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Things to blame:
1.) Sunday Mass. Oh YES. I am evil.
2.) Johnty's poem, from which this bit takes it's namesake.
3.) Gundam Seed.
One more time.
Boys, this is no place for you. Click at your own risk.
Ladies, C&C please. This is bit coming from the new project me, Khursten and Rotch are cooking up, to be written in full once Endtimes is done. Trench Fever is the name of the sub-series... I dunno what the actual story is going to be called.
With the peripheral sensors off, the coloroid activated over the displays and the mech’s various systems on manual lockdown, the only sources of illumination in the cockpit came from the faint glow of the fluorescent bars lining the foundation of the area, and it did more for the shadows than it did for lighting. One wrong nudge or difficult push might have unleashed a million different things to the world beyond that cramped little control room of a weapon of mass destruction on two legs, but with the delicious lack of space between them and the rich, heady scent of mixed breath and sweat in the air, it didn’t matter.
It was more sharp ribcage and knees, this one, and Alistair might have been bothered by the fact that it was the slender body of a boy that he was enjoying rather than the amicable curves and heaving breasts of a woman. He slid his hands underneath the tight confines of the other pilot’s flight suit, peeling it away from the skin that he wanted to kiss and taste as much as he wanted to mark and bruise, skipping his hands down ribcage and hip, shaping the bones hidden beneath linen bandages and the silver of scars both old and new. His partner’s whole being seemed to rise in response to his ministrations, and when Hikaru tipped his face up, his breath was riddled with little gulps, hitches and catches that proved to be the most delicious sound of need that Alistair had ever heard. When he bent forward to take the younger man in his arms and steal those sounds away from those lips, his partner responded wonderfully to the attention, mapping Alistair’s back with his hands and opening his mouth to the older pilot’s exploration.
“…Ah… aniki…”
“Never thought I’d hear you say it that way.” Alistair’s hand burrowed between their bodies, seeking and then finding. In a fitful of shivers Hikaru moaned. “Yes, I knew you’d like that,” he muttered between nibbling at that cute earlobe. “Should I not?”
“No, no, do.”
The world was moving in slow motion, sublimely blurring every sense, but Alistair hardly cared as he obliged, circling his hips to the pace of his hand. Fast hardly mattered, not with Hikaru chewing at his neck. It wasn’t long before his partner was shoving into his grip in earnest, head bowed as though it was too heavy to lift, hair falling over pristine features like a shuddering fringe.
“Aniki… I can’t…”
“Can’t what?”
He never got to find out what Hikaru couldn’t do. A moment later the young pilot is flopped across his chest, wide open, incapable of doing anything other than forcing air in and out of his lungs. Alistair smirked his approval and pawed down the other one’s spine from nape to tail.
“Weren’t you trained to handle tougher things than this?”
Weak chuckles sounded in response. Alistair shifted his nether half under Hikaru, hoping to allay or aggravate the pressure on his groin. Aggravate was preferable, he soon decided, when he noticed that the younger pilot’s drowsy face-rubbing had a downward trajectory across his own chest.
“To answer your question,” his partner murmured somewhere to the vicinity of his navel, “I was.”
Awakening came with sunlight peeking through the slits between blinds and a gasp that managed to break free from his throat. The ceiling of his room came into vivid focus, and for an uncomfortable ten seconds Alistair was more aware of everything — the sweat-drenched sheets beneath him, the linen covers gone rough with heat on top, and the relentless whir of the industrial fan in the corner — than he would’ve liked.
It had been a long time since he’d been a victim of a dream like that.
A headache was making its way across his temple, pitting a searing expletive against the soft morning air as Alistair rose up from the bed, reaching for the customary pack of Mohammed’s Glory that sat waiting to be abused on the night table. He lit up to the sound of a sleepy sigh and the rustle of the sheets being gathered about by the woman that shared his bed.
“You only smoke this early in the morning if you got yourself a boner overnight.”
“Do you want me to fuck you over again?”
“You wouldn’t. You don’t even want me to be here anyway, from the looks of it.”
Alistair took a drag of his cigarette, using the smoke and poison to drive away visions running due course through his muddled thoughts. He was sufficiently calmer after that, calm enough to answer back and be a bastard and throw the world out the window when it asked him too many questions. Natalia had rolled off the bed, and was now walking about the room in nothing but her skin. There was the rattle of guns and pill bottles and other things in a drawer somewhere behind him.
“So what was it this time? A public bathroom? A motel? Your mech’s cockpit?”
Alistair grunted. Natalia laughed.
“I’m going to take a shower first… go ahead and stroke off while I’m not looking. You need it.”
The automated door slid shut behind her. Alistair crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, leaving a burnt circle in the center that the fan blew out of proportion when it swung in that direction. He stood up, moving to the mirror at the far end of the room and tracing fingers across trails of imaginary kisses and bites that the dream had left him with.
He wanted it, that whisper of breath, those fingers to lick, those eyes to gaze into as he quietly took him exactly where he wanted to be. Six years hadn’t been enough to lessen the desire, and even after running high heaven and earth and using everything he had — his position, his skill, his coldness—to hold that one at arm’s length away from him, nothing had changed.
Natalia was singing in the shower. She was in a good mood. Alistair deposited himself in the closest available seat and light up another cigarette. The sun climbed upward, washing golden over CLOVER Headquarters and proclaiming another day that he wasn’t quite ready to deal with.
It was wrong, to desire something like this, but with Yasamu gone and the pain still fresh despite the years, Alistair knew that it couldn’t have gone any other way.
:D
1.) Sunday Mass. Oh YES. I am evil.
2.) Johnty's poem, from which this bit takes it's namesake.
3.) Gundam Seed.
One more time.
Boys, this is no place for you. Click at your own risk.
Ladies, C&C please. This is bit coming from the new project me, Khursten and Rotch are cooking up, to be written in full once Endtimes is done. Trench Fever is the name of the sub-series... I dunno what the actual story is going to be called.
It had been a long time since he’d been a victim of a dream like that.
:D
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From:
no subject
From:
no subject
Still... whoa !! Hikaru and Alistair! Who would have thought!
*faints*
It's interesting. o_o Thumbs up. Now go get Endtimes finished so you can start on the lovely new story goodness. o_____o want more. More, I say, MORE!
*extends a hand*
From:
no subject
You want to talk about dreams? Oh did I ever have one last night. THAT one you need to know. :)
From:
pretty good. me like! ^_^
steamy, yesh... i can feeeeeeeel the steam even from here.... ^^"
'later!
;p