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le-chevalier-au-lion · 1 month ago

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miss doris thalassia waters: dovquez [e]

@dovquezdecember + at the edge of the abyss

Marc’s eyes are black as pitch—glossy, pearlescent, edge of the abyss. An appropriate metaphor, considering that Andrea is doing, generally, something very stupid by being there.

He breathes out, the water of Marc’s new pool icy all the way to his knees. Tomorrow, they’ll have Marc’s first open sea swim in God knows how many years—Valentino doesn’t want to talk about it and Marc hasn’t grasped the Gregorian calendar yet so he can’t tell.

Tomorrow, Marc will either stay like Andrea asked, because it’s better for him, because he isn’t strong enough to swim back to Spain yet, but soon, soon, or he won’t.

“Dovi,” he says clumsily, in his lure voice, mimicry gone from foreign language to comfortable, almost natural. “Dovi.”

Andrea catches a blur of white and orange. He freezes, flinches, blood drumming wetly in his temples, on his throat. But Marc’s tail stays there, brushing against his legs—coarse scales on fine, animal fur. It doesn’t wrap, doesn’t tug. Andrea lets out a funny noise, taut.

He can feel his pulse on the tips of his fingers.

“Are you excited?” He asks—fills the silence. His voice sounds strained.

Marc mouths along the words, stares at him unblinkingly. It can be difficult, trying to talk with him. Easier to shoot every question he can come up with, make them yes or no, than watch Marc get frustrated with himself, with language, with humans. He gets impatient fast, having to untangle what he feels.

Andrea is fishing for a new word, another question—

“Yes.” Marc nods, exaggerated, an even clumsier mimicry. Andrea shouldn’t—he absolutely shouldn’t—but he laughs, and he forgets to be afraid for half a heartbeat, this golden giddiness bubbling in his chest.

“Yeah. Me too.”

And it’s the mindfuck of Andrea’s life, same as it was a couple months ago when they met—that he gets to watch the human jolt of Marc’s expression. His twitching eyebrows, the hunch in his shoulders. He’s never gotten around discovering what it means—what he’s thinking when Andrea says home and I’ll help you and you won’t have to stay.

Sometimes—

Andrea stops dead on his tracks. For a marine biologist, he’s always been practical. Prides himself on little, but certainly that.

Marc blinks, finally. Extends his clawed hand to him. The tail petting his legs halts.

I’m going to get killed. He’s had that exact same thought every day since the carabinieri called him—sure, it was the CUFAA; he got fucking spooked anyway—and said they had a problem. Since he looked at Marc in a shitty, cramped tank and got drenched for his troubles of being civil. It rattles in his head, the stuff on Marc’s file, the stuff that he put on Marc’s file.

Mesocarnivore Hypercarnivore with a cultural preference for human flesh glares at him in stark black letters. Ambush hunter. Strict do not approach warnings through all of Spain, and twice as many since he tried to kill every single one of his handlers in Italy.

Andrea shrugs off his shirts, shimmies out of his rolled-up jeans, the cuffs damp. When he grabs Marc’s hand, the claws wrap gently around his wrist’s fragile skin. He gets a final lungful before he’s pushed down.

It’s dark, really dark, only flashes of Marc’s bright tail—the whole fucking nine-or-so feet of it—in the corners of his vision, tightening around them both, bracketing him in. The animal part of Andrea’s brain, the one that knows that it shouldn’t be underwater, is certain that he’s going to die here and now if he doesn’t break loose.

He makes himself stay in place. Even—especially—when Marc crowds against him, right there, his abyss black eyes and the wild flop of dark curls all he can see.

Then—the teeth.

Andrea hisses, precious air spilling from him. Except Marc doesn’t bite or tear him apart limb by limb. He’s smiling, Andrea realizes, with a crooning, self-satisfied relief that almost pulls a manic laugh of his dry, constricting throat. It’s smaller and more careful than what he does when he’s trying to scare people, remind them that animals show teeth for a reason.

His teeth are still very white and very sharp, of course.

Whiter and sharper the closer he gets. They’d be breathing the same air if Andrea were breathing, Marc’s nose brushing against his own, the knife-sharpness of his claws pressed against the tenderness of his nape. One slip, accident or not—

Marc is smiling.

Marc is kissing him.

Andrea stamps on the urge to make a noise, keening and thin—can’t waste the oxygen it’d take. His entire body prickles. Might be fear, might be a fishhook of sheer, red-hot want pulling on his guts. His head is spinning, feels light already.

It’s chaste—cautious, no tongue, Marc’s mouth oddly soft and docile against his own. Andrea’s chest aches, a slow-building twinge, but less than knowing he doesn’t get to keep this. Tomorrow, Marc—reckless, kept in place for too long, so fucking reckless—will probably swim off, and Andrea will understand why sailors go mad for a sea they can’t have in that many stories.

They kiss once, twice, thrice. Marc’s tail has pulled his legs together, rough-edged, unyielding like a steel band. His claws hold his jaw in place, and he’s an earnest, cruel, beautiful thing—pulling Andrea in again and again and again. He laughs, and the sound carries perfectly. Loud, honking, shameless. Mundane and ugly, rather than his usual silversweet voice.

The hurt in his chest grows teeth, bites deep. It’s a razor-edged pressure that goes nowhere, builds and builds and builds. Becomes his entire self.

Andrea tries to swim up. Marc doesn’t move an inch, lures him in for another kiss. Hungry, with the threat of teeth on his bottom lip. He can’t tell the darkness of the water from the dark spots glaring in his vision, Marc’s face smudged to a tanned blur. His eyes sting with salt.

When he insists on it, though, Marc takes them both to the surface. Faster than he could’ve done, in a single stroke.

It keeps hurting, even when he sucks in air greedily, one time, ten, more. The pain dulls like it came in—lazy waves. Marc watches him through his flailing, the artful boredom that he yielded against people shattered in the wicked gleam of his grin. Through the pound of blood in Andrea’s ears, in his half breathless delirium, he thinks pretty and doesn’t regret it.

“Dovi,” he giggles.

DoviDoviDovi, like his name is precious, a pearl.

Andrea chuckles, then can’t stop laughing. He feels scraped raw, golden, invincible, pissed off. It’s tangled, knotted in his throat. He keeps realizing those things that don’t add up. One, that Marc’s pool is deep—has to be, he’s a big, bad apex predator, needs his space, and Andrea hadn’t cared about that when he got in. Two, he isn’t swimming, not anymore, and it’s Marc keeping him above water.

Three, he’s hard, filling up against the heavy, scratchy fabric of his wet underwear.

Which—it’s funny. He laughs a lot more, until he stops. Embarrassment coils around his insides, because he shouldn’t. You don’t get hard over something that is a protected species in over 150 countries. Or—and it’s not any better, it just sounds less like Andrea is getting freaky with the aquarium sharks—you don’t get hard over someone you have total control over.

Marc is staring at him, dead-eyed, intense.

“Dovi.” He’d told Marc he didn’t need to use his name that often. He likes saying it, apparently. Andrea’s cock twitches. “I am very nice.”

He scoffs. There’s a smile twisting his lips, which is unfortunate, but he still scoffs.

“No, you aren’t.”

Marc beams at him, crashes them together. Andrea is balanced on the edge of his tail, on his silky soft fins. He flails once, manages to right himself. His raised eyebrows are pointed, serious.

“I am,” he insists, “I do not drown you.”

Andrea is halfway to really? when it crashes over him, a new, clammy wave of fear—this is Marc being uncharacteristically nice. Gentle. Hypercarnivore with a cultural preference for human flesh echoes, gunshot loud in his thoughts.

He chokes on a short cry. His legs fall open, a little, and Marc wedges himself between them. Plasters them together torso to torso. He’s hot—Andrea knows that, always knew. The sudden, actual heat makes him jolt into Marc anyway. Drags his clothed cock against the fine, soft scales of his waist, and it’s not even good, but—Christ.

“Can still eat me,” he pants. It sounds stupid, awkward.

“No, not that either.”

Andrea isn’t sure if Marc knows what being hard means—he can go without digging into the odd stretch of years he spent with Valentino, then trying his best to kill Valentino. There’s this intensity to him, though. Acute, pitiless when he fidgets against him, watching Andrea’s mouth open and close dizzily.

