FIC: Try a Little Tenderness (1/2)
Author: bugs
Summary: Whenever Laura had dared to fantasizing about sex with William Adama, it wasn’t happening like this.
Rating: MA
Word Count: 4,550, 2 Parts, complete
Category: Humor, Romance, Smut, Het
Timeline: Post-Unfinished Business
Notes: Follow-up to my story, The Next Dance. In other words, the smut. It’s not necessary to read that story for this to make sense, since smut’s always sort of senseless anyway.
%%%%%%%%
Whenever Laura had dared to fantasizing about sex with William Adama, it wasn’t happening like this.
She assumed that he would attack silently, accomplish his mission efficiently--while still remembering her pleasure, as her old issues of Caprica Gal would have said.
A bulkhead would probably be involved, as in, against a bulkhead, or perhaps he would toss her over a desk--not that she’d envisioned any of these scenarios a time or two or twenty. The only words wouldn’t be of endearment, but orders: Get over here. Bend over. Put your leg there.
Wrong.
She never would have guessed that he was a talker. He hadn’t shut up since the hatch had swung closed behind them, a torrent of words: snatches of Qualtrium poetry, some lines from those sexy old novels by Buvol, his own fervent promises, even some of the erotic bits from the psalms of Emperor Michias that only got printed in adult versions of the Scriptures. She had heard more words out of him in the past twenty minutes than she’d heard in two years.
“My river runs hot, through the darkest forest, lush leaves stroke my tossing waters--“ murmured in her ear.
This unexpected William Adama--still waters run deep, indeed-- had knocked her off stride, away from any vague attack plan of her own. He’d easily taken the upper hand, keeping them upright only steps from the hatch, slowly rocking in each other’s arms, kissing and kissing, his words tumbling out every time she needed a breath, which was often. Even then, he was capable of nibbling at her neck and collarbone while talking. That night on the old tent should have given her a clue that Adama enjoyed kissing, but surely, now, he wanted to move things along--
If only she had some strength to take the initiative. She was limp in his arms, paralyzed by too much booze and overwhelming emotion, leaving her exposed to his murmuring lips. He cradled her, whispering all these words against her skin and dress. They swayed, still on the dance floor, the rumble from his chest their percussion. They were at the senior prom-the King and Queen, making out in the shadows at the edge of the gym.
She finally made an effort, trying to at least get his damn sash off since the various insignia and medals were poking her, but all she managed to do was strip them, sending them bouncing like jacks all over the floor.
“Oh my Gods, I’m sorry,” she gasped, horrified, and she wrenched loose to look frantically around for the medals.
He tossed the sash aside. His husky, “Come here, baby,” turned out to be the sexiest thing he’d said so far.
“Baby?” she questioned but whatever she was going to say next was lost when he scooped her up effortlessly, like a big baby, with her legs around his waist.
She wriggled from the outer wrap of her dress, somehow tearing the sleeve, but willing to make the sacrifice if he’d follow up on getting her naked. Instead, his mouth latched onto her breast through the sheer fabric, suckling intently. His huge hands were under her skirt, cradling her legs in the cleft of her ass and thighs, tantalizingly close to her damp panties.
Her head flopped over his, curtaining them both in her tangled curls. They were back in her tent--her breath heating them, a deep, labored sound, bellows stoking his fire.
He moved to the other breast, and she wrote this lovely dress off as she yanked down the neckline and her bra cup to expose her damp breast first to the cool air, then to his seeking lips and tongue. “Bill!” was the most intelligent thing she could come up with. He gave her the Prophets’ poetry, and she could only mutter his name over and over.
“Bill.” Oh, wait, she’d already said that. “Bill, you can’t hold me up forever,” she said. “You’re still hurting.” Perhaps she shouldn’t be squeezing his waist so hard with her legs?
“Forever,” he promised, but he did carry her to the couch. Yes, the couch--not that damn rack. She didn’t want to bang her head against this tin can’s walls, not yet, at least.
He lowered her to the cushion, and she sprawled like a rag doll. He sank between her akimbo legs, pulled the neck down on her dress, mouth back at her breasts as he kneaded her waist.
