This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Rain caught up to us today. There was no avoiding it. We had tried to detour but it sped after us like it read our minds. Well, Danse’s mind anyway. My mind went south when the first drops fell.
What if he had to take it off? I mean, take it all off?
He was human. I knew that. He’s always been human to me. Sure, after I found out, I began to see the synth inside when we traveled. Long hauls under the waning summer haze brought out survival resistance in him that I didn’t possess. Then, he was synth.
And then his armor starts filling with rain. He mentions rust.
He’s going to have to take it off.
He has skin…everywhere, right?
Chink-tink-plink rings off his armor like wind chimes. At first, the pool gathering around his neck is funny. I find myself unable to stop giggling. Even he smiles with a tip that sloshes it all out at my feet. Water seeps down beneath both of our collars before long, though. We have to risk a cave,just our luck there seemed to be none, or maybe pray for once. I heard somewhere old tribes pray to rain gods; maybe there were good weather gods too, or fully-stocked abandoned bunker gods. I never pray, to be honest, but Danse eventually picks up readings of a non-organic structure; the synth, understanding my Pip-boy better than I ever could. An old shack, patchy tin makeshift roof and matching walls, barely bigger than my old bedroom.
My old bedroom, old house, plush carpet, warm bed…Nate. So much of me feels like none of this would have even happened if Nate were still here. I wouldn’t be wandering a dead land with mutated vermin and plants that need to be scanned for radiation levels before I can even eat. Dammit, I miss him. His warm arms, that little kiss to the side of my head right before he fell asleep, his hot breath above my ear when I’d drift off, his smell…
“Perfect. Now I can take this off.”
Take…what? Dammit. Danse, not Nate. Danse opening the door for me; almost ripping it off, actually. Danse gesturing for me to walk in first.
I can’t help but stare as I pass him. Water clings to his face like tiny beads of sweat, his brow clenched not like he’s keeping out rain but waiting for me to finish something so he can. A small knot somewhere deep inside me flares up with an urge to move my hips.
What are you doing, Mary? Hurrying myself along before he starts trying to compute the look on my damn face, that’s what.
It smells old, of dust and mutant-moth eaten fabric. There’s a single bedroom in this small heap of tin. Danse insists I take it. The bed is far from clean and appealing, and though it’s softer than the floor he says he’ll sleep by the door. Safer, he says. He starts a fire in a warped metal trash bin, says it should heat the place up in no time. Optimistic, like we weren’t caught in a storm that nearly shorted out my Pip-boy.
Just like Nate…
But he’s not Nate. I need to remember that.
I have to shimmy my way around the bed and dresser just for room to move in the bedroom. It’s cramped as hell in here, how did these people survive before? First things first, get out of this damn uniform. Water spills from the shoulder ridges as I tug my arms out of damp sleeves; so much for waterproof.
…and now that I’m in nothing but my underwear and a wet tee shirt…now what? I look at the suspicious stains on the mattress.
Not a chance. There’s gotta be some decent sheets around here somewhere.
The cabinet is empty, but it’s not for a complete loss. Somewhere to hang my wet clothes. Dresser? Drawers two and three are just as bare. Drawer four has patched up mens slacks and drawer one a ripped up sheet. Both musty and neglected as the rest of the place. I suppose I could use the sheet as a wrap, though.
Metallic cranking and grinding reverberate from wall to wall until they vibrate around me. That lovely armor; had Danse not been here, I might have thought I was under attack. Clanks and sharp scraping continue, and for a minute I just listen. Grinding tings echo within the shabby tin walls.These sounds are nothing new. But the gentle splashing against steel…these are the sounds of wet. This is what draws my attention.
Two steps winding around the dresser and bed, and words fail me before I realize I had planned to talk.
His movements grab my eyes like a tractor beam as he empties himself from his armor. The muscles on his neck bulge as he lifts his arms over his head to close the hulking suit. He steps back, creating tiny puddles beneath his boots as he groans and stretches in freedom he didn’t have a minute ago. A single reflecting pearl of water rolls down his hair to drop beneath the heavy collar. A shiver takes the length of his spine and my eyes fall and freeze; the thick armor lining his hips shifts over his ass in a little dance of their own.
His butt armor moves with his butt. Holy shit…
Hardened armguards fall to the floor after metal cuffs graze down a leg of stationary armor; Danse apologizes for a screechy grind the rain doesn’t drown out. He doesn’t glance back far enough to see me. More clicks and clanks, unlocking the trunk of his uniform with every hook and latch. He catches reinforced gloves before these, too, carelessly slide and steel strikes again.
Buckle ends clank together between muffled whips of slackened thick-weave straps, though his uniform is so doused even a rough tug doesn’t loosen a thing. Orange leather stretches as solid arms flex in front of him, and I wish on everything I was a fly on the wall to better watch the show. He pulls, I see his triceps stiffen even through the layers as fists holding open seams lean my way. Part of me wants him to ask for help but my feet are stuck dead to the cold floor. His arms slide down, then up and back out, and from here it looks likes he’s feeling himself up.
