him, because all Yasiel looks at is…is…it.

A distinctly canine jaw opens, mangled tongue lolling from its maw, high pitched whine splitting the otherwise silent graveyard. Drool pours from it’s mouth, mixing with dark, oily blood. The beast is shaped mostly man like; it stands on two long denim clad legs, nude lengthy pale torso tapered to wide shoulders, it’s arms behind it’s back cruelly bent and bound by slick wire. For a moment, a feeling of odd, misplaced sympathy cuts through the fear. It’s in pain, wolflike head rolling back and forth, nose snuffling the air, whimpering. It’s fur is dark auburn and shaggy.

“Xavier?” Benji repeats, his voice a horrified whisper.

The dog head snaps up, large white teeth gnashing together.

“Holy shit,” Yasiel whispers. Then screams as the beast charges toward him.

Everything happens too quickly. The breath is knocked from him as he collides with the ground—Yasiel raises an arm in defense, screaming wildly as an eyetooth catches on his wrist. The skin splits, fresh blood splattering across his denim jacket. Adrenaline is the only thing that keeps him from feeling the pain immediately. Yasiel kicks out his legs, flailing underneath the creature as it snaps its jaws open and close. Its wide open mouth smells like a dead thing, breath hot and foul. It snarls, lips curled back, snout wrinkled.

Then it squeals, spasming on top of Yasiel, who jerks out from under it. He rolls away on the grass, scrambling backward. There’s more blood on him. Dark and slick. This time, it belongs to the creature. Benji straddles it, with something wicked and glinting sharp in the grey filtered sunlight held aloft in his hand.

The doglike sounds of pain continue as Benji stabs, his own voice frantic and loud. Over and over, he plunges the—scalpel? The scalpel. Over and over until the wolf man is just twitching on the ground, bent at a horrible angle with it’s arms tied behind its back. Then slowly, it sighs out one last sound and—and it dies.

“Fuck!” Benji screams standing. He kicks, one final slam of his boot against pale flesh. “Fuck!”

Yasiel must say something too, but he isn’t sure what. It draws Benji’s attention, his focus sharp. And then he’s there, kneeling beside him, holding Yasiel’s hand, as his wrist continues bleeding. The wound is looked over with a clinical eye. It hasn’t started hurting yet; it only burns, like he’s gotten too close to campfire, like he’s laid out under the sun too long, like he’s fallen asleep in a car, baking in the backseat.

“Oh my God,” Yasiel whispers, realizing that it’s not the first time he’s said it. That maybe he’s been repeating it ever since the dog had been pulled off him and killed. His entire body shakes, a pit of cold opening in his chest. Yasiel’s vision is blurry until he realizes that his glasses had been knocked off. Awkwardly, he pulls himself away from Benji to pick them up. When he stands, he stumbles. His elbow is caught, steadying him enough to stand there without falling.

“Thank you,” he says, awe struck and dumb.

“Gonna faint?”

“No.”

“Y’sure?”

“No, I—What—what the fuck was that?”

Benji shakes his head. Yasiel didn’t expect him to know, and yet he still feels lost. Is this a dream? It can’t be. Oh God, it can’t be. He knows it isn’t and that’s worse. That makes it all so much worse. Reality catches up to him, the adrenaline dump draining; and then he’s doubling over, vomiting onto the blood stained grass. He heaves, hands on his knees, panting, stomach muscles clenching. He raises a shaky hand to stop his glasses from falling off once more.

“Can you get back then?”

“What?” Yas straightens slowly, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. The bile’s made his lips burn. He almost registers that more than the slash on his wrist, even as the blood clots and dries.

“Up the way you came, yeah? Trail in the woods leads to the road, right?”

“Yes. Yeah, it does.”

“Can you get back?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not leaving this fucking place without my husband,” Benji points into the fog. Into Silent Hill. His hand trembles, but his expression is hard and final. Yasiel can still taste vomit in his mouth, the bitter tang of it on the back of his tongue. He looks down at his hand, where blood has pooled into his palm, into the creases. His life line, his love line, the identical match to his sisters.

It isn’t safe. And you’re not strong enough.

“Let me come with you,” Yasiel pleads, stumbling toward Benji, hands upraised. The scalpels been cleaned on his jeans, making it shine in the dull fog once more. Benji’s hand tightens around it, tendons standing out starkly. Yasiel doesn’t even flinch. He can’t afford to be afraid, but he is. He is so afraid. “My sister is here. I’m looking for her—I have to find her. I’m not leaving, either.”

Wherever she is. Yasiel thinks of the dead wolf man creature on the ground, blood soaking into the dirt and a spasm of fear tightens his chest. His heart turns over wildly. Half of him is out there, in this town, with these things.

“You don’t get in my way of finding him,” Benji says calmly, slowly. The scalpel disappears into a pocket. He pulls his hood back, letting tangles of black curls free. The subtle graveyard wind shifts around them, tickling exposed skin, laughing in their ears. “Then, c’mon.”

—

They don’t encounter another creature—they don’t encounter anything at all. No people, no remains of them either. Just emptiness; cars parked with nothing in them, flyers and newspapers scattering empty roads. Everything is covered in layers of grime, as if Silent Hill stopped being a town a decade ago, frozen in time but not immune to decay.

Which doesn’t make sense because Mouse had been here just last year. Yasiel had dropped her off at the train, watched her go, and then picked her back up just a week later. Silent Hill had existed back then, as a town full of people and life—a hotel to stay in, doctors and nurses and medication and a little diner that she took pictures of. Mouse had even charmed her way onto someone’s tug boat for a ride on the lake. Like it was a vacation, a holiday stay, instead of a sleep study to solve her night terrors.

“Why did your husband come here?” Yasiel asks, breaking the long, cautious silence that’s crept up on them. They walk down an empty street, the fog everlasting and obscuring anything not ten feet in front of them. He’s anxiously straining to hear anything that might resemble a dog. Whining, barking, that terrible sniffing. But it’s just been his own heavy breathing.

“You wanna chat right now?” Benji throws Yasiel an incredulous stare, a pinch between his brows. “More of those fuckin’ things could be out here.”

Yasiel stays quiet for a moment, observing the abandoned street. They pass storefronts, equally empty or boarded shut. Some of them have broken windows, glass scattering the sidewalk. A chill makes him bundle into his denim jacket further.

Then he finally clears his throat and says, “You called it Xavier?”

“Listen, dickhead.” Benji rounds toward Yasiel. His face pales and his hand reaches out, jerking the slender painter by his jacket. Yasiel stumbles, feeling Benji’s body heat suddenly; the clarity that he is a real, living person. “More of ‘em. Like I said. Down the alley.” A tremor runs up Yasiel’s spine, sweat pooling under his arms. He dares to look sideways, shaking so bad even his glasses slide down the tip of his nose.

And Benji’s right. There are more of them, these half human dog wolf things. A bundle of them down a decrepit alleyway, a dumpster overturned, ancient trash piled everywhere alongside cardboard boxes, a rusted shopping cart. Two of the wolves fight each other, arms bound, snapping their maws, catching delicate pale skin and rending flesh. Without balance, they fall on each other, on the ground, tangling and fighting still. They howl and yip and snarl and bark madly, while three stand around them, watching. The bystanders cackle, fangs dripping spit and blood. They laugh, like hyenas, heads rolling back and forth, unhinged.

Yasiel slaps a hand over his mouth to stop a whimper.

“We’re gonna cut this way, alright?” Benji’s voice is close. Real. Real person, really alive. “Slowly. Goin’ for the diner behind us.”

Mouse’s diner. For a moment, he thinks of the picture she’d sent him of the burger she’d ordered. Stacked with the works, as she liked it, thick cut fries and her mayonnaise and ketchup mixture on a side plate. Yasiel wants to cry. He wants to burst into tears and run away screaming, he wants to pretend this isn’t happening. The dogs scream down the alley. Benji’s hand tightens on his jacket.

Yasiel looks over his shoulder. The neon light—Diner 52—miraculously flickers. The glass windows are intact. One single car sits parallel parked outside of it, door open and almost off its hinges. His tongue is dry in his mouth, awkward and fat. He nods once and Benji slowly eases himself off the sidewalk.

The dog wolves never pay them any attention. They kill each other in the alleyway, laughing and barking.

—

The diner tables are dusty, as is the bar where residents must have sat and drank milkshakes and asked a waitress named Marge for the “slamming special” as it’s called on the crumbling menu board. The floor is dirt caked, but the inside of the diner feels oddly safe. Secluded, almost. Respite from whatever is happening outside, with the monsters. Yasiel sits himself down on a stool, peeling his jacket sleeve back to look at his…bite wound.

“Lemme see.”

Benji slings his bag up onto the counter and begins to rifle through it. He’s handsome, despite the anger and the hostility. He has a curved nose and thick facial hair, the kind that looks soft to the touch. When he pushes his black curls from his face, the effect is downright astounding. Lucky bastard, Yasiel thinks of Xavier, then immediately feels guilty for it. Not really time or place, but he’d never been very good at that.

Slut. Mouse’s voice, affectionate and teasing. Her needling fingers tickling his sides, laughing while they smoke on his balcony. Get it out the gutter, Yassy. She’d hated his last girlfriend and loved his last boyfriend and declared herself free from accusations of misogyny anyway. He just simply had bad taste fifty percent of the time, and fifty percent of the time he’d be dating a woman. Yasiel closes a hand over his mouth again, when his throat thickens with the feeling of tears.

He holds his arm outstretched.

Benji’s poured something onto gauze, a little white kit open in front of him.

“Are you a nurse?” He grunts in reply as he begins cleaning the small gash on Yasiel’s arm. The rubbing alcohol burns so bad he flinches, earning a severely annoyed look. “Kind of a pussy, if you haven’t noticed.” It softens Benji’s expression. He snorts out what must be a laugh and reaches for his supplies.

“S’how I met ‘im.” The wound gets dressed tightly. Benji’s efficient, but his movements slow. His eyes stray to the side. “Poor fucking boy got a concussion playing hockey. Came in to the ER and was on my chart. When I was pokin’ him with the IV, he asked to marry me. Was fucking stunned out my mind. Couldn’t really do anything but laugh. Then he got all teary eyed with it. Told me if I gave him my number, we’d end up married someday.”

“Wow.” Yasiel lets his hands fall between his knees. He realizes he’s smiling, but doesn’t feel like trying to stop himself. Benji’s eyes narrow, a nasty smelling sanitizer rubbed between his hands as a poor mans bath.

“Don’t really tell that story,” he admits quietly.

“Guess I have the sort of face that invites honesty.”

Benji’s nose wrinkles, face screwing up as if he can’t tell whether or not Yasiel is joking. He is, for what it’s worth, but Benji still snorts again and says, “You really don’t, mate.”

They lapse into silence. Not long enough either of them can adjust to the insanity of their situation. Yasiel suddenly pulls his cell phone from his pocket. He has no service and he didn’t expect to either—this wouldn’t be a nightmare if he could just call 911 and be done with it all. Still, seeing the NO SERVICE at the top of the screen, where his battery symbol waits at 75% makes his heart plunge.

