Fic: The Anatomy of Kisses and a Teacher Who Tries
Title: The Anatomy of Kisses and a Teacher Who Tries
Rating: M
Spoilers: the miniseries
Summary: "So can I ask what changed your mind?" "You can ask." But there's no way he'll answer.
A/N: For narciscia who requested the following: "I want smut fic from the mini! Not like they met before but like they just went nuts and had random sex in the mini." Hope this does the trick, BB.
The Anatomy of Kisses and a Teacher Who Tries
She is new at this. Has barely had five minutes to herself to think about it, much less reread the Articles of Colonization with the mindset that the whole frakking section on Executive powers now applies directly to her. But there are some things that run purely on common sense and instinct. Her life and loyalty went to the well-being of her people, democracy must be upheld even after an apocalypse, and it was probably frowned upon to be only a few layers (and less now as his zipper growls open) from frakking the Commander of the military when the 50,000 people left to protect are still fighting for their lives-even if the war is already over they’ve really and truly lost.
Yes, the Commander is a damned attractive (if annoyingly stubborn and arrogant) man. Yes, her last words had been that they needed to start having babies (maybe she should have been more exact-she hadn’t specifically meant them). Yes, maybe there was even a (tiny) part of her that wanted this-Barely two minutes and so frakking wet already, Laura? He’s going to think you’re a whore….
Words screeched through thinking (what little of it there was) at random, as though hardly more than a list of vocabulary, things to spell and know eventually, but for the moment just lines of chalk squeaked onto a blank board:
military government responsibility humanity
cancer president commander consequences
wrong wrong right wrong
Now, boys and girls, a gold star to whomever correctly guesses this week’s theme.
She didn’t need to guess. And yet….
When he’d stormed out and immediately back into the wardroom, ignoring her bemused Was there something else you needed, Commander? and backing her up against the table, ripping his title from her as he pressed his mouth to hers… she hadn’t done a frakking thing to stop him. Hadn’t resisted (or even pretended to), hadn’t pushed him away.
As if becoming President by some mathematical absurdity wasn’t memorable enough, she’s already writing her blurb in historical textbooks: Laura Roslin-leader immediately following the destruction of the worlds. Best known for her creative methods of strengthening ties with the military.
Oh, she is frakked, isn’t she? (Or in the process-let’s not get ahead of ourselves.)
It isn’t a kiss-not really-the way he goes about it and she responds. Mouths touch and tongues slide, even against each other in the odd coordinated moment. The geography’s right, the anatomy, but there’s something off in the definition. It isn’t kissing so much as a series of interrogative and declarative sentences: why? and how? and what the frak? (all rhetorical, because his mouth presses, but doesn’t linger, doesn’t wait for a response that she can’t give)-and I want to be able to hate you, it will be easier if I can…. Ripping the sound and letters from hate and stress and frustration and pouring out what’s left-raw emotion, the energy, the shock and irrevocable sadness that there isn’t even time to contemplate. Needing there to be someone else who understands the weight of the worlds-asking and telling and screaming and responding, without grammar and syntax getting in the way.
It is the stuff of teenage daydreams, really, the doodles in the margins of class notes-the big, strong military man unbuttoning his jacket without preamble and pawing at her breasts (Will he notice…? No. Don’t even think of that). Her high school friends would have been delighted (jealous)….
Except.
She is no longer young, and neither is he, and there are at least a dozen (Only? might be a good idea to brush up on those math skills) reasons that should stand between her and him and this. But even as she clings to that, he’s already shoving her panties aside, finding the slickness between her thighs with rough fingers, surging forward and pushing inside her.
Frak it. And the Cylons. And him.
After that first kiss that wasn’t really kissing, there isn’t another. Lips trail and slide and nip and press, but it isn’t kissing, not really-claiming and plotting territory and probably planning a frakking military coup now if he wasn’t already, and she tries to keep up, to counter.
He seems a man on a mission, hardly to know that she’s there. Not that it matters-she’s had enough careless lovers to be able to find her own pleasure in spite of them, is close already, far more keyed up than she cares to admit. Anger, sadness, stress, grief-she can hold her own with each of them individually, even in some combination, but there’s something about the strength in all of them together that throws her off balance. Figuratively, literally, and she cries out when her hands smack into the table behind her as she jolts backwards, equilibrium faltering.
