Scrap: Plasma and Pickup Lines
#1 of Scraps!
Short and sweet. Two sangheili hook up just after the Great Schism. Contains some M/M, 1013 words.
Hi, guys! So, as I mentioned in my last journal, I have a lot of old, random stuff, and I kind of want to publish some of it, even if it may be short or not something I particularly intend to finish. So, that's what this is: the first thing of that. It's not particularly ambitious, and I'm not sticking it up because it's long and developed and engaging, the way I know my readers enjoy. But, I hope a few people will appreciate reading it.
So, yeah, it's Halo fanfic. I've written some of that, heheh, and I've read my fair share of it, and I quite enjoy it, as a genre. This was originally intended to be a longer series, which I started writing a long, long time ago (around when Halo 3 came out, if I recall correctly). It's set immediately following the events of Halo 2.
There was still debris strewn all across the fifteenth deck, but the lounge had been mostly cleared, excepting a large heap in the corner that the room's inhabitants had to skirt around awkwardly. The atmosphere was dismal and uncomfortable; it was oddly quiet. There weren't half as many sangheili in the room as their might normally have been, and though this lounge was generally private to that race, the absence of other species still made itself felt.
The behaviour of the sangheili in the room was complex. Compared to that which was normal for a lounge such as this, very little had changed in the sharp looks, gruff conversation, and leers which passed between the warriors; Iru thought that no more nor less of the ship's population was likely to get laid this shift, and the medbay was already so full that no one wanted to risk any fights. The grins, jokes, and laughs that often permeated the dim room, however, were nowhere to be found, except in the rare muffled, cynical chuckle, which was quickly stifled and drew more eyes than it ought. It wasn't really a nice atmosphere, but what was he supposed to do if he wanted to get drunk and end up in some other Minor's bunk?
Though, come to think of it, he wasn't really sure if that was even what he wanted.
Iru 'Nasoree, a somewhat slight and blue-armoured member of his species, was leaning against the wall rather than sitting, drinking from a tank by grasping the blunt spout in his mandibles and pressing it to the opening of his mouth. He'd turned down two others already, one a Major Stealth Specialist and the other a Minor Domo like himself. It was looking to end up one of the more common nights, where he left drunk and alone, with the eyes of quite a few others following him out the door uncertainly.
"Hey."
His gold eyes jerked up, caught those of a more orange-red hue. A Spec Ops induct, dark purple-black armour shining in the low light, bulging over his solid muscles. He was a big guy, overshadowing the Minor by at least a necklength, shoulders broad and imposing, but he didn't seem terribly threatening in his demeanour.
"You're awful quiet, standing over here by yourself. Want some company?" The specops's voice was deep and soft, and his eyes burned.
Iru smiled a little, drank some more. "I might like that. 'Nasoree."
"'Vardan," the specops replied, quietly. "You might want to consider dropping that suffix."
Iru nodded a little to himself. "I suppose it's come to that, hasn't it?"
"Not officially," 'Vardan replied. "But I expect the Shipmaster will relay an order as soon as he has the time to consider such trivialities."
The two stood there in silence for a moment, each lost in thoughts still scarred with the sounds of plasma fire and the scent of blood. Iru had been sent out from the battlecruiser soon after the fighting had started, a recovery team sent to escort a high-ranking Sangheili dignitary from the council district to the docking ring. They'd been ambushed by a pack of brutes, the dignitary had been slaughtered, and most of the team had been killed or captured. Only Iru and the Major in charge of the detachment, Gorin 'Helomee (or 'Helom, now), had escaped the carnage. Iru had been afraid they would be executed for insubordination, as would surely have happened to any Covenant soldier who failed so abysmally. Upon the report of mission failure, however, the Ultra just grimaced and told them to get some rest. The fleet needed every soldier it had, now.
'Vardan, on the other hand, had been on High Charity when the revolt broke out, and had fought his way back to the docking ring single-handedly. No trouble for a specops. Iru knew better than to ask what he was doing there in the first place. He'd taken a turret and kept the docking ring clear for nearly forty minutes, as the cruiser Eminent Soliloquy readied itself for an emergency departure, taking on the few straggling Sangheili fighting their way toward the ships.
And now he was here. This ship had not been his assignment; he was detached from his unit and unfamiliar with any of the superiors. What else did he have to do, off-shift, than seduce the closest attractive Minor? He had a thing for blue armor.
'Vardan made Iru grin, in a dark, tense sort of way that he found himself growing fond of. Being near him was just enough of a rush of danger, mingled with his benign but gruff personality. Maybe he needed something like this.
Yeah. Maybe.
'Vardan had temporary quarters near the front of the ship. Iru saw little of them beyond the corners where his armor skittered to, and the rail of the specops officer's gravity bunk, which he squeezed tightly with both hands as a lance of cleansing fire speared deep into his gut. It hurt... in such an addictive way.
'Vardan chuckled when he grunted in pain; the specops officer was a lot thicker than most males he'd taken, and in no way short. "I'd expect more from someone as loose as you;" he growled, and Iru blushed and ducked his head; the shot at his history was well-deserved. But it was worth it.
If nothing else, 'Vardan knew what he was doing. He was enough of a gentleman to attend to his partner as well as himself, and was good at it; Iru was moaning loudly, mandibles flaring, by the end of it. And the specops lasted quite a while; drew out his and his partner's pleasure until both were writhing, desperate for it to end. 'Vardan even let him finish first.
And when Iru was standing there, legs splayed, dripping from between them, 'Vardan curled his arms around the Minor and whispered, "...Stay. Please. I need to feel like... Like I have someone."
He couldn't possibly leave, after that. Iru 'Nasor was not that sort of sangheili, nor would he ever be.
I mostly just like the way this came out, even though I don't intend to finish it, and it's not particularly meaningful or developed on its own. I like the tone of it, the feeling. I actually considered converting it to furry characters, and using it in another story, because I liked it so much, but I never came up with a story to use it in, so I decided to just publish it as-is.
So, this folder will probably fill up with some more old, short things over time. Certainly not something to subscribe to, but I hope people can enjoy the scrappy bits as well as the big long romantic things.