“This is my sister,” Yasiel says, handing over the phone. On screen, Mouse smiles in her knife like way. They have the same eyes, same heterochromia. One brown, one a green hazel that looks brighter under direct sunlight. She sits on the beach, her knees tucked to her chest, one of Yasiel’s baseball caps backwards on her head. Waves of her wild, brown hair are sea salt tangled. He can’t think of a picture that describes her better. And he can’t look at it as Benji does.

“You’re twins.”

“Oh, yeah,” Yasiel replies, locking the phone and tucking it back into his pocket beside his inhaler. “Down to the eyes and everything. When we were little, people would get us confused all the time. We’re uh, nothing alike in personality.”

“Feel like I know her,” Benji murmurs, his eyes on the floor. “The picture of her. Just felt familiar, that.” Finally, his hand pats his back pocket. First, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lazily lighting on. Yasiel wants to point out that they’re inside, but realizes how stupid that is. Then, Benji finds his wallet and flips it open.

There’s something sweet about him having a polaroid tucked in with a few bills and a receipt. They’re perfect strangers, yet Yasiel feels like that makes sense. Benji holds it for a second, as though unwilling for it to leave his possession even for a moment. Then finally, he holds it out, taking a long drag on his cigarette and looking away.

Yasiel’s heart betrays him and he thinks of the gravesite. The tombstone. He looks down at the picture and wonders if this man is actually dead and Benji is insane—but that would make two of them probably. They both saw those dogs. Yasiel grits his teeth, breathes evenly through his nose, and forces himself to look at the picture and think—alive. Missing. Just like Mouse. Needs to be found. Loved. So loved.

And he is, if the picture indicates anything. Benji has a subdued sort of smile, his eyes purely on Xavier. The photo is of both of them, sitting in a bar, with low lighting and pints of half drank beer on their table. A pale, tattooed hand peeks into the photo, holds fingers behind Benji’s head, in a mockery of bunny ears. Xavier takes up most of the frame, this giant, lanky red head, who is smiling ear to ear. He has an arm slung around Benji’s shoulders, pulling them together close. He is so traditionally handsome that it seems fake, for someone to be that pretty.

Yasiel thinks of the wolf thing, half human. Pale, with its shaggy oxblood fur. He forces the image away, commits Xavier to memory instead.

“I think I know what you mean,” he says, handing the photo back. Benji takes another hard drag on his cigarette, flicking ash onto the already dirty tile floor. The smell of nicotine is oddly comforting. “I mean, he sort of has one of those smiles, but—feels like I know him. Like we’ve met before.”

He’s about to ask what made Xavier come here. Why would anyone come here? Why had Mouse? But it used to be a town before, used to be a real place, where people got hamburgers with all the toppings, and took tugboat rides on the lake. It used to be. But right as he’s about to ask, an old fashion radio crackles to life down the counter.

“The fuck?” Benji startles off the stool, standing in front of it. His cigarette drops to the ground, cherry burning. Something old fashioned, classical plays from the staticky speakers. Crooning and lullaby like, a piano melody that makes Yasiel’s temples throb. He presses the heels of his palms to the sides of his head, groaning for a moment.

Then a voice, clear and direct.

“Listeners, are you out there?”

It’s a soft voice. Spoken with deliberate care and enunciation. As melodic as the music, as distinct and otherworldly.

“What is this?” Yasiel mumbles, stepping closer. He drags the radio closer. Dust puffs into the air around it, leaves an almost clean streak across the counter. The dial lights up, flickering with the radio waves. Something old and show tune like plays beneath the voice. Benji crowds in closer, a nervous look over his shoulder to the windows still blanketed in grime and fog.

“This is your host, Lethe, and tonight I’ll be your guide. Are you out there? Are you listening? No ad breaks tonight, darling. I’m here for you, if you’re here to listen.”

Yasiel fumbles for the map in his pocket, yanking it free and spreading it across the counter in front of him. He trails an ink stained finger until he finds SILENT HILL RADIO TOWER. It’s not close.

“I know it’s hairy out there right now, listeners. Trust me, I know.”

The voice is dry, doesn’t chuckle, but the laughter is nearly implied. Benji and Yasiel share a look toward each other, a mixture of shock, revulsion, and an eerie sense of hope. Someone else in the town. Someone else who knows about the monsters.

“Things have gotten spooky in our lovely Silent Hill. But I want to help you—you want my help, don’t you?”

“Who is this fucking loon?” Benji asks, voice quivering. Yasiel’s fingers scramble over the radio, turning it up a fraction. His heart slams against his rib cage, working up his throat. What a beautiful voice, he thinks, his head fuzzy and aching. “What you doin’?”

“Note down these roads for me, listeners. They’re the bad ones you don’t want to get lost down. Avoid them and follow the posters. The Radio Tower is open, and the call line is on. You have me all night. Do you hear that? All night.”

The radio crackles. Yasiel leans in. He swears if he gets close enough, he hears something else. He hears the radio jockey—he hears Lethe—saying his name. Do you hear that? All night, Yasiel. A series of streets follow in staccato rhythm. He yanks a pen from his back pocket, a trusty friend he’s never without, and hastily slashes out roads as Lethe lists them out.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Yasiel whispers, staring at the map.

“See you soon.” Yasiel.

The radio crackles to dead silence.

“I know what to do,” Yasiel says, turning to Benji, holding up the map. His shaking finger stabs at the Silent Hill radio tower.

“Alright, mate, no offense—you got off to a lunatic on a radio with a smooth voice, and I’m not here to judge, even if m’judgin’ a bit, yeah—”

“No! Shut up!” Yasiel shakes out the map again, bumping their shoulders together, forcing Benji to look. He grunts in disapproval, moves just a bit so their arms are no longer touching. “If this person—this, Lethe—is playing on the radio, we can get them to broadcast something. Do you get me?”

A flicker of understanding plays across Benji’s face. He rears back, staring at Yasiel with wide eyes. A stray curl falls across his forehead. There’s blood on the underside of his jaw, from the thing he’d killed earlier.

“If—” Yasiel starts and then stops and stares at this stranger. Someone he hardly knows, has only just met, has been saved by once. He licks his lips and nods toward the radio.

“If you ask Xavier to come, will he?”

“Yes,” Benji answers with no hesitation. His jaw flexes, tightening, nostrils flaring. He looks to the ground, where the cherry of his cigarette slowly dies, smoke curling in the air.

“Yes. Always.”

—

Alright, listener. Don’t lose me. Everything’s too easy to lose in Silent Hill if you’re not careful—and you are careful, aren’t you? With your possessions and your people.

Are you shocked I know so much? Don’t be. You’ll find out more about me too. We’ll never be on an even playing ground, you and I, but we can get close. If you’d like.

I’m going to help you out of here, but you have to be careful. Have to listen, understand? Don’t trust anyone else. Not even yourself. You know that already, don’t you?

Never have been good with trust. If I say I’m honored to have yours, would it be inaccurate to imagine you blushing? Too far, listener? I understand, but you’ll forgive me. I’m going to be with you through it all.

Why?

You shouldn’t ask those kinds of things.

You’re going to remember soon enough and then you might turn this station off. Things are easy to lose in Silent Hill, after all.

I don’t want to lose you just yet.

[theacedragon0w0]

Sanctuary part 2

Irony, my beloved

It was a week since Sage crawled into the door step in the hazbin hotel, or the happy hotel, Sage didn't have the energy to care about the name of the place that they were staying at.

Sage was patched up by Charlie, who they quickly learned that she not only was the owner but also the princess of hell.

Sage also learned about the residents that cohabitated the place, Vaggie, the strict manager and Charlie's girlfriend.

Angel, a pornstar with a mouth as dirty as his occupation. Husk, the bartender who looked as happy to be there as Sage, which was non-existent. Nifty, the housekeeper who seemed more insane than hostile, which was somewhat comforting to Sage. And Alastor, the radio demon, who took little notice of the new addition which Sage was glad of given how his reputation was hinted to them even before they heard of the hotel. And finally Sir Pentious, the serpent who was boastful, but didn't seem threatening to Sage.

After some exploration, Sage found the kitchen which looked dusty and unused.

"Hey boss, how long has this place been abandoned?"

"We agreed that I'm not your boss, and we haven't had the chance to update it for patrons."

Sage placed her hand on her hip, "You should have done this after you had your rooms done ma'am."

Charlie's shoulders slumped, embarrassed by Sage's statement.

Unaware, Sage tied their hair back, "I can take care of this."

Vaggie placed her hand in front of Sage, stopping them from entering the kitchen, "You are still recovering from your injuries Sage, we can ask Alastor to update the room before you injure yourself again."

Sage nudged Vaggie to the side, inspecting the room. "This doesn't look that bad, my apartment looked a lot worse than this and I need something besides the friendship activities to keep me occupied, no offense Charlie."

Charlie nodded, "let me at least get some of the others to help you set up, I'll even have Vaggie get you whatever supplies you need."

Sage was shocked by how quickly the kitchen was finished, granted it was mostly thanks to Alastor's magic that helped made the appliances functional and Nifty was a great cleaner, if you subtract the multiple instances of her running off to chase down a bug.

Vaggie returned from the food run, giving Sage a plethora of tools and ingredients to work with.

Sage waved off the group, as they wanted to be alone in the kitchen for the moment.

Sage leaned against the counter, their tail pulling out their recipe binder that they packed from Benji's apartment; they were dumb but not dumb enough to leave this at their old place which had their denim jacket.

Dammit, Sage didn't expect to grieve over that article of clothing, and they felt stupid for thinking about it, "no point getting it back now," Sage said to themselves, "at least I saved you huh? Aaaaand I'm taking to a cookbook."

Going through a couple of pages, they found something that they felt like a good first meal for the hotel.

Chicken Rice Bake.

[unknownjpegs]

summer heat

There was no air conditioning in Xavier’s shitty downtown apartment. The August heat was cloying and wet, even at night. Humidity crowded in, made it that much worse and downright sticky. He kept his windows shoved open anyway, two fans in the apartment working overtime. One in the bedroom, the other in the living room. They didn’t seem to help that much. Neither did the warm night wind that blew in from outside.

Sweat slides down his skin, collects at his lower back and on his collarbone as he stands in front of his fridge. Beads of it make his hair itchy, makes him keep it pulled back with a tie that barely holds up the messy strands. Xavier’s trying his best; stripped down as he is. In nothing but those little track shorts he’d lifted from Lark once and now kept to himself. Because Xavier already ran hot, already was warmer than average for some God awful reason. He could only withstand summer is he was in nothing but shorts.

He can practically hear his father snapping at him to keep the damn fridge shut; you’re letting all the cold air out, all the foods going to go bad. Xavier looks at the meager contents of the fridge. Orange juice, take out from a few days ago, a six pack of beer he hasn’t cracked into yet. There’s at least a stick of butter, sitting morose and lonely. Maybe he should close the fridge door so that doesn’t go soft.

Xavier groans and puts his forehead to the door of the fridge before slowly closing it and turning.

“Holy shit!” his back connects with the fridge, a box of cereal falling from the top of it and landing on the floor with an unceremonious slapping sound.