At the sound, he slows, stutters, and she finds the cold shock of his eyes on hers for only an instant before they dart away. It’s the moment when he’ll stop, realize the error of his ways, and she’ll have to let him if she wants to keep her dignity-fight the urge to wrap her arms around him and force him to finish what he’s frakking started. But then she feels a hand on her back, holding her up, supporting, and the other has disappeared under her skirt, a light stroke against the bundle of nerves there suddenly spiraling out into the most magnificent pleasure. A whimper escapes, despite her trying to hold it in, and her hand has somehow found its way to the back of his neck, fingers running through the short hair there almost-
Frakking stop it, Laura-you’ve had enough lack-of-love to know it by now, to stop thinking that the opposite even exists. You just met the man, he obviously-
“You close?”
They’ve done so much talking without talking that she can barely hear what he’s said. And it’s not giving him the upper hand, is it, if she can only gasp in response? Still, she holds off as long as she can, everything pulling taut, determined to take him with her. It works, she thinks-if any of this can even be called thinking. She tips her chin back as the worlds explode for the second time that day, biting her lip against ecstasy-but his hand on the back of her head pulls her to him, his mouth searing, demanding, hers opening in surprise.
And this-she moans into his mouth, his tongue darting out to catch it-this is a kiss. Something to be broken apart, pinned back, and studied under a microscope, piece by piece: the soft press of lips; the tentative flick of his tongue; the gentle roughness of it flitting questions against hers before settling, stroking; and the eventual sigh and soft suction, that one last caress against her lower lip as if in goodbye or apology or-
He pulls back and out, slow enough so that she can steady herself on the table. She leans back, watching-heartbeat still fluttering-breath catching on her ribs, as his (trembling) hands hurriedly tuck himself back in. He averts his eyes with military precision. If he won’t look at her now, she’ll make him, even if it hurts them both.
“I’m still getting the hang of his level of leadership-is that the customary military greeting to all presidents, or was this an exception?”
“Madam President, I....”
“Laura.” Please….
“Laura.” It’s soft on his tongue, almost a promise-but he doesn’t seem to know where to go from there.
“If I’d wanted to stop you, Bill, I could have.” No one’s told her this is how he shortens his name-he’s been the Old Man, Adama, the Commander-but it feels right (William too stiff, Will too silly, and she’s already got her sweetly boyish Billy-no need to get them confused), and he doesn’t flinch. “I can hold my own.”
“I know.” Something almost teasing here, a soft laugh in the undertone of his usual gruffness-and if she holds to that, remembers it, they might just get through this whole combined leadership thing without killing each other. “I don’t know what that was.”
She could point out that if he doesn’t know she’s not going to tell him, but there’s something raw and exposed in his admission. “It’s been a long day for all of us.”
And yet, she doubts anyone else has dealt with the fact by means of a quick frak with the frakking Commander-at least they better not have. Oh Gods… just introduced (and then reintroduced), and already she’s getting possessive. But he’s the Commander, and she’s… she’s a frakking schoolteacher playing at President and fumbling even at that.
He sighs, a hand running down her thigh to straighten her skirt, skimming up to fix her jacket. “We shouldn’t have done that.”
“No.” Her heart is still beating too fast. “We shouldn’t have.”
“I just… I needed-”
“Yes. Need. That’s all it was, right?”
Exactly, Laura. Need and stress release and pent-up emotion. Nothing whatsoever to do with attraction, the way your fingers are skimming along the edges of the cut on his head even now to check that he’s all right (her hand falls to her side). Only a few hours in office and lying already. You’ll make a fantastic President.
“It can’t happen again.”
“Mmm,” she agrees, nods. Can’t. Not the forced and affirmative won’t. Cannot (but might)-barely a step off from shouldn’t (the equivalent to maybe, almost always a yes).
“Laura….” A hand on hers, almost tender, and then snapping away at the sound of the hatch opening.
“Madam President-oh. Did you need more time?”
“No, Billy. The Commander and I were just…” She tries to fold back into politics, not to think about whether they look (or smell) of sex, but there’s really no way around the phrasing. “… finishing up here.” She turns toward Bill-no, the Commander-who has yet to back away. “Was there anything else, Commander?”
He makes his way to the hatch without a word, only pausing once he’s reached it but not turning back to face her. “I… don’t regret my actions today, Madam President.” There. His gaze turning back over his shoulder now, meeting hers. “Any of them.”
