Just One Word: Gift Fic Edition (1/2)
Title: Safe Returns
Character/Pairing: Taylor/Wash
Word Count: 2689
Genre: Romance/Fluff
Rating: R
Spoiler Alert: Season 1, Episode 3: Instinct
Summary: After Taylor returns from dealing with the rogue swarm of pterosaurs, Wash goes to check on him.
Author’s Note: Gift fic for admiralkate, who requested a reunion after said episode if W/T had an established relationship. She even had a mission report for it, which was awesome! (And hopefully I met the criteria...)
Safe Returns
It doesn’t matter how many years she’s done this. Somehow, it never gets any easier. Wash spends the majority of the night in his office, sitting at his desk, running through his files, helping where she can. Requisition reports are filled, patrol schedules drafted, the hours of the evening bleeding into the early morning. Sleep rarely comes to her when he’s OTG for any reason; now that there is a real threat the notion of it is impossible. Glancing out the window, she sighs. Sunlight floods the pavilion and the Shannon woman is back to her pacing. Her feet are leading her out towards the Doctor before she can think better of it.
The two women exchange glances, a mutual feeling dancing in their eyes. Concern, affection the Lieutenant attempts (and fails) to mask; both sentiments expressed openly in the other woman’s eyes. For a moment, it seems like there is nothing; there is only the empty horizon, spanning out before them, more hours spent worrying, pacing fitfully. And then, a cloud of dust, the Rhino coming into sight. It closes the distance with a speed she would venture to say is dangerous, the gate only just finishing opening as it comes to an abrupt stop in the pavilion.
The reunion passes in a blur (Elisabeth free to twine her arms about her mate; Wash is forced to simply fuss over the Commander, gently reaches out to touch an angry abrasion on the back of his neck; he leads her hand away with an amused, patronizing, sort of look), emotions she will never permit to show across her features running roughshod internally. Relief, a feeling so potent it’s nearly painful, is the foremost of these. When Taylor dismisses himself to get some rest she’s left smiling, entirely content, glances after him as subtly as she can manage before turning to head back towards Command.
She’s been there no more than fifteen minutes before Guzman steps through the door, a brow arched as if to ask what she’s doing there. She’s been on duty for the better part of the last forty eight hours and is undoubtedly as exhausted as Taylor. The Chief of Security jabs a thumb over his shoulder, “C’mon, Lieutenant. You’ve got better places to be.”
“Until the Commander returns…”
The man shakes his hand, crosses to rest them on the surface of the desk, “It’s paperwork, Wash. Go get some rest. I’ll handle things until you’re back on your feet.”
It means more than he thinks (or she is willing to ascribe to him; Guz is clever, undoubtedly knows about them and has enough respect (and presence of mind) to keep it to himself and she gives his shoulder a friendly squeeze as she passes. With as much subtlety as she can manage she shifts her course, heads for the Commander’s unit rather than her own. It isn’t out of the ordinary, not really. In fact, it’s entirely in keeping that she should visit him after such a trying ordeal, procure some sort of debriefing.
She has nothing of the sort in mind.
Her body nearly aches with exhaustion, overtired muscles protesting each of her movements. The Lieutenant wants nothing more than to curl up in a ball and sleep away the remainder of the day. She punches the pass code to his home from memory more than anything else, steps inside before he can even welcome her. She doesn’t bother to knock (they’re too far past it; it’s more strange for one of them to be absent from the others home than to simply arrive), is toeing off her boots before she can call out a greeting. Wash runs a hand tiredly through her hair, removes the leather tie holding it back. The dark hair spills across her shoulders, the dispersal of weight entirely too welcome, alleviating some of the pain in her head almost instantly.
Regardless of propriety she’s shedding her armor. The material is cast aside with a haste she’d be proud of any other day, slung over the back of his dining chairs as she makes her way to the bedroom. Her shirt follows suit (though it does not have the fortune of making it to the table, falls off the counter to pool on the floor), fatigues unbuckled and unzipped, barely hanging off her hips, before she steps over the threshold. He’s laying back on the bed (still wearing his armor, still bleeding, still filthy) a hand over his eyes. He lifts a finger to peer at her, arches a brow at her state of undress, “That eager to have me back eh, Wash?”