Benji stands in his living room, satisfied smirk on his grim face. He’s untouched by the heat, meaning his tattered leather jacket is still slung around his shoulders, harness criss crossed over his chest, fish nets underneath torn a bit at the rib cage. One of his hands is slid into his dark denim jeans, the other holds out a—

“Is that a fucking milkshake?” Xavier dives forward, taking the pink drink from his hand. He moans a sound when he licks whipped cream from the top of it messily. “Mind reader,” he mumbles appreciatively, getting the straw between his teeth and giving a loud suck. He shivers when Benji’s hand comes up to cup around his bare ribs, slide down and over his hip, giving it a squeeze. He groans and lets his head fall back.

Because Benji’s hand is cold in comparison to the hot summer night air. It’s not freezing but the touch is cool and relaxing and so sweet as it slides over his skin. Xavier licks whipped cream from his lip and tilts his head back down with a smile.

“Strawberry,” he says simply.

“S’what you always get.”

It makes Xavier put the milkshake down haphazardly on the shitty coffee table that wobbles. A little plastic duck sits there, ready to fall off the edge, somehow never does. He swoops closer to Benji, gathering his face up in his comically large human hands. He kisses him, smiling through it as he puts their mouths together, as their tongues touch and then Benji is pulling away. He laughs, not that snort of a laugh, a little huff of air. He’s lifting a hand, wiping the back over his mouth, laughing. Red eyes slightly crinkled.

“Taste like milkshake,” he comments, licking his lip. Xavier’s eyes focus on that hint of pink as his hands pet softly down until he’s cupping Benji’s leather clad shoulders.

“Wanna taste more?”

“Milkshake, or,” Benji’s sharp fingernail runs a path along Xavier’s stomach. He shivers, his abdomen flexing a bit as the fingernail tucks into the band of his shorts and tugs. The snap of it makes him jump and the laugh.

“Or—yeah—or that.”

—

The fan tickles Xavier’s hair—wild as it is, because Benji had yanked the tie out, accidentally shredded it as he did, elastic popping. It makes strands brush over his face, tickle his skin, as he straddles Benji’s hips. As they connect together there, as Benji’s hand grips him steady. His own hands brace on the broad chest beneath him. Xavier can’t help but curl his fingers underneath the leather straps of that harness, hold on as he feels Benji grind up into him. His whole buddy shudders, falling forward more.

One of Beji’s cool palms wraps around his aching, warm cock, jerking him as they fuck. The hot air mixing with the cool body beneath him makes Xavier feel syrupy, makes him soft and boneless. They take it slow—drag it out, hands roaming each other, mouths meeting to kiss, hungry and needy and still slow. It’s lethargic, summer hot and feverish almost. Xavier only straightens so he can fall back with hands braced on Benji’s thighs behind him.

Benji’s cool hand brushes over his long torso, sliding over his sweat slicked skin, dragging down to press along his belly. Xavier whimpers, head falling back, eyes closing, hips working forward—backward—up—down. He bites his lip till he can almost break his own skin with those square human teeth. It continues like that, this slow moving, sensual grind of their bodies together.

When it ends—or, doesn’t, because it doesn’t feel like an end, because for a long time, Benji just stays inside Xavier while he lays there, panting against his chest. But it ends in the sense that Xavier’s shaky hands are unclasping the harness and grinning at Benji. Sliding it away and kissing bare brown skin. He gets it off, as well as the mesh shirt underneath.

“Hm,” Benji hums, dark lashes fluttering as Xavier brushes his hands back through curly, messy black hair. “Hmhm,” he continues in a deeply content way. Xavier can feel the rumble of it from their chests pressing together.

“Are you,” Xavier’s brows push together as he grins. His body’s gone limp and molded, their limbs entangled. The blankets kicked away to the floor, but Xavier find’s the cool body beneath him almost enough to make him shiver in tandem with the fan. The heat doesn’t feel as penetrable, as dense and heavy. Ambient night city sounds float in vaguely from the open window, but it feels untouchable. Just them. “Are you, like, sleepy?”

Benji’s dark red eyes blink open, hooded. Xavier swallows audibly when they land on him, intense and glossy. The lights in the room are off, the only source of it pouring in from the world outside, little glows of orange street lights and yellow beams of cars below the apartment building.

“Vampires get tired,” he replies as his hand rises and brushes Xavier’s wet strands of hair back. Heat blossoms up across Xavier’s cheeks and nose, his chin tucking down into Benji’s sternum, his own human eyes a little doe like large, moss green and wet. “M’a little. Maybe.”

Xavier slides forward, arms slipping around Benji’s neck, propping his head up slightly so they can come together. They kiss similarly to how they just had sex; slow, building, full of sensation, a little messy, but sensual. It makes Xavier breathe harder, have to pull away for air as Benji’s lips dance across his jawline. Their positions change a little, Benji’s cold body pinning Xavier down onto the bed and covering him. He shivers, sensitive and tired himself.

And they kiss, keep kissing, until they fall asleep. Even the vampire.

—

Xavier wakes up because Benji shifts. It’s such a small movement, but his eyes pop open to it. They’re blurry and his eyelashes cling a little, deep in the REM sleep; a dream had flitted across his consciousness, but it slips away, water between his fingers. Something warm, inspired by summer maybe. He groans as the heel of his palm slides over his eyes. Benji shifts again, just this small, tucking motion, like he’s trying to get his body to curl up, but Xavier’s, next to him is preventing that.

They’re both on their sides, Benji’s arm slipped under Xavier in a way that would make a human go numb. Xavier’s leg is slid between Benji’s knees, preventing him from curling up more. They’re naked, bodies stuck together somewhat. His cool skin makes Xavier shiver a bit, the fan still whirring in the corner and tickling through his hair.

Xavier’s hand brushes up Benji’s arm, skin smoothly inviting beneath his palm—the vampire still sleeps. He looks soft. Open. Oddly vulnerable. His brows don’t have that hard angular pinch, his lips are parted slightly. Xavier adjusts a little, peering closer, because, he realizes that Benji breathes in his sleep. Doesn’t need to—vampires don’t need oxygen the way humans do; but it’s natural, instinctual maybe, the way his chest rises and falls.

It makes something hitch inside Xavier, this great cinch around his heart. He moves slow, but it almost doesn’t seem like it matters, because Benji is asleep, asleep. Really out. His eyes flutter under this thin eyelids.

Dreaming? Xavier’s hand lifts and brushes back hair from Benji’s gorgeous face. As he does, it reveals the sharply pointed vampire ears that are usually obscured by all of Benji’s wild black curls. It makes Xavier almost giggle, teeth tucking into his bottom lip because a grin threatens to come over him then. It’s just fucking adorable and something about how gentle Benji looks in his sleep makes Xavier feel wound up.

“These are so fucking cute,” he whispers as his fingers gently brush along the pointed edge. Benji jumps slightly in his sleep, makes a soft noise that is deeply reminiscent of the noises he’d been making earlier. Xavier feels warmth sweep over his face, down his throat, almost to his chest. He pauses before his fingers rub soft circles over the tip of Benji’s ear.

“Hah,” Benji’s soft tone goes whimpery a bit, his whole body turning toward Xavier. He tucks up under his chin, his arm slinging around Xavier’s ribs and burrowing close. He makes another sound, a soft little moan that almost gets Xavier hard all over again. His eyes glaze over a bit, slipping down to stare at the crown of curly black hair on his chest. His fingers brush curls again.

“Xavier,” he hears the vampire groan.

“Dude, your ears are sensitive?”

“Could you not?” He’s huffing a cool breath over Xavier’s chest which makes him shiver.

“No, Benji, it’s like so fucking cute, though.” He digs hands into Benji’s hair, gently pushing his head back so they can look at each other. He still looks soft, like sleep is sort of clinging to his features. His brows haven’t turned harsh yet, his eyes lidded, like he could slip back under at any moment. Xavier can’t help but run his fingers down and touch his lips, brush over them. “Like, so, so, so fucking cute.”

Benji groans and digs his face back into Xavier’s chest.

“Wait,” Xavier gently unwinds them, ignoring Benji’s soft protested mumbles. He climbs from the bed, pads over to the windows. He shuts them and draws the black out curtains over them. Xavier uses little hooks to keep them secure before he returns to the bed. “So you can keep sleeping,” he explains, knees touching the edge of the bed. Benji’s on his side, his head nuzzled into Xavier’s pillow, his breathing deeper. He blinks one, dark red eye at him then lets it close.

Benji lifts his arm up, sharp dark nails spread as his palm opens. Xavier leans in a little until they find him, splaying over his side and cupping his slender waist. He joins the vampire in the bed, tugging their bodies close. And sunlight doesn’t peek through the curtains, so they can sleep for hours longer.

[nepofm]

SPOTTED   at   met   steps   wearing   last   season’s   jimmy   choos  ?   i’d   leave   the   steps   in   the   next   24   hours   before   nepoupdates   catches   them   !   if   it   were   me   ,   i’d   definitely   go   back   and  review   the   checklist   of   golden   rules.

bandit  suwan   apo  nattawin  

song  dabin  kim   taehyung

apo   nattawin.     he/him.     cis   man.      ›spotted   at   the   met   steps   ,   bandit   suwan   ,   most   likely   listening   to   sin   pijama   by   becky   g   with   their   airpods   pro   .   the   twenty   nine   gained   quite   a   reputation   ,   known   to   be   -flirtatious   yet   +loyal   to   anyone   who   knows   them   .   you'll   easily   spot   them   when   you   hear   about   denim   or   leather   jackets   ,   the   obnoxiously   loud   revving   of   his   kawasaki   ninja   and      white   dress   shirts   with   rolled   up   sleeves   ,   followed   by   gucci   flora   gorgeous   gardenia   .   latest   nepoupdates   article   talks   about   seeing   the   socialite   leaving   a   party   with   his   alleged   sugar   mommy   ,   but   i   guess   any   reputation   is   good   reputation   .   (   benji   ,   26   ,   she/her   ,   gmt+8   .    )

kim   taehyung.     he/him.     cis   man.      ›spotted   at   the   met   steps   ,   song   dabin   ,   most   likely   listening   to   give   me   your   forever by   zack   tabudlo   with   their   airpods   pro   .   the   twenty   eight   gained   quite   a   reputation   ,   known   to   be   -dismissive  yet   +generous   to   anyone   who   knows   them   .   you'll   easily   spot   them   when   you   hear   about   fresh   cut   flowers   ,   cream   and   beige   colour   tones   and   freshly   brewed   coffee   ,   followed   by   gucci’s   the   alchemist’s   garder:   the   last   day   of   summer   .   latest   nepoupdates   article   talks   about   the   heir’s   alleged   marriage   being   postponed   because   of   a   secret   lover   ,   but   i   guess   any   reputation   is   good   reputation   .   (   benji   ,   26   ,   she/her   ,   gmt+8   .    )

[pacifymebby]

If you could steal an item of clothing from each of the boys, what would it be?

Kay so...

I want everything from Sam's wardrobe bc he has my style down to a t. But

Green jumper, green joggies. I'm so obsessed haha

Any of this man's button ups/flannels especially the blue ones because blue is my colour and also oversized flannels fuck yes

This man's denim jacket, his band tees, any and all the jackets and jazzy coats he wears. I'd say his flat cap but that's his and only his.