She allows the ghost of a smile, which he almost returns even through his serious stare-the exchange saying more than either of them have today. “Neither do I.”
Rating: M
Spoilers: the miniseries
Summary: "So can I ask what changed your mind?" "You can ask." But there's no way he'll answer.
A/N: For narciscia who requested the following: "I want smut fic from the mini! Not like they met before but like they just went nuts and had random sex in the mini." Hope this does the trick, BB.
The Anatomy of Kisses and a Teacher Who Tries
She is new at this. Has barely had five minutes to herself to think about it, much less reread the Articles of Colonization with the mindset that the whole frakking section on Executive powers now applies directly to her. But there are some things that run purely on common sense and instinct. Her life and loyalty went to the well-being of her people, democracy must be upheld even after an apocalypse, and it was probably frowned upon to be only a few layers (and less now as his zipper growls open) from frakking the Commander of the military when the 50,000 people left to protect are still fighting for their lives-even if the war is already over they’ve really and truly lost.
Yes, the Commander is a damned attractive (if annoyingly stubborn and arrogant) man. Yes, her last words had been that they needed to start having babies (maybe she should have been more exact-she hadn’t specifically meant them). Yes, maybe there was even a (tiny) part of her that wanted this-Barely two minutes and so frakking wet already, Laura? He’s going to think you’re a whore….
Words screeched through thinking (what little of it there was) at random, as though hardly more than a list of vocabulary, things to spell and know eventually, but for the moment just lines of chalk squeaked onto a blank board:
military government responsibility humanity
cancer president commander consequences
wrong wrong right wrong
Now, boys and girls, a gold star to whomever correctly guesses this week’s theme.
She didn’t need to guess. And yet….
When he’d stormed out and immediately back into the wardroom, ignoring her bemused Was there something else you needed, Commander? and backing her up against the table, ripping his title from her as he pressed his mouth to hers… she hadn’t done a frakking thing to stop him. Hadn’t resisted (or even pretended to), hadn’t pushed him away.
As if becoming President by some mathematical absurdity wasn’t memorable enough, she’s already writing her blurb in historical textbooks: Laura Roslin-leader immediately following the destruction of the worlds. Best known for her creative methods of strengthening ties with the military.
Oh, she is frakked, isn’t she? (Or in the process-let’s not get ahead of ourselves.)
It isn’t a kiss-not really-the way he goes about it and she responds. Mouths touch and tongues slide, even against each other in the odd coordinated moment. The geography’s right, the anatomy, but there’s something off in the definition. It isn’t kissing so much as a series of interrogative and declarative sentences: why? and how? and what the frak? (all rhetorical, because his mouth presses, but doesn’t linger, doesn’t wait for a response that she can’t give)-and I want to be able to hate you, it will be easier if I can…. Ripping the sound and letters from hate and stress and frustration and pouring out what’s left-raw emotion, the energy, the shock and irrevocable sadness that there isn’t even time to contemplate. Needing there to be someone else who understands the weight of the worlds-asking and telling and screaming and responding, without grammar and syntax getting in the way.
It is the stuff of teenage daydreams, really, the doodles in the margins of class notes-the big, strong military man unbuttoning his jacket without preamble and pawing at her breasts (Will he notice…? No. Don’t even think of that). Her high school friends would have been delighted (jealous)….
Except.
She is no longer young, and neither is he, and there are at least a dozen (Only? might be a good idea to brush up on those math skills) reasons that should stand between her and him and this. But even as she clings to that, he’s already shoving her panties aside, finding the slickness between her thighs with rough fingers, surging forward and pushing inside her.
Frak it. And the Cylons. And him.
After that first kiss that wasn’t really kissing, there isn’t another. Lips trail and slide and nip and press, but it isn’t kissing, not really-claiming and plotting territory and probably planning a frakking military coup now if he wasn’t already, and she tries to keep up, to counter.
He seems a man on a mission, hardly to know that she’s there. Not that it matters-she’s had enough careless lovers to be able to find her own pleasure in spite of them, is close already, far more keyed up than she cares to admit. Anger, sadness, stress, grief-she can hold her own with each of them individually, even in some combination, but there’s something about the strength in all of them together that throws her off balance. Figuratively, literally, and she cries out when her hands smack into the table behind her as she jolts backwards, equilibrium faltering.
