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Airtime	By : Sophie_Anne Category: 1 through F > Defiance Views: 6357 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own nor did I create the characters or the world of Defiance. I’m just playing with them for fun, and not profit.

Chapter List
- 1-Airtime
- 1
Author’s Note: I’m not sure what it is about this couple, but as soon as I saw the show I was completely obsessed with them. I thought about stories I could write over and over and over until I finally did. I haven’t written fanfiction in years, let alone adult fanfiction. But, I do like the way it turned out, and I’m secretly hoping the other people out there equally obsessed with this couple will like it. I'm thinking of maybe making it into a trilogy of one-shots, but I'm not quite sure yet.

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“Keep your eyes closed,” I said, leading her slowly into the room. I had my hands wrapped over her eyes, and I could tell she couldn’t see a thing. With every step she cautiously inched forward, her arms outstretched as if to touch someone’s face.

“They’re closed!” Christie said, feigning annoyance. “This had better not be a new turntable or something”.

I just smiled to myself. I knew she was excited.

We took a few more steps forward, and I dropped my hands.

“Surprise,” I whispered in her ear, enjoying her audible gasp.

“Ahh!” she said, walking towards it in a half circle. “Where did you find one?”

“Some peddler in the market,” I answered. I felt oddly proud about it, as if I’d been planning this for months, though it had really been on impulse. “I patched up the holes and it works fine now.”

“An airbed,” she cooed. She looked up at me, half-impressed, half-amused. “And what purpose does this serve? At a radio station?”

“At this radio station where hardly anyone bothers us?” I asked back, shrugging my shoulders. “Oh, I don’t know. I thought it would be a good place for you to, you know. Sit and watch me work?”

“Sit?” Christie repeated. I loved her smile. “You don’t sit on a bed. You lounge on it.”

She walked over to the bed, crawling on top of it so that it dipped slightly with her weight.

“You lounge on it, like a proper Castithan woman,” she continued, resting her legs, pressed together, off to the side of her waist, her back straight and her weight supported by one hand. I couldn’t help but scoff a little, even if it were a quip against my race. She looked like my mother in a good mood, but then, my mother could never fill out a pair of human jeans like that.

I must have stared at her too long, because she spoke before I could say anything.

“Come here, servant,” she said, reaching out her free hand and beckoning me with a finger. “Come and brush your Lady’s hair.”

I was sure this was the least likely thing a Castithan husband would ever do, which delighted me. That, and I didn’t need a second invitation onto that bed.

I crawled up behind her, and keeping to her joke she tilted her chin up, looking at me sideways as she waited.

Her hair was in a thick braid, and I untied the bottom, digging my fingers inside it gently until it fell apart like silk ribbons in my hand. There was no brush, so I ran her hair through my fingers, pulling it straight and letting it fall.

Christie was quiet, which generally meant, at moments like these, that she was happy. I played with her hair, savoring the moment until she spoke.

“I feel like Cleopatra,” she said, sighing a little bit.

“Who is Cleopatra?” I asked. Hopefully a woman who had married well.

She paused, as she usually did when trying to find the words to explain something that all humans knew, but had never really been taught.

“She was a famous queen,” she said, finally. “Of this rich, ancient country called Egypt. They built pyramids, sort of like this arch. Something to mark the place.”

I was curious about these pyramids, but didn’t want to steer her off topic.

“What was she famous for?” I asked. It was strange, but usually these things meant more to Christie than simple history lessons. They were symbols of themes that repeated themselves over time.

She thought for a moment.

“She was famous for being a powerful woman, mostly,” she said. “It was a very unusual thing, at her time.” She paused. “And for seducing powerful men. That was part of the reason why she was so successful.”

“Ahh,” I said. I could see why Christie remembered this Cleopatra woman. She was fond of powerful women – another improper trait for a Castithan sharing her sex. “She must have been very beautiful.”

She looked back at me suddenly, pulling her hair away with the movement.

“No,” she said, and she looked very serious, as if I had insulted this woman. “No, not really. But she was very charismatic, and intelligent.”

I thought for a moment. These things were why I loved her.

“You’re no Cleopatra, then,” I said, twisting her hair back through my hand. “You’re all of that, but also beautiful.”

Christie grinned, her seriousness melting away.

“Flatterer,” she said. “You’re only saying that because we’re alone here, on this very convenient bed.”