Also this insane shirt

I have a thing for borrowing lads long sleeve tees and

I'd wear the shit out of all Benjis long sleeve garms

Also bob again because what a shirt man what a shirt.

Vans stripey jumpers, 😍😍

Drunk posting sorry this is incoherent bullshit

[loveoreospier]

My takeaways from the Love, Victor pilot

Dear Simon, screw you

Denim jacket parallels

Ms. Albright as vp!!!!!!!!

Felix is a solid funny best friend character

The fits were phenomenal

Salad boy :(

Ms. Albright telling Victor about Simon!!!!!!

Victor not hearing a word Felix says when watching Benji was relatable

I really hope Felix isn't homophobic :(

Victor embodying every gay kid and their fear in the locker room

How bad is Creekwood's basketball team that all you have to do to be on varsity is make a basket?

I related to being from the poor part of town and seeing it in how people dress and talk about money

I wanted to see Victor knock Andrew on his ass

:(((((( when the kids whistled because Benji helped him up

The Love, Simon writing voice-over parallel!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Sincerely, Victor"

"I'll see you at 7:45"

Simon saying Bram's name 🥰🥰🥰

"Love, Simon"

Many happy tears

[trentaafcsblog]

Benji dressing your baby girl as a mini him 🥰

He honestly treats her like a doll, changing her in and out of several outfits each day purely so he can take photos of the two of them matching, always insisting that at least one element of their outfit is the same, whether that’s a teeny tiny pair of Converse or a mini denim jacket, and god he’s so proud of himself when he sends the photos to you when you’re at work, captioning a picture of the two of them in matching leather jackets and sunglasses with ‘Bonnie and Clyde’ which makes you roll your eyes because this really isn’t what you agreed to when you decided to try for a baby, but at least they both look cute, even if it does mean you have to third wheel and you’re forced to wear ‘normal’ clothes so you don’t distract from their double act

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Hit ‘Em Up! (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Cowboy!Gojo Satoru x Cowboy!Geto Suguru x Black!Cowgirl!Reader (Slow Burn/Enemies to Lovers)

Synopsis: You get to meet Geto & Gojo the Gunslingers, the notorious outlaws that have every town and law enforcement in a twist, when your bum-ass BF offers you as payment to avoid going to prison. Little do they know that this is only a part of your plan to get what you desire. But when you realize that the infamous gun-slinging, smooth-talking cowboys could be everything you want and more when they offer you a deal to team up with them, will you successfully be able to go through with it? 

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINOS GTFO); poly!SatouSugu; Reader is Black & Fem; Mention of other JJK characters; Porn with Plot; Tragic Backstories; T/W for Childhood Trauma, Parental Death, Violence, Panic Attacks & Torture; Angst/Hurt/Comfort; Hand Kink; Masturbation; Voyeurism; Gay Sex; Polyamorous; Double Deepthroat; Mutual Oral; Fingering; CMNF; Spitroast; Riding; Unprotected PiV Sex; Creampies; Outside/Public Sex; Shotgunning; Multiple Positions; Spit Kink; Facials; MDom/fsub Undertones; Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer's Note: T/W for Childhood Trauma, Parental Death, Violence, Panic Attacks & Torture & Brief Mention of Sex Trafficking

Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen PT I & II. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-One. Twenty-Two. Twenty-Three. Epilogue. Soundtrack.

********

EIGHT: DAMAGED NONETHELESS.

“So you got a mom or dad?” Gojo asks, wearing Geto’s denim jacket as he slurps on your goodies. 

The question is so random and hard-hitting that it makes you pause from eating the bowl of soup inspired by your mother’s recipe and made with ingredients given to you by the townspeople of Bull’s Creek. 

After seeing Benji’s former bandits off to prison and receiving the thanks of the townspeople, including Miwa, Momo, Mechamaru, and Kuskabe (who does so with a nod your way), you and the gunslinging duo left Bull’s Creek and got on the road. It was only when the sun began to set and twilight sett in that you all decided to take a rest for the night. 

At that point, you had entered the mountains and found a tiny alcove near a cave and a brush of bushes and trees whose branches serve as hangers for your and Geto’s soiled clothes from the creek. Above the cave is a hot spring bubbling with hot water while down below the rocky mountainside, a field of wildflowers and fireflies float up to meet you, lighting up the darkness the further the sun sets.

“Why don’t we rest tonight?” Geto suggested. “This will be a decent place, I think.” 

“And there’s a hot spring just above us!” Gojo excitedly said. “Ah, I could use a hot bath.” His stomach rumbles, evidently so by the sound that escapes his stomach. “And somethin’ to eat,” he sheepishly chuckled. 

You had already begun to shed your bags after tying Reneigh up with the duo’s horses up at the hot spring, letting them chomp on the wildflowers that sprout there. “Well, we’ve got all these goodies the townsfolk gave us,” you said, digging into the sack of food.

In total, the townspeople gave you two sacks: one of food and the other of fresh clothes. Between the three of you, you divided the coin you received and kept them for yourselves. 

You looked inside the sack, pulling out each item: “Bowls, plates, bread, butter, rice, oooh, chicken broth!” Your excitement grew, happy to see such goodies.

Geto kneeled beside you, smiling fondly at the ripe tomato and the head of broccoli he found. “And all kinds of fruits n’ veggies,” he hummed, pleased with the turnout. “This will last us the whole trip if we ration well.” 

Your hand touched something soft and you pulled out a whole raw chicken. Holding it up to the duo, you gaped at it. “Uh…anybody know how to cut a whole chicken?” Two began to laugh, mostly at your hilarious reaction. “Why? You cookin’ it?” Gojo joked. 

You thought about tossing the chicken at him but decided not to. “Well, we’ve gotta eat and nothin’ beats chicken soup and wild rice.” Geto looked at you, shocked. “Oh…I was gonna cook for us.” But Gojo is pleasantly surprised, hands on his slim hips. “What a change of heart, little miss! Ya must like us now.” 

You glared at him as you began to set up the steel pot for cooking. “Don’t push ya luck, boy,” you snapped. “You two can set up camp while I cook.” You stood up and hurried up the slanted, smooth rock to the hot spring to wash your hands, mostly to get away from them. “Ah, so you tryna do the easy work!” Gojo called out to you, but you didn’t answer. 

Once you finished, you busied yourself building a small fire using some loose twigs, branches, and one of Gojo’s matches before preparing to cook. You roasted the chicken first which Geto kindly sliced the chicken up for you using one of your pocket knives. You had to turn the spit periodically on the fire while chopping vegetables (carrots, peas, broccoli, corn), so it was a lot of running back and forth. 

But you didn’t mind. You love cooking. Fixing something to eat is the one time you feel normal. It’s what makes you feel close to the people you left behind in your childhood, including your old self. 

Once the chicken is done roasting, its skin golden brown and juicy, you slice in into strips. You then fill the pot up with hot water from the spring, boil it, and fix the rice until its fluffy and white. Finally, you pour the chicken broth into the pot with the rice, sliced vegetables, and chicken, stirring it with a big wooden spoon you found in Geto’s bag. 

Speaking of Geto, he and Gojo set up camp during your cooking session. They set up sleeping bags, yours included, and place a blanket underneath to keep the dirt out of them. They set their boots, hats, and jackets aside, separated from your things. It seemed that they gave you your own spot, allowing you privacy and space. You appreciated that. 

Once the soup was finished, you announced that dinner was done and stood in front of the pot when they came running with their wooden bowls. “Hold up!” you exclaimed, putting out a hand to stop them. “Y’all wash y’all hands?”

The two looked at each other cluelessly which gave you you’re answer. “Hurry up before it gets cold,” you said and they went scurrying up the hill like rabid dogs, making you giggle to yourself. 

Minutes later, they returned and helped themselves to the meal. You sat down on a log with your own bowl, stretching your legs out. The duo sat on either side of you in a circle, passing a bottle of Jack between the three of you and ripping off pieces of bread to dip in your soup.

Gojo was sloppy, slurping greedily at his meal and making you wonder about some naughty shit. “Mmm, shit!” he moaned. “This is the best soup and rice I’ve ever had in my life!” 

In contrast to his partner, Geto was neat, taking his time eating his meal and (once again) making you mind wander. “I agree,” he sighed. “You’re quite the cook, little miss. Truly gifted.” Both compliments made your stomach flip. “Thank you,” you softly say, barely above a whisper as you took a sip of the Jack. It let a burn in your throat that you eased with the warm, hearty soup. 

Then came the burning question: “So you got a mom or dad?” 

You sit here now, the soup just at your mouth. Gojo looks at you expectantly, still slurping down his bowl. “Satoru,” Geto firmly says and shakes his head. Gojo raises an eyebrow, not understanding that this is a hot button topic. 

“No, it’s fine,” you protest. I suppose it’s only fair to tell you since y’all have told me so much about your lives.” You lower your spoon into your bowl, the fire crackling in front of you. “I have a mom and dad, yes, but adopted. I never knew my birth dad, but my birth mom always told me he was a rollin’ stone.” You chuckle to yourself. “Guess that meant he was a playboy.” 

You nod at the simmering pot on the ire. “This is my adopted mom’s recipe.” Geto smiles fondly, taking a swig of Jack. “Well, now I can see who you got such a gift from. Is she a cook?” 

You shake your head. “Not professionally, no. She’s a schoolteacher. My adopted dad is a farmer.” Gojo hums thoughtfully, chomping on some bread. “Where’s your birth mother now?” he curiously asks. “Still in your hometown?” 

You don’t think twice about it. You don’t even hesitate. “She was murdered,” you blurt. The silence that follows after this is deafening. The duo stare at you as if you just told them you’re pregnant. Placing the bowl aside, you tu​​rn to the crackling fire, not wanting to look at them and see their pity. 

“I was a little girl when a bunch of outlaws invaded my town,” you explain to the flames. “They ransacked every store, destroyed every home, and killed nearly every single person…including my mom.” You can feel yourself going back to that time, your mother’s terrified eyes behind your eyelids when you blink. A hot rush of tears begins to build.

Sensing your discomfort, Geto steps in. “You don’t have to go on,” he soothingly says. But you shake your head. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not!” you argue, forcing the tears away. “I need to tell you why I hate outlaws so much. I need to tell you why I am the way I am.” 

You turn back to them, staring them in the eye. “But y’all are sure you wanna hear this?” you wryly joke. “I have to warn y’all that it’s quite long and tragic.”

And the two stare you right back in the face. “I thought we already established that we’re ones for long and tragic backstories, darlin’,” Gojo replies. “Take your time.” 

Geto passes you the bottle of Jack and you take a much-needed swig. “I was nine years old when they came,” you begin and the memories come flooding back like a tidal wave. 

********

The summer you turned ten years old was supposed to be a joyous one. 

It was supposed to be a day where you and your mother spent the day in your hometown of Pinewood, known for its farms and heavy population of flowers.

Your mom would usually wake you up with pancakes covered in strawberries and whipped cream (your favorite), presents, and then take you into town to the bakery, the library, the movies, the fruit orchard to pick peaches and plums, or any other place a young girl like you would love to visit for her special day. 

But that was further from the case. It was only two weeks until you turned ten that your home was destroyed and burned to the ground. 