At the sound, he slows, stutters, and she finds the cold shock of his eyes on hers for only an instant before they dart away. It’s the moment when he’ll stop, realize the error of his ways, and she’ll have to let him if she wants to keep her dignity-fight the urge to wrap her arms around him and force him to finish what he’s frakking started. But then she feels a hand on her back, holding her up, supporting, and the other has disappeared under her skirt, a light stroke against the bundle of nerves there suddenly spiraling out into the most magnificent pleasure. A whimper escapes, despite her trying to hold it in, and her hand has somehow found its way to the back of his neck, fingers running through the short hair there almost-
Frakking stop it, Laura-you’ve had enough lack-of-love to know it by now, to stop thinking that the opposite even exists. You just met the man, he obviously-
“You close?”
They’ve done so much talking without talking that she can barely hear what he’s said. And it’s not giving him the upper hand, is it, if she can only gasp in response? Still, she holds off as long as she can, everything pulling taut, determined to take him with her. It works, she thinks-if any of this can even be called thinking. She tips her chin back as the worlds explode for the second time that day, biting her lip against ecstasy-but his hand on the back of her head pulls her to him, his mouth searing, demanding, hers opening in surprise.
And this-she moans into his mouth, his tongue darting out to catch it-this is a kiss. Something to be broken apart, pinned back, and studied under a microscope, piece by piece: the soft press of lips; the tentative flick of his tongue; the gentle roughness of it flitting questions against hers before settling, stroking; and the eventual sigh and soft suction, that one last caress against her lower lip as if in goodbye or apology or-
He pulls back and out, slow enough so that she can steady herself on the table. She leans back, watching-heartbeat still fluttering-breath catching on her ribs, as his (trembling) hands hurriedly tuck himself back in. He averts his eyes with military precision. If he won’t look at her now, she’ll make him, even if it hurts them both.
“I’m still getting the hang of his level of leadership-is that the customary military greeting to all presidents, or was this an exception?”
“Madam President, I....”
“Laura.” Please….
“Laura.” It’s soft on his tongue, almost a promise-but he doesn’t seem to know where to go from there.
“If I’d wanted to stop you, Bill, I could have.” No one’s told her this is how he shortens his name-he’s been the Old Man, Adama, the Commander-but it feels right (William too stiff, Will too silly, and she’s already got her sweetly boyish Billy-no need to get them confused), and he doesn’t flinch. “I can hold my own.”
“I know.” Something almost teasing here, a soft laugh in the undertone of his usual gruffness-and if she holds to that, remembers it, they might just get through this whole combined leadership thing without killing each other. “I don’t know what that was.”
She could point out that if he doesn’t know she’s not going to tell him, but there’s something raw and exposed in his admission. “It’s been a long day for all of us.”
And yet, she doubts anyone else has dealt with the fact by means of a quick frak with the frakking Commander-at least they better not have. Oh Gods… just introduced (and then reintroduced), and already she’s getting possessive. But he’s the Commander, and she’s… she’s a frakking schoolteacher playing at President and fumbling even at that.
He sighs, a hand running down her thigh to straighten her skirt, skimming up to fix her jacket. “We shouldn’t have done that.”
“No.” Her heart is still beating too fast. “We shouldn’t have.”
“I just… I needed-”
“Yes. Need. That’s all it was, right?”
Exactly, Laura. Need and stress release and pent-up emotion. Nothing whatsoever to do with attraction, the way your fingers are skimming along the edges of the cut on his head even now to check that he’s all right (her hand falls to her side). Only a few hours in office and lying already. You’ll make a fantastic President.
“It can’t happen again.”
“Mmm,” she agrees, nods. Can’t. Not the forced and affirmative won’t. Cannot (but might)-barely a step off from shouldn’t (the equivalent to maybe, almost always a yes).
“Laura….” A hand on hers, almost tender, and then snapping away at the sound of the hatch opening.
“Madam President-oh. Did you need more time?”
“No, Billy. The Commander and I were just…” She tries to fold back into politics, not to think about whether they look (or smell) of sex, but there’s really no way around the phrasing. “… finishing up here.” She turns toward Bill-no, the Commander-who has yet to back away. “Was there anything else, Commander?”
He makes his way to the hatch without a word, only pausing once he’s reached it but not turning back to face her. “I… don’t regret my actions today, Madam President.” There. His gaze turning back over his shoulder now, meeting hers. “Any of them.”
She allows the ghost of a smile, which he almost returns even through his serious stare-the exchange saying more than either of them have today. “Neither do I.”