Starfall

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
Barricade/June
sticky pnp, xeno
for tf_speedwriting  prompt 'at night during a meteor shower'

Sorry, the prompt hit me with the final image.  And I know xeno's weird and icks some people.  But I've been writing a bit of it lately, so...here's some. 

 

 

“You know,” June was saying, “I could have flown.” She settled back into the seat.  Outside Barricade’s windows, the lane striping seemed to unspool like a never-ending ribbon, glowing in the darkness. She looked tired, her skin pale and drawn around her eyes.

“Maybe.” Right. Like Barricade would let her leave him?  No way. Bad enough he had to go on missions. And if they weren’t so slaggin’ dangerous, he’d have considered taking her with him on a few.  She did not get to leave him. Double standard? Well, what do you expect? Hello? Giant war bot. “But then you wouldn’t have had me there.”

June managed a tired grin. “That’s true.”  She ran a teasing finger over the armrest. “Must have been boring for you, though, spending all that time squatting in a parking garage.”

Ha! What June didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Like he would just sit obediently in some dingy garage? Frag that.  “Kept myself entertained,” he said, blandly.

“Well, you didn’t have to do this,” she said. “Long drive.”

“Uh, June?  Kind of what I do?”  He activated his hologram, turning to her with a wink. She laughed and the sound of it trilled through his systems.  His engine revved, which only made her laugh harder.  “I also do other things,” he teased.

“I know that.”  She grinned back, with more life this time, grey eyes drifting from his hologram to the dashboard. Her hand made a grab for his gearshift.  His hologram moved faster, its ghost-hand wrapping over the gearshift in a useless protective gesture. “Awww,” she teased. “Don’t want me touching your stick?” She reached boldly through the hologram anyway, one thumb stroking down the knob.

The engine juddered. “Not while I’m driving.”

“You are no fun,” she pouted, pursing her lips, leaning back into the seat.  She trailed one socked foot along the console. 

No fun. Right. Barricade would show her no fun.

No. Wait. That wasn’t right.  Fraggin’ squishy females and their cortex-spinning ways.  He found a cut-off, took it, and rolled to a stop on an abandoned shoulder overlooking a harvested field. “Not driving now,” he said, flatly.

June snorted. “This my cue to get out?”

“Only if you’re not chickening out.”  It  had been so long, too long, since he'd dared touch her. Afraid of hurting her, making her ill. And he knew no way to break through that.  Except this.

She swatted at the hologram, kicking open the door, her high sweet laugh echoing through his systems. As soon as she was clear, Barricade pushed back, standing up, the cool night air pinging his engines cool.  Her suitcase and laptop case thudded to the soft grassy ground.

He lunged at her, folding his talons around her body, kneeling down to her.  “It was hard not to jump you at your stupid conference,” he growled. 

“I’m glad you restrained yourself,” she teased.  “Not exactly the reputation I’m trying to build there, you know?” Her hands reached for his face, bumping against his cheek armor.  

“Frag your reputation,” he said, one hand flirting under the hem of her soft black sweater.  Her belly was soft and warm and flat and he loved how his touch made her breath catch.  “And frag these stupid ‘clothes’.”  He tilted his face, flicking his glossa gently against her exploring fingers. She squeaked at the prickle of contact.

“Right, right!” she said. “I can take a hint.”  She squirmed and wriggled, pushing her jeans down over her hips. 

He jerked his chin. “The rest, too.”  He flicked at the sweater. 

“Pushy this time, aren’t you?” She wormed out of the sweater, arms folding behind her for the catch on her bra.  He tilted his head, admiring the way the gesture moved her breasts.  So alien and fascinating.

“Pushy every time,” he retorted. He lowered his mouth, nipping at her shoulder, tasting her, feeling the sleek velvet of her skin.  He could smell the sweet scent on her hair, mixing with the salty musk from her body as he traced a line with his mouth down her body, between her breasts, sliding his chromed cheek armor against them, and lower down, to flick his glossa between her thighs.  His module pinged, urgently. 

His optics, cycled to lowlight, saw her body as a warm alabaster shape, with a few specks of darkness—her eyes, her mouth, the parallel dots of her nipples, her hair.  In this light, he could not see her scars. She looked…soft and warm, as if glowing from some internal source.  Like light coalesced into a shape, leaning into his dark palm. 

He raised his head, glossa probing at her small, soft mouth. The salty taste of her sex mingled with the sweetness of her lipgloss.  He growled with desire his other hand roaming around her back, squeezing at her thighs, cupping the soft curves of her body. “Want you,” he muttered, knowing she already knew that, but wanting to tell her anyway, wanting the words to tie the air between them. And maybe, maybe wanting to hear the sentiment returned.

“You have me,” she teased, turning to brush her cheek against his, “and I want you,” she added, relenting, feeling his desire rise against her.  He fought it back, worried.  She was sick—she had another appointment in a few weeks with her doctor. He didn’t want to push. He couldn’t force himself on her.  He remembered taking her in the woods, or earlier, when he’d thought she was indestructible, when he thought she’d live forever. And the only danger to her was from him being too rough. Something he could control. Something he could account for.

“Yeah?” he said, thinly, “Prove it.”

“I will!”  She gave a cheeky grin, and the exhaustion was gone from her face. Her hands prodded down his body, her eyes unused to the darkness, feeling almost blindly along his shape, curling under the fender on his chassis, seeking out his interface panel.  His optics dimmed in pleasure at the contact of her fingertips, little stars of sensation, warm and alive.

She flipped open the hatch, hand groping over his equipment for his module, snapping it out of its catches.  He quivered as her warm fingers wrapped around it, thumb rolling over the sensor node at the tip.  “I want you,” she said, huskily. “Proved enough?”   She drew the module over her breasts, tracing a languorous circular pattern, sweeping it over her skin.  The sight of it, the dark metal with the thin line of indicator lights, over her pale skin, the way her body rolled sinuously under the touch, deliberately seductive, enflamed him as much as the sensory input data.  He made a tight, strangled moan.

June grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

“Do it,” he growled, ceding to her, feeling her own enjoyment of his twitching, impatient desire.  She knew how much her alienness aroused him, and it spiraled on, compounding her own desire, to feel that she, herself, was wanted.

She slipped the module between her thighs, the warmth and wetness always a shock, a delicious, exquisite strangeness that tore a pulse from his datastream, caused his talons to clench and flex over her body. 

Her hands curled over his armor, clutching at him, drawing his face down to her, pressing it against her body, his forehead spire lying along her cheek, his sensor equipment buried against her body, so that the smell of her, the touch of her, the sound of her heartbeat and the root of her moans and whimpers vibrating through her body, the feel of muscle and sinew shifting, squirming as his datastream throbbed into her, was intoxicating, overwhelming.  He pushed a moan into her body, his mouthplates nipping at her flesh, one hand moving to the ground where it could claw and tear at the soft soil as his lust took him over. 

He shuddered at the overload, that tore itself from him with a raw force, the last sound before he faded out was her matching cry, the last feel was her body arching up against him.

Barricade returned from the overload fadeout to June stroking light fingers over his forehead crest, her fingers gentle and familiar over the lethal tines, his face still pressed into her.  “Sorry,” he mumbled into her skin.  Though, really,  he wasn’t sorry at all.  Just sorry it had taken so long to get here again, to get to the point where he could enjoy her touch without worry. 

“Look,” she said, dreamily.  “Stars are falling.”  He rolled his head off  her, the night air cooling his face, warmed from her contact.  Her skin rippled with gooseflesh. 

He looked: a meteorshower was casting white lines across the sky overhead.  He said nothing, not sure why she wanted him to look.

“Here, or at least where I’m from,” June said, quietly, “seeing a shooting star means your wishes will come true.”

Oh.  Barricade curled his hand over her cooling body, feeling the heat of their lovemaking evaporate against him.  He pulled her sweater over, laying it over her body. 

“Stupid superstition,” he mumbled.  But still, he turned, and looked, and wished.

Comments

[maddarilke.livejournal.com]

That was exquisite. :)