I smiled too. She always called my bluffs.

I caught her chin in my hand, pulling her head gently back towards me. I kissed the side of her mouth, which was as far as I could reach, and as if she had read my mind, she instantly shifted around to face me. Before I knew it, her legs were straddling my waist, and she pushed me on my back.

“You stole these pillows from your parents’ living room,” she said, tossing one aside so she could plant a bracing hand above my shoulder. She was just teasing me now, honestly.

“Do you care?” I asked, and she kissed me, a full, confident kiss. She drew in my upper lip, and suddenly her thighs were pressed against the outside of my hips, warm and firm, and if I looked out through my half-closed eyes, I could see her back arching over me.

“Christie,” I breathed, and kissed her, and kissed her. I slid my arm up along her back and pushed her to the side, against a pile of silver-white pillows. Now we were side by side, on even footing, and I pressed her against me, burying my face into her neck. I kissed her neck through her hair, and she collapsed against me completely, sighing.

Then I heard it. A shrill beeping. My phone. My alarm.

“Fuck,” I whispered, human swearing, and Christie looked up at me through half lidded eyes as if I had woken her from a deep, fantastic sleep.

“It’s two,” I said, and even as I said it, I dug my fingertips into the silky fabric of her blouse, dreading the moment when I would have to pull away from her.

I half-expected her to argue with me, to say something deathly romantic about it being worth losing my job if only I could please ravage her all afternoon, but instead she rolled onto her back to let me sit up. She was a little bit more practical than me, which was at times just a little bit annoying.

“Goddamn job,” I whispered, more human swearing. I loved my job, but today the quiet radio equipment looked about as exciting to me as a dinner with my parents. “Fucking time, fucking …” I glanced at the clock, “… fucking clock.”

It was half a show for Christie, who was quiet now, eerily quiet, a quiet which meant that she was angry. I plowed half-heartedly through my introduction (‘This is Raider Radio, and I have something better to be doing!’), tossing a record, any record, on the player. As soon as I did, I muted the mic and turned toward her. She was glowering at me like a cat waiting to pounce.

“Christie, I’m sorry,” I said. I waved my hand vaguely over my equipment as if to say, my job! Responsibilities! “Don’t you think I want to ..?”

I let the question hang, afraid that if I said what I was thinking, that I wanted to advance our wedding night a few weeks on that taped-up airbed, I would lose all resolve and crawl back over to her across the floor.

Christie, evidently, was feeling less desperate than me in that moment. She glared at me, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’m tired,” she said, and stared up at the ceiling for two more songs.

It was six or eight minutes, but it felt like hours. I could see her lips tightening from across the room. By the time the second song rolled to its end, I was feeling an odd mixture of guilt and rebellion in the pit of my stomach, and suddenly, I wanted to be ironic.

“And now,” I said, speaking into the dead air as the old microphone crackled into my mouth, “This one is for all the lovers out there.”

I dropped the needle, and Christie glared at me as if I had come over and kicked the mattress.

“’Let’s Get it On,’ Marvin Gaye,” I said, “Classic human.”

I was not sure what sort of message this sent – fuck you or, please, let me fuck you at a later time and date – but it had gotten a reaction out of her, which is what I had wanted. Sometimes I thought I had just a bit of my father’s temper.

She sighed, a long, hard, shuddering sigh that surprised me. Instantly I felt remorseful, and it was only the most lingering sense of pride that kept me tied to my chair.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, half afraid to hear the answer. You’re being an ass, Alak?

“Nothing,” she said back, and the song played between us, heavy and low like the heat outside.

“Okay,” I said, finally. This was not good. I started going back, wondering what I could’ve done differently. Not kissed her. Not bought the mattress. Not brought a gorgeous woman to work with me.

The song ended, and I set up a new one, and as it started I heard shuffling across the room. I looked over, and she was getting up, slowly, and staring at me with a strangely determined look on her face.

I wanted to say her name, ask her what she was doing, but something dumbfounded me about this whole display. She stopped in front of me, breathed out, and smiled a little, nervously.

“So, does this mean you forgive me?” I asked, hesitantly, relying on old confidences.

She lifted her eyes, and then slowly, her smile flashing into a smirk, she pulled up the bottom of her top, revealing a smooth expanse of tawny, flushed skin. She pulled it up over her head, slowly, slowly, and it was at this point that I started to realize what was potentially happening.

