#i will never not be able to randomly bang out a 1k+ writing for xavier hes a parasite in my brain

[day0walker]

i wrote my oc spitting in @fr0ntier​ ‘s oc’s mouth because there is no reason, i wrote it because me and fr0ntier are on wavelengths of disgusting and it was fun (xavier’s callsign is ‘baby’ in case anyone besides them reads this LMAO)

They’re all in the bar, round table sticky, a pack of cigarettes practically torn open and shared between the five men, one left and half out and twisted so tobacco is just spilling its guts. There’s too many empty beer pints for just five of them; it’d been too long of a night that none of them seem interested in ending.

“I’m gunning after Baby,” one of the men is saying, enraptured in the story, hands moving with exaggerated motion. “Across the airfield to try and get him.” Xavier is rolling his eyes upward, arms thrown out in that classic come the fuck on gesture. He’s too long bodied to be tossing himself everywhere, but he seems too drunk to care. They all seem a little too drunk.

Benji endures the sharp snap of Xavier’s hand against his shoulder and nurses the beer in front of him.

“Did you catch him in time?” Another soldier asks, fishing through his pockets, trying to find a lighter, eying the split cigarette like he might be able to salvage it. Benji wants to say, good fucking luck, man and is thankful for the secret remaining two in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“The magazine wasn’t upside down,” Xavier defends himself, hand curling over Benji’s shoulder where it had landed. It’s warm and large and heavy, like a catchers mitt. He seems to squeeze Benji unconsciously as he rambles his defense. “So he didn’t need to be chasing me. You can’t even shove a magazine in the wrong way, so he’s lying.”

“Whatever. You were so hungover you would have loaded a mortar wrong if you tried.”

“They don’t let Baby near explosives anymore.”

“You ordered shots?”

The waitress makes all five men turn their head her way. She stands there, serving platter of alcohol and it’s like dogs wagging their tails, like she accidentally stumbled into a kennel instead of the corner of the bar—and to her credit, she does a fantastic job of ignoring all of them and dropping the shots onto their table with no ceremony, pomp, flair or attention to the one all but slinking toward her.

Benji stands, feels the unsteadiness sweep into his knees and the world tilt a couple different ways; alcohol in his bloodstream thicker than the blood. It had been a good excuse to drink, coming with his fellow soldiers to the bar, but sometimes, they leaned a lean more on the annoying side than they did fun. The cigarettes in his pocket had his name written on them along with the standard “will cause cancer” warning.

“Hey,” Xavier’s paw of a hand catches his wrist. “We’re supposed to take these together?” He’s holding up his shot glass of murky amber liquid and his head is tilted up, smile splitting that pretty pale freckly face.

“I feel like you’ll survive, but you have my deepest sympathies that I won’t be here to enjoy the piss flavored shots.”

The other soldiers laugh, but Xavier doesn’t. His thumb presses a small dent into Benji’s wrist, his smile softer and a little curling.

“I’ll miss ya,” is how he replies before Benji manages to shake him off and stalk through the bar.

—

It’s such a shit dive bar that it doesn’t even have stalls. One of those single use, gender neutral bathroom’s with a cracked toilet bowl, no mirror over the sink and graffiti all over the walls. Benji’s staring at the call this number for the worst blow job you’ll ever get written in sprawling sharpie black when the knock comes at the door.

“Occupied,” he snaps out. Continues pissing.

The knock comes harder. Then again. Then a furious repetitive noise, to the point where it feels like it has to be someone’s IBS emergency to require this sort of attention.

“Are you fucking kidding me—”

Benji shakes, stuffs himself back into his boxers and rips the door open.

It’s like he’s forgotten for the second time that night, that he has a long, lanky body, because Xavier falls into the bathroom with absolutely no regard for the shorter man already occupying it.

“Xavier, what the fuck are you—”

It’s much too small a room (it can’t even be called a room, it’s a closet with plumbing, and shitty plumbing by the way the toilet’s holding on for dear life) so when Xavier joins him, they’re practically knocking chests. Benji’s hands are falling back on the ceramic sink behind him, it digs awfully into his spine and makes him bark like a kicked dog. Xavier has to raise his arm, keep his palm flat to the wall as he’s nearly hunched over the other soldier.

“You didn’t take your shot with us.”

It’s in his hand, not a drop miraculously spilled.

Xavier’s so tall he has to tilt his head down to look at Benji, and their faces are far too close for comfort. Washes of his warm breath keep spilling over Benji’s skin, the smell of nicotine and cheap beer pouring off him—but he’s also got that disgustingly classic boy smell to him that is like a shitty aphrodisiac, so Benji’s annoyed at the slight spool of heat warming up his belly.

“I’m not fucking taking a shot in the bathroom.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is where people piss and shit, Xavier.”

“I’ve heard they do way worse in here.”

The shot is pushed toward him and Benji, for a moment, thinks to slap it out of his hand. But he likes Xavier—everyone likes Xavier, which would make him hate Xavier on principle, but it’s an infectious disease to get along with this guy. His face is open, honest, grinning enough to show the little chip in his canine that he probably got from tripping during a mission.

“Just take the shot!”

“Make me.”

Xavier’s hand blindly reaches toward the door, pawing at it. Benji listens to the click of the shitty metal door lock and for some reason, it’s a sound that makes his spine shiver a little.

“You’re pretty cute, Benji,” is how he starts the sentence and that same hand that locked the door winds up. It’s momentarily making a path over Benji’s chest, leaving burning sensation with his palm, like he’s being branded through his shirt. “You just gotta—I dunno, relax a little.” And that fucking giant hand cups Benji’s jaw, fingers pushing his cheeks.

“I’m relaxed,” he says, but it comes out wrong because Xavier’s hand is practically molding his jaw open.

“Sure.”

Then Xavier takes the shot in his mouth and leans over. As he does, he crunches Benji backward over the sink, curling him, their hips tightly flushed from the lack of space (or maybe, because Xavier wanted to put his hips against him, maybe, in this gross little excuse for a shitty bar’s bathroom, Xavier wants to touch Benji, and be a little filthy about it; maybe Benji can feel the slight hard on through Xavier’s jeans, and maybe it matches his own). His hands stay clenched around the sink and he’s thinking, I could stop him from doing this, but—

And the thought dissipates as Xavier spits the whiskey into his open mouth.

Benji tastes the burn of it, feels it spilling over his chin sloppily. Watches Xavier’s dark green eyes as it fills his mouth. He’s being leaned back so hard it almost makes his spine hurt, the heaviness of Xavier’s body warm and blanketing, and it’s not just whiskey. He tastes the man’s spit, feels it slip over his chin messily.

He swallows, because what else can you do when your mouth is full of terrible cinnamon flavored whiskey and another soldier’s spit? And watching him swallow it causes a low throaty sound to pull from Xavier.

For a long moment, both men are staring at each other and both men are breathing heavily. Xavier’s arm is braced against the wall above the sink, above Benji’s shoulder. Their hips are still collided together. Their legs are four awkward limbs that are awkwardly tangled together. His hand still grips Benji’s face but it moves and he trails his thumb over Benji’s lip; he has rough fingertips, soldier’s calluses. He runs it down to trail the back of his fingers over the shorter man’s throat.

Then Benji coughs, because the whiskey tasted awful and burned his nose and Xavier laughs, far too loudly for the tiny space they’re shoved into.

Someone bangs hard on the bathroom door and both men yell out, “It’s fucking occupied.”

#xavier #original writing #my ocs #i will never not be able to randomly bang out a 1k+ writing for xavier hes a parasite in my brain