#underwater au
Note
if you want a drabble request from me I would love a small drabble of anything considered to the underwater au :P
(finally catching up on Martyn's pirate streams so it's coming back to my brain to consume me)
thubs up
The man in the tavern is unfamiliar, and Scott is immediately drawn to him. How could he not be, when those pretty red-brown eyes and that swooping blond hair tied back with a dried seaweed string are so unusual, so alluring?
Sausage catches the way his eyes scan Martyn's form across a room of plastered pirates, and grins. "You're interested?"
"I might be," Scott sing-songs.
"Don't bet all your cards. I hear he's a real flirt, but he won't put his money where his mouth is."
"I reckon I could change his mind."
Sausage hums. "Confident."
"I know my worth."
#ilexworks#underwater au#scosage#majorwood#mythjorwood#the poll back at the time was too close to call i like mythjorwood better than littlescosage or majorwoodsage so im sticking with it#ask game
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Sperm whale and giant squid!
Theyre fun. Super un-developed as characters, but im very fond of how giant squid's design turned out.
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Submarine Day & St. Patrick’s Day
Person A is a follower of a snake god, but has become a fugitive in their homeland due to saving their god’s egg form after their god was fatally injured by a religious official of a more powerful religious order. When Person A is running out of places to hide, they meet Person B, a special kind of pirate who owns a submarine, and who offers Person A an opportunity to escape, for a price.
#mod poss#creative writing#writing prompt#writing#prompt#fanfic prompt#fanfiction prompt#story prompt#creative writing prompt#ficinsp#alternate universe#plots and prompts#obscure holiday prompt#fantasy au#god au#religion au#pirate au#submarine au#water au#underwater au#snake au#fugitive au#runaway au
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I had this really weird idea for a fanfiction where everyone was living underwater. The Normandy was a self-sustaining sub and the Citadel was an underwater super structure.
I'm very aware how many species probably can't swim but imagine how deep they'd be. No one could swim that deep anyways so they'd all be in the same boat (heh).
Anyway, back to your day. :D
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It begins with the sign of the cross.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
He makes the gesture—forehead, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder. The repetition of it is what soothes Xavier usually, unhitches the knot in his chest and allows him to breathe; not the actual meaning behind the sign. And he feels guilty for that, sitting in confessional of all places, hands crossed and sitting between his thighs. He stares at them and not the grated window to his side as the other man finishes talking himself through the gesture.
“Bless me, F-Father, for I have si-sinned. It has been, uh,” there’s a bit of a pause, where the man counts underneath his breath. Xavier struggles to stop the corners of his mouth from tipping upward. He tucks his chin down instead and closes his eyes. “Probably a we-week, right?”
“I’d say.”
“A week since my last c-confession.”
“And your sins?” Xavier prompts, lifting his head and opening his eyes. There’s a long pause then and rustling from the other side of the window. He waits for another minute, out of respect and then sighs. “Ben?”
“You—You’re not supposed to know who I am, Xavier.”
“And you’re supposed to call me Father.” He hears Ben’s absolute crack of a laugh, barely muffled. The window separating them is fairly opaque, as is the nature of confession. He’s right, Xavier’s not meant to know it’s Benny—but that’s the simple lie that Priests tell everyday. They usually know whose on the other side. It’s usually obvious. Especially in the facility, where few come to take confession or make use of the chapel. And those that do—well, it’s usually obvious.
“Do you w-wanna see something cool?”
“Not in the booth,” Xavier yelps immediately, turning to slam the window open and break the seal. Wouldn’t be the first time he has with Benny on the other side; probably not the last either. He expects to catch the scientist with something in his hands, like the last time he brought along some sort of experiment into confession. Instead he sits there, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, round, red glasses perched on his nose. There is some dark blue liquid on his lab coat that smells sharp and salty, like the sea, but dead.
Xavier leans through the window and snatches the cigarette. Benny raises his hands, in mock surrender and Xavier swipes the zippo from one for good measure.
“Don’t smoke in my confession booth.”
“Is it yours or,” he raises his brows and points both fingers upward. Xavier throws the lighter back (which Benny catches with deft, sleazy grinned ease), but decidedly tucks the cigarette into the pocket of his shirt and pats it. Annoyance tax on the pale, blond that doesn’t leave him alone. Benny grins, leans back in the booth and puts one booted foot up against the wall, underneath the window.
“Come with me to th-the lab.”
“No.”
“Please?”
Xavier pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales slowly. He listens to the rustling again, which seems ever present with Benny and his lab coat and whatever he keeps in those pockets. When he opens his eyes again and tilts his head to the side, the scientist is all but leaning through the narrow confessional window, smiling wider. He can see himself in the reflection of those red sunglasses.
“It’s very cool.”
—
Whatever he’s supposed to be looking at, Xavier is distracted by him.
Which is saying something, because the aquatic monstrosity that sits on the examination table should be an all encompassing thing that demands attention. A morbid underwater curiosity that Benny is prodding at—the source of the dark blue liquid on his lab coat. He speaks into a headset, talking himself through his examination.
The smell of salty dead fish permeates the room, but that hardly feels unusual. Whatever Benny and his team are hunting for, leagues under the ocean, it always comes up smelling like fish. It’s not, as he’s been told a hundred times; whatever it truly is, Xavier isn’t privy too, because that’s not what he’s there for. He’s a priest. He’s not much different than Dr. Rhoades, a cautionary measure to ensure the people trapped underneath the sea don’t lose their minds from cabin fever.
Ben just likes dragging him along. Out of the loneliness of his little, rarely used chapel.
Xavier’s eyes flicker to the side and away from the dark blue liquid slowly spreading across the examination table. It’s not the first time since he’s walked into the sterile, white lab that his eyes have been magnetically pulled sideways. He stands there, hands linked together, wringing themselves roughly and tries so hard not to look at Benji.
But he fails that test of willpower, numerous times over. Shame burns in his stomach from it, but he doesn’t stop. Couldn’t, really, if he tried.
Out his peripheral, Benji stands guard at the door. His boots are some width apart, enough to make him look prepared and sturdy—he’d grown stocky in the years since Xavier had seem him last. Had never been small necessarily, but now he’s muscular and broadened by the tactical gear. His hands stay neatly folded behind his back, shoulders squared. Benji stares forward, his face a harsh, mean grimace that makes Xavier’s chest feel tightened. Strange. His mouth loses all moisture at the occasional moments he thinks Benji might also be looking at him.
“Fu-Fucking fascinating,” Benny ends a long winded sentence into his headset and then yanks it off. He pats it to the side, hardly noticing as it nearly clatters to the ground, doing circles around his table. He snaps his gloves off and tosses them into the waste bin. “It’s almost crustacean.”
“Like a lobster?” Xavier dares a step forward, hands dropping to slide into his pockets. His shoulders hunch up nearly to his ears and he almost flinches when Benny side steps to reveal more of his mystery creature. Decidedly not a fucking lobster—though it is shelled. The meat of a claw is opened from examination, and white, like shell fish. It’s spiky, outer layer is almost the same navy color as its blood. “Lobsters bleed blue.”
“Yes!” Ben whirls and grabs Xavier’s shoulders, giving him a shake. “This has a similar circulatory system.”
“It’s disgusting,” Xavier says mildly, raising a hand and gesturing. Ben frowns, wrinkles across his forehead as he pinches brows together. He rolls his eyes, heaves out a heavy sigh. “Kind of terrifying to look at. How many eyes are there?”
“Six.” Ben’s hands drop and he begins to fish in his lab coat pockets. “D-Do you know why humans are so afraid of sp-spiders, Father?” He finds a little metal container, flicking it open to reveal the cigarettes he gets sent from the surface. Expensive stuff that makes Xavier’s mouth water a bit. He’s suddenly thankful he was able to steal one in the confessional booth, sacrilegious as that is. His rations have been running drastically low—he’d been meaning to quit for years. The habit had only become worse because…
Well, Benji smoked. And sometimes…they smoked together.
His eyes flick over Benny’s shoulder as he pats himself down for his zippo. Benji isn’t looking at him. Or the creature. Or Benny. He keeps his gaze professionally forward. So Xavier looks away.
“Arachnids are the furthest thing f-from human beings.” He slides the cigarette behind his ear, nudging his sunglasses up with his pale knuckles. Benny talks with his hands, making broad, excited gestures. “Humans ha-have two legs and two arms and two—two eyes. The further you get from that, the more scared we get. B-Because we see it as unnatural. We, as humans, are natural.” Benny waves his hand in the air, a great flapping gesture.
“Humans r-respond more positively to octopus than th-they do a spider.” The scientist crouches slightly to peer into the beady six eyed creature. It’s other claw hangs off the table, dripping blue. Xavier wonders about the tape keeping it closed. Something like a scorpions tail also extends, but it stays curled, point upward. “Exoskeleton. Bug. Hm.” He straights and starts for the door. “Anyway, I’ll be back. I’m g-going to tell Martha in engineering to s-suck my dick, because I’m getting my department so much f-fucking funding off this.”
Benny starts for the door and so Benji steps slightly to the side. It hisses open and then the blond departs, leaving the two of them—and the creature—alone. There’s silence except for the ambient noise of the lab; computers whirring, a ticking clock somewhere, the plunk, plunk, plunk of blue blood dripping to the floor.
“Did you order the lobster roll?” Xavier gestures, taking a step closer to the lab table. Benji’s eyes slowly slide toward him and the second those brown irises focus, Xavier feels a terrible heat wash up and down his spine. His hands shiver, so he links them back together awkwardly. Benji’s shoulders seem to fall, relaxing as he untucks his own hands from behind his back.
“Not a fan of seafood,” he replies.
“Do you remember when I tried to make you eat clam chowder?”
“Y’mean, when you tried poisonin’ me, yeah?”
“Claw chowder is a New England delicacy.”
Benji snorts, rolling his eyes upward. It seems unconscious for him to take another step into the lab, away from his silly little post. Xavier doesn’t interact with the guards that much—at least outside the duo. There was no Benji without Maran—no Maran without Benji. Xavier learned that, the day he realized that Benji wasn’t kidding about enlisting. That he was going, he was trailing after the other man. His hands wring again and Benji looks at them.
Then his eyes narrow.
“Xavier—get away from the table.”
There’s an odd, but natural instinct to correct him. People aren’t meant to call him Xavier anymore. His identity is intrinsically linked to being Father Wolffe now, and it’s been that way the last three years. It’s grown almost unnatural to hear his name from anyone other than his family—but pushing up against the instinct is the satisfaction. Of hearing Benji call him by his first name, of using it at all.
“Xavier.”
He blinks a few times as Benji takes a slow, measured step.
Then Xavier looks to the side, where Benny’s creature has flipped onto it’s stomach, spindly legs raising it upright into a predatory alertness. It’s bisected claw dangles, the other straining against the rubber tape keeping it closed. But the worst part, is not the claws, or even the six very alive eyes staring at him with alien intellectuality. It’s the wavering stinger in the air.
“What the fuck?”
It launches itself with a quickness that blurs; pointed, crab like legs digging into Xavier’s chest—the weight of it is shocking, sending him spiraling backward. Feels like being hit with a sack of fucking cement. He stumbles, uncoordinated and terrified—and miraculously, his hand shoots forward to wrap around the stinger that threatens his face. Xavier screams, tail bone connecting painfully with the tiled floor. It’s legs scramble, but it’s remaining claw raises, aims for sensitive, irreplaceable green eyes.
The weight is suddenly gone from his chest.
He hears a disgusting wet crack and unconsciously he continues scrambling backward, long legs kicking out. Xavier watches blue blood splatter across the tiles as Benji slams the creature into the ground once more, wielding it by the tail. The mercenary drops to his knees. His hand not pinning the creature by the tail slaps at his chest until it finds the hilt of his military grade knife—and the shing of it unsheathing makes every hair on Xavier’s body stand upright.
And then Benji begins stabbing. One, twice, three times, vicious and purposeful. Dark navy blood spits against him, wetting his chest. Droplets hit his face. Xavier watches as he maneuvers the creature and in a brutal swipe, removes the stinger. It’s crab like legs curl inward, twitching until it goes still. Xavier looks at the claw, cracked open with the force of Benji’s swing.
He continues kneeling, staring down at the dead thing. Benji’s shoulders rise and fall in vicious, heavy labor, his mouth open and panting with the exertion. When he finally glances toward Xavier, the priest flinches somewhat under the intensity of that stare.
“Can’t leave you two alone.”
“Fuck!” Xavier screams again and scrambles more. Benny stands in the entrance to the lab, the cigarette between his lips not yet lit. Benji slowly begins to stand, the measured control in his body thrumming with slight promise of continued violence. The dead thing on the floor doesn’t move, but Xavier stares at it anyway. It had been dead once already. “Ben—your—your fucking thing—”
“Whew, language, Father.”
“Fuck you,” Xavier snaps in a thin, high pitched voice. Ben only snorts as he walks toward the dead animal (if it is an animal, whatever it is, nothing God’s ever had any part in creating, Xavier’s thoughts whisper). The sound of his boots are loud, but barely cover the sound of Benji’s furious panting. He ignores the mercenary and crouches down to look at the creature. Don’t, Xavier thinks, even though the stinger is clear across the lab from where Benji had thrown it.
“Interesting.” Benny uses the toe of his boot to shift the creature. The legs are stiffened, curled in like a dead—like a fucking dead spider. Blood still weeps from it’s ruined claws and the wound from it’s now missing stinger. Xavier feels nausea welling up, bile threatening his throat. His chest heaves in frantic, animal like fear.
“Interesting?” Benji’s voice is a barely contained snarl through clenched teeth. He flicks the long, wicked looking knife and blue blood splatters droplets across the white floor. He gives it a quick few swipes across his black tactical pants and then snaps it back into the sheath on his vest. “Interestin’ thing nearly fuckin’—”
Benny stands up from his crouch, hands in his lab coat, head tilted. He has those pale, blue eyes pointed at his dead future funding. They’re wickedly intelligent and sharp, assessing. Then he smiles and his eyes slide down to where Xavier still sits. He offers his tattooed hand slowly—and Xavier takes it just as slow. He’s yanked upright, stumbling and then jerking away from the scientist.
“Good th-thing you were there, huh, Benji? S-Saved Father Wolffe—would have b-been a lot of paperwork.” Xavier stomps toward the door of the lab. His pink cheeks and hot searing shame make it too difficult to glance toward the mercenary that had saved him. Instead he throws his hands up in the air as he exits.
“Don’t invite me to this fucking lab again, Ben!”
—
It’s not unusual that he can’t sleep. He stares at himself in the mirror, instead, little circle bruises from the things pointed legs on his chest and abdomen. Xavier brushes his hands over them, turning in the mirror to stare at his pale, freckled skin. The bruises sit dark and purple, will turn yellow and green as days pass. One of them sits so squarely in the middle of his ribcage, he’s surprised it didn’t puncture straight through. Break ribs to get to his lungs, pop one so he’d suffocate under water the way they were all meant to.
His hands drop and so do his eyes.
The room he has is modest. As it’s supposed to be. A priest is not exactly meant to decorate more than the crucifix that hangs on the wall. He crosses to it, and with guilty hands plucks it off. He crosses to the spartan desk shoved against the wall and yanks open a drawer. Jesus Christ gets tucked inside and he feels that burning shame once more as he slowly closes him away.
Mostly, because, he definitely cannot masturbate with the visage of Jesus on the cross hanging directly above his bed. And he’s already decided that it might be the only way he can get his mind to calm down enough to sleep.
Xavier pulls off the light weight, worn in sweatpants he’d changed into after the disaster at the lab. His heart wrenches at the memory of blue blood, makes a new memory of the creature screeching when it had most certainly been quiet the entire attack. Xavier flattens hands on his neck and rubs at the muscles there to try and relax. When that doesn’t work, he finally allows himself to lay down on the little twin bed.
The Diocese had made the decision to send him underwater rather quick. When the company funding the project had reached out, probing hands and offered funds to see if they could capture a priest for the voyage, they’d known Xavier would not say no. One thing Xavier had always been good about during his years as a priest was saying yes. Going where they wanted, studying with who they’d put him with. His life felt rudderless except for the guiding hands of the Catholic Church. Who put him right on a submarine and sent him leagues into dark, black water.
Xavier knew the reason for why he always said yes, and why they also said yes to this placement were the same.
He no longer believed in God. He did not believe in the sermons he memorized to give. He did not care about the politics of the church, nor did he engage in them. Xavier was an easily moved pawn, because he was apathetic to the machinations that might move a pawn to begin with.
Still, even if he’d lost that faith somewhere along the way, he felt incredibly guilty about shoving his briefs down to the middles of his thighs. Not even hard yet and that cold, oily sensation of doing something wrong made him shiver. Xavier didn’t stop being a priest, because he didn’t believe in God. Sometimes, that didn’t even feel like what being a priest was about. Being a priest was about feeling ashamed and feeling self conscious. Or worrying. Which he did. Plenty.
He’d discovered a trick during one of his first placements. Xavier would never be brave enough to look at images or videos; needed to rely on sensation, touch, thought alone. So he curls a hand into a loose fist and lightly, just lightly, begins to brush the back of his knuckles against his prominent hip bone. Not yet touching himself where blood is starting to redirect. The snake like feeling that winds around him, constricts, when he’s doing something wrong starts to fade.
Xavier breathes evenly, his other hand slowly brushing up his stomach. It sinfully curves over his pectoral. The pinch of his palm against his sensitive nipple is enough to make his lips part. Keeps his eyes closed. Better to concentrate. Because, this isn’t about treating himself—does well to remember that. This is just relief. Something to keep his mind off—to keep his mind on track. The tickling sensation on his hip bone makes him shiver again.
Usually the combination of either of his hands here and here is enough to get him hard and then, from there it’s a simple tight fist. A few jerks, a terrible shame filled clean up and he can pass out into something dreamless and dark. Face the next day as Father Wolffe on this terrible research facility. But, in tandem with his hand at his hip and the other on his chest, things pop up, unbidden behind his dark eyelids.
Xavier inhales quick and sharp at the memory of Benji’s intense eyes. The hand on his hip slips to wrap around himself. At first, he only holds his hand there, blinking rapidly to try and forget the way Benji’s lashes framed his eyes. His hand on his chest squeezes, without him necessarily thinking and his palm presses against his pert, sensitive nipple. Xavier’s teeth quickly capture his bottom lip to stifle a sound.
There is no denying it, then. He quickly puts his hand to his mouth, spitting hurriedly into his palm. It’ll be faster this way—something hurried and meaningless, like they always are. Or are meant to be. His fist grasps once more around his fully hardened erection, giving a quick jerking tug. Xavier’s eyes flutter shut once more and he tries to only think about how good it feels.
How good his palm feels, slicker from his spit. He focuses on the tinge of pleasure between his hip bones, the pooling heat of it. His other hand massages his pectoral, which makes his cheeks pinken and go even warmer; Xavier felt humiliated at how good it felt to be touched there. How much he longed to be touched there; how much his mind was suddenly supplying him the thought of a callused hand there instead of his own. Xavier’s were smooth. He handled a bible and a rosary all day.
Benji’s would be—rough. Militant rough. He’d have calluses on his fingers from the way he used that terrifying knife. His brain supplies that image immediately on cue—Benji swiping it across his thigh, shoving it back into sheath, the force of his movements barely hiding his anger. His dark palm veiny in his fury. Xavier’s breathing gets harder as he imagines fingertips, not his own, rubbing the sensitive nub. Toying. Teasing.
“Damn it,” he lets himself whisper, his hand slapping up from his chest to his forehead. His other hand continues moving, a slow rhythm that isn’t getting him necessarily where he needs to get.
Xavier’s head falls to the side, his eyes on the door to his room. It’s locked, of course. But—security can get into any door, can’t they? His eyes close again, his hand moving faster. The spit makes it easier. His thumb brushes the tip of his cock and his mind goes white for a second and he’s thinking, come in.
Come in my door. Come in my room. Benji. Catch me. Look at me. I’m doing this, thinking of you. I can’t pretend I’m not thinking of you. I want you to see me do this. I want you to do this to me. Come in.
Xavier’s thoughts go wild then, the shame of his thoughts making his veins burn, his entire body suddenly alive and electric with the thought of being caught. His hips buck up without him even meaning to, a slight writhe in the body as he imagines it. The sensation of his warm, spit slicked palm makes his toes curl, his calves tighten. His head snaps back, to look at the ceiling. Only, he’s pictures something so much more interesting.
Above him, Benji stands in the bed. That powerful open stance, booted feet on either side of Xavier’s chest. He stands and stares down at him and grins, in that mean way that he seems to smile. Beautiful brown eyes lidded in their lust—for him. For him. Only him. Xavier’s panting gets louder. His hand slips to his mouth to stop the noises he knows he’ll make. The idea of Benji slowly putting a boot to his knee and kicking his legs further apart makes him all but whimper. That whimper almost slips through his fingers.
He imagines the dialogue; let me see, Xavier. Wanna see. Wanna look at you. Aw, look at you. Enjoyin’ yourself? Like that? Is it good? Are you bein’ good for me? And imagining his thick accent, his words makes Xavier immediately slow down. Because he’s cresting. The orgasm threatens to take him by surprise and he won’t let it. His fist stops, fingers tight around the base of his cock as his eyes blink rapidly.
The denial makes his breath hitch, his knees weaken. His stomach muscles roll and tighten and the whimpering moan does break through his hand then.
Xavier lets himself say Benji’s name. Just once. The sinful treat that it is. He lets himself relive the memory of Benji ripping the creature off of him, viciously killing it with his knife. Protecting him. He’d moved from his end of the lab so quickly. He’d come for Xavier so fast. Like instinct. Xavier lets himself remember that look. He whines, his hand finally moving again, in jerky quick motions.
When he comes, it pours over his fist and onto his flexing abdomen. Xavier stares down at it, his hand still working himself through the end of it. His cock twitches, reddened by the furious way he’d gripped it toward the end. He looks at the mess on his stomach, the steadily cooling release sticky against the hair on his navel. Xavier’s fingers uncurl from himself, his eyes looking at his pale, freckly hand and the drip of come there.
Then he groans and falls back against the bed and realizes it didn’t work. That he will absolutely not be sleeping any time soon.
—
So Xavier doesn’t believe anymore. He isn’t sure when he stopped. Knows it wasn’t something like night and day—he didn’t wake up and realize he’d made the wrong choice. Didn’t go to sleep believing in God and then wake up suddenly not. It was something gradual. The boiling frog in a pot metaphor, only God was the boiling pot and Xavier was the man staring at the frog, wondering why it wasn’t jumping out.
But, he does go to the chapel for some peace and quiet.
After he hangs Jesus back up on the wall, cringing and avoiding the little mans carved in eyes.
He doesn’t put on the uniform. Instead, he keeps the soft cotton sweatpants on and puts on a sweater, with sleeves long enough to tuck over his knuckles. He yawns sleepily, not bothering with the lights as he pads down the center aisle. He could—if he was being bold—crack open the communion wine and have a few glasses to try.
“Up late.”
“Shit!” Xavier startles, almost tripping over the aisle runner. His hands slap onto wooden pews, his post-orgasm weak knees almost collapsing on him. Xavier holds a hand to his chest and stares at the man in the middle of the first pew.
Benji is no longer just a manifestation of his lust, but is real just to torment him. Flesh and blood and sitting there with his hands in his pockets. He slouches, knees knocked wide apart. He doesn’t have his tactical vest on, but that somehow makes it worse, because the undershirt is tight and cinched across his broad torso. Xavier blinks a few times, because the darkness of the chapel makes his grin look glinting.
“Can’t sleep,” he admits.
“Bit’a that goin’ ‘round,” Benji replies.
Xavier straightens and suddenly feels deeply self conscious of his attire. Not exactly professional—not that he can claim to be, after what he’d just done. He clears his throat and then makes a turn toward the back room.
“I scare you away?” Benji calls after him.
“Couldn’t if you tried,” Xavier returns, with a slight look over his shoulder.
—
The bottle of wine gets uncorked by Benji’s knife. Xavier has to look away from it, to his jumping knee instead. His arm lounges over the pew, his body tilted so it’s facing Benji. The other man sits with his own up, tucked almost under his chin. Xavier remembers that about him—how he’d never sit normal. Every chair was an exercise for him to find a new way to put his body. He smiles at the memory—the nostalgia of it, but also the innocence.
He can’t wash away the guilt and shame he feels sitting across from Benji after what he’d just done, but the wine definitely helps.
“This is disgustin’, mate,” Benji says, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth after he takes a swig. “Catholics don’t know how to make a wine?”
“It’s not supposed to taste good,” Xavier argues with a laugh. He takes a sip of it, cringing a bit and then licking his lips. He nods a few times, tilts his head this way and that and then laughs. Xavier dares to take another long swallow and then pass it back.
“Y’got those li’l crackers?”
“Sacramental bread?”
“S’not bread, Xavier. It’s a cracker.”
“It’s called—shut up, Benji.” He laughs, shoving his hand against the mercenary’s shoulder as he leans in, grinning his big snide grin. He takes the wine when it’s handed to him, nursing another few sips.
They go back and forth for a bit. The chapel has faux lighting for the stained glass windows, to really simulate the experience. They make Benji’s skin pretty, the golds and reds and green hues all over him. Xavier stumbles over to the switches to turn them down a little, because they distract from the real pretty of Benji’s natural skin tone. He gets back to the pews and they trade jokes, bad ones. They talk until the wine is finished between them and Xavier can almost ignore the sitting heavy weight of his guilt inside his chest.
They’ve also accidentally slid a bit closer. Benji pulls two cigarettes from his pocket.
“Shouldn’t smoke in here,” Xavier says slowly, softly, with pinched brows. The drink makes it hard to form words that don’t get chewed on by his accent.
“Am I corruptin’ you, Xavier?”
He wants to ask Benji to stop saying his name, because he’s supposed to. A gentle correction; please, call me Father. Even if Benji isn’t Catholic, and none of it really matters. He wants to ask, really, because it’s making him shiver every single time. It’s making it feel like fingers are dancing across his hip bones again.
“Incorruptible,” Xavier teases, leaning in. He taps his lips and smiles. “Well, alright—just one.” Benji stares at him, his dark eyes going hooded. He leans closer, lifts the cigarette to put between Xavier’s lips.
Do you remember when we kissed? Xavier almost is drunk enough to actually ask. Because he does. Remembers every moment of it, the press and feel of Benji’s mouth, the taste of his tongue when it had met his own. Remembers their roaming hands. He’d been understudying Father Morgan that year.
And he’d not been thinking of the kiss when he’d been fucking jerking off because it had been the best kiss of his entire life. But it’d not been dirty. It had never been something he’d felt guilty for—possibly the last thing he’d ever let himself have that didn’t pull at his Catholic Guilt strings.
Benji strikes a match and puts it to the cigarette and Xavier inhales deeply.
“Are priests allowed t’smoke?” Benji asks, lighting his own. Xavier exhales, head leaned back so far that his arm over the back of the pew is the only thing that keeps him from sliding out of it.
“We’re not meant to have bodily addictions.”
“Now that’s a term,” Benji says, his voice laced with suggestion. Xavier almost laughs, but he swallows it with another drag of the cigarette, because he is thinking of that dialogue he’d made for Benji in his head. He has to close his eyes to get away from stealing looks. The pew creaks and Xavier’s head rolls to the side and his eyes do crack open then. His fingers trail up and without thinking about it, his fingers touch the side of Benji’s head. Right where all his long curls are shaved off.
Benji doesn’t move as the pads of Xavier’s fingers brush along. His cigarette sits between his lips, smoke drifting up toward the ceiling vents inside the chapel.
“Benji,” Xavier starts (his mind momentarily reminds him he’d only just moaned this name, in his bedroom, an hour earlier) and then doesn’t get to finish the thought. The cigarette in his mouth drops as Benji crashes toward him. His lips part in an immediate moan at the feeling of a warm body crushing him to the end of the pew—no, not a warm body, but Benji’s. The heavy weight of him, a knee wedged between Xavier’s thighs. The sensitivity that gets plucked by that feeling makes him jump, the remembered pleasurable sensation of his palm replaced with a knee. He hiccups a sound before their lips connect.
And they kiss. Hard.
Xavier’s hand drags into Benji’s curls, tightening and tugging. He pulls himself closer, his other arm slapping from around the back of the pew to Benji’s powerful shoulders. Their mouths open to each other, wine flavored tongues rolling together. Their heads twist in different ways, constant parting and coming together just to feel it differently, to get a deeper angle. Xavier slides without thinking, his back flattening to the seat of the pew. Benji leans over him, kissing as his hands cup Xavier’s ribs. His warm palms slide down and then tease at the edge of his sweater.
Then the cherry of one of their cigarette burns Xavier’s collarbone and he yelps loudly. Benji springs away, his hands patting across Xavier’s chest to get the fallen cigarette. He swears when his own fingers touch the embers. Xavier slips off the pew, out from under Benji and stands. His entire body trembles as he pats at the burn on his collarbone, his eyes wild. Xavier almost trips on the rug runner again and he clears his throat.
The tips of his fingers tingle as he looks at Benji, holding the cigarette. His curly, black hair is messy. His tight, black shirt is half shoved up, revealing brown skin. Hints of tattoos. Dark hair underneath his belly button.
“Goodnight,” Xavier says quickly, turning on his heel. He walks quickly down the aisle to the double doors (painted, to appear wooden, to seem authentic), fuzzy around the edges—from the wine. From the wine. Not from the kiss. From the wine, the bottle still discarded. A cigarette still missing, that he might find later, and scoop up and remember it was between Benji’s lips.
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Au-gust 2022
Pairing(s): Cherik
Warnings: N/A
1. Underwater AU
Charles takes a look at his watch and winces at the time, unhurried steps taking him down the long, echoing hallway towards the science observation deck. It’s 2 a.m. already – the meeting ran much later than he thought – which means he only has a few hours to go before he needs to start prepping for launch. Logically, he should head to his quarters and try to get some sleep, knowing he’ll have little time to rest once the team finally makes it to the surface.
Then again, it’s hardly logic that’s been driving him these past few months.
When he arrives, the space is empty except for one lone figure, his handsome profile a rippling blue from the reflection off the plexiglass wall. Beyond the lights that illuminate a few feet from their underwater structure, the ocean stretches out into the infinite beyond. Down here, where their civilization has lived for the past three centuries – where Charles was born, and went to school, and is now the most preeminent scientist and historian on the ‘Above’ – no light ever penetrates the deep dark of their day-to-day existence.
“What are you doing here so late? Why aren’t you in bed?”
Erik does not turn at the sound of his voice, though his lips do quirk into a grin as Charles stops and leans beside him against the railing. “I could ask you the same thing. Don’t you have a historic mission to lead at 0:600 hours, Commander?”
Charles snorts. “You’re on the same bloody mission too, Erik. And you know why. I can’t sleep when there’s a hundred different things going on in my head. What if my calculations are wrong--”
“They’re not wrong, I’ve run through them too, a hundred times.”
“What if the temperature is still too hot, or the air isn’t breathable yet without our suits, we can’t—”
“Charles.” Erik turns and grips him by the shoulders, forcing him to look up into his best friend’s eyes. That particular trick has stopped Charles from spiraling ever since the two met in grade school, though he’s never told Erik the real reason why. “We’ve spent the last ten years planning for this exact moment. The conditions are right and we have the best team available. Whatever we find up there, we can handle it. I promise.”
He slumps against Erik and sighs, tension slowly easing from his shoulders. Everything Erik says is true about their mission; they’ve tested and trained for every possible scenario and contingency they might encounter on the surface. Charles trusts his team (okay he trusts Erik, because Erik doesn’t lie or tell people what they want to hear) and he knows this is the right time to do it before the powers-that-be lose interest and redirect their funding.
Still, he can’t help but wonder, “What if there’s nothing left for us to find? What if…there’s no one left?”
“Then there’s nothing to find,” Erik says with a wry smile. “But we’ll still be the first people in three hundred years to see the sun again. And you’ll be making history, Dr. Xavier.”
Charles grins. “No, we’ll be making history, Dr. Lehnsherr. I couldn’t have done this without you.”
Erik’s smile is soft and fond as he reaches to ruffle Charles’ hair. “I know. I also know it’s way past our bedtime.”
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Not a Universe Goes By (18-25/31)
(a series of fic(let)s for The Ted Lasso AU-gust challenge)
#18 Childhood
“Happy memories or sad ones?”
Rebecca stares at the two photos plucked out of old albums—her blonde pigtails and Ted’s dimpled grin, each with a football under one arm, their little hands tucked into their respective fathers’.
They each lost theirs, albeit in very different ways, on the exact same day.
An ocean apart, and how many ways do their lives mirror one another? How long have they run parallel? What would have become of them if their paths had never crossed?
But they have crossed, and now they walk together—down memory lane and into the future.
“Both.”
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#19 Horror Movie
The woods were dead quiet.
Even the crack of twigs under his sneakers was swallowed by the thick rolling fog.
She emerged like an apparition of mist and moonlight, silver and pale, with the softest golden lustre to her hair as it shrouded her like a robe, brushing the ground, swaying in the still night.
Their eyes locked—and he knew before she opened her mouth.
He knew heartbreak when he saw it.
Her cry is fatal to him—but even as he draws his last breath in her arms, he thinks there's never been a sound more hauntingly beautiful.
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#20 Roadtrip
Rebecca fucking hates buses.
Perhaps her avoidance of public transport makes her an insufferable snob, but she simply does not care for the jostling, the smells, the unfathomable unpredictability of temperature settings—the whole ordeal is unnerving, thank you very much.
Rebecca hates buses, but she cares deeply about her team, and team's gotta bond.
"Good morning, boys."
The collective cheer resonates in her chest, splits her face into a smile and makes her eyes swim as she stumbles down the aisle amid cheerful greetings, to Ted beaming at her from the very back.
"Hey, Boss. Saved you a seat."
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#21 Underwater
The ocean rushed through her veins, a salty mist gathering in her eyes as she gazed longingly upon it.
And he gazed lovingly upon her, aching from the sacrifice she’d held close to her chest until now. She was so brave, his little mermaid, abandoning her world in pursuit of the love she’d longed for her entire life. She harboured no regret, but he knew—having to choose’d torn her soul apart.
Ted’s world lost its colour, barely bearable anymore even with Rebecca in it.
“It’s my turn now,” he told her, “to try and make a home in yours.”
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#22 Fake Married/Dating
Shameless self-promotion time! I have a festive multi-chapter that fits this trope - we do love Christmas in August in this fandom, right?
Read ‘Tis a Fine Line We Tread, My Dear’ on AO3
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#23 Injured
"R'becca…I love you."
The hospital floor gives way under her for a dozenth time today.
"I see they've given you the good stuff," she stutters, smiling weakly as she fluffs Ted's pillow.
The machines beep with a regularity her heart can only envy, lulling Ted to sleep even as her ribcage is on the brink of breaking open.
"You're high," she whispers, chances a glance at Beard in a plastic chair beside her.
He tilts his head noncommittally.
"Is he not?" she prompts weakly.
Beard's calm reply haunts her more than his silence when he shrugs:
"This time he is."
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#24 Pets
"So how's this shared custody thing working out for you guys?"
"What the fuck do you mean?"
"Come on, babe. The shared calendar with appointments and sleepovers and shit? The sitter on retainer? You've got her whenever Ted's in training, and he takes her during important calls? It's cute as fuck."
"Peanut is not—This isn't—We aren't—Shit."
"Oh, sweetheart," Keeley pats Rebecca’s knee sympathetically before addressing the hyperactive puppy chewing on her finger. "Why don't you come home with me and Uncle Roy tonight? Let your fucking fit, precious, idiot parents figure shit out at last?"
Well, fuck.
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#25 We Used To Be...
We used to be strangers once. Connected. Parallels, mirrors, juxtapositions at every step.
You—too much. Too bright, too eager, too kind. Living ever for others, even as it ate away at your own heart and soul.
Me—not enough. Not light enough, not warm enough, never ever anything enough. So lost to myself and the world I could barely stand my own company.
Until the day we found one another, then found ourselves again, ready at last to walk together as the invisible thread trails after our joined hands.
We're sunshine and rain—a rainbow painted across the sky.
#ted lasso august 2022#ted lasso fanfic#rebecca welton fanfic#tedbecca fanfic#ted lasso#rebecca welton#ted x rebecca#tedbecca#bee writes fanfic#putting multiple of these into one post because they're mostly drabbles and I don't wanna spam the tags#childhood au#horror au#roadtrip trope#underwater au#little mermaid au#fake dating trope#injured trope#pets in shared custody
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Day 17: Icy Deep (Ao3)
A non-literal take on the prompt. This is part of the Underwater AU seen on Day 7.
------
3pm Saturday, right on schedule.
They had heard it at 10pm on Tuesday and wondered if they were losing their minds, but when they looked out the window, they saw it: rain. Pouring down the building facades, bouncing on the walkways, filling the canal.
Selena had wanted to go investigate -- were there clouds? was it salty? -- but Nyx pointed out it was probably too dark to see and they needed to get to sleep. Not that the curious, excited part of him didn’t keep him awake until it stopped.
It happened again at 9am Thursday morning when Selena was stuck in a doctor’s office and Nyx in a classroom taking an exam. They asked around and found out that the ‘weather schedule’ was printed in the newspaper.
It was probably just weird local phrasing -- they had come across that alot. What they really meant was ‘prediction.’
3pm, on the dot, the rain started.
Heavy drops fell straight down onto the rooftop the pair stood on. They weren’t salty. They were normal, considering they were falling from an ocean sky.
There were no clouds. The Wall, silvery-blue and surreal, seemed thicker and somehow out of focus.
They shared unsure glances, but continued to watch as the rain soaked their hair and clothes.
“The hexagons -- you can see them,” Selena pointed out, her voice just audible over the haze of drops.
She was right; you could clearly see the hexagons. At first it was just the outlines -- double outlines, one behind the other -- but then a white-silver formed at the edges and began creeping toward the middle.
“Ice?” Selena asked, baffled.
The water was very cool, come to think of it, but it didn’t seem right and Nyx shook his head. After a moment, realization hit. “Salt.”
Selena blinked at him then looked back up at the sky which was quickly growing a cloudy-white. “Leviathan’s tears.”
It was part of the story of the city, at least as told on the outside: the Wall, said to be a gift from Shiva, was so strong that it kept the serpent astral at bay -- all except for her tears.
Nyx shivered and pulled Selena close. “Let’s go back inside.”
As he led her back in, he tried to shake a coldness that was from more than just wet clothes.
Whatever this technology was, he should feel impressed. Instead, there was just a biting sense of unease and loss.
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Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Captain America (Movies)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Human Steve Rogers, Mermaid Bucky Barnes, Drowning, Rescue, Language Barrier
Series: Part 1 of Rainbow's AUgust 2022 fills
Summary:
Bucky spent his days staring up at the waves of the surface, daydreaming about the creatures he's heard tales of, the ones who live in the world above the water.
It was only ever a story to him, until one day he saw a figure sink beneath the waves towards him, and he swam up for the first time.
Written for @augustwritingchallenge
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@augustwritingchallenge Day 1: Underwater
Sara Lance is afraid of water. She’s woman enough to admit it. Ever since the yacht incident a few years ago, she’s refused to go anywhere near the ocean in general. Hell, swimming pools and even baths give her anxiety. But this was for Felicity’s birthday, so she’d put up with Oliver (despite how annoying he was) if it’d make her best friend happy.
Leonard Snart is a workaholic. Going on vacation is hard enough, but a vacation in an underwater cruise? Yeah, even harder. But Lisa was getting married soon and he wanted to spend more time with her before she tied the knot. So, here he was, standing in the middle of a clear deathtrap clutching a cup of coffee and wearing a suit that’s way too warm to be wearing in here.
Two kindred souls, meeting eyes across the room, spending time together and talking about their issues. No need to exchange phone numbers. They won’t want to stay close after this... right?
#au_gust_2022#au_gust#captain canary#sara lance#leonard snart#underwater au#legends of tomorrow#moodboard#aesthetic
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this week on traff getting obsessed with an au that barely exists
#ocean explorer au#picture underwater science archeology marine biology horror#indiana jones but alien with the hermitcraft guys#etho and gem being pals#grian being insane and obsessive about underwater books#i also have ideas for cool etho plot :0#hermitcraft#illustration#archillustrates#life series#traffic smp#artists on tumblr#trafficblr#geminitay#grianmc#grian#grian fanart#hermitcraft grian#hermitblr#geminitay fanart#gem is great#geminislay#fisherman grian#hermitcraft season 10#hermitcraft au
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another underwater au thought, but more for just world building flavor:
the reason why Scott's hair come across as grey when it starts changing is bc Scott is connected to coral and when coral is dying/is dead it's grey. and Scott is "dead" bc he's not in the water as his body is changing. when he finally gets to be in water and fully change, it's finally alive again and shines with it's true color.
of course it's still more blue than grey bc Scott is in fact alive, but it do come across grey
i need to put this in the tag because it's a complete thought and we don't need to add anything to it thumbs up emoji
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Blue whale, my favorite of the bunch.
I dont have much art of her im willing to share, mainly because I'm still working on her. All you need to know is I love her.
#blue whale (oc)#blue whale#underwater AU#blue whale is supposed to be fatter like. she is supposed to be significantly bigger#i am workin on it#one day she will be accurate!! one day!!!#but until then i will keep workin on her#aka i am learnin how to draw her properly. she is fat and she is SO fucking great i love her#enn queue (for once)
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Person A is a mermaid whose parents worked at a seahorse ranch but died and who then got adopted by the wealthy and snooty owner of the ranch’s family. Person A then ends up bonding to an orphan seahorse foal who’s mother died in childbirth and decides to care for it and raises it by themself, eventually with the goal of entering it in the highly competitive seahorse races. Person B is the snooty owner’s family’s child who is Person A’s age, and while they often bullied Person A, starts to respect Person A’s skill and dedication to seahorses.
#creative writing#writing prompt#writing#prompt#fanfic prompt#fanfiction prompt#story prompt#creative writing prompt#ficinsp#alternate universe#plots and prompts#mod poss#mermaid au#ocean au#underwater au#HORSE AU#SUPERNATURAL AU#fantasy au#rich x poor au#adopted au#Orphan AU#(mermaid horse girl cinderella vibes??)
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it's mermay ✨
Tor belongs to @littleulvar
#mermay#original character#arne#tor#krowy morskie#these au keeps me sane for a week or so#these two#in this au they are covered in glitter#and their hair is even more fabulous underwater#merfolk au
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The guard is falling asleep. Has to keep jerking upright as he stands at the door. It doesn’t usually distract Benny, who can rarely be pulled out of what he’s doing if he’s properly engaged, but he’s annoyed. Communications from above sea level have been going dark—not that he cares much about above sea level, not anyone he’s left on dry land whose waiting for him. But that puts shipment behind by a whole week, and Benny’s flask is running awfully dry. His cigarettes are starting to run low. Two a day only kind of deal. Benny is not a two a day only kind of smoker.
Swart flinches and then knocks his boots together to stand at attention, like he’s back in basic training and a drill sergeant is going to threaten to shove something up his ass. All about making them better soldiers, the ass shoving threats, Benny is sure. Something, something, the homoerotic nature of military and all.
“Need a stim, Swart?” Benny asks in a dry voice as he rifles through his notes. He works better with pen and paper, even though his laptop is sat open in front of him. The graph displays data he needs to puzzle through, put together by some analyst who works on the other side of the facility. He doesn’t trust analysts, so he’s puzzling it together himself.
“Boring fuckin’ detail, Doc.”
“You ha-have my deepest sympathies,” Benny replies, shuffling more of the paperwork. Then he snorts. Deep. Underwater. Get it? He almost says to the guard, because he’s admittedly used to someone else, who would enjoy a joke like that. Benny turns back to his work. His pen scratches across the paper in his messy, tiny script. He taps it a few times and then Swart has to snap himself up right again.
“Can usually switch my shift with Giarrizzo. But he’s on another detail tonight,” Swart yawns into a fist. His pen goes wide on an ‘s’, marks across the page. Benny glances over to the guard, chin tucked over his shoulder.
“Giarrizzo-Cohn.” He holds his hands up. Then slowly pushes them together. “It’s hyph-ph-phenated.” Swart always gets this look in his eyes when Benny starts stuttering. This ‘who made this fucking guy the scientist?’ look. It’s equal parts awkward as it is annoyed. Benny might be used to it, but still makes his skin itch. He puts his pen down, scratches a hand through his hair, looks at the puzzled together data instead of the soldier.
“Man, who cares? See—this is why no one wants to be in this lab with you, Doc. Hoity fucking toity.” Swart scuffs a boot, nose wrinkled in annoyance. Must be tough to be him, a soldier on guard for Benny, a guy with a stutter who makes three times more than his pay grade.
“Except Maran,” Benny points out.
“Maybe the fucking guy likes fish?” Swart gestures to the tank in front of him, with a snide and condescending curl to his lip. Benny swivels on his stool.
“Margot is an octopus,” he says. She clings to her coral rock bed, which Ben had painstakingly made himself to ensure she felt properly at home. The water filter bubbles a bit, ambiance in his lab to go along with the whir of computers. Pen scratches, when he’s ignoring the computers.
“So?”
“Octopuses are cephalopods.”
“I hate this fucking job,” Swart mumbles under his breath, eyes upward to avoid looking at either the octopus or her owner.
—
Maran leans over the open topped tank, his hand lazily drifting through the water. He keeps the other propped up, a fist to rest his chin on while he looks at the octopus as she does her fast crawl across the rock bed. One of her arms occasionally swings up, wraps around his fingers, then drifts away. His face is lit up by the water, a little pattern across freckles and tan skin. The lighting in the lab is usually stark and white, but Benny has a headache so he’s turned it down. Dimmed everything except what was necessary for him to look at under the microscope he’s supposed to be paying attention to.
And of course, the little lights in Margot’s tank, so that he can see Maran’s face better.
“Roll your s-sleeve up a bit,” Benny comments. Maran startles, because it’s the first thing he’s said in an hour or so. He pulls his arm from the tank and blinks at Benny. “The chemicals fr-from your shirt might mess with the tank water.”
“Shit,” Maran starts shoving at the tight fabric of his black shirt. The material rolls up to his sleeve, exposing strong forearms that make Benny’s mouth dry. He watches the tendons in his wrist flex, the appearance of a vein in Maran’s hand. His eyes drift from that up, to where he’s pinched a tongue between his teeth as if concentrating. Maran’s own eyes flicker up and his face goes pink under Ben’s cold blue eyed stare.