She tugged ineffectively at his tunic’s shoulders, nearly weeping. “Bill, please,” she whined. Gods, who was this woman with the desperate voice? A button, that’s where she needed to start--her fingers fumbled at the top one before he took over. Head bowed, offering before an altar, he removed his jacket, his tanks.
At last--she smoothed her trembling hands over his wide shoulders and he laid his head in her lap, breathing deeply as though dropping into a nap.
His stillness calmed her. Yes, he was probably tired; still recovering from his fight. Needed to get his second wind...
No, he’d been thinking. His graveled voice sent her thighs quavering, saying, “I love you, Laura.”
She flopped back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling with blurring eyes. Why the frak did he have to say that, of all the words to tumble out tonight?
He moved her skirt to reveal her knee, murmuring against her skin. “Yes, I know. I know. I just had to say it.”
“Yes,” she said, wondering what she was agreeing to as her fingers ran through his hair absentmindedly.
He gazed up at her, reverent, and her tears fell freely now. He cherished her. Had any man ever done so since her father? Had she ever allowed a man to look at her like this?
He rose to his feet with an unromantic grunt, for which she was so grateful--she could laugh, with joy, with ease, wipe her tears away with the backs of her hands. He pulled her up to him, joining her to laugh against her lips.
“This dress,” she muttered, tugging at the bodice, trying to remember how she put it on, let alone how to get it off.
“I love that dress,” he said, stroking her arms. “I love the way it feels--“
“I’d prefer to feel your touch against my skin,” she pointed out, finding the zipper under her arm.
He stepped back, dropping his hands, watching.
She stilled for a moment, unsure, but then unsheathed her body under his passionate gaze, letting the dress drop in a red pool around her ankles. He held out a hand so that she may step free.
“Much better,” she said as she finally felt his calloused palms grazing over her back, unsnapping her bra easily, up to her shoulders and under her hair to tip her head back, exposing her neck to his lips.
He still had too many clothes on. She could only undo his pants’ buckle in the time it took for his hands to sweep her panties free from her hips and she shook them down to the ground. Another garment to be stepped out of, as though they were moving from stone to stone in a stream.
He sat on the couch to take off his boots, just like at the end of a long day, and she stayed a stride away to watch, her arms twined together behind her back. This was an intimacy she’d never seen. She tossed her shoes off in front of him all the time, had tonight, but he kept shod. She’d been oddly turned on by his bare feet in the sands on New Caprica--she laughed and he glanced up, embarrassed.
“Something wrong?” he asked tentatively, the last sock dangling from his fingers, and she hurried to him. No one should feel unsure when undressing, particularly when body parts were no longer in their optimum location.
“I love your feet,” she admitted, and got an Adama-patented look, a look that would turn her on from now on, even if it would be fired at her to intimidate. A look that had to be kissed away, so she pulled him up again, licking his mouth open to her explorations, pressing against his chest, tight enough to feel the ridge of his scar on her stomach. Perhaps she could merge with him through this opening.
Her hands tugged his pants down, and they abandoned another clothing article on the floor, shuffling towards the end of the couch. His boxers were gone at last, and she pushed him onto the cushion, but before she could get a really good look in the dim light, he nestled her on his lap, laying her head on his shoulder.
His tenderness was going to kill her. He began his sweet assault on her breasts yet again, this time giving special attention to just the nipple, gentle nipping followed by his tongue’s soothing balm.
She tried to get his attention, wiggling against the pressure under her thighs. When he ignored her, she went exploring, her hand burrowing, finding her target waiting in the shadows.
“Oh, Bill,” she heard some silly girl gasp, and she blushed to her hair roots at the semi-hysterical giggle that followed when her hand wrapped around his girth. So much for him being the only one embarrassed.
“Uh, huh,” he groaned as she managed to get to the base of his penis and stroke up. The poet seemed to have wandered off, leaving a caveman grunting in the dark. But even if he had used up all his sweet talking for the rest of their lives this night, that was okay to her.
He eased her thighs apart, his fingers joining her rhythm, stroking among her folds, a finger sliding easy inside, whispering along her vaginal walls, a knuckle grinding suddenly, urgently, against her clit. She had to grip his shoulders to keep from breaking his cock off in reaction to his ministrations. Instead, her teeth sank into his neck, gaining her a gasp of pain and exhilaration.
“Come here,” he ordered, and she decided maybe he would use some military tactics after all.
“I’m here,” she said foggily, a Nugget unclear on the concept. “In case you hadn’t--“ Lords, another finger slid back as far as her anus and then stroked forward in a erotic tickle, causing her to pant edgily.
With a slick sound, his fingers left her, bereft. “Come here,” he demanded again, and she looked down into his eyes as she shifted to straddle him. “Come to me, Laura.”
“Yes,” she agreed, joining his hands to guide their bodies together.
He gave her control, and she appreciated that. Too many years had gone by, and too many years before that had been the same ol,’ same ol’ actions and reactions. He was obviously a man of patience and fortitude, willing to just sit back and--
“You like to watch,” she said, grinning at his befuddled admiration as she eased a bit further down before rising again, needing to relax more before she could be sheathed fully.
“I like to watch you,” he said, his glazed eyes moving over her flushed cheeks, his shaking fingers unlacing her sweaty hair from her ear whorls, his focus falling on the way her small teeth gripped her lower lip.
“Do you watch me a lot?” she asked, going all the way down this time, satisfied, and giving a grind for emphasis.
His head lolled back, taking him out of the over-stimulating scene. But this foolishly bared his corded neck, and she bit him again, marking him where his uniform’s collar would just hide the welt. Her hands covered the bruises on his ribs, blinding his pain from her. “Do you?” she hissed.
“Yeah, yeah,” he begged and she rose again.
“What do you see?”
His head snapped up, and he grabbed her face between his hands. His frantic gaze skimmed over her features again, as though she was about to leave him forever. Tears eased from her lids, and she forgot to move. He said, “You. I see you.”
Maybe she was still a little bit drunk, because she continued this existential conversation. “Who am I?”
“You are Laura.” He let her loose, and buried his damp face in her neck. Into her skin, he promised, “For tonight, you are my Laura.”
“Yes,” she said, beginning to slide up and down again. This wasn’t the most convenient position for getting off, her knees were burning already, and she idly wondered how they were doing on that hour. If he wasn’t such a talker...
“Here,” he said, easily lifting her free. She grumbled for a moment, but somehow he got her on her back, enveloped in the dense cushions, positioning her legs over his hips as he entered again, and she saw that he’d read her mind. She grinned in approval.
He loomed over her, intense, intent. Inversely, she felt giddy and giggly. His dog tags banged her on the nose. “Sorry,” he mumbled, fumbling for them. “No,” she said, swooping up and grabbing them with her teeth. “I’m putting your tags in my box,” she told him as she sucked them into her mouth, and he bucked into her uncontrollably.
Regrouping, he put one foot on the floor, gaining leverage to pound her right to the edge, and she arched up, exposing her clit, shining, pulsing. He took the hint, working it with strong fingers. She gave over, her head tossing from side to side, her gasps the only encouragement she could vocalize.
“Laura, come on,” he begged, the sweat pouring from his face. Who was bleeding now?
“Close,” she promised, snatching his swinging dog tags again, wrenching at them, letting the hexagons bite into her palm, surely cutting his neck.
He grabbed her ass, lifting her hips, and drove into her at another angle. Her fingers were at their joining, doing what she knew would work--he could figure it out next time...next time...her desperation was gone. She tossed her arms wide. He was here, now. Forever--she knew this somehow with perfect certainty.
The wave rose through her limbs, taking her. Languid, she gave over, releasing a long moan, his name, again, the four letters shattering into infinite pieces. Open, revealed, and she just couldn’t care.
He held himself above, watching while his hips carried her, that tenderness returned, then his head flung back and he had to go too, his jerks unmetered. His painful rasp was a tear off his heart, “Laura,” before he collapsed and they fell burning from the sky.
End, part 1, Go to Part 2
Summary: Whenever Laura had dared to fantasizing about sex with William Adama, it wasn’t happening like this.
Rating: MA
Word Count: 4,550, 2 Parts, complete
Category: Humor, Romance, Smut, Het
Timeline: Post-Unfinished Business
Notes: Follow-up to my story, The Next Dance. In other words, the smut. It’s not necessary to read that story for this to make sense, since smut’s always sort of senseless anyway.
%%%%%%%%
Whenever Laura had dared to fantasizing about sex with William Adama, it wasn’t happening like this.
She assumed that he would attack silently, accomplish his mission efficiently--while still remembering her pleasure, as her old issues of Caprica Gal would have said.
A bulkhead would probably be involved, as in, against a bulkhead, or perhaps he would toss her over a desk--not that she’d envisioned any of these scenarios a time or two or twenty. The only words wouldn’t be of endearment, but orders: Get over here. Bend over. Put your leg there.
Wrong.
She never would have guessed that he was a talker. He hadn’t shut up since the hatch had swung closed behind them, a torrent of words: snatches of Qualtrium poetry, some lines from those sexy old novels by Buvol, his own fervent promises, even some of the erotic bits from the psalms of Emperor Michias that only got printed in adult versions of the Scriptures. She had heard more words out of him in the past twenty minutes than she’d heard in two years.
“My river runs hot, through the darkest forest, lush leaves stroke my tossing waters--“ murmured in her ear.
This unexpected William Adama--still waters run deep, indeed-- had knocked her off stride, away from any vague attack plan of her own. He’d easily taken the upper hand, keeping them upright only steps from the hatch, slowly rocking in each other’s arms, kissing and kissing, his words tumbling out every time she needed a breath, which was often. Even then, he was capable of nibbling at her neck and collarbone while talking. That night on the old tent should have given her a clue that Adama enjoyed kissing, but surely, now, he wanted to move things along--
If only she had some strength to take the initiative. She was limp in his arms, paralyzed by too much booze and overwhelming emotion, leaving her exposed to his murmuring lips. He cradled her, whispering all these words against her skin and dress. They swayed, still on the dance floor, the rumble from his chest their percussion. They were at the senior prom-the King and Queen, making out in the shadows at the edge of the gym.
She finally made an effort, trying to at least get his damn sash off since the various insignia and medals were poking her, but all she managed to do was strip them, sending them bouncing like jacks all over the floor.
“Oh my Gods, I’m sorry,” she gasped, horrified, and she wrenched loose to look frantically around for the medals.
He tossed the sash aside. His husky, “Come here, baby,” turned out to be the sexiest thing he’d said so far.
“Baby?” she questioned but whatever she was going to say next was lost when he scooped her up effortlessly, like a big baby, with her legs around his waist.
She wriggled from the outer wrap of her dress, somehow tearing the sleeve, but willing to make the sacrifice if he’d follow up on getting her naked. Instead, his mouth latched onto her breast through the sheer fabric, suckling intently. His huge hands were under her skirt, cradling her legs in the cleft of her ass and thighs, tantalizingly close to her damp panties.
Her head flopped over his, curtaining them both in her tangled curls. They were back in her tent--her breath heating them, a deep, labored sound, bellows stoking his fire.
He moved to the other breast, and she wrote this lovely dress off as she yanked down the neckline and her bra cup to expose her damp breast first to the cool air, then to his seeking lips and tongue. “Bill!” was the most intelligent thing she could come up with. He gave her the Prophets’ poetry, and she could only mutter his name over and over.
“Bill.” Oh, wait, she’d already said that. “Bill, you can’t hold me up forever,” she said. “You’re still hurting.” Perhaps she shouldn’t be squeezing his waist so hard with her legs?
“Forever,” he promised, but he did carry her to the couch. Yes, the couch--not that damn rack. She didn’t want to bang her head against this tin can’s walls, not yet, at least.
He lowered her to the cushion, and she sprawled like a rag doll. He sank between her akimbo legs, pulled the neck down on her dress, mouth back at her breasts as he kneaded her waist.