No fucking way. He can’t be. Can he? Do synths even feel that stuff?
He leans to the right in a stretch that defines his hip, wrinkling the other side as he rolls shiny wet leather off his shoulder. The mountain of muscle below the back of his neck cringes with each free shoulder, elbow and hand. He rocks back and forth again, this time his shoulders no longer confined within the tightened weight of dripping everything. The bulky torso bunches and folds as he pushes down, his arms angled just right to add mass to the strength of his back.
I’ve never seen him undress before. He seems oblivious to my eyes; at least I have that going for me. There’s no way in hell I could explain my lecherous stare right now.
He stops the uniform at his belt. He is soaking wet, the undershirt beneath sticking to every curve of his body. Hard shapes hugging the dips and ridges of his spine surrounded by the sculpted mounds of his shoulders. Saturation pulls the soaking layer almost like skin as he struggles with the shirt. Sucking, like stiff lips salivating around a lollipop…or something else. The knot deepens in my belly and I curl into to the wall for something solid of my own to cling to.
Rain beats down from outside almost melodically, pings and sharp pitter-patter mixed with the sounds of wind whistling through the tears in the shack. A song for him to strip to, its rhythm the gentle throb between my thighs…
What is wrong with me? Have I really been deprived for so long?
Skin. Wet, shining skin. Glistening like a kaleidoscope light show as he twists and bends to rid himself of the hindering sop. I didn’t see everything before. Shadows indent rain-peppered skin, each wet bead left behind shimmering in the flickering orange glow angled off behind him. Skin pinches in when he stretches, modeled shoulders rolling, pressing. A moan escapes him with a deep squeeze straight back, and my nails dig into old wood as heat at my core trembles my knees. Sighing, groaning in liberation, skin ripples over carefully designed muscle, clenching and pulling back into thick, firm arms. Strong and warm, even without the firelight giving the impression he was made of pure heat.
That was skin, real skin. I expected it to look…plastic or rubber. But here he was, real skin creasing with every curve, tiny liquid beads trickling into caverns that housed shadows and based highlights of sparkling, lonely, real flesh. Another metallic scrape, another clank; the base of the belt in back pulls down on the waterlogged uniform as the straps fall free to his thighs.
The uniform is always tighter here. It slurps all over again as he shoves, masculinity at its metaphorical finest as arches his hips back, subtle rocking to maneuver - to free himself. It was like the underwear wasn’t even there. Slurping, wet mouth sounds all over over again as driving muscles exert force, urging moist fabric over firm, plump buttocks, inch by inch like he wants me to watch. A single last thrust of his arms, a greedy suck, and Danse grunts as his tight butt bounces free with a pop of the soaking uniform.
The popping release of his…parts weaken my knees with a flood of heat between my thighs that I can’t ignore. I force myself back against the wall before I melt in the doorway. It’s too damn hot in here. I fan myself with the musty mens trousers but it doesn’t do a damn thing for this tangled coil inside.
How did this happen?
I dare myself to peek; darkness blankets his back muscle by crease by muscle as he bends, curving his spine until the dainty dimples just above his ass straightened out.
Ohhh dammitcrapshit! Is he really getting naked? On top of everything else? He’s getting naked! Should I even be watching this? He’s a synth! He doesn’t even have a—does he have a—he can’t even—
No. He’s not naked. He’s unbuckling his boots. Simple…innocent boots.
I feel like I’m running a fever. I run an arm across my forehead; I wasn’t this wet outside in the pouring rain. What is wrong with me?
Thick fabric and leather flop with a scuffle to the floor. Danse is groaning and sighing again, saying how much better he feels. I hear joints pop, a little vibration through the floor. He says my name and I suddenly remember I’m practically naked myself.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
No. No no no no no I’m not alright. I’m only over here wondering if you can hold me up because this bed is unfit for testing how long your synthetic bits last.
Aw hell. I don’t tell him that, not a damn chance.
“Do you need assistance?”
Yes. I don’t tell him that either. With heavy breath, I push off from the wall, and trip over the damn bed trying to turn around. And stub my bare toe in the door frame. Shit I’m mess right now.
He doesn’t need to be naked to pull at the strings knotting inside me. His underpants are damp enough to show off rock hard chunks of muscle above his knees. My eyes follow the definitions up to where the stretch of cloth gathers more creases. Shadows, bulging shapes outlining a definite head squished against a delicate sack; as if the rest of him isn’t testing me at all. I close my lips to wet my tongue, aware how far my gaping mouth hung. Deep chocolate eyes reflect fire like melting caramel when I force my gaze from his groin.
“Are you sure you’re fine? Maybe I should run a body scan. Do you need help?”
I nod. Oh yeah. I definitely need help.