Also, at some point, being scared should kick in—should stop making him feel hot, and sweaty, and starved. It doesn’t.

God, alright.

This is happening. In real time. To him.

“I am nice to you.” After a beat, with Andrea shaking like he has water in his ears: “Now.”

He waits, strange, focused—the unflinching gaze of the flesh-eating monster that Andrea for some fucking reason vowed to help. Only dives under when he nods.

There are claws running along his sides, nowhere near as mean as they could be. The pain comes in flash—settles below his skin, warm, good, actually. Unfortunate for his sanity. Andrea shudders, blooms with goosebumps, freezes from the waist up. Marc flattens his palms against his stomach, his arms, everywhere he can reach to feel the raised hair, the layer of clammy sweat.

Andrea is wrong in the head, fear of death tangled with the fear of Marc stopping—his wires crossed somewhere low in his stomach, in his cock. He closes his mouth with a click of teeth, harsh, or he’ll start drooling.

He catches the glint of Marc’s eyes when he looks up—having a little too much fun with this. With him.

Marc takes his claws off his body. There’s a groan building in his throat, impatient, frustrated—it peters off to a disbelieving, dry scoff when he catches torn pieces of fabric floating in the water.

Andrea can’t tell what expression he’s making, has to reach down to feel it by hand. Marc’s eyebrows waggle over-dramatically under his touch, a face that’s no less ridiculous just because he can’t see it.

“You think you are funny,” he deadpans.

“Yep,” Marc pops the p obnoxiously—Andrea hears it crystal-clear.

Maybe it’s in his head. Maybe it’s not. The one time Marc tried to explain the finer points of mermaid luring to him, he’d ended up pinned to the floor by a couple of interns—had been trying to drown himself, and Marc went flat against the corner of his tank, wild-eyed, snarling. Andrea knew with the certainty of a miracle he’d been a bit scared under that bristle.

By hand again he watches the serious, flat line of Marc’s lips, the frown on his forehead. He’s scheming—could be as harmless as getting his research notes wet, as gory as tearing his femoral artery open. Andrea has sweat on his hairline, his back, his chest.

He tugs on Marc’s insistently until he comes up, scowling.

“You have to be careful with me.”

Marc tilts his head to the side—like he doesn’t understand. He does. Has to. Andrea can’t describe vulnerability and fragility to a creature who has neither with his cock pulsing heavily between his legs, the urgency of dangerdangerdanger making him shake.

So he taps two fingers against the corner of Marc’s worrisome, deceptive lips. He opens sweetly, on command, and Andrea needs to breathe—needs to not linger on that. Stares at the ceiling above to calm down, the white lights burning bright outlines into his retina.

He traces the sharpness of Marc’s front teeth, the canines. He keeps the pressure light—skimming, really. The skin breaks anyway, floods Marc’s mouth with a trickle of his blood. The moment it happens skews revelatory. Marc makes this noise, inhuman, melodic. Doesn’t bother with the pretense of speech.

His hand clutches at Andrea’s wrist, keeps it in place.

“Careful,” he gasps—reminding, pleading, no difference.

Marc nods once, lets his fingers slip out. His scowl softened, but his jaw is locked in place under the pad of his thumb. Tense. Calculating. He dives again with a croon that he guesses is meant to sound comforting.

Andrea wonders—idly—if he should start praying.

And chokes on the spit overflowing inside his mouth.

It’s rougher than a human tongue. Hot—he keeps expecting for Marc to be cold for some reason, and the shock of his warmth keeps socking him on the jaw, has Andrea reeling. Rounded tip. Funny way to discover that the warnings of him having a devil’s tricks are bitter, make-believe stories.

Andrea can’t swallow a high-pitched moan.

Or how it dissolves into a whine, a flinch. It’s—freaky. Too long. Way too long. And it’s wrapping around the head of his cock, all of it, then another inch or two. Andrea keeps catching those flashes, dusky-pink. Has to stop looking, or—or—

“Uhg.” The noise is punched out of him. Eloquent as always.

He wants—absurdly—to laugh. Can’t make his body quit spasming long enough for that.