She tugged ineffectively at his tunic’s shoulders, nearly weeping. “Bill, please,” she whined. Gods, who was this woman with the desperate voice? A button, that’s where she needed to start--her fingers fumbled at the top one before he took over. Head bowed, offering before an altar, he removed his jacket, his tanks.
At last--she smoothed her trembling hands over his wide shoulders and he laid his head in her lap, breathing deeply as though dropping into a nap.
His stillness calmed her. Yes, he was probably tired; still recovering from his fight. Needed to get his second wind...
No, he’d been thinking. His graveled voice sent her thighs quavering, saying, “I love you, Laura.”
She flopped back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling with blurring eyes. Why the frak did he have to say that, of all the words to tumble out tonight?
He moved her skirt to reveal her knee, murmuring against her skin. “Yes, I know. I know. I just had to say it.”
“Yes,” she said, wondering what she was agreeing to as her fingers ran through his hair absentmindedly.
He gazed up at her, reverent, and her tears fell freely now. He cherished her. Had any man ever done so since her father? Had she ever allowed a man to look at her like this?
He rose to his feet with an unromantic grunt, for which she was so grateful--she could laugh, with joy, with ease, wipe her tears away with the backs of her hands. He pulled her up to him, joining her to laugh against her lips.
“This dress,” she muttered, tugging at the bodice, trying to remember how she put it on, let alone how to get it off.
“I love that dress,” he said, stroking her arms. “I love the way it feels--“
“I’d prefer to feel your touch against my skin,” she pointed out, finding the zipper under her arm.
He stepped back, dropping his hands, watching.
She stilled for a moment, unsure, but then unsheathed her body under his passionate gaze, letting the dress drop in a red pool around her ankles. He held out a hand so that she may step free.
“Much better,” she said as she finally felt his calloused palms grazing over her back, unsnapping her bra easily, up to her shoulders and under her hair to tip her head back, exposing her neck to his lips.
He still had too many clothes on. She could only undo his pants’ buckle in the time it took for his hands to sweep her panties free from her hips and she shook them down to the ground. Another garment to be stepped out of, as though they were moving from stone to stone in a stream.
He sat on the couch to take off his boots, just like at the end of a long day, and she stayed a stride away to watch, her arms twined together behind her back. This was an intimacy she’d never seen. She tossed her shoes off in front of him all the time, had tonight, but he kept shod. She’d been oddly turned on by his bare feet in the sands on New Caprica--she laughed and he glanced up, embarrassed.
“Something wrong?” he asked tentatively, the last sock dangling from his fingers, and she hurried to him. No one should feel unsure when undressing, particularly when body parts were no longer in their optimum location.
“I love your feet,” she admitted, and got an Adama-patented look, a look that would turn her on from now on, even if it would be fired at her to intimidate. A look that had to be kissed away, so she pulled him up again, licking his mouth open to her explorations, pressing against his chest, tight enough to feel the ridge of his scar on her stomach. Perhaps she could merge with him through this opening.
Her hands tugged his pants down, and they abandoned another clothing article on the floor, shuffling towards the end of the couch. His boxers were gone at last, and she pushed him onto the cushion, but before she could get a really good look in the dim light, he nestled her on his lap, laying her head on his shoulder.
His tenderness was going to kill her. He began his sweet assault on her breasts yet again, this time giving special attention to just the nipple, gentle nipping followed by his tongue’s soothing balm.
She tried to get his attention, wiggling against the pressure under her thighs. When he ignored her, she went exploring, her hand burrowing, finding her target waiting in the shadows.
“Oh, Bill,” she heard some silly girl gasp, and she blushed to her hair roots at the semi-hysterical giggle that followed when her hand wrapped around his girth. So much for him being the only one embarrassed.
“Uh, huh,” he groaned as she managed to get to the base of his penis and stroke up. The poet seemed to have wandered off, leaving a caveman grunting in the dark. But even if he had used up all his sweet talking for the rest of their lives this night, that was okay to her.