The woman snorts, collapses face down beside him on the mattress, “I don’t have the energy to mount a proper response to that, sir.”
“Thank god.”
Wash chuckles, shifts to lie on her side. It brings her torso flush with his left arm; he favors her with a tired smile, brushes the backs of his fingers across her lower abdomen. Simple as the motion is she finds it oddly soothing, the warmth leaving lines across her skin. She finds her eyes lolling shut, shifts into his touch. It would be the simplest thing in the world, falling asleep right now. The prospect is an appealing one, calls out to her with an intensity that is almost overwhelming. It is only when Taylor shifts, the fabric of his field armor scratching against the blankets, that she cracks an eye open, sighs.
She plucks at his sleeve, eyes the cuts across his face, the dirt smeared across its planes, “You need a shower.”
“I’ll shower in the morning.”
“It is the morning,” the Lieutenant eases herself up into a sitting position, glances down at him. He really is a damn mess, bleeding all over the bed. Taylor shows no signs of moving and so she slides from the bed, stands between his legs. A part of her mind is convinced this is nearly degrading. Another, that it’s oddly intimate. The rest is simply determined to have him clean and healthy before he shares a bed with her. Her fingers unclasp his belt, unbutton fatigues, sliding them down his legs (is grateful he had the foresight to remove his own boots). The man arches a brow, an entirely too smug smirk turning his lips.
“Don’t think that’s going to help me get clean, Wash.”
“You think I’m going to let you touch me like this, sir, and I’ll have to assume you hit your head on the way back with Shannon,” the threat falls somewhat flat in no small part to the amusement lacing her tone. He hums in agreement (contentment) as she leans over him, hands coming to rest on his hips as she undoes the armor, pulls him up into a sitting position to slide it off him. He removes his own shirt, allows her to take his hand, pull him to his feet. The woman throws an expectant glance towards the adjoining bathroom.
Taylor sighs, thumb brushing over a scar on her abdomen, “How long’s it been since you showered, Lieutenant?” Her silence is taken as confirmation of his original thought (forty eight hours…she’s feeling oily, a little more grimy from the exertions of the last two days) and he laces his fingers with her, tugging her after him. She’s too tired to summon the appropriate amount of energy to resist.
“This isn’t going to help…”
He smirks at her, “What makes you say that, Lieutenant?”
“Experience.”
“Well,” he sighs, turns to brush his hands down her waist, taking the material with him. She steps out of her fatigues, pleased by the look in his blue eyes as his gaze sweeps over her. The throaty quality of his voice is distinctly at odds with his words, “Don’t think you have to worry about that today; too damn tired to give you an effective showing.”
Wash nods, moves past him to start the shower. The water heats quickly; she brings it to near scalding, eager to have it beating against her sore muscles. Quickly discarding the remainder of her clothing, she steps in, begins the process of scrubbing herself clean. And god, does it feel good. The temperature is nearly uncomfortable but the bite is a welcome one, her skin becoming pinker; she plucks the waiting wash towel from the rack, wets it, drags it over her arms. Her neck, down her torso, feels the dirt, the tension of the day, slipping away much as the water breaks about her shoulders.
She’s well on her way to being clean before she notices the Commander has not joined her. With a bemused smile on her face she turns, finds him staring. The sentiment there steals her breath momentarily, the naked attraction (devotion, affection, something dangerously like love) playing havoc with the blue of his eyes.
“Sir?”