Marc starts moving his head, petting Andrea’s length. It’s slow, awkward—the pump of a fist on an odd angle. Except it’s his tongue. His fucked up, too long, animal tongue.

There are noises. Shrill, strangled—suspiciously close to evisceration instead of bliss. Andrea realizes they’re coming from him but can’t wrangle his body back into his control. His ears ring. He clings to Marc’s tail, buries his nails on the knobs of stiff scales. Solid, harsh, more real than whatever the fuck is happening to him.

He shouldn’t be hard, is the thing. The water hasn’t warmed up one bit, and Marc’s tongue is—too much, coarse like sandpaper. More pain than pleasure. But Andrea is, of course he is. Can feel his pulse on his cock. Drool drips down his chin.

Marc strokes him. It’s sluggish, unhurried—Andrea trembles to not move, thighs shaking where they’re bracketing the creature between them.

He stays there, on the head, again-again-again with short jerks of his head, scraping his tongue on the vein running on the underside of his cock until Andrea could swear that every single one of his nerve endings are there, being scraped raw.

“Marc,” he hisses. His feet twitch uselessly, kick tiny waves.

Marc hums—must be that. The vibrations have him jittery like an addict, moaning. Andrea’s arms quiver to keep him still and upright. An urgent, wordless sound froths in his mouth, but Marc’s tail surges, more of it, pressed against the small of his back and around it, keeping him straight.

In place. Pinned. If they go under—

They don’t. There’s only Marc, everywhere. Andrea goes boneless against him, needs to be held. His hands scramble hopelessly against the blur of white and orange around him, settle.

Andre lets himself sink into all of that. It’s too much, a legit out of body experience, and it hurts—the kind of pain that dulls him, halfway to meditation. His punch-drunk desperation narrows the whole world to the wet, rough, hot drag of Marc’s tongue, mean on his tip until he starts rocking into it, those tortured, helpless twitches of his hips. He becomes lax against the feeling.

Time grows liquid around him. Meaningless.

It’s—fucking intense.

He shoulders his way closer, spreads Andrea’s thighs he can fit right between them, plastered against his front, the coil on hair on his groin. And his claws—

Andrea jolts, snaps back into his head with a full-body spasm. Marc’s claws are there, right fucking there, on his balls, playing with them. He freezes, strains to not move again. When he looks, a pathetic huff knocked out of him, he meets the pitiless glint of Marc’s eyes spearing him through.

Marc keeps toying with him. Rolls his balls together, curious, and runs the tip of his black claws over the paper-thin skin there. His other hand digs into Andrea’s knee—stops him from closing his legs. He chokes on a whimper, reedy, warbled, the pounding of blood in his ears closer to hammer blows.

“Wait,” he says—tries to. “Wait, wait, wait, wait.”

There’s no waiting. Marc—apex predator, cruel to his bones—smells weakness, an opening for his ambush. He tightens his tongue right around the tip, oversensitive, sore, and pain hits him like a knife to the guts. Andrea’s vision sparks white, ears ringing, chokes on a moan that tastes an awful lot please and brine.

It's the worst orgasm of his life. The best. Agony and bliss wiping his thoughts away.

Marc put him on the edge of his pool, Andrea finds out, once the adrenaline dwindles to a dull thrum. His feet are inside, swaying to the current of his swishing tail.

He swallows. Has to do it again. His limbs are stiff, uncooperative—leaden weights, more than he can handle. Like this, Andrea isn’t sure if he’s in pain anymore. His nerves might as well be in overdrive, overheating. Sensations come back to him one by one with a delay, in the quiet of the aquarium after dark.

“You’re the worst,” he says without bite. Can’t muster any.

Marc chuckles—it takes Andrea a while to hit him on the side with a trembling leg for that smugness. It’s a weak blow, though. Only makes Marc chuckle a little more—braying, brazen.

“Dovi,” he sing-songs, the syllables familiar in their oddness.

Tomorrow, but it barely aches.

#dovquez #marc marquez #andrea dovizioso #mermaid au #is there a tag for non human genitalia but it's tongues #anyway everyone say poor dovi he's driving home going commando in jeans with a sore dick #anyway happy new year everyone!#it was a delight ending up in motogpblr #chev fics #dovquezdecember

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