#space horror au

[day0walkersdrafts]

She catches them on the security cameras, because Nomi is always watching the security cameras. Even in her private quarters; she’s not supposed to be tapped in like that, but what are they going to do? Stop her? They’d have to notice first. So instead, Nomi sits in her chair, over abundance of monitors glowing blue in the dark. She keeps her knees tucked up, chin between them, one hand on the keyboard. She finds this easier than sleeping, the bed still freshly made, sheets tugged tight and crisp to the corners. She likes watching.

That’s how she notices that Sergeant Tillman and Corporal Wolffe are sleeping together.

Well, not tonight, they aren’t—haven’t, for the last month or so actually. Xavier stands outside the door to his private quarters and on Nomi’s blue toned screen, he looks oddly vulnerable. Which is not a word someone would use for Wolffe usually. Not when he walked with his shoulders hunched forward, his long legs loping, prowling himself forward like a real animal, his smile toothy in ways that suggested he’d use those teeth for violence too. When you could see his smile, when he didn’t have that horrible black mask over half his face.

Now, he stood out in that little metal hallway, barefoot. In shorts and a shirt that was big, even on his frame. She could tell, because the collar was too long, slipping over his pale shoulder, exposing his neck and collarbone. Nomi looks at that little expanse of skin. Vulnerable. His hair was muted on her monitor, but it was in its messy disarray as usual.

Tillman, stands in direct contrast, in full camos. She’s never seen him not in camos, actually. His hands are in his pockets, head tilted back slightly, because Xavier is taller than him. Somehow, he stands there, utterly still as the corporal gestures emphatically. He’s rising and lowering his hands, pointing to himself, pointing to Tillman. Pointing down the hall, pointing to the ceiling, pointing inside his room and then out of it. She can see a cord in his throat; she can’t hear him talking, but knows its getting loud.

And Tillman is impassive, head tilted back, up to look at Wolffe. He turns, to return to his room, barefoot and in a shirt too big. Tillman’s hand slips from his pocket, wraps around Xavier’s elbow.

Nomi’s legs slide, her body hunching forward, until her nose is close enough to the screen, it hurts her eyes. She looks at the hand wrapped around Xavier’s elbow.

Once, the ship had been raided. Small time crew, bigger ego than guns. She’d been safe, with Happy, up on desk, but they’d both been watching the visual log. It’s ingrained in her memory; the image of this red haired man walking down a hallway with a sledgehammer, gun still shouldered, because he was going to take care of things the old fashioned way, he’d said on comms. Nomi remembers watching the head of the hammer arc through the air. She recalls, even then, seeing his face, a mask of violent brute force.

He doesn’t shake Tillman off, so much as he slithers his arm away. Bows himself inward to get out that grip. He could break it—he could break Tillman—and doesn’t. Nomi leans back in the chair, watching Xavier’s door slide close, the sergeant still in the hallway. She puts her thumbnail in her mouth, eyes watering from how she hasn’t blinked.

—

Nomi steals the knife from Lark—or rather, he lets her have it from out his pocket, discrete and quick. Because you can’t really steal from Lark. Must not be one of his favorites, this knife she gets up into her sleeve. He doesn’t question her because he’s good like that. Lark’s one of the few good ones; him and Xavier are connected at the hip usually. It makes Wolffe seem less scary sometimes in the same way it makes Tanaka scarier sometimes.

She doesn’t plan on using the knife. Just makes her feel better to have one, because otherwise, what? Her service pistol, that’s never been drawn from it’s holster? No, a knife is—it’s sort of personal, she guesses. Scarier, too, if you look at that little glint off the edge. Lark keeps these sharp. They make your eyes feel suddenly, very, very exposed, looking at that sharp point.

She doesn’t even really have a plan at all. But when the ship switches to it’s night cycle, when everyone has resigned themselves back to their individual bunkers, she finds herself outside his door. Nomi stands there, her chin tucked down, her hands kneading together. That giant yellow jacket swallows her up, hood raised. She stares at XAVIER WOLFFE printed on the door. The sticker for his name is coming up slightly, because transport crews are a six month on six month off sort of deal. In a few months, she’ll probably never see this man again, right?

So Nomi waits, anyway. She puts her back to his door, slides until she’s sitting, knees tucked back up, Lark’s knife up her sleeve. They laugh too loud, in the mess. Xavier’s jokes aren’t funny, but Lark laughs anyway—sometimes hes not even faking it. Nomi actually suspects that he might never actually be faking it. The back of her head knocks against the door, eyes on the low lighting in the hallway. The ship breathes underneath her, a slight hum that says, everything’s okay, we’re headed home, aren’t we?

Weird to think about that.

—

When Tillman rounds the corner she stands, scrambling her way up with her back still to his door. Her knees feel weak and tingly, her stomach icy and slippery. He’s not large the way the Captain is, but for some reason, he radiates this eerie feeling. His eyes are pale, almost white, they have a glow to them—he’s had work done on them. She’s read through his files; he likes being able to see in the dark.

He approaches slow, hands in his pockets. Just like she’d seen on the screen. Except this isn’t an image on her monitor, he stands there, real, in the flesh, in front of her. He isn’t looking at Xavier, so he doesn’t have to look up. His head tilts down, his pale, glowing eyes on hers.

“Officer Walker,” he says. “Did you need Corporal Wolffe?”

God but do they laugh loud, Lark and Xavier. And one time, they had laughed right next to her, and they had leaned over and told her the joke and she’d not understood a single part of it. And that had made them laugh harder, that had made Lark snort and cover his mouth and had made Xavier cup Nomi’s elbow and try and explain, with a little bit of a tear in those big, apple green eyes. She’d wanted to say, don’t touch me, but he’d touched her with his huge, mercenary arms, in such an oddly delicate way, it had almost come out, can’t remember the last time someone touched me. Instead, she’d laughed and that had made both of them stop laughing and look at her.

Not the worst two people to be looked at by, on this ship, she figured.

So, she doesn’t mean to use the knife, but it falls into her hand anyway. And she flicks the blade out and thinks, neck, that’s where it’ll hurt the most, but—that sharp point sits directly beside the zipper of his camo trousers. They stare at each other then, his pale, blue, fluorescent eyes and her big, pink ones.

“Leave him alone,” she says—accidentally. What she’d meant to say was, leave me alone, because he scares her. Or, you fucking prick, I wish the Captain would vent you, I wish Lark would gut you, I wish someone would teach you what being small feels like. Her voice wavers around it, wet and thick, because she is scared. She’s a soldier like he’s a civilian; he’s big, muscular, he’s used his sidearm. She’s small, she can’t remember the last time she did a push up, she’d cried every day during basic training, she’d gotten behind a computer one day and never ever thought about infantry ever again.

Surprisingly, her hand doesn’t tremble, holding that sharp fucking knife.

“That’s sweet,” Sergeant Tillman says, turning away from her. The knife point drags, not enough to hurt him, maybe not even enough for him to feel it. “You let me know if he appreciates the effort.”

—

She’s ashamed of the little bit of throw up on the ground, especially because she’s definitely going to ignore it and apologize to whatever cleaning bot rolls over it tomorrow morning. Nomi’s hand slaps against Corporal Wolffe’s door, an angry thwak thwak thwak until it hisses open. She doesn’t actually pause to let him say anything before she darts into it. Nomi’s hand cups her throat, the other still holding the knife, raised up.

“Wow, are you, like, here to kill me?” Nomi stares at him and then she throws the knife down, listens to it clatter maliciously and sinister on the metal floor before swiveling around.

“Oh my fuckin’ God, put a shirt on, Xavier.”

“You’re the one barging in my room at—fucking 0100.”

She listens to the sounds of him behind her. The distinct click of the knife that he must have scooped off the floor at some point. A little swear when he must stub his toe on his own furniture and then his following grumbles. Nomi swipes her jacket hood off—feels like it isn’t enough, so she pulls the entire thing away and shoves it up onto his neat desk.

Xavier keeps cleaner quarters than she would have assumed—organized and spartan. There’s no real decorations, just necessities. She peeks over her shoulder just as he’s yanking on a militant green shirt. His dog tags make an outline underneath the cotton—there’s dark marks under his eyes and his hair is fluffy and unsettled, like he’d been trying to sleep and couldn’t. Tossing all over the place. Waiting for that inevitable knock he’d have to rebuke.

“You alright?” he asks and her shoulders hunch up to her ears.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” There’s a long pause before she curls her lip. “Sleep. Just sleep.”

“Uh,” he stares at her, folding his arms across his chest. It’s such a self conscious gesture, the way his shoulders sort of round up, mirroring hers in a way. Xavier makes himself smaller when she’s in the room, because he knows he’s tall—and because he seems to sense how much she hates that he’s tall. It’s not you. It’s just that, I don’t want to be small. He stares, like he’s trying to figure out how such a phantom has rolled into his room, when he’d been expecting a poltergeist earlier. “Have a nightmare?” He smiles then, something resembling his usual smile.

“Turn around,” she snaps, flapping her hands at him. He does, surprisingly, as he’s told. Turns to face his dresser, arms still in front of him. Xavier has ridiculously long legs. One of them has a nasty scar on the back of his thigh, a puncture wound. She stares at that pink scar as she shoves as her leggings. The little bed isn’t big enough for him, so she almost feels bad putting herself there too—almost. She clears her throat and he turns around.

“I always figured you had a thing for Lark.”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

“I’ll let him know,” Xavier snorts as he slides into the bed. She squishes herself more to the wall, but the side of his arm touches hers anyway.

“Please do, actually. Asshole.”

—

When she lays there, with him asleep, she tries to actually make herself find him attractive. She can’t—really not possible. Xavier is fundamentally good looking. He’s got such defined features, such a strong nose that compliments his brows and his skin tone is pretty with those flecks of freckles. His hair is a good red shade, dark and soft looking. And he smiles a lot, and his chipped canine almost gives him an endearing flaw. But, no matter how hard she tries, with his face tilted toward her, all she can think is that he probably needs more artificial daylight. Both of them probably do.

But, she’s thinking it, because, why Tillman? Why not Lark? Because it would ruin their friendship? Why not Benson? Maybe he’s too—well, he’s weird, actually. But it could even be one of the pretty techs (one that looks at him, all the time, that says, look at me, look at me, Corporal), or another officer, or it could be someone from engineering—he could have options. He does have options, but it’s Tillman.

She can’t figure out why.

Nomi flattens her hand over Xavier’s bicep. There is black ink all over his skin, in little designs she finds maybe amusing. They’re classic looking, bold and so him. He makes a mmh sound in his sleep and adjusts a little. He lays on his back, one arm around his ribs, the other snug by her, his head tilted on the pillow.

“Did your tattoos hurt?” She asks. They don’t put you under for those, like they do a good old body mod. Tattoo culture is different—you’re supposed to feel all those lasers, hot, quick and searing. Xavier shakes his head, but his eyes are still closed. Still asleep, or, half there.

“High pain tolerance,” he mumbles sleepily. In more ways than one, she guesses.

[unknownjpegs]

observe

He’s been seeing things. 

Not long, really. But frequent enough the pattern has emerged regardless of time. He isn’t sure how to mention it to Benji; isn’t sure if he should. Because the truth of it is that the things in his peripheral only started blooming there when his expedition returned. 

Benji hasn’t talked about it yet. Maran can tell he’s thinking about it, sat at the edge of his cot in their new quarters, which really is only slightly nicer than prison. He gets this far-off look to him, this softening of his gaze. Privately, Maran thinks about the cud-chewing six legged steer on their home planet. Massive creatures but docile, with eyes that shone with everything but intelligence. He feels guilty for thinking that way about Benji, because he’s anything but stupid. Yet that look he gets is one of fear, of prey, of creeping animal terror. The panic that a little creature gets before it runs straight into a trap, because it’s not thinking of any other way but forward, go, flee, leave!

Maran wonders if Benji can see that panic on his face, too. If he maybe won’t have to have that conversation — I think I’m losing my mind and it scares me — because Benji can tell. 

So Maran doesn’t mention the strange reflection that smiles back at his passive face in the mirror. The blobs of light bending at the edges of the ship’s windows, like something four dimensional and strange is trying to seep in like liquid, like tendrils. They’re not really there. And his dreams aren’t all that weird, really. And it wasn’t his mother he saw in the cafeteria, tray full of recently re-hydrated rations. It was just a soldier that looked like her. That had her voice, her mannerisms. 

Maran doesn’t mention any of it. If he’s the only one seeing it, fine. He’s losing it. He can deal. 

But if he’s not, isn’t that so much fucking worse?

*

He can’t sleep. Sleep usually comes easy to him. But he’s awake, can’t find that sweet spot of exhaustion. Truthfully, Maran hasn’t experienced insomnia since — well. Since a different ship. In some ways, a more frightening one. Prison ships aren’t just violent, crammed to the brim, unhygienic, dangerous, cruel, floating graveyards. They’re loud, too. People might expect that. But Maran knows how loud. The noise never stops. The brutal noise of the more sadistic guards breaking bones for fun, someone wailing for their family, sobbing, shouting, swearing. They’re never quiet. And obviously he’d found that environment unwelcoming for sleep.

Since his escape, he’d become accustomed to the low drone of their comfy, familiar ship. Just the cockpit and quarters and engine, just enough space; no bodies crammed, no one hurt, no one sobbing (unless sometimes one of them would). He was used to Benji’s soft, steady breathing and the hum of the hyperdrive, which he would tease Matilda for being quieter than her girly snoring.

Soldiers are loud like prisoners. And so Maran finds himself sleeping less sound, then sleep walking, then sleep escapes him entirely. Benji sleeps. Benji looks as if he tries not to sleep. The circles under his eyes lessen, but the aura of them remains — fatigued, strung out, anxious, miserable. He doesn’t know how to help, even if that’s all he wants. He doesn’t know how to sleep, even if that’s all he wants. 

So Maran takes walks. He’s good about it. He tries to make sure the soldiers know he’s being good, he’s being trustworthy. He keeps his hands out of his pocket as he strides up and down the maze of halls. He stays in vision of each camera, keeps moving steadily, doesn’t peek into rooms or pause or hang about places where a former prisoner and now tentative ally shouldn’t be. 

And occasionally, when he takes a turn the thought led to one wing of the ship and it spits him out somewhere else, Maran pretends he doesn’t get lost. 

He’s been seeing things. He thinks, at first, that what he witnesses during one of these walks is one of those mirages. The real-not-real. His mind going, hanging on by stringy threads of tissue, is just fucking with him. 

*

Outside the hydroponics lab, Maran pauses. He tries to keep his pauses to a minimum; he knows he’s being watched by someone on the cameras. Some bored soldier looking to pick a fight. 

But he lingers at the massive window anyway, each time he finds it. The lush green is unlike anything he’s ever seen before. The air mists every so often, branches of plants he doesn’t know the names of or even recognize dancing softly under the carefully controlled conditions. 

He lingers, and he sees something. 

At first his brain filters it out. Trick of the light, seeing things, smiling reflection, corner of his vision sorts of horrors he’d rather not address. And then his gut says look again, so he does, and —

Two figures. Near the far wall, by the opposite entrance to the lab. Concealed in the thickets of green; it’s been awhile since anything blossomed. If he thinks about it, he can probably place that the produce stopped growing around the time this ship drifted into sharing distance of its haunted, abandoned cousin. 

But Maran can’t think about anything other than the fact that he recognizes one of the people, who move slowly closer. No — he recognizes both. 

The thick window blocks sound, but he sees their mouths moving. Heads tilted to look at one another, hands slowly reaching across the distance to pull together, touch more. Maran watches as the taller bends slightly. Maran watches as Nomi’s face is cradled with a delicate touch. Something that reads familiarity, intimacy, habit. He watches, and he thinks maybe he ought to feel strongly about this. He likes Nomi. He’d like to be doing exactly this; standing close to her, looking down into her pretty pink eyes, trace droplets of the hydroponic mist from her mouth, feel her hands clutch the back fo his shirt as their lips touch. 

It looks like a kiss meant to comfort.

He blinks at himself in the reflection, and then avoids eye contact with it. He angles away, takes a step. Pauses. Backs up, peers around the corner, feeling the distantly sick twist of guilt in his stomach for it. He shouldn’t be watching. It’s private. He should be jealous, shouldn’t he? He should be upset. Nomi hadn’t said anything to him about this, about him. And he thought maybe the two of them, Maran and Nomi, that they could — well. That they could be Maran and Nomi. 

But as he watches Nomi’s head be carefully tilted back, her full and soft-looking cheeks cradled in tattooed hands, he’s thinking only I could do that, too. He’s thinking I’d like to be comforted like that. He’s thinking I’m going back to bed alone; it’ll be cold. 

He wonders what a bed warmed by that many bodies might feel like. Blistering, maybe. Fully encompassing. Like stepping on the surface of a star.

[spacebar2]

More of the weed dsmp au..........

Reminder that tommy eats random things in this au, he is immune to any ill effects so weed doesn't effect him!!!

[puppyeared]

doodles of my fav sillies

anton belongs to @poicyss

[ravewing]

wof infection au part 3! more under the cut; all parts will be tagged under 'fragariapathosis' 😋😋

cw for scary imagery!! creepypasta-esque stuff, disease, blood, trypophobia, body horror, et cetera et cetera. inspired by the mlp infection aus on tiktok yayy

[sweeneydino]

Will you ever make something else for the "Transporters don't act like they do in Space Heroes Leo!" Au? I find the concept fascinating and it's rotating in my brain like a rotisserie chicken.

(no pressure or rushing or anything just a genuine question)

Of course!

The 2012 turtles have a restraining order against me now

If anyone has any little headcanons, I'd be fine with drawing some them :)

Kind of a part 2 of the last ask post.

[absurdumsid]

he says to be careful it's hot

happy new years ! it's the first bad sansuary post !! <- i do NOT know if ill be able to do all of the prompts but i will try !!

Horror! Sans belongs to Sour_Apple_Studios

[gearbroth]

I saw something in those woods I don't think I should have.

[glucosegaurdian]

on more of my eldritch Danny kick. Ancient of space and I was going to do suns/stars where the eyes were but something about the eyes just felt right.. also constellation scars.

[yumespooki]

Starcatcher brain things

[unknownjpegs]

dream

When Benji boards the ship, it’s eerily quiet. Usually, Maran’s got something going loud over the speakers. Old music that Benji doesn’t have a taste for, or ancient films that give Mati a headache. And sometimes it’ll just be the two of them curled up together. A few scratchy blankets covering long limbs, tangled and amebous as they share stories or encounters. One laughing, gossiping creature that Benji loves so dearly. An entity, a together that he could join, sink into, that will open its cell walls for him and only him, let him in. Let him rest.

Except it’s quiet. Neither of them are on the ship. They’re rarely alone. Privacy on the tiny ship is unheard of, but they’ve adapted. They bump together, of course, create friction and fights and even cold shouldered disagreements that, on occasion, create periods of elongated silence that last days.

He’d hear a fight. He hears nothing.

The only sound that fills the dark, quiet ship is the drone of its engines, the crackle of various electronics and occasional static from the comms. It’s a white noise din that Benji usually appreciates —lonesome silence makes him edgy. Nervous. Nothing to hear, nothing to do; he gets lost in his thoughts without a good distraction.

But they don’t spin in dizzying, tangled circles. They don’t spin at all. Benji steps onto the dark craft and moves towards navigation without thinking about it at all. His feet move of their own accord, steer him towards the hulking hydraulic door.

The deck is dark too, lit incredibly dim by the flash of various lights, buttons, and dials. 

I think you make it up as you go along, he’d once told Matilda, staring at then dizzying array of potentiality. 

Sometimes, she’d admitted, and then tossed her hair at his horrified expression. Oh, relax. I’m fucking with you.

“Matilda?” He asks, creeping slowly into the room. There’s a tight wind of anxiety in his chest, someone twisting and twisting and twisting everything in his chest. Anticipatory animal fear, like the softening of music in a tense movie scene. Instinct in the nothing before a jump scare. “Quit fuckin’ with me.”

The pilot’s chair creaks as it turns. A shadowed figure reclines in it, legs tossed out lazily. One knee rotates back and forth, pushing the chair in a childish, repetitive rotation. The overhead lights flick on, and Benji narrows his sore eyes with an annoyed grunt, shielding them with his hand. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He recoils in shock, one full step back. He expects the thunk of his boot against sheet metal, maybe even his heel to catch on that one rivet near the doorframe that always seems to trip him up when he’s in a rush. Except there’s no deep sound of sole against metal. Benji glances down — he’s not wearing boots. He’s not wearing his suit, although he doesn’t recall peeling himself from it when he boarded. Instead, he’s in a soft, loose pair of sweats. Safe clothes. Comfortable enough to sleep in. One of his favorite articles of clothing, actually. They’re old, hems torn and ragged around his ankles, holes in the thigh and waistband elastic weakened by time. 

“Nap okay?” 

Benji blinks. There’s no reason for the corporal to be on Matilda’s ship. No reason for him to be out of uniform — which he is. Noticeably. Benji tries not to, but…

“Yes.” He says slowly, although he isn’t sure if he means it. He can’t remember napping. Can’t remember restfulness even if he found it. “I think so.”

Xavier stands slowly from the chair, his eyebrows bunched in amusement and mouth wearing that crooked smirk. “You think so?” 

Benji watches then movement hawklike, then feels strange for the intense observation. Guilty. He turns his gaze away, looks out the massive window above the control panel. There’s nothing but the ink of space, tiny dots of stars. Where are we? Where are the others? Why are you here? Why are you — 

The soldier moves closer. He seems to glide across the deck towards Benji instead of walk. He could be floating, for all Benji cares. He’s not looking below Xavier’s neck; his eyes are locked summarily to his expression, which has darkened. Not in anger or displeasure, but — desire? Those poisonous green eyes are still glinting in the way that Benji appreciates, just heavy-lidded. His mouth is shiny, cheeks flushed. Benji blinks again. The motion feels syrupy, disjointed and lagging in time. 

Where are we? Where are the others? Why are you here?

“I know I did,” Xavier says softly. “I slept so good.”

He’s in front of Benji. Towering. Frightening in a way that makes his heart race. But there’s an encouragingly affectionate tilt to his head that softens the massive shape of him. Makes him less intimidating. More…touchable. Before Benji can think about it, he does exactly that. His hand floats between them for a moment. They both watch it, watch how his wrist rotates slowly. Instead of flattening palm-down to Xavier’s chest, Benji coasts his knuckles over the too-big t-shirt the other man wears. It’s as soft as Benji’s sweats. Safe-soft. He imagines himself sleeping in it. 

“Looks good on you,” Xavier whispers. He stands even closer now, properly shadowing Benji like the dark side of a moon. Benji drags his hand back and looks down. He’s wearing the shirt now, instead. Xavier is bare from the waist up.

Benji laughs, trying not to let the noise sound as high and nervous as he fears it might wind. “I feel like I’m dreaming.” 

Where are we? 

Xavier’s chin tilts more severely. The longest bits of his vibrant, copper-red hair hang a bit. They’re just barely long enough to tease his jaw, flutter against the middle of his neck.

 “Me too.” He admits with an increasingly bright smile. Benji’s incapable of smothering his own, faced with that sweetly open joy. “All the time, around you.”

A shuddering breath leaves him. It rattles as an inhale in chest, fresh air cold and bright as it fills his lungs. He feels awake, eager. Alive. “Yeah?” 

The nod the question receives is sluggish, like Xavier can’t spare the awareness to make it any faster. His eyes are intense as they burn into Benji’s. He already has gently shallow wrinkles at the corners that will only deepen with age — as long as he keeps smiling like that. Benji feels the thrum of obsessive, gorgeous desire to make it so. 

Where are the others? Benji means to ask him. Instead, he’s enveloped by a pair of strong arms. Xavier’s huge hands are dry and smooth as they cup Benji’s shoulders. His thumbs play with either side of the shirt’s hem, pads rubbing circles against the tendon near his clavicle. He shivers. Xavier notices.

One red brow quirks. Benji’s never told him as much, but he likes the elegant curve. It frames his face, accentuates bone structure he already categorizes as absurd. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Benji breathes. He doesn’t mean to: the breath is supposed to be just that — air. But they spring to the surface nonetheless, mirroring the leap of color to Xavier’s face. 

A warm hand slides up his neck, leaving a trail of prickling skin and goosebumps. Benji tilts his head to accommodate the touch, craving its intimacy so desperately it makes him feel ashamed. He blinks rapidly as its twin moves on the opposite side, continues the climb further to cup Benji’s cheek. He almost moans at that.

“It feels good to touch you.” Xavier admits. “I just..want to keep touching you. Like, forever.” He sounds turned on; his laugh is as breathless as Benji feels. He bends closer. Their foreheads press. Benji wonders if Xavier can feel how feverish he is, wonders if the heat in his face radiates.

Why are you here?

Benji’s wrist is enclosed by a firm yet gentle grip. His hand is guided first over the slight curve of his waist, the meager swell of tissue and fat at his hip. Benji tries to stop himself from squeezing there, but feels the flesh give beneath his fingers anyway. And he tries to hold back more of that when the touch is guided up, but fingernails rake over a freckled abdomen and a nipple between his thumb and index begs to be pinched and — then there’s no fucking point in self-control, is there?

Benji allows his hand to be moved where it’s wanted. Which, it seems, is everywhere. Of its own accord, the other lifts to meet it. Both coast over the bare, pale torso in front of him, but he doesn’t watch the movements. Not the soft give of a pectoral beneath his palm, or four stark lines of scratches down Xavier’s sternum. Instead, Benji watches his face. Notes the pinch of his brow, the wanton and wet circle of his slack mouth. Xavier’s cheeks bloom with just as bright a red as the color of blood. It spreads over his nose, stops abruptly in the hollow of his throat. Benji frowns.

“What?” Xavier asks breathily. His chest rises and falls steady, but warm air pants against Benji’s cheek. His long fingers are twisted into his hair, massaging and pulling gently when he finds specific, sensitive places on his body.

“I just can’t believe —” Benji begins, clears his throat. He sounds rough, but not hoarse. Dark and keyed up, even to his own ears. Of course he is. Xavier is…he’s —

The soldier leans down, cutting the rest of Benji’s sentence into pieces. He groans throatily as their mouths meet, as Xavier’s plush bottom lip touches his, slightly off mark and getting more of the corner of his lips. With a laugh, Benji reaches up to cradle his jaw, forcibly move into a better alignment. The noise Xavier makes reverberates in the small space. 

Benji realizes they’re no longer standing in the center of the deck, but sitting. At least, he is. Xavier has perched in his lap, long legs tucked on either side of his thighs. He’s rocking slightly against the seat of Benji’s sweats, undulating motions that press their stomachs and chests together. Somehow, they haven’t parted from one another. Benji’s head has been tilted up to better accommodate the height difference between them; he’s tilted this way and that, Xavier’s fingers scrabbling and tightening and adjusting, re-adjusting, pawing at his face, his hair, thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones, pressing to his mouth. It’s messy and more than a little disgusting, slick with spit and breath mingled until he isn’t sure who breathes in when, who sighs out shared air. 

And Xavier was right. It is fucking good to touch.

“Xavier.” He groans, but the noise abruptly cuts, muffled as the other man darts in. Two fingers touch firmly to his bottom lip, enough force for Benji to keep his jaw open. He’s kissed again, slick mouths rubbing filthily together. Xavier keeps his fingers in place, planting wet and open-mouthed kisses around his knuckles to Benji’s lips, his chin, his cheek.

“You taste,” Xavier whines that hoarse whisper into his mouth. “So fucking good.” Xavier’s fingers press to his tongue, an easy slip across it and then away, pulling Benji’s bottom lip down. And then he adjusts in his lap again, back arching against the cupping sweep of Benji’s hands, removes pale fingers from his mouth, and sucks them clean in his own. He’s noisily appreciative about it, so much so that the heat flashes again in Benji’s cheeks.

“Fucking hell,” Benji hisses, head falling back against the chair. Xavier is quick to follow, leaning forward as he rocks in place. The friction is good — and then it disappears entirely when that mouth presses to his neck. When teeth nip at the tendon, a tongue slides across his pulse, nose tucked behind his ear. 

“Benji,” Xavier’s saying, his movements fluid instead of stilted. His name is repeated over and over; breathy, punched out, groaned, gasped. They’re fucking, suddenly. The awareness of that makes Benji laugh. And Xavier does, too. A sweet harmony, airy and tucked away into Benji’s hair. His cheek rests against Xavier’s, hands firm on a slim waist as Xavier writhes in his lap, naked thighs flexing. 

“Benji.” This time, his name is a plea. Benji nods, his eyes slipping shut. His face tilts to the ceiling. Xavier lifts himself up, nearly all the way off and then drops down abruptly. It becomes frantic, their movements hurried. Xavier’s hips churn, his arms tight around Benji’s neck as he burrows as close as he can, fit his cock as deep. Benji’s weak to it, clutching tight and biting his lip. When he opens his eyes, Xavier peers down at him. 

Hot, winding fear flashes through him. Nothing like an orgasm, the sweet nasty wash of pleasure in his gut. Instead it’s unbridled terror.

 Xavier’s eyes are milky at the edges, a swirling cloud of black smog eating away the forest green of his irises.

Everything shifts. They’re not in the cockpit of Matilda’s ship. They’re not on her ship at all. They — they’re back there. The winding paths, the closed halls, bodies, bodies, bodies….and the sudden, impossible wall. Massive, chalky, crumbling in places. Benji stares up at it as it stretches into the sky and further. Spiraling up, up, up, distorting as his vision loses detail, a fuzzy white pillar of impossible height far above. It shimmers at the edges, disappears and merges with the nothing of space above. Washes it out, a wiped slate devoid of anything at all. 

And then the wall tilts. It creaks as it does. He can’t move. His legs won’t work, even as the shadow of the thing climbs over him. It’s so monstrous and dark that it makes him cold, chills the blood in his veins, and as it falls closer all he can do is watch. Wait to be crushed.

Benji. Benji. Benji!

His eyes snap open.

*

“Sorry.” Xavier whispers. His face is twisted in horrible, terrified worry. “You…you were having a nightmare, I think.” He wrings his hands, lifting and dropping them uselessly. “You were crying. It was kind of freaky.”

Benji sits up quickly. A swipe across his face reveals Xavier hadn’t been lying: his cheeks are wet and tacky with drying tears. Rivers down his jaw, pooling with the sweat on his neck. 

And despite the filthiness of the dream, a quick glance downwards he’s not at all hard. In fact, he feels clammy. Sick to his stomach. His chest is tight, heart racing underneath the palm he presses there. Benji swings his legs over the edge of the cot and Xavier takes a step back to give him space.

For the past week, since their return from the ship and its poor fucking bastard of a crew, Benji has chosen the corporal’s quarters as his place of rest. Not like that — they don’t sleep in the same bed. The first night had been an unspoken offer, a silently appreciative acceptance. No words had been exchanged, just their shared, muted horror. Lingering like a mist around their heads, fogginess like…like…

Well. Like waking from a dream.

And then it had simply become habit. Dragging a cot down towards the soldiers’ quarters, setting it up in the corner of the room. It was easier to sleep that way, in company he could trust. In company that knew how it felt to sit alone in the dark and think only of bodies in suits, of flashing emergency lights, of fear. An intruder’s panic: a virus cooked alive, swallowed and chewed by a defiled body’s last line of defense. But the familiarity only extended so far. He could stretch that logic so thin: for each subsequent visit, Benji’s cot had found itself closer and closer to Xavier’s own. Until one night Benji had awoken turned towards him, awoken to their thighs touching, to Xavier’s arm slung over his chest, to his own leg slung over the soldier’s waist.

He’s not a heavy sleeper. He wakes to all manner of things, no less the touch of a relative stranger. And Benji wakes from other things, usually. Nasty things. Not just nightmares, but terrors.  Or he wakes to — things like that dream. Visions that are worse, in some ways. Better, in many more.

Benji clears his throat, lifting his head from where it hangs loose between his shoulders. But he doesn’t look at Xavier — can’t, just yet. He assesses a new scar on the back of his hand as his fingers twist together nervously. His boots tap a concurrent rhythm, bolstering him to keep speaking. 

“Since we came back,” Benji starts slowly, pausing to swallow the remainder of his nerves. “Have you been having weird dreams?”

“Weird… how?”

Only now does Benji’s gaze lift. He tries not to let it crawl up the soldier, but the journey up him takes so long with his height that it’s almost impossible. At least, that’s what he tells himself. 

“I — never mind.”

Xavier stares down at him. Benji doesn’t have a hard time reading him. His face tends to stay open, expressive, vulnerable. It’s hard for the corporal to have an emotion not be advertised to the outside world. But now, he looks suspiciously neutral. Relaxed. His lip is tucked between his teeth, but other than that…he seems normal.

“Are you sure?” Xavier asks. He blinks once at Benji. It’s fast, and Benji tries not to think that he might like it if Xavier blinked that way because he didn’t want to look away, either. 

No, I’m really fucking not. Benji thinks, curious if the thought projects or stays safely a lie.

“Positive.”

[profoundbondfanfic]

Dark Side of the Moon

Dark Side of the Moon by imogenbynight (@thevioletcaptain) Rating: Explicit Word Count: 55k

Five months into his six month mission, an accident leaves Flight Engineer Dean Winchester stranded on the moon. It comes down to a man he has never met to bring him home.

This fic has The Martian vibes, so if you like your shipping paired with the inherent horror of being stranded in space, I have great news.

Dean is the sole survivor after an accident kills his crew. His hope for survival rests in a stranger, Cas.  Dean and Cas bond immediately and it makes for a compelling love story. The fic is also well cast with deeply likable characters.

In the end, if you are looking for tense drama with a happy ending, this is a great choice. There's a real Cas saving Dean from Hell vibe to the fic that hits so very right.

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (VIII)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and whatever prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

PART ONE is here PART TWOis here PART THREEis here PART FOUR is here and PART FIVE is here PART SIX is here and PART SEVEN is here and this is part 8 💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts

Where we last left off... Everybody got lunch! Not Danny, though. :) He was taking a nap. And Wonder Woman

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my awful attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

Danny only doesn’t throw something because he already knew someone was on their way. The alien told him so. It’s not a surprise.

There’s someone new here. In his room. At the edge of his curtain. Too close to his bed. Danny doesn’t like it. He doesn’t hiss, because that’s Rude, but he does push his shadow to be bigger. Longer. Darker.

The human just waves. Waits. Holds something out in its hand. Danny doesn’t care. He can’t see it and he’s not going to go over there.

The human makes more words Danny can’t hear. Blech. He wonders what everyone knows here that he doesn’t. Is it French? Is it German? Jazz—

Thinking about Jazz makes his heart hurt.

Danny curls up further into the dark spots on his bed.

The human steps past Danny’s curtain. Danny does hiss, now, something long and low and halfway out of a human hearing range.

The human pauses. Its black haired-head tilts. It says—something else. Its tone is still gentle.

Danny doesn’t trust it. But it doesn’t get any closer, either. It only…holds out a hand.

There’s something in that hand.

It’s a trap, it has to be. But—

The alien said that they had friends in this tower. That the humans here are…safe. Danny doesn’t believe it. Danny is afraid to believe it.

But one of them gave him food.

…And the younger ones feed him all the time.

So maybe. Danny. Maybe he can. He flinches and he leans forward.

Danny can. He can’t see most things. But something aches in his skull where he is meant to see color and shape and familiarity, and something in his melted brain whispers wait, watch.

Danny’s back arches.

He waits. He watches.

…The object doesn’t do anything. The human simply sets it on Danny’s side table, and then it’s an object. A mostly white, somewhat red object. The other colors might be blue, or gray; they’re not distinct enough to be distinguishable in Danny’s mostly mush eyes. It’s oblong, and sort of round and—

Danny jerks upright. He snatches the item off of the table as quickly as he can, brings it as close to his eyes as he can— IT’S A ROCKET!!!! It is!!!! With fuel thrusters and everything!! If Danny had his whole brain he thinks that he could even recognize which one!!

He purrs, and he purrs, and he purrs, and he takes his pillow and he settles the hard plastic into his kind-of-damp (but mostly dry!) pillows and leans into it, happy to have this thing he likes and can recognize!!

Fine. Danny can like this human. When it comes back with little pills in a paper cup, it bravely gets closer, so Danny can see black hair pulled back, a tail swinging behind her, a tinge of red under a mostly-opaque white medical gown, and gold bracelets on her arms.

…Danny touches the bracelets to investigate before he can even be scared. They shiver with energy. Danny’s fragile form shivers back.

The human spends a lot of time with words Danny can’t hear on the paper cup, and she pulls out each little pill inside so that she can say more things, show him what it looks like, let him smell each capsule and tablet.

When the buzzing human comes back with a vibrato of joycurio/us!/joy in its wake, eager to see Danny as he is relieved to see it, Danny shows him the little paper cup.

The buzzing human trills with relief! Relief! Relief!

…That’s got to be safe enough, right? …Right?

Danny…

It’s been a while since he tried to dry-swallow medicine down his torn esophagus, but everyone’s immediate rush to find him water makes the swallow easier than Danny might have thought.

Some of the medicine is going to make him sleepy. Danny remembers enough about medicine to remember that. The thought of being vulnerable and not able to wake up is scary; but if Danny is going to get better, he’s going to have to trust that not every human wants to make sample slides out of his organs and jam needle-long electrodes into his brain, and he will have to fall asleep and not cry about it.

The cup of water the quickquickquick human gets him is so nice. His claws clink against the ceramic of the mug. Most of the liquid actually makes it into his mouth, and some of it even into his throat.

Danny lays down, pulls the rocket ship closer to his fragile form, and purrs. The fastquick human takes Danny’s hand so that he’s not alone.

At some point, his paper eyelids shut.

[emmikoochaitea]

I can’t tell you how HAPPY I am to finally make an au version of my ocs with this au, Space riders is one of my favorite aus ever created and I want to show my love for it! So have my two smiling critters Kitty and Fenni in Space rider forms!

This au was created by @onyxonline

In this au, Kittybelle and Fenni were training to be space riders, however Fenni goes missing (Kidnapped but one knows that) years later Kitty graduates and is now a space rider (with a crew of others I’ll make soon) she ends up fighting a cult ritual and fights them off, one of the members fights Kitty and it gets into a brutal fight. Kitty is able to break the mask off of the member, revealing it to be Fenni’s face. Kitty stares in silence.. and the only thing she can say is

“Fenn?”

Because Fenni is blind, she doesn’t recognize her, until she hears that familiar voice. The two just both sit in silence.

Hope you enjoyed that little story and if it gets enough attention I’ll continue it!

Also bonus for Kitty’s space outfit and original Kittybelle and Fenni Fennec refs

Part 2:

[spookuzm]

Fluff Gang

[amazingspider-z]

potentially partially inspired by @wazzappp 's Mantis Blade au in terms of Khaji Da giving Jaime funky little extras (that make him suffer so much) i present the wing portion of the Reachling au!

Inspired by that time he fell from orbit without Khaji Da in issue #36 of the 2006 run.

Basically, my current working theory is that Khaji Da was prepping a bunch of. Ahem. extras that just needed to be triggered to cause the musculoskeletal change just in case, and while it was initializing the reboot they activated the wings along with the forcefield, which. Doing it all at once as they were shutting down definitely hurt like hell, but Jaime did get out of orbit without breaking (almost) every bone in his body so. A win is a win (until he decompresses enough for everything to sink in, anyway).

Like actual beetle wings, they fold up, although Jaime doesn't have elytra unless he is actually suited up, and if Khaji Da lends a hand they can even fold up beneath the skin. They're also the wings he has from this point on as the Blue Beetle, although like the rest of him they end up armored, and have that extra technological oomph.