“Is this what a proper Castithan woman would do?” she asked. It seemed like a trick question, and I hesitated a moment before answering. My mind was blank as I stared at her.

“Not before their wedding night,” I answered apprehensively. I finally broke my gaze away from her chest to search her face, sure I had insulted her. Instead, she seemed pleased, and her smile only deepened as she stepped forward and slipped into my lap.

Now her legs were wrapped around me again, her weight balanced precariously on what was just a shaky folding chair. I put my hands against her lower back to support her, and as she kissed me, I slid them up against her sides, her skin smooth and warm beneath them.

Suddenly I was conscious of a repeating scratching sound. It seemed it was coming from a thousand miles away, and I was determined to ignore it until Christie clearly heard it too.

“New song,” she said, and I glanced reluctantly at the record player. Ahh, yes, I thought. My job.

I kissed her quickly, then stretched my arm as far as I could, straining for a new piece of vinyl. I nearly tipped the chair back in the process, and Christie laughed, throwing her weight back so that it slammed solidly on the floor again.

“You are a terrible distraction,” I muttered as a new song began. She reached down, lifting my hands from her hips and setting them squarely against her breasts. I let out my breath out in a long hiss.

I needed her mouth again, and kissed her before I could even breathe in again. As she moved her lips against mine, I squeezed her breasts together gently, amazed at how soft they were, even restricted in her ridiculous human underwear.

“You can take it off,” she whispered, pausing at my ear before moving her lips down my throat and across my collarbone. I was beyond speaking at this point, beyond thinking really, and immediately I went for the back of her bra. I tugged at the closure there, then clawed at it, feeling tiny metal snaps that wouldn’t come underdone. Another few seconds of this, and Christie was laughing at me.

“I don’t know why you humans wear such ...” I let my voice trail off. They were nice to look her, these structured undergarments, but I had never realized how locked down they were.

“Because ours are bigger than yours,” she answered. She grinned and, slipping her hands behind her back, had it loose in an instant. She let it fall forward, then slipped it off her shoulders and dropped it on the floor.

I had thought many, many times about what they would look like, but I hadn’t been quite right. They were better, and her nipples were a slightly deeper brown than the rest of her skin.

I reached out and cupped one, her breast, and passively brushed my thumb against her nipple. It half-hardened at my touch, and I was amazed to see Christie almost shiver.

“The music,” she said, and I almost thought the words were my name. Then I realized what she was talking about. “The … song.”

I had never hated my job so thoroughly. In a moment another song – a song, any song, I couldn’t care less what song– was playing, and she was in my arms, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and immediately I wanted to kiss her to shut her up, to tell her that there was no possible way she could be sorry at this moment, but I didn’t. She sounded suddenly so vulnerable. “I’m sorry if you get in trouble, I just … you can’t imagine it.”

I didn’t quite understand, but I slid my hands up and down her back comfortingly, wondering if she had changed her mind about being half-naked and alone with me.

“Can’t imagine what?” I asked, and her face shifted from shy and hesitant to determined.

“You just can’t imagine how I felt,” she said, “Lying there, I just wanted … I just wanted you so much. I’m sorry, I just ..”

She kissed me, hard, and I felt her warm breasts press against my chest through the fabric of my shirt.

“I just want you fucking so much,” she finished.

I was struck silent again.

“You can have me,” I said, finally. “You do have me. You’re marrying me, remember?”

“Good,” she said, kissing me again and drawing my bottom lip into her mouth. She released it slowly, dragging it through her teeth. Now my hands were back on her breasts, touching them, exploring them. I finally broke away, hugging her tight against me so that she could lean back without falling.

I slowly kissed my way down from her collarbone, tracing her curves until I reached her right nipple, already hard. I took it into my mouth, pushing it up with my tongue, and Christie let out a quick, sharp gasp.

“Dead air!” she said, and I pulled my head back, surprised. Then I heard it, the crackling sound of nothing.

“Shtako,” I whispered, switching out another record. When I turned back, she kissed me quickly, but then started to pull away, serious again. She was remarkably mercurial, a thing I tended to blame on her human genes.

“Maybe we should save some things for our wedding night,” she said, gravely. There it was. Her wavering suddenly made sense now, and in a way, I was glad that she was pulling the plug. I didn’t want her to do anything she would regret in the heat of the moment. I suppose I should’ve been grateful that my job had effectively made that impossible.