Pinewood was once a small but humble town of a couple hundred people. Everyone knew each other and there was community. Adults looked after neighbors’ children late at night and pies were brought over to welcome newcomers to the town. Farmers, teachers, landscapers, florists, bakers and cooks, etc…you would find them all here, building their lives and careers. 

The autumns were crisp and the summers were warm. This particular summer night you remember you were asleep in your bed, the sound of buzzing cicadas having hummed you to sleep earlier. Your bedroom, pink, cozy, and girly, was still except for you–the sleeping girl in her pony PJs. But late into the night, you awakened, feeling compelled by something to do so. 

You sat up in bed and looked out the window. Your backyard of honeysuckle and your mom’s prized vegetable garden looked back at you. The sweet summer breeze blew your curtains around like pink wisps. You don’t know why you woke up. You usually can sleep through a tornado. But this time, you couldn’t. 

Something felt…wrong. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it. And then you realized it: the cicadas had stopped singing.

A warm night that was usually filled with the buzzing song of the cicadas in the trees had ceased, leaving the night eerily quiet. Then, suddenly, your bedroom opened, and in rushed your mother. You were too deep in your sleep fog to see that she was frazzled and scared, still in her nightgown and slippers. 

“Mama?” you mumbled sleepily, rubbing at your eye. “What’s going on?”

She came over and ripped the covers off of you. “Baby, get up,” she hurriedly said, pulling you out of bed by your arm. “C’mon, get your slippers on and follow me.” 

You stared at her, confused and still sleepy. “But, Mama–” 

“Stop it, Y/N!” she yelled. You are startled, confused, and afraid. Your mother had never yelled at you like this before. And then you saw her eyes: wild and scared like a cornered animal. It scared you.

“We need to go now,” she firmly said. “Now get on your slippers and let’s go.” This time, you didn’t argue or protest. You slipped on your slippers and took your mom’s hand. 

She squeezed it as she led you out of your bedroom and down the hallway, walking past the bathroom, kitchen, dining area, and laundry room. Your home was a ranch, so it was only one floor with the bedrooms located at the back. Your mom guided to the front door, but looked back at you beore she opened the door. “Follow me,” she instructed. “Don’t let go of my hand, understood?” She didn’t wait for you to answer. 

After unlocking the door, she yanked the door open. You still wish she hadn’t. Your town, once blossoming with businesses, cozy homes, and life was now burning.

Flames that exploded from buildings licked the night sky.

Crops were on fire.

Guns exploded in your eardrums that sounded like firecrackers.

People and animals alike ran for cover and safety.

People in black clothing and bandanas covering their mouths ran after them, hooting and hollering. Some of these intruders also ran in on horses, rifles and pistols drawn. 

You didn’t see any bodies, thank God, but it didn’t matter. The trauma was already set in your body from that very moment you and your mother stood outside of your home in the chaos. 

“Mama, what’s happening?!” you yelled, pulling on her hand. 

She then began to run with you, hurrying down the road. “I don’t know, baby,” she answered, “but we’ll be okay! Just don’t let go of me.” You didn’t, but someone did it for you. As you were running with your mom, you unfortunately didn’t get that far away from your house when you suddenly felt two arms snatch you away. 

You screamed, wriggling around in the stranger’s arms. Your mother looked back and rushed to help you, but she too was grabbed by another stranger in black and tossed to the ground.

“Mommy!” you squealed. You tried to struggle out of the arms binding you, but your mom’s assaulter took out a long-barreled pistol and pointed it at your mother’s temple. “Shut up, you little brat,” he snarled. “Keep that mouth shut or your ma gets it.” 

You immediately went quiet and the bandit behind you cackled. Despite his own bandana covering his mouth, you could smell the booze on his breath. You looked down at his hands around you. One of them had a rose tattoo on his knuckles. 

The bandit nodded at your ranch. “Nice house ya got here, bitch,” he chuckled. “Even nicer land. I bet ya got some pretty pennies for a pad like this, eh?” He crouched down beside your mother. She lied in the dirt on her side, her clothes ruined and her knee scraped by her fall. 

“No,” she whimpered. “My people are humblefolk. We don’t have much money and neither do I, especially with a child.” 

The bandit took a handful of her coiled hair in his fist, yanking her up. “So you callin’ me a liar?” he snarled. “I don’t like bitches who talk back, y’know.” He cocked his gun at her, but your mother was afraid like you were watching.

“I don’t have what y’all are lookin’ for!” she snapped. “Please just let us go!” 

The bandit tossed her down and shared a look with his partner. “If you don’t give us money then you’ll have to give us somethin’ else,” he growled at your mother. “How much you think her kid will cost, man?”

The bandit hugged you to him, making a show of caressing your face. “Mmm…'bout a couple hundred at least.” 

You shook in terror. What did they mean? Were they going to take you away from your mother? She seemed to know what they meant though and looked like she wanted to murder both bandits. “You wouldn’t do that,” she hissed. “You know damn well that the law is already out for y’all for this, so you’d only be sinkin’ your ship farther if you do anything to my daughter.” 

The bandit pressed the bun to her temple, laughing. “You think we give a fuck about the law, bitch?” he cackled, tossing his head back. “The law won’t ever find us and half of them are pussies anyway. The bossman is like the Boogeyman to them.” Your mother’s expression softened and she suddenly looked hopeless. That scared you even more. 

The bandit smirked and pressed the gun to her chin. “Now what should we do about that mouth of yours?” he whispered.

His partner chuckled suggestively. “I’ve got a few ideas,” he sniggered.

Despite the gun in her face, your mother turned her head to you, her eyes glassy but filled with acceptance. “Y/N, my little flower,” she tearfully said. “I love you.” 

Before you could even blink, she bit down on the bandit’s hand hard. Hard enough to draw blood. The bandit screamed as he pulled his hand away now coated in deep, bloody teethmark. 

“Oh, you bitch,” he spat. “Now you’ve pushed your luck.” He took her by her hair again and threw her down onto her stomach execution style. 

“Mama, no!” you wailed, reaching for her. She looked up at you, eyes wild and dirt caked to her face. “Run, Y/N!” she screamed. “Run until you reach the fields!” 

As your fight or flight kicked in, you elbowed the bandit behind you in the stomach, loosening his grip. Just as you turned to run, two shots ran out behind you. You never turned around to see if it was your mother. You just knew it was.

So you ran as you cried, your eyes blurred with salty tears and fear pumping in your blood. “Get that little bitch!” the bandit yelled, pointing at you. 

Hooves began to thud against the ground behind you, but you didn’t turn. You didn’t stop. You just ran, something pulling you along despite your fatigue. You still don’t know if it was God, your mother’s spirit, or just your will to live. Either way, it got you all the way down to the cornfields three minutes outside of your town. 

At this point, the sound of the bandits behind you faded, but you knew they would eventually gang up on you. Wheeled wooden carts sat beside the fields that usually were used to deliver food, flowers, and other deliveries into other towns. You chose quick and jumped into the back of one cart of flowers. You hid deep beneath the many plants, petals, and bulbs, keeping quiet. 

Even as you heard the horses and saw torches flash beneath the flowers, you held your breath and imagined yourself as but a rock. A head of corn. A flower like the ones surrounding you. 

“Where’d she go?” he gruffly asked. A light flashed in your face and you coveved your mouth. 

“I think I saw her go in here,” his partner said before they walked into the cornfields together. You didn’t move even as the light vanished.

Even as the rustling of the corn stalks got further away. Even when all you heard were the bandits’ horses chuffing to one another. You don’t know how long you had been there–minutes? Hours?–, but suddenly, you heard footsteps and hooves beside you and then the cart moved slightly as someone got in the front to drive off. And then the cart began to move, taking you away and into the unknown. 

‘The unknown’ turned out to be Elden Valley, a small town a two-day travel away from Pinewood. It is home to humble, quiet folk. Humble, quiet folk like Eren Tokiyami, an older farmer with salt-and-pepper hair and calloused hands, and his wife Yuri, a longtime baker.

Eren and Yuri ordered flowers and seeds specifically from your town’s florist to plant and decorate the outside of Yuri’s bakery with. Imagine their surprise to find a scared, dirty, and traumatized little girl lying beneath the bed of tulips and petunias. 

You found yourself in a barn smelling of manure and animals. Yuri covered her mouth while Eren stared down at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. “My God,” he gasped. “Where’d you come from, little one?”

You could barely speak. You hadn’t had water or food in two days. “P-Pinewood,” you whispered, and then everything went black when you passed out in Eren’s arms. 

After taking you to the town’s doctor and nursing you back to help, the couple adopted you as their own. The town of Elden Valley and all others in the county heard of the massacre of Pinewood. Dozens of people died, including your mother, but you didn’t any any detectives or coroners telling you that. 

For nine years, Eren and Yuri fed you, dressed you, and cared for you. But it wasn’t enough to thaw you. It wasn’t enough to melt the ice that had formed and hardened around your heart and soul. You had grown tough, taking your anger out on kids at school and constantly skipping to ride horses. It was when you turned sixteen that you met reneigh for the first time who was no more than a stubborn, violent horse that Eren recently saved from an abusive owner. 

You felt like she was just like you and maybe she did too, so she was always calm in your presence and became yours. Eren and Yuri thought that reneigh, along with some guidance and love, that you would be able to get back on track. You did for a little while. You baked pies with Yuri, planted crops with Eren, studied, and graduated school. 

Then, one day, you just left. It was a month after you graduated at age eighteen. You knew you couldn’t spend your life in Elden Valley, pretending that vengeance and bloodlust weren’t inside of you.

To do something constructive with that anger, you took one of Eren’s many guns that he taught you how to use and went out to the woods beyond his and Yuri’s house. In the blue of dawn, you set up an old glass bottle there and stood yards away from it. 

As Eren taught you, you kept still and calm, aimed, and shot. You missed. So you tried again. And again. And again. Every morning before your parents awakened, you went out to practice in secret. And every time you drew that gun and shot, you were better. Quicker. Sharper.

Then, one day, you finally it: you aimed and the bottle broke. You knew what you had to do from that very moment. 

So after a night of dinner with your parents and telling them how much you loved them, you waited until they went to sleep to pack, tossing everything you could into a bag. Including two of Eren’s pistols. You hid your identity behind a cowgirl hat and bandana, forever your disguise. 

Before you left, you wrote a letter to your parents, not wanting to leave them without any last words: 

Dear, Mama & Papa, 

I’m sorry for all of the trouble I’ve caused you over the last nine years. I thank you both from the bottom of my heart for taking me in as your own. I’ll never forget your kindness. It is what is needed in such a cruel world.

Please don’t come looking for me and don’t worry about me. Just know that I’m fine. If I never see you again, I love you both endlessly. Thank you for giving me back my innocence.

Love, Y/N.

And like a thief in the night, you hopped on Reneigh and you were gone. And so the Fatale Femme was born.

You didn’t feel anything when you caught your first outlaw body…only more vengeance. It got stronger the more you killed. The more you fled. The more you pulled that trigger. You have been doing this for so long that you believed that this coldhearted tyrant is you now. For so long you thought you had lost yourself and only the Fatale Femme remained. 

But now, sitting here among two outlaws, feared and loved by many, you feel as if you’re finally getting yourself back. Geto and Gojo stare at you in the firelight, sadness in their eyes. You sit there, ravaged by your past and trembling.

“I never thanked y’all for savin’ my life today,” you say. “I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry I didn’t see that y’all are different from the others. I’m sorry that I didn’t want to acknowledge it.” 

Tears begin to slip down your cheeks, too hot and too quick to stop. The real you, outside of the bandana, the guns, and the cool exterior, has been released. “That’s why I do what I do,” you tearfully explain. “That’s why I am what I am. That’s why I need to find Benji.” 

Geto puts his gloved hand in yours, warm and comforting. “And we’ll help you,” he softly promises. “We had a deal, remember? We’re a team now, so do you ever go thinkin’ you’re alone in this.”

His brown eyes are firm but gentle, reminding you so much of Eren’s. “Thank you for sharin’ with us and I know you won’t believe me, but I know your parents are proud of you, includin’ your birth mother.” 

He offers a smile that seems to melt you. When Gojo gets up to move next to you, squeezing you between them, you feel like you’re about to turn into a puddle. You feel nothing but warmth that overwhelms you in the best possible way. It is foreign and weird, but good. Real good. 

Gojo’s blue eyes sparkle at you, as beautiful and as alluring as the fireflies that float amongst you. “Did I ever tell ya about the time I got my ass stuck on a bear trap?” he randomly asks. “Oh, or that one time Sugu got eaten up by leeches?”

Geto rolls his eyes as he puts his hair back into a long ponytail. “Damn, you tellin’ her that one?” he sighs. 

And that’s when you realize that the strange warmth you’re feeling is gratitude. You smile at Gojo and wipe your tears, knowing he would ask you to. “N-No,” you giggle through a sniffle. “I don’t believe you have.” 

For the rest of the night, you laugh, dance, and sing with the Gunslingers, letting go of your past and your trauma...at least for one night.

You swig whiskey and sing along with Geto's silky, velvety voice while Gojo claps the beat to songs.

You twirl in front of the fire with Gojo, laughing when he trips and nearly busts his ass.

You lay under the stars with them, pretending to fly away into the inky canvas of glittering lights with them.

But when sleep and alcohol finally catch up with you, you pass out on the ground, slipping into a warm, comfortable sleep. You don't even feel Geto and Gojo cover you with a blanket to help you be more comfortable. You don't feel either one of them gently kiss your forehead either, leaving shadows of warm goodnight kisses on your skin.

“The sweetest dreams, Y/N,” Geto coos. “We’ll try to have the same.” He stares down at you, liking how peaceful and serene you seem in your slumber.

When he looks up, Gojo is staring at him with those blue eyes that seem to see all. “You feel it too,” he says. He doesn't need to elaborate. Geto nods once. “Yeah,” he replies. 

Gojo sighs, sitting back on his haunches. “So we’re fucked.” 

Once again, Geto nods. “Yeah.”

And that's the end of the conversation...for now, at least.

[xbellaxcarolinax]

Heartbreaker

Pairing: Modern Ivar x Female character/ reader (She)

Word Count: 3057

Warnings: Language mostly, implied sexual relations and angst.

Beautiful moodboard made by the amazing @peterquillzsblog Thank you again 💙

This was written for the lovely @youbloodymadgenius 400 Followers Writing Challenge. I'm super late, but thank you so much for letting me participate 💙 I had fun writing this and I hope you like it.

I used prompts #12 and #28. They are highlighted in bold.

I tagged those who might be interested.

...

“I told you not to fall in love with me.”

The words hit her like a fucking truck. They tumbled so easily from his lips with that dreaded nonchalant tone she'd only ever heard him use on others whenever he spoke over the phone. It was never aimed at her.

He had his arms crossed over his naked chest with brows raised, sitting comfortably up against the large fancy black headboard of his equally large and fancy bed, the very bed he had her in only nights before. His long hair was messy, shooting out in all directions from being tugged at mercilessly. A pretty blonde had snaked her way from under his black satin sheets, her naked body in full view. She makes a show for him, pulling her denim jeans over her sad excuse of a behind slowly, obviously interested in hearing the rest of their exchange.

Ivar licks his lips, his blue eyes following the soft lines of that broads basic body before shifting them back to her. “You’d only get hurt in the end.” He finally says.

What a low blow.

She swallows the lump forming in her throat, knowing the tears would be forcing their way out of her glossy eyes soon. How fucking stupid was she? She stood there, hands balled into fists as her eyes flipped between him and the smirking blonde. Her lower lip trembled like a goddamn child, standing awkwardly in front of the pair. From the looks of it, this dalliance with the blonde had been going on for a while. The girl seemed far too comfortable.

Ivar was right. He did warn her not to fall in love with him. It was just supposed to be a fling, nothing more. They had met at a mutuals party, Ubbe’s friends cousin or some shit. They couldn’t remember the details now if you asked them, but they both knew the guy, and when they met, it was instant physical attraction. And that was when their “friends with benefits” relationship began. She had been a phenomenal plaything for him, and she seemed to know exactly what Ivar needed. She was pretty, had an amazing body, shiny hair, long fluttering lashes. She looked perfect on his arm and he liked her enough to keep her around, but he didn’t love her. How could he? He wasn’t meant for that shit. He was Ivar the heartbreaker, a hot young bachelor born into the old money of the Ragnarsson family. He could have any woman he wanted. And he did.

She was so fucking stupid, but Ivar was fucking stupid too. He’d given her a key to his flat, allowing her freedom to come and go as she pleased as if they were a fucking couple. And she was stupid enough to believe that was the relationship they were forming, that somehow they had silently crossed this bridge of uncertainty that went from nothing to something. They had been “together” for months, almost an entire year. Ivar wasn’t a bad person, he was just bad at relationships. He couldn’t settle with one girl, so he played with many. She wondered how many others he played with when she wasn’t around.

Not much regret could be detected in his eyes, his blue orbs shimmering with the words she could read so clearly: Get out. So that's exactly what she did. Turning swiftly on her booted heels, she walks back into his fancy kitchen, slamming his key with this cute pastel blue pom pom keychain she bought onto the marble island counter. Digging into one of the totes full of groceries that she intended to use to cook the fucker dinner, she pulls out a small tub of Häagen-Daz strawberry ice cream, shoving it in her bag. She'd need it later. With a shaky breath she looks around the modern sleek flat one last time before slamming the door behind her.

She could hear that bitch giggling as she left.

…

“Did you see the look on her face?” Freydis giggles, slipping on her low cut cropped top before pouncing onto the bed beside Ivar, “Poor thing. You really had her hung up.” Ivar did see the look on her face, and although he’d seen it many times before on countless other women, it hit him a little differently this time. Dammit.

She looked heartbroken, eyes wet like that day her cat had gotten sick and she begged Ivar to rush them over to the vet that was an hour away. He didn’t really care much for the cat, it had sharp claws and was always hissing at him, but he did it for her. Her cat was saved from whatever the fuck was wrong with him, and she was happy. She’d given him the sweetest smile he’d ever seen.

That night had been a great fuck.

Ivar releases a breath from his nostrils, ignoring Freydis babbling on and on about god knows what. The blonde was a fool if she thought she would be next to take her place. Fucking bimbo. Was only good for a measly fuck. And she was terrible at it. He pushes away the satin sheets, completely nude, before turning to peer at her from over his sculpted shoulder with a look of indifference.

“Get out.”

“Ivar?” She looks up at him through her lashes, her lips forming into a frown at his sudden disdain.

“I didn’t stutter,” He states calmly, but a stern tone laced his words that had her sitting up at attention,” I said get the fuck out.” Freydis rolls her eyes, pushing herself off the bed and grabbing her purse she meticulously hung in his closet.

“Douchebag,” She mutters, but she offers him a sickly sweet smile, pushing a lock of her blonde hair behind her ear, “You know I’m always available. I’ll be waiting for your call.” She winks at him, blowing him a kiss before slinking out of his room. Once Ivar heard his front door slam close he sighs, shuffling over to his bathroom for a much needed bath.

For some reason, he felt dirty.

…

It had started raining as soon as she left Ivar’s flat. She had forgotten her umbrella at home and she was soaked to the bone from the heavy droplets by the time she stepped foot into her own flat.

It was cute and cozy, with fairy lights and tapestries that were the complete opposite of Ivar’s stupid modern sleek bachelor pad. Ivar preferred simplistic Scandinavian living, while she gravitated towards that boho atmospheric vibe with scented candles that she had in practically every room. He joked about it whenever he slept over, which wasn’t very often. It looked childish to him. The scented candles made him sneeze and the cat was a bitch, but he’d settle under her warm quilted covers just fine, gazing up at her ceiling that reflected a projection of a star lit sky. That was actually kinda cute. She was always a romantic, but that was the problem.

She kicks off her tall boots, tossing her keys atop the little ceramic dish by the door. Moving over to her tiny kitchen, she puts away the ice cream in the freezer and makes a b-line towards her bedroom. She hangs up her bag on the very corner of the door to her closet, shedding her jacket and the rest of her clothes on the floor without a care before heading to her bathroom. She immediately lights all her candles, setting up a relaxing bubble bath with a lavender scented bath bomb. Lastly, she grabs her phone, searching for the right playlist before sinking into the warmth of the bubbly water.

As soon as her eyes fall shut, her mind goes back to Ivar.

Fuck him. And the blonde.

She didn’t want to berate herself anymore than she already did while taking that miserable walk home, but she couldn’t help feel like her heart was burning a hole right through her chest. It beat faster the more she thought of him, and her eyes pricked with the sensation of tears, until finally, she let them fall. The fat drops roll down her cheeks as she cries into her hands to muffle her sobbing.

This would be the only night she’d shed tears for him, she promised herself. Tomorrow was a new day.

Benji, her fat calico cat, slinks his way into the bathroom, curling up in a corner to enjoy the warmth of the bath for himself. She brings her teary eyes to him, the calm state of the feline having her wish she could feel such peace. Sometimes she wished she were a cat herself, only having to worry about sleeping, eating, shitting, and doing it all over again day after day.

Sinking deeper into the water she forces herself to relax, listening to the soothing sounds of Moonlight Sonata, a dreary tune for a dreary day off. When her eyes fluttered with sleep, the classical playlist was interrupted by the obnoxious sound of her phone's vibration over the plastic toilet seat. With a scowl she reaches over to snatch her phone, biting her lip as Ivar’s name flashed on the bright screen. Without hesitation, she taps her finger to end the call, sending him straight to voicemail. She had nothing to say to him.

Fuck him.

After 30 seconds, her phone vibrated again. Ivar was fucking persistent.

Again, she ignored the call, and after the 4th call, she angrily slams her finger on the green button, bringing the phone to her ear.

“What do you want?” She spits, shivering now that the water had significantly dropped in temperature. She runs a hand down her gooseflesh covered leg as she awaits his answer, but so far he was silent, only a frustrated breath could be heard on his end, “I detect guilt.” Her words were dripping in pure venom, something he honestly found rather attractive. But now was not the time for that.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly, so unlike him, and somehow, so fucking irritating.

“Peachy,” She replies sarcastically, sinking into the water once again. The bubbles had long disappeared and she was getting cold, “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” Was the weak scoff. There was an awkward silence after that, which was strange considering she felt she could talk to Ivar endlessly about anything really. That’s the sort of pair they were, or maybe it was her doing all the talking and soul baring while Ivar patiently listened and...kept his own secrets. She sighs, just about ready to hang up until she hears him mutter something.

“I can’t hear you.” She counters, annoyed.

“I didn’t want you to see this,” He clears his throat, “I didn’t want you to see us. Me and Freydis.”

“You did a great fucking job hiding it.”

“Is this really a good time for your sarcasm?”

“Fuck you, Ivar.”

“I’m being serious,” He hisses in frustration, “That was nothing for you to see. I had no idea you were off today.” He sounded irritated, as if it were somehow her fault he got caught. It shouldn’t have mattered if they weren’t anything to begin with. “I don’t even know why I’m explaining myself to you!” He ended his little childish rant with a sigh, the kind of sigh where he needed to run a hand down his face to keep his shit together.

“So then why the fuck did you call me?” She hissed back, and in her annoyance she splashed water from out the tub, the cold droplets sprinkling over Benji. It had the cat screeching for his life before running out of there.

“I don’t even fucking know myself.” She hears him take in another frustrated breath, grumbling something about the complications of women. Asshole. He was the complicated one.

The splashing of water was heard on his end. He must have been having a bath of his own. That was their thing, after a particularly rough day at work, or whenever the actions of their lovemaking called for a bath, they didn’t hesitate to slip in together and enjoy each other again. It was clear she valued those moments more than he did. It all meant nothing to him.

Her traitorous mind conjured up images of how his body must have looked, water droplets running down his glistening chest and chestnut colored hair plastered on his face. Fuck.

“I’m fucking stupid.” She groans, already feeling another wave of tears surging through her. She sniffles, bringing her knees to her naked chest as she stares at the flickering candles surrounding the tub.

“You’re crying,” Ivar says stupidly, his tone unreadable, “Please, don’t cry. I hate it when you cry,” He was speaking gently, as if that would be enough to soothe her, “I told you not to fall in love with me.” He repeats the phrase softly, almost sadly, like the corny lead of some fucking corny romantic comedy that did trash in the cinema.

“Yeah…” She says, fighting to hold back the sob she wanted so badly to release, “Yeah, I know.” And with that, she hung up, tossing her phone aside and sinking deeper into the now freezing water.

Maybe if she stayed in there long enough she’d feel numb.

…

She had stared at her ceiling, the star lit sky projection twinkling down at her, much like they always did when she was a little girl back in her hometown. They always did serve to calm her, making her feel safe and helped her sleep a lot better. They didn't help much this time around.

She stared all night, even after the stars disappeared with the sunrise, thinking about him. She was getting too old for this, crying like a fucking teenage girl.

She barely slept and was desperate for a cup of coffee the moment she rolled out of her cocoon-like bed. Dragging her feet over to the kitchen, she brews a pot of the caffeinated liquid before preparing Benji’s breakfast. The cat slithered between her legs, meowing uncontrollably as he awaited his food.

“Shut up, Benji.” She mutters to him tiredly, placing down his food bowl and giving him a quick pat. She leans against the counter, her eyes following the slow drip of the coffee into the glass pot, wondering how the fuck she’d gotten to this point. Her eyes hurt, swollen from all the crying she did last night, and everything felt hazy and slow.

After last night’s conversation with Ivar, she decided to block him, erasing whatever memories she had of him. Ivar was always a generous man with her, sometimes buying her little things that caught her eye, probably just things to appease her with she realized. She gathered all the items up in a cardboard box she had laying around, leaving it by the door to throw away once she left for work.

Finally, the coffee was done. She poured herself a much needed cup, adding a few drops of her favorite vanilla creamer. Taking a small sip of the hot beverage, she groans in delight as it coats her taste buds, ignoring the burning caused by her impatience.The fusion of bitter and sweet was helping her recharge for the day. She’d need at least 2 more cups if she was going to do these guided tours at the museum today.

There was a knock on her door as soon as she moved to get ready. In her confusion she pauses her morning playlist, turning to look toward her door as if something were about to burst through and devour her whole. It was 7:30 in the morning, an unusual hour to knock on anyone’s door. Her first thought was Ivar, but why would he even bother showing up to her door? He was never awake this early as he got to show up to his office whenever he wanted. Ruling him out, she finally makes her way to the door, peeking through the peephole. No one was there.

She unlocks the door, turning to look towards the left and right of the hall before looking down. She blinks, stunned.

Flowers. A huge bouquet of flowers. Her favorites actually, Gerbera Daisies, all in a soft powdery pink color with bright yellow centers. They were placed in a monstrosity of a vase of white porcelain, painted with stunning blue designs like fine china. Beside it was a small bag with a generic looking orange tabby cat on the front with its paw up. Those were Benji’s favorite treats.

Taking one last look around the hallway she bends down, carefully picking up the vase of flowers and the cat treats, all while pushing Benji back in before he tried to make a run for it. She tosses the treats aside, staring long and hard at the pretty flowers with a scowl. There was a white card clipped within the stems, wet from the vase water. Snatching it, she runs her finger over the parchment-like surface before opening it to see a familiar scrawl in the blackest ink. The water spreads the ink, staining the white card in black streaks like tears. She read the simple message:

I know these are your favorites. You deserve pretty flowers. I’m sorry you felt the need to fall in love.

-Ivar.

Her brows arch and a frown tugs at her lips. She felt her heart drop instantly as her brain finally processed the simple words he’d written. Reading it was enough for her to sense the emptiness of the message. She knew him well enough to know he slept just fine last night. Probably next to that other chick. How could he possibly think that flowers would make it all better?

She quickly rips the card into little pieces, tossing them into her trash can. She lifts the bouquet of daisies from their stems, removing them from the vase and throwing them harshly into the trash with a snarl. She squeezes her eyes shut, the tears already coating her lashes, rolling down her cheeks and onto those stupid flowers. She already broke her promise of no more tears and it wasn’t even 8 am. She bites her lips, glaring down at the daisies as if they were the root of the problem.

“Fuck you, Ivar.”

...

Part 2

...

@heavenly1927​ @didiintheblog​ @leilabeaux​ @inforapound​ @a-mess-of-fandoms​ @shannygoatgruff​ @syrenak

[hauntedjpegcollection]

elbows off

wc: 2741 au: exorcist au ch: lark, xavier, benji, tino

Gravel crunches underneath the car tires as it pulls into the rest stop diner parking lot—Xavier can tell just from a glance it’s the shitty kind. Sticky floors, tired waitress that refills acid black coffee without needing to be asked, a radio that weakly plays all the country hits and Christian rock exclusives. Back drop for a crime thriller, as abandoned as the surrounding area is. There’s trees on all sides, one road that just keeps going and going and going into a darkness that feels opaque and physical. A solitary flood light winks in the night, more illuminated than the hidden moon behind fat, gray clouds.

“Wicked fuckin’ place,” Xavier whispers, leaning forward with his hands spread over the dashboard. The inside reminds him of a lonesome painting, yellow washed with a faint blinking neon pink sign above it. There is only one other car in the lot and there is only one person inside as well.

“I love that about you,” Lark replies in a quiet voice. He cuts the engine, pockets the keys.

“Boston accent?”

“You appreciate everything like it’s something special.”

There is a pause not altogether awkward, but not nearly as comfortable as silences had once been between the two men. Xavier’s hands slowly slide away from the dashboard and land on his thighs. He’s in denim and a plaid button up that has holes at the elbows. It’s cold outside, but he doesn’t have a jacket yet. He’s tired from the drive even though he’d just been a passenger the entire time. He’s tired from the crying that came before the drive and the phone call to his parents that had made the crying happen in the first place—and he’s tired mostly because he’s not sure he’s doing the right thing anymore.

Or what the right thing even is.

But Lark leans over and slings an arm around his shoulder. His tattooed hand fists into rust colored hair and shakes. The wobbling of Xavier’s head blooms dizziness that makes the world feel momentarily surreal. They’re both smiling then, the only light source the flickering flood light and diner in front of them. The dark pools of Lark’s eyes are so familiar even though they have been absent from Xavier’s life for so long.

He leans across the center console and yanks them closer into a hug.

Then Xavier’s stomach growls loudly and Lark’s laugh is so loud in his ear, it almost hurts. But they don’t stop hugging, even as the laughter turns nearly to crying.

—

A little bell tolls above his head when Xavier walks through the doors. The plastic edges create a popping suction and then scrape across the tiled floor as the glass doors slowly close behind him. The smell of greasy food and coffee is so potent that his nose wrinkles automatically—he suppresses a sneeze, but just barely. The lone waitress behind the counter glances up. Xavier raises a hand and then points to a figure all the way in the corner. He’s used to the good hospitality of New England, meaning Xavier figures she’ll leave him alone.

Instead, she comes out from behind the counter with a laminated menu. Her smile is tired, but welcoming. She has pretty wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and startling white teeth. The beaten up, aged name tag pinned to her chest says DARLA. Xavier asks for a soda, and doesn’t even need the menu for his food order.

“Well, I like a man that knows what he wants right away,” Darla coos, swatting his shoulder with the menu she takes back from him. “Go on, sweetie, I’ll bring it out in a minute.”

Maybe its the friendliness that puts him on edge as he walks down the lonely, empty diner. He isn’t used to friendliness, is he? Xavier’s shoulders curl upward, as if remembering the harsh hand that fed him prior to—well. Prior to Lark coming and saving him, bleached blond white knight with lock picks. Maybe it’s the waitress. Maybe it’s easy to blame her (and it’s certainly easier on his traumatized mind, that doesn’t want to think about the other things easier to blame), but it’s also Benji.

Xavier stands a few feet away, staring at the dark silhouette in the corner booth. Nervousness rises in him; he imagines himself a glass half full. One part all the mixing’s of Xavier Wolffe and the other part this intense, storm like anxiety that mixes poorly. Mint’s in a coke bottle sort of situation. Benji’s back is to him, which might be a blessing. But it also lets Xavier stand there and linger.

His black curly hair looks windswept, as if the short walk from the van to the diner had been a perilous journey. It’s messy in a tousled way that looks undeniably pretty. Strands stick up here and there, like little snakes trying to escape. Benji’s shoulders curve, almost protectively inward as he sits there, staring down at his phone. Xavier unconsciously swipes a paw through his own hair, worried about how he looks. His tongue feels slightly numb.

“Behind you, sweetie.” Darla’s hand touches his lower back, making him launch into the air with a high pitched sound. She pays that no attention as she flutters by and sets a glass wet with condensation down onto the diner table. Xavier tries to get his heart to work properly with a fist rubbing furiously on his sternum, but then Benji glances back over his shoulder. He must have been expecting Lark, because his dark eyes start somewhere in the middle of Xavier’s chest.

Then they slowly, very slowly rise.

 An electric jolt pins him there as Darla scoots around him, once more touching his side and making Xavier feel a sickly, unwanted peal of nerves. His teeth stay glued together so he doesn’t snap like some fucking injured street dog, but he isn’t sure he can handle that once more, so instead he quickly goes for the opposite side of the table. Xavier slides in, knees knocking and nearly sending his drink and Benji’s off.

He looks up to find Benji’s hand steadying both of them. The sleeves of his jacket have pushed up slightly, almost to forearm and Xavier can see little patchwork tattoos here and there. His mouth returns to feeling dry and numb, but he isn’t sure why. Benji retreats just as slowly as his gaze had taken Xavier in, until he’s slouched back in the seat, one hand still cupped around a mug of smoky smelling coffee.

“Lark is outside,” Xavier explains.

“Didn’t ask,” Benji replies, with a bit of a curl to his lip. He looks tired, or maybe that’s just the weighted effort of scowling all the time. Benji has never smiled at Xavier, not a real one anyway (and nothing like that wide open smile he gives Lark sometimes when they think it’s just the two of them, when Xavier is on the outskirts, looking in). There is always a mean sort of glint to him in every interaction—not that they’ve had many. When Lark had shown up, tall red headed stray behind him, Benji had—better not to linger on what Xavier had caught Benji saying to The Priest. It only gave value to Xavier’s own doubts. His fears that Lark was making the wrong choice, that he was making the wrong choice, that something was wrong about all this.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Xavier mutters under his breath, reaching for his drink. The cool glass feels slimy to the touch. They’d had snacks on the drive. It had felt like a real road trip, with a good mixture of both music they enjoyed, chips and candies. Xavier’s stomach feels unsettled. He isn’t even sure who is paying for their meal here, so he feels even more nervous about the burger he’d ordered. Maybe he shouldn’t have.

“Thrilled, really, mate. Bells and whistles. Cheers.” He leans forward to clink his mug harshly against Xavier’s soda and then drains the rest of the coffee.

“You ever not acting like a stuck up asshole?” Xavier hisses, arms crossing over the table. He immediately takes up too much room and he notices—he can’t not notice—the subtle shift in Benji’s body language. The way he just barely leans back, retracts his arms just slightly. The small attempt to put even more space between them. Xavier’s heart sinks low into his stomach, where it burns the worst.

How much Benji must dislike him, to want even a centimeter extra of space.

“Maybe when you stop lookin’ like a sad abandoned puppy.” Benji’s voice is equally as acidic, but it’s cold toned. Even. Xavier’s lips curl back from his teeth, his eyes narrowed to slits.

“Enunciate,” Xavier draws the word out, making his hand a puppet to speak alongside. “If I have to be around you, talk without marbles so I can understand you.” Benji’s laugh is a surprised, harsh bark.

“’Ave you heard yourself, mate?”

“You—”

“Here we go, boys.”

Darla’s sudden appearance pops the unbelievably hot tension broiling between the two. Xavier practically flings himself backward to give the waitress space to put down the plated food. His heart goes off rhythm in his chest again, battering ram against all of his ribs. He didn’t even notice how sweaty his hands were until he’s rubbing them self consciously across denim clad thighs. The burger looks undeniably good, the kind of food you find at a hidden gem sort of spot.

A plate of fries gets put in front of Benji. He gives Darla a quick mumbled ‘thank you’. Manners, at least for a stranger.

“Y’all let me know if you need anything.” She gives them both a secretive smile and Xavier’s cheeks prickle with heat at the realization that she could probably hear them arguing. Benji seems equally as sour about it, chin tilted down to stare at crispy looking fries. He has dark, heavy brows that pull together the moodiness of his expression and features. His cheekbones are tinted darker with blush, eyes sleepy and annoyed. He is handsome, admittedly. Benji has a defined nose that makes him unique—soft looking facial hair that Xavier imagines would feel nice on the back of his knuckles.

He’s quick about picking up the burger and biting into it. His cheeks continue to burn.

Lark had abandoned him, just like Benji had said. Like a puppy, tossed into this diner with someone who is mostly a stranger. A hostile one, no less. Whatever long conversation he has with the priest outside, in the parking lot, was it worth this amount of awkward tension? Was Xavier being unfair? He bites into the burger with more viciousness and watches Benji’s face turn slowly in further annoyance.

“Don’t you have a coat?”

“What?” Xavier is shocked by the question, mouth half full of burger.

“Whatever,” Benji snaps. He still hasn’t eaten any of his fries. So Xavier leans over, slowly, deliberately. He picks one up and then tosses it into his mouth. He smiles as he does, to further watch Benji’s expression turn. His brows furrow harder, create lines between them. His nose scrunches, his mouth sets in a furious line. Xavier chews harder, feeling strangely victorious in that moment.

Until a booted foot connects with his inner thigh. Xavier’s eyes pop as Benji slouches harder in the booth. He looks wicked and annoyed and pleased to be bothering him. The pressure on his leg widens his knees, the mean touch sends a shiver up and down his spine in a way that crashes across the inside of his skull. He has to clear his throat and take a sip of his soda before he can come up with something nasty or clever or some action to make Benji feel just as—actually, Benji had probably intended for the action to make him feel angry but instead of anger, some sort of hunger sits inside him. Nothing to do with food.

Fuck you sits hot and ready behind his teeth after the carbonation of his drink, until Tino is suddenly sweeping into the side of the booth next to him. Xavier makes a noise that is not at all intentional, slaps a napkin over his mouth and slides even further to the other end of the booth. Benji’s boot knocks against his knee and then swiftly retreats as Lark sits down beside him, looking exhausted.

“Elbows off the table,” Tino chastises in a good natured voice, putting his hat down in front of him. He checks a watch on his wrist, handsome face pulled into a bit of a concerned expression. Lark had told Xavier that he would be debating on continuing the drive home or stopping to get a motel. Xavier didn’t have money for a room, so he was praying they kept driving.

“Yes, sir,” he mumbles in a quiet, respectful voice as he tucks his elbows off and to his side. His eyes flicker to Benji, whose mouth is now set in a deeply satisfied grin. The anger returns in a hot current, straight from his lower stomach and up his sternum, so Xavier kicks his own leg forward. Lets his dirty military boot sit directly next to Benji. He taps his thigh once, twice until a hand snatches around his ankle and shoves it further.

“Are you guys playing footsie under the table?” Lark asks in an incredulously entertained voice, so loud that it feels like it echoes the entire silent diner. Xavier hears Darla laughing somewhere and he immediately removes his foot. It lands on the linoleum floor with a loud smacking sound. Benji’s face turns an even darker shade of red, something that is so gorgeous looking under the harsh white light of the midnight diner. He gently slides the fries toward Lark, who looks instantly intrigued.

Xavier’s burger remains half finished.

—

Outside, there is a bit of a fuss at the van Benji and Tino are driving. Lark jumps in place, his breath fogging outside his mouth. Xavier stands beside him, not necessarily touched by the cold just yet. His plaid shirt is long sleeved, but not the length he usually likes, to tuck over his scarred knuckles. Even though there is a hole in the knee of his jeans, he doesn’t feel the bite of the wind just yet. But he does want to get back into the car. He wants it to just be him and Lark again, so he feels safe once more.

The van door closes with a loud sound, not necessarily a slam but close enough. Tino is grinning when he approaches them—it’s something knowing and soft. Xavier likes Tino. He liked him before he even met him, just from the stories Lark had told alone, but now he really likes Tino. Priests were a comfort for a Catholic, even if that faith was mostly fractured these days.

“Here,” the older man says, holding something out for Xavier.

“Uh,” he replies thoughtlessly as he takes the jacket. It’s a worn in, black denim. When he takes it, Xavier resists putting it under his nose, because he’s curious. His mother had always chastised him for leading life with his nose. There is the faintest tang of nicotine and something else, though, even just holding it. The scent is so oddly familiar. “Thanks—I’m sorry, Tino. I can—I’ll get my own stuff when we—”

“Pah!” He waves a gloved hand, laughing. “Benji never wears that one anymore, don’t worry.” Xavier’s fingers curl harder into the jacket. His eyes slide over Tino’s shoulder and to the van, but it’s too dark to see inside. The floodlight flickers, nearly going out once more, to shroud them all in the night.

“Aw,” Lark wraps an arm around Xavier’s waist, tugging them together. “What the fuck? I’m glad you guys are getting along. I told you Benji is a good guy.” Tino’s face turns to a bemused expression as he and Xavier look at each other once more (like they share a secret in that moment, that will be figured out soon down the road), then he’s waving and turning back to the van.

Xavier doesn’t put the jacket on, but…when he falls asleep on the last leg of the car ride, it’s squished between his cheek and the car window like a pillow.

[theacedragon0w0]

Sanctuary

Aka how Sage began working at the hotel, before the Make me Yours and even before the Part time Gig comic

WARNING: ABUSE MENTIONED, VICTIM BLAMING, INJURY

Benji shot awake when he heard pounding at his door, grabbing a bat as he was taught to do.

He immediately dropped it when he saw Sage standing there, clearly roughed up.

Holy shit Sage what happened?!" Beckoning the security guard inside, Sage's arm was wrapped tightly with blood still oozing through. Their tail didn't look much better, as parts of the skin looked to be poorly cutted, like a peeler was used.

"He was right."

Benji was confused at the statement, "who was right?" Trying to dress the arm but Sage flinched away.

"Vlad was fucking right!" Revealing their left arm that was now missing a hand, "He told me not to fall in love with anyone and he was right!"

"Sage, what happened?"

Sage was shaking, which made it difficult for Benji to clean the wound, as it was still open.

"Crystal, she, she used me, we went to the cannibal colony and my dumbass though it was supposed to be a date."

Benji, trying to lighten the air, jokingly remarked, "guess it went south huh?"

Sage still distraught, didn't acknowledge the tone, "She took me to the back of butcher's shop, and said that I'll be useful if I went along with it."

"Sage,"

Wiping her tears with her right hand, she continued, "Fuck Benji, I didn't even gave myself a chance to grab my denim jacket, I had to get out of our apartment, thankfully she's out cold from the new dope she bought with my money."

Benji eyes darted, trying to figure out how to protect his friend, he knew that it would be a matter of time for them to be found in his place and he was sure as shit wasn't going to have Sage return to work with that monster still there, and Vlad would most likely put salt in the would, likely telling Sage that they had it coming.

And like a prayer answered, the television turned on, an advertisement of a new hotel, and apparently they were looking for employees as well.

"Sage you should go there,"

With Sage staring at the screen, a million questions popped up, "What would I do if they take me in? Would they actually protect me?" And the most important question to them, "what about you and the others?"

Benji shook Sage's shoulders, "For once in your fucking existence think for yourself, listen, you taught me how to fight and you have been so protective of us, let me return the favor."

------

It was still dark by the time that they reached the hotel, they were lucky that a taxi was available to escort them at least to the driveway.

"You're not coming with me?" Sage asked as they were exiting the vehicle.

"I have a shift in 5 hours love, and someone needs to tell Vlad that you were killed while saving my ass, consider this as a debt paid love."

Sage watched as the taxi pulled away, knowing that they weren't out of the woods yet. They limped up the hill as the soreness from tonight was creeping up to them. With a deep inhale, they knocked on the door, well pounded would be a better word as their paranoia was settling in.

After what felt like the longest 5 minutes of their life, the door finally opened, a demoness wearing pajamas stood there, quickly shocked at the bloodied sinner.

Sage, still clinging onto their arm, whimpered, "please, I need a room."