There’s something ridiculous about standing in front of him nude, the water pouring down on her, as he stares slack jawed. She takes a step forward, intent on pulling him in after her, and he shakes his head, holds up a hand. With a smile, she extends the cloth to him instead, turns so her back is facing him (a small thing to anyone else, bespeaking an infinite trust between them. They are soldiers, each capable of destroying the other, and she exposes herself to him willingly). For a moment, she wonders if he’s fallen asleep. But fingers clasp lightly about her wrist, press a kiss there, before retrieving the towel. He rests a hand over the swell of her hip, gently trails the cloth down her back, follows the lines of the muscle there. It’s a remarkably soothing experience, his fingers caressing, kneading the overtired muscles as he works, warm water beating down on them. She leans back against his chest, feels him rest his chin on the top of her head.
With a smile, she turns, takes the cloth from his hand, and begins the process of cleaning the dirt and sweat from him. Her ministrations are met with a confused look. The woman simply rolls her eyes, smoothes her hands over the muscles of his torso. She does not often submit herself in this sort of way (and he has no desire to see her in such a subservient role) but they are both tired, both relieved at his safe return, and both feel woefully sentimental. She tips his head down, delicately cleans the dirt away, careful of the scratches.
Something changes in his eyes, the blue darkening with a familiar sentiment. Regardless of her exhaustion, she finds herself leaning forward, swiping a particularly stubborn line of dried blood near the corner of his lips aside with her tongue. The taste is acrid but tolerable; a kiss to his jaw, chin, one to his lips, each of the various injuries marring his features, all feather light.
Taylor smirks, rests a hand at the nape of her neck, brings her flush against him, replaces her delicate touches with a sound kiss, tongue stroking her lower lip before seeking entrance. Her arms come up around his neck, grinds against him out of habit more than anything else, their slick skin creating an intriguing sort of friction. He gives her ass an affectionate pat, lifts her leg. Snickering against his lips, she tips her head to the side, “I thought you were too tired.”
“Guess you just inspire me, Wash.”
She catches his lower lip between her teeth, doesn’t bother to hide her flattered grin; with a hop, she twines her legs around his waist, allows him a moment to adjust to her added weight before arching against him. Taylor grins, dips his head to press a kiss to her shoulder, presses her against the shower wall. The cool material is a startling change from the heat of the water, the heat of his skin, and causes her to shiver involuntarily, clutch him to her more tightly.
It isn’t the best sex they’ve ever had, hell, it’s hardly near the top. But it’s satisfying, affectionate, reassures them both in a ways they will never admit to needing. She feels her breath catch in her throat as she nears her peak, holds his head to her shoulder. Exhaustion renders his strokes more erratic (her own pace suffering as well), their kisses sloppy. Her cry is, true to form, impressive, the sound echoing off the shower walls. The man chuckles against her skin. For whatever reason, she finds herself joining him, drags her lips across his forehead, scratches nails over his shoulders. “Something funny, sir?”
He shrugs, nuzzles his nose against the rise of a breast, “Just thinking.”
“And the colony shudders…” The insubordinate quip earns her an affectionate nip over the delicate skin and she groans, fingers brushing through his dripping hair. He grins, raises a brow at her expectant expression, looks rather wicked as he drags lips up her throat. There’s a squawk from outside the window and both stiffen. It’s not one of the little menaces that just terrorized the colony but the event is still near enough in their minds to evoke caution. She relaxes with a chuckle, stares towards the thing. Something runs through her mind, something he told Malcolm earlier. She brushes her thumb over a cut on his cheek, “So those birds….make a lot of noise, do they?”
Taylor smiles, “Got nothing on you, Wash.”
She can’t help but roll her eyes, the affection in his tone so blatantly obvious she can’t effectively clamp down on the fond smile threatening to turn her lips. A shake of her head and she steps out of the shower, hand searching for her towel; she’s pulling it back towards her when arms snake around her waist, snatches the material from her and tosses it aside. The Commander hauls her bodily out of the bathroom, both dripping wet. It’s his house so she’s less outraged over the mess but she twists in protest regardless, laughs when he tosses her on the bed, tugging the covers down. He slides in beside her almost immediately, arm thrown over her waist.
In a few hours this will be miserably uncomfortable. With a content sigh, she brushes a stray bit of hair from his forehead, curls beside him, allows herself to fall into much needed sleep.
