Heart Still Beating (Firefly, Zoe/Wash)
Before my Indefinite Hiatus Due To Malfunctioning Technology, I might as well share this.
Heart Still Beating. Firefly, Zoe/Wash. 610 words, not worksafe. Written for Sheff, who requested Zoe/Wash, there's not much time for porn_battle. I went "aaaaaaw" and wrote it. Because married people can have hot sex lives, too.
There’s not much time, but in their line of work there’s never much time so Wash learns to make the best of the time he’s given, learns to drag his wife (or let his wife drag him, as he’s not exactly the dragging type; he’s more paunch than muscle, the opposite of her) off to bed as soon as the rest of the crew leaves the boat. Learns how many buttons (three) he has to undo on her vest before he can tug it over her head and slide his hands under her shirt, feeling how taut and beautiful she is, wo de tian, ah, how she coils and stretches and tugs him down under her. And he’s happy like that, happy just looking at her lips and her eyes and her hair and knowing that she loves him, she chose him, but he only has a few breathless seconds to praise every god he can think of off the top of his head and a few he might have invented on the spot because then Zoe’s lips are on his mouth, his neck, his chest, his-everywhere. She’s blisteringly hot like Serenity’s engine, like a star.
The best part-well, one of the best parts-about making love to a warrior woman is how she always knows just where to go; she doesn’t fumble like he sometimes does, she knows she doesn’t have time to fumble, so she just slides over him and strikes with liquid grace, knows just where to kiss and bite and suck to make his eyes roll back in yes. She rolls his pants down over his hips and he runs his hand up her thigh-“Hurry,” Zoe says, with her voice all low and breaking and her skin shining with sweat and slickness. She never says much when they make love, but she doesn’t need to; he’s good at reading the little things, the little jerks of her hips and twitches of her eyelids, or how she leans back on her elbows now, ready for him. He balances her in his lap, presses the heel of his hand against her and sinks his fingers deep inside and she’s so-wo de ma, so hot and slick and tight…
“Hurry, I know,” Wash says half to himself, because he could get lost forever like this, lost in her, and he can’t, he has to go faster until she tips her head back and arches, the tips of her toes trailing along the small of his back. He holds on tight to her thigh with his other hand. (Oh, he loves her legs. Sweet merciful gods in heaven, he loves her legs.)
He lingers on thoughts of her legs for too long, he thinks, because Zoe’s pushing him down to the bed and gripping his shoulder and straddling him and-wow, every time she does that, sinks down onto him like that, he feels something blast through his spine and leave him breathless. It only gets better when she really starts to ride him, so fast he scarcely remembers to breathe, scarcely remembers to do anything at all except look at her, feel her, touch her, be with her, be in her, oh, Zoe.
“I could die a happy man right now,” he says once they’ve both gone still, once they’re both smiling at each other like the crazed idiots they are.
“You’re of a lot more use to me alive,” she says. “You’re a sight warmer when your heart’s still beating, after all.”
He wraps his arms around her, and she curls up into them. They have enough time for this, for a little while.
Heart Still Beating. Firefly, Zoe/Wash. 610 words, not worksafe. Written for Sheff, who requested Zoe/Wash, there's not much time for porn_battle. I went "aaaaaaw" and wrote it. Because married people can have hot sex lives, too.
There’s not much time, but in their line of work there’s never much time so Wash learns to make the best of the time he’s given, learns to drag his wife (or let his wife drag him, as he’s not exactly the dragging type; he’s more paunch than muscle, the opposite of her) off to bed as soon as the rest of the crew leaves the boat. Learns how many buttons (three) he has to undo on her vest before he can tug it over her head and slide his hands under her shirt, feeling how taut and beautiful she is, wo de tian, ah, how she coils and stretches and tugs him down under her. And he’s happy like that, happy just looking at her lips and her eyes and her hair and knowing that she loves him, she chose him, but he only has a few breathless seconds to praise every god he can think of off the top of his head and a few he might have invented on the spot because then Zoe’s lips are on his mouth, his neck, his chest, his-everywhere. She’s blisteringly hot like Serenity’s engine, like a star.
The best part-well, one of the best parts-about making love to a warrior woman is how she always knows just where to go; she doesn’t fumble like he sometimes does, she knows she doesn’t have time to fumble, so she just slides over him and strikes with liquid grace, knows just where to kiss and bite and suck to make his eyes roll back in yes. She rolls his pants down over his hips and he runs his hand up her thigh-“Hurry,” Zoe says, with her voice all low and breaking and her skin shining with sweat and slickness. She never says much when they make love, but she doesn’t need to; he’s good at reading the little things, the little jerks of her hips and twitches of her eyelids, or how she leans back on her elbows now, ready for him. He balances her in his lap, presses the heel of his hand against her and sinks his fingers deep inside and she’s so-wo de ma, so hot and slick and tight…
“Hurry, I know,” Wash says half to himself, because he could get lost forever like this, lost in her, and he can’t, he has to go faster until she tips her head back and arches, the tips of her toes trailing along the small of his back. He holds on tight to her thigh with his other hand. (Oh, he loves her legs. Sweet merciful gods in heaven, he loves her legs.)
He lingers on thoughts of her legs for too long, he thinks, because Zoe’s pushing him down to the bed and gripping his shoulder and straddling him and-wow, every time she does that, sinks down onto him like that, he feels something blast through his spine and leave him breathless. It only gets better when she really starts to ride him, so fast he scarcely remembers to breathe, scarcely remembers to do anything at all except look at her, feel her, touch her, be with her, be in her, oh, Zoe.
“I could die a happy man right now,” he says once they’ve both gone still, once they’re both smiling at each other like the crazed idiots they are.
“You’re of a lot more use to me alive,” she says. “You’re a sight warmer when your heart’s still beating, after all.”
He wraps his arms around her, and she curls up into them. They have enough time for this, for a little while.