I nodded. “Whatever you want.”

She leaned down, kissing me again, tenderly, hauntingly.

“I said I wanted you,” she whispered, and she finished sliding off me, and onto the floor.

I didn’t understand why she was kneeling until she reached up, tugging forward at waistband of my jeans.

“I hope you picked a good song,” she said, undoing a button.

It felt like the world was dropping out from under me. I wanted to fight with her, to stop her, to confirm this was really happening.

“I thought you said we should wait,” I argued, unconvincingly. I tried to keep my voice level; I didn’t want to sound as desperate and confused as I felt.

“I said we should save some things,” she said. She unzipped my fly. “Not everything.”

I had no idea what to say, but it did not involve the word ‘stop’. It was not only that I really – really – didn’t want her to stop. It was the way she looked up at me, so certain all of a sudden, her brown eyes tender but resolved. I knew it wasn’t something she would later regret on the day we were married.

Instead I reached out, brushing back her hair from her face. I shuddered a little as she coaxed out my cock, wrapping her hand firmly around it and pulling down in one fluid, strong motion. I choked back a moan. I’d never done this before, with someone else.

I almost couldn’t look at her. I was sure that I would lose it and come in her hand if I saw that it was really her, doing this to me. It was a fantasy coming alive in vivid colors, bursting with lens flares.

If she was scared too, it was hard to tell. She moved her hand slowly at first, then a little bit faster. She pushed her thumb in a little bit harder, underneath the head, and I grabbed at the table, digging my nails into it.

She paused.

“New song,” she said, and pulled her hand down hard. I nearly knocked the player off the table, and wouldn’t have cared if I had. I think it was a record I had played five minutes ago but really, really did not care.

I could feel her eyes on me, and I made myself look down. I felt exposed, but in a way that was as comforting as it was frightening.

“I think you’re blushing,” she said, smirking. She was enjoying this, dragging it out. Even the record playing part.

“Castithans can’t blush,” I stammered, trying not to pant outright.

“No, really,” she said, her hand making lazy, fluid strokes. “It’s a little obvious, against your pale skin.”

I closed my eyes, dropping my head back. I gave up. Talking was out of the question now, and breathing was not far behind.

Then I felt her mouth, hot and moist, close over the tip of my cock.

I shot back up to look down at her, blinking, shocked. She dipped her head down slowly, then back up, lifting her eyes to catch my gaze.

It was over now. I heard myself moan, low and quiet, and I couldn’t feel my arm as I reached out to touch her, but could feel her hair, silky and dark, as I ran it through my hands. It was difficult not to moan again, but I tried, feeling somehow that controlling my voice would control my body, and make this moment potentially never stop.

Christie did with her tongue what she had done with her thumb, pressing it hard under the head of my cock, keeping a slow, languid rhythm that became faster, and faster. I was aware of my hand gripping the table, my feet jerking against the floor. I was sure I would melt and explode all at once.

“Christie,” I said, finally, half-moaning it, not sure if it was really coming out of my mouth. I tugged at her hair, bunched it in my hands like silk rope. “Christie, I think I’m going to ..”

I thought she would stop, or lift up her head, or switch to her hand, but she didn’t. I closed my eyes again, focusing on her hair, her mouth, the look in her eyes, and before I realized it I was coming in her mouth, moaning, choking out her name in ragged gasps.

As I tried to catch my breath, I watched through half-lidded eyes as Christie released my cock, letting it go with a quiet popping sound. She looked up at me, her lips moist and swollen, and I was sure I had died.

“Marry me,” I gasped, and it made her smile. She stood up and kissed me, straddling me again in the flimsy chair.

“I’ll marry you every day, if you want me to,” she said, a little shy, but not very. I silently thanked all the Votan gods that had overseen her birth.

There was a moment of silence, and then I heard it. Silence.

“Shtako!” I hissed, launching myself toward the record player. Christie giggled, shooing my hands of the way.

“Let me,” she said, and grabbed a record. She held it up over her chest, drumming her nails against the cover. “I’m playing the Cure.”

“You can play whatever you want, if you promise not to put your top back on for the rest of my shift,” I said, taking the record and setting it up. She stretched her arms over my shoulders, grinning.

“Deal,” she said, kissing me. I kept my eyes closed a moment longer than I needed to, savoring it. I think I liked this taste of married life.
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Airtime