Title: Up the Wrong Tree
Character/Pairing: Taylor/Wash
Word Count: 2452
Genre: Romance
Rating: R
Spoiler Alert: None
Summary: She's playing a game of cat and mouse, more dangerous than it has any right being; still unsure of which role is hers.
Author’s Note: Gift fic for inu_midoriko who requested W/T, something about guns, and a tree. xD And lo, it too had to involve smut. All the gifts involve smut. This amuses me. Hope you like it, gorgeous!
Up The Wrong Tree
Her chest constricts painfully as she ducks beneath the edge of the shallow ravine, presses herself as tightly as she can against the depth of the enclosure. She regulates her breathing, allows it to escape her in little more than restricted hisses of air, silent in the jungle ambiance. Every muscle in her body goes rigid, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice, every one of her senses suddenly hyper aware.
Narrowed eyes scan the tree line, searching for her pursuer. No sign, no noise. She is not such a fool as to believe herself free for it. Her fingers tighten around the pistol sitting in her lap, still held at the ready. A stray piece of dark hair falls in front of her eyes; it is quickly batted aside. She can afford no such distractions, nothing impeding her vision, nothing.
She is playing a game of cat and mouse, more deadly than it has any right being; still unsure which role is hers. The Lieutenant, the huntress, listens again, listens for the crack of a twig, the brushing aside of foliage, anything. Is met only with silence.
And then she hears it. A footstep, light, carefully measured, as it makes its way through the underbrush. Soon, it is resting right above her head.
She bites down on her lower lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood. In a moment it will all be over. Her pursuer will undoubtedly check her hiding place and there will be no escape. She adjusts her grip on the weapon, frowns. One shot left. She has one shot left.
It won’t be enough. Not to end things, not even an effective distraction.
Wash presses against the wall, allows her dark hair to spill in front of her face. Combined with the black of her armor, the darkness of the hole, it is an effective camouflage. Listens as her assailant stops above her; another pause, as if searching, attempting to divine her location through sheer force of will alone; silence, a displeased growl. Then steps again, moving on and away from her. She remains where she is for a long moment, listens to see whether or not it’s a ploy, to see if it intends to double back.
It’s do or die and the huntress is loathe hiding like some frightened animal. Counting to three, she slides down, hoists herself back over the edge. With a determined expression she holds her pistol at the ready, follows the light indentations that mark her opponents steps through the jungle. Slight things she has no right noticing but her hyper awareness highlights. She keeps low, stealthy and silent as one of the great creatures prowling the primeval world.
She has never held the role of hunted long, refuses to submit to it now. With a growl, she presses herself flat to a tree, edges around the corner.
And there is her attacker, simply waiting. She lungs to the side, barely avoids his initial attack. Her hand is caught, pistol thrown from her grasp. She lashes out with her foot, catches on something (she isn’t entirely certain what, too eagerly twisting away, throwing herself bodily towards her weapon). From the sound, she has only a second before her opponent recovers. Her fingers find the trigger; spin so she’s facing him.
Only he’s closer than she anticipates. She brings the butt of the gun down, thumping him on the shoulder as she tosses herself into a roll, making for the trees. Something zooms past her (a shot) and she winces at the closeness, the air grazing her cheek. She’s fast, but not fast enough, feels a hand grasping at the material of her field armor, spinning her around. With enough force to steal the air from her lungs she finds herself slammed against one of the great jungle trees. Sweat beading on her forehead, she scowls, glares into the face of her attacker.
Amused (aroused) blue eyes peer back at her, Taylor’s face determined as he presses the barrel of his gun against her forehead. “Think it’s time for you to surrender, woman.”
They both know she never will; he steps forward, smirking as he brings them fully into contact, pins her between his body and the unyielding surface behind her. Too smug; she grits her teeth as one of his legs finds its way between hers, gently edges them apart. Resists the urge to grind against him; arousal flooding her (wonders if it says something about her mental state that such a situation affects her so) as he leans into her, nose tracing the rise of her cheek, nipping at her ear. Her free hand comes up to clutch his shