Thanks Epic for creating the Unreal series (and Miranon for pointing that out!). Thanks Kyle for being the best damn partner I've ever had. Miranon and Poddy, thanks for the reviews. =D Lyrics are from Metallica, No Leaf Clover.
.:: ::.
Don't it feel right like this
All the pieces fall to his wish
Suck up for that quick reward boy
Suck up for that quick reward they said...
"I saw you making eyes at that Bot."
I blink, dumbfounded, and turn to stare at my partner. "Huh?"
"That Bot. RenoirX. The Remus model. I saw you checking him out." Kyle's expression is decidedly defensive, and more than a little injured. I stare a bit longer, and then break into helpless laughter. He stiffens, looking extremely offended, and stalks off into the Bunker, his helmet gripped irritably in both hands.
My legs give out beneath me and I collapse onto the cold concrete floor, still laughing madly, tears beginning to trickle down my face. Dear Lord, adrenaline is still ripping through my body. If someone appeared next to me right now, I'd probably laugh so hard at the pretty red lights that I'd pass out.
After a moment or two I regain my composure, struggle to my feet, and wander into the Bunkers. Kyle's sitting huffily on an unpadded steel bench, struggling with his tight-fitting red-and-white armor. Yeah, hand-eye coordination isn't really his thing off the battlefield. I watch for a moment, then pull my chestplate off and toss it at him. It's damp with blood and sweat, but that's the norm with these friggin' tournaments.
The piece hits him in the face and I'm forced to start laughing again, great sobbing laughs as my edge finally begins to wear off. I sigh, run my hands through my hair, and watch my teammate wrestle with his uniform. "Need help there?"
"No!" he grunts sulkily, and promptly falls backwards off the bench, entangled in faded-red and off-white leather. He just kinda sprawls there blankly, looking pained. An unhappy squirm knocks his helmet from the bench and it clonks off of his head to land at my feet.
I'm laughing again, unable to help myself, and he struggles to his feet, kicking off his leggings, and stalks haughtily towards the showers. "See you around."
Oh, crap. I've gone and dented his pride. I release a heavy sigh, bundling my armor and helmet into the locker marked Duchess.:.Razi. Then I put Kyle's stuff away, since he's neglected to do that. Clad only in my undergarments, still raking pale fingers through my tangled hair, I pad delicately towards the vast white-tile chamber that houses the showers.
It's pleasant in there, always steamy-hot, thick warm mist curling lazily around you as you step through the arched glass doors. Huge fluffy towels, the pale-red and stained-white of our team colors, are neatly folded at the far end of the room-- I'm convinced the goddamn things come out of our paychecks every match. The walls are off-white, of course, as are the slippery ceramic tiles on the floor, and that faded red dances over the walls with intricate, arcane patterns. There's all sorts of heady-smelling shampoos and lotions, and the shower-stalls aren't stalls so much as they are small freakin' rooms. We gladiators have just ended a grueling match, dammit. We deserve a nice shower. None of this two-by-two metal cubicle crap.
There're about twenty showers in here, and half a dozen currently in use. I make my way towards the one farthest from the door, shedding what's left of my clothes as I go. My jealous teammate always uses the same one.
There's very nice locks on the doors, sturdy little things, but Kyle broke the one on this shower long ago. We'd just lost a match against a Skaarj-Hybrid team, and that had made him somewhat unhappy. I push the door open carefully and slip inside.
His back is to me, and he's just soaking in the hot water, the heated rain carving rivulets in the dirt and sweat that cake him. Some moron decided long ago that these shower-stalls would look real nice if they were decorated like hotel rooms, and so a wall-mounted lamp veils us with its amber light, and a heavy desk that can't be real mahogany displays an intimidating selection of shampoos, conditioners, soaps and body-washes. Moving cat-silent, I pour liquid soap into my hands and then gently run them down Kyle's back.
He flinches and half-turns, surveying me in a judgemental manner. I don't say anything, the shower's fingers enhancing the red dye that had been fading from my hair, and softly trace soap-laden hands over his shoulders and back.
He growls softly, not unhappily, and takes two steps backwards to press against me, reaching around to drift his fingers over the small of my back. I bite his shoulder in response, sliding soapy hands around to his chest. Tattoos decorate his bare flesh, something I don't find unattractive.
His breathing quickens as I bite harder and then let go, dragging teeth and tongue over his collarbone, to his neck.
The hot water's caressing us both, whispering along our bodies and spangling our faces with false tears. Kyle turns to face me, his big hands sliding down my arms, stroking my hips, gently tracing up my breastbone. I reach a foam-lathered hand up and carefully close my fingers around his chin, pulling his face down until his mouth finds mine. Our kiss is gentle at first, wary, but then his teeth close around my lower lip and his fingers slide back down to grasp my hips and pull me against him.
The assorted bottles are knocked carelessly from the desk as he shoves me against it roughly, bending me against the swollen wood, his tongue ravaging my mouth. My leg slips up to wrap around his waist, and with an animalistic snarl he pushes me onto the desk and climbs atop me, gazing down at me with dark half-lidded eyes. I groan my agreement softly, dragging his face down for another demanding kiss.
One hand is splayed against the wood at my hip, supporting him, and the other slides slowly over my stomach, rubbing pale skin possessively. He nips at my jaw, licks it sensuously, and then with a thick moan he pushes into me, and we are lost.
.:: ::.
We make our way into Marco's office three or four hours later, in our usual all-black ensembles, but the moment our manager looks at us he can see something's up.
"You're glowing," he observes suspiciously.
I blink at him twice, and then extend my arm and examine it closely. "Really now? Strange. You'd think I'd notice something like that, but wow..."
Marco impales me with his trademark Glare of Doom. "You know what I mean, kid. It's like the I-just-got-some-from-James-Hetfield glow."
"You leave him out of this," I order peevishly. I never should've told Marco about my obsession with the Metallica vocalist. Never ever never. Never. With a side of adrenaline pills.
The red-head grins calmly, then wanders back to the matter at hand. "Your next match, boysies and girloes, is in Inferno." The manila folder he passes us has slick glossy photos of a thoroughly terrible-looking arena, an iron-and-granite fortress looming high above a lake of unforgiving red-molten lava. "Don't fall, my pretties. You have a team name yet?"
"And the other team?" Kyle demands, ignoring the question.
"That," Marco states, "is a surprise." He smiles, infuriatingly, and reaches out to pat my teammate's cheek. "Surprises are good for you." And then he ushers us out of the office, and engages the deadbolt behind us.