He eased her thighs apart, his fingers joining her rhythm, stroking among her folds, a finger sliding easy inside, whispering along her vaginal walls, a knuckle grinding suddenly, urgently, against her clit. She had to grip his shoulders to keep from breaking his cock off in reaction to his ministrations. Instead, her teeth sank into his neck, gaining her a gasp of pain and exhilaration.
“Come here,” he ordered, and she decided maybe he would use some military tactics after all.
“I’m here,” she said foggily, a Nugget unclear on the concept. “In case you hadn’t--“ Lords, another finger slid back as far as her anus and then stroked forward in a erotic tickle, causing her to pant edgily.
With a slick sound, his fingers left her, bereft. “Come here,” he demanded again, and she looked down into his eyes as she shifted to straddle him. “Come to me, Laura.”
“Yes,” she agreed, joining his hands to guide their bodies together.
He gave her control, and she appreciated that. Too many years had gone by, and too many years before that had been the same ol,’ same ol’ actions and reactions. He was obviously a man of patience and fortitude, willing to just sit back and--
“You like to watch,” she said, grinning at his befuddled admiration as she eased a bit further down before rising again, needing to relax more before she could be sheathed fully.
“I like to watch you,” he said, his glazed eyes moving over her flushed cheeks, his shaking fingers unlacing her sweaty hair from her ear whorls, his focus falling on the way her small teeth gripped her lower lip.
“Do you watch me a lot?” she asked, going all the way down this time, satisfied, and giving a grind for emphasis.
His head lolled back, taking him out of the over-stimulating scene. But this foolishly bared his corded neck, and she bit him again, marking him where his uniform’s collar would just hide the welt. Her hands covered the bruises on his ribs, blinding his pain from her. “Do you?” she hissed.
“Yeah, yeah,” he begged and she rose again.
“What do you see?”
His head snapped up, and he grabbed her face between his hands. His frantic gaze skimmed over her features again, as though she was about to leave him forever. Tears eased from her lids, and she forgot to move. He said, “You. I see you.”
Maybe she was still a little bit drunk, because she continued this existential conversation. “Who am I?”
“You are Laura.” He let her loose, and buried his damp face in her neck. Into her skin, he promised, “For tonight, you are my Laura.”
“Yes,” she said, beginning to slide up and down again. This wasn’t the most convenient position for getting off, her knees were burning already, and she idly wondered how they were doing on that hour. If he wasn’t such a talker...
“Here,” he said, easily lifting her free. She grumbled for a moment, but somehow he got her on her back, enveloped in the dense cushions, positioning her legs over his hips as he entered again, and she saw that he’d read her mind. She grinned in approval.
He loomed over her, intense, intent. Inversely, she felt giddy and giggly. His dog tags banged her on the nose. “Sorry,” he mumbled, fumbling for them. “No,” she said, swooping up and grabbing them with her teeth. “I’m putting your tags in my box,” she told him as she sucked them into her mouth, and he bucked into her uncontrollably.
Regrouping, he put one foot on the floor, gaining leverage to pound her right to the edge, and she arched up, exposing her clit, shining, pulsing. He took the hint, working it with strong fingers. She gave over, her head tossing from side to side, her gasps the only encouragement she could vocalize.
“Laura, come on,” he begged, the sweat pouring from his face. Who was bleeding now?
“Close,” she promised, snatching his swinging dog tags again, wrenching at them, letting the hexagons bite into her palm, surely cutting his neck.
He grabbed her ass, lifting her hips, and drove into her at another angle. Her fingers were at their joining, doing what she knew would work--he could figure it out next time...next time...her desperation was gone. She tossed her arms wide. He was here, now. Forever--she knew this somehow with perfect certainty.
The wave rose through her limbs, taking her. Languid, she gave over, releasing a long moan, his name, again, the four letters shattering into infinite pieces. Open, revealed, and she just couldn’t care.
He held himself above, watching while his hips carried her, that tenderness returned, then his head flung back and he had to go too, his jerks unmetered. His painful rasp was a tear off his heart, “Laura,” before he collapsed and they fell burning from the sky.
End, part 1, Go to Part 2