“Didn’t hurt her, did I?”
Her and not it. Was one of the first things Benny had noticed about Maran. Maybe Swart wasn’t necessarily wrong. Maybe Maran liked animals; he even looked at the sea snails with admiration and sometimes did, admittedly, press too close to the tank of fish to watch them dart around in a makeshift school.
He never looked out the windows though. Into the dark beyond. Benny shuttered them when Maran was around.
“C’mere,” he says instead of answering the question. He stands from his stool and gestures to the microscope. Maran crosses the lab over to him. The sound of his booted foot steps is loud and Benny’s eyes flicker to them. They rise up from laces, to the way his dark tactical pants wrap tightly around his thighs. His belt and then up more until Benny is once again drawn to that pretty face.
Benny was never that shy about checking people out. Usually he did so with open gazed sleaze—he didn’t pretend. It worked in his favor, because the people he attracted usually liked that about him. But Maran’s face begged for attention and Benny’s roaming eyes could never stray far from those features. Strong nose, freckles, high cheek bones. Such a gorgeous mouth. Maran swings his arms out, bracing his hands against the lab table, smiling toothily.
“What is it today?”
“Sample fr-from the scorpion,” Benny says, patting the stool he was just occupying. Maran lowers himself slowly, scooting forward. He’d had no idea how to use a microscope before Benny had showed him, but now his hands sort of move there expertly. Benny stares at those hands for a long moment.
“Scorpion?”
“It’s wh-what we’re calling the creature. The one th-that almost made a snack out of Father Wolffe.”
“You said it was crustacean though.”
Benny’s heart makes a painful squeeze, a little palpitation. He rubs hard at his sternum, wondering if the nicotine withdrawal was going to start killing him. The headache was certainly still there, pulsing behind his ears, crawling up the back of his head. Benny looks at the stretch of Maran’s shirt over his shoulder blades, the taut line of it where it clings between the two.
He flattens his hand there and Maran jumps, so he slides his hand up to cradle the nape of his neck. Keep him looking at the scorpion sample. His skin is as soft as Benny had imagined it would be. His fingers curl just slightly, as though he can’t help it. Maran’s hand slaps onto the desk in reflex.
“Maran, do y-you switch shifts to work in my lab?”
“Uh,” Maran breathes out the word rather than just saying it. He turns slightly, so Benny increases the bit of pressure in his hand. Maran makes a sound then that is even breathier. Spots appear in front of Benny’s vision, little dots of white that he has to blink away. His muscles feel constricted and flexed, his body tensed. His breathing feels difficult. But the heat is the worst, this twitching hot curling sensation that sits in his lower stomach. “Maybe?”
“Why?”
His hand relaxes and Maran turns, twists himself on the stool. His hand on the lab table brushes over paperwork that scatters to the floor—and neither men pay attention to it. Benny is leaned over him, his hand moving from Maran’s neck to the front of his throat, to tuck fingers into the top of his shirt, to feel more skin. Maran’s eyes are glassy as they look up at him. They swerve upward, to the ceiling and Benny cannot look at the roll of his eyes like that. His gaze falls to Maran’s plush lips, as they part just a bit.
“Uh,” Maran repeats and then his lips curve into a smile that Benny absolutely cannot continue looking at. “I like you, Ben.”
Maran makes a noise when Benny crashes down to kiss him. Something that he will memorize and repeat later, listen to, laying in his bed. A noise that is half surprise and pleasure that Benny swallows up with his mouth. His hand cups Maran’s jaw, lips parting to kiss him as hungrily as he’s been for him. Weeks of this soldier standing in his lab, to approaching his tanks, to coming to stand by him while he works. To asking questions. To remembering things he says. Benny’s mouth opens wider, feels Maran chase upward with tongue.
One of Maran’s hands seems to find a place on Benny’s thigh, curling around it. His other hand reaches up but Benny’s snatches it and shoves it down onto the table. That makes Maran moan. Their tongues touch, slide together messily as Maran’s knees knock wider and Benny’s body crowds into his space. The lean can’t be comfortable, the way Maran is curved back against the lab table. But he doesn’t protest, doesn’t stop the kiss upward, his head moving to a new angle.
Benny thinks to memorize the way he tastes, the feel of the lips he’d often stared at. But then, thinks, no need to memorize. They’re not going to stop kissing. Not until it becomes hard to breathe—and when it does, when they’re both open mouth panting against each other, rather than fully kissing, that’s when Benny pulls away.
A string of spit connects their mouths for a moment, until Maran’s tongue flicks out, runs over his bottom lip and catches it.
Benny moans so loudly that even Maran seems startled out of reverie by it. His hand squeezes Ben’s thigh, almost as if on accident. His pretty brown eyes flicker there and then back up and then there again and back up. Benny can’t help his grin, his tilted, slice of a smile across his face. His tongue runs over his teeth, head tilted, chest heaving in and out with air. Benny’s knee wedges hard between Maran’s thighs and the soldier gasps. I need to fuck you, I need to fuck you so hard, I need you.
“Maran, I—”
Water splashes against him from behind, making him jump. He nearly crashes both of them to the ground at the icy sensation. Benny spins and looks at the tank, his sunglasses clattering to the floor from where they’d perched on the top of his head. Margot slinks innocently across the wall of the tank, her long arms inching her along.
“Margot,” Benny snaps, stomping toward the tank. “Don’t be f-fu-fucking rude. I will put the top on this tank—” He sputters as water is splashed up against him again, stumbling backward.
Maran’s loud laughter behind him makes him jump even higher. He turns on a heel, but whatever nasty retort he’d have to the laugh is immediately cut off. Maran’s on the stool, leaned back, elbows on the lab table, his head tilted. His cheeks are flush dark red, all the way to his throat, and his lips are shiny. His knees are still widened from how he’d been all but crushed against by Benny’s body. The scientist’s eyes flicker to the stretch of tac pants and then back up, blinking owlishly.
“Forgot we had company, yeah?” Maran jokes, one of his legs swinging on the stool. His combat boot makes a tap, tap, tap sound against the metal bar. Benny’s dry mouth suddenly floods with the thought of his tongue on the tip of that boot.
“Saying we sh-should go somewhere alone, Mar?”
The confident look on his face drops to be replaced with something startlingly shy. Benny’s insides claw at themselves, his brain screaming again (fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck) as he does a slow approach. His now wet shirt clings to him and he slowly shrugs out of his lab coat, tossing it onto the table. Maran’s eyes blink at the sudden reveal of tattooed arms and then his eyes swivel right back up to the ceiling.
Benny catches him by the chin and slowly tilts his head down to force his gaze back to him.
“I like you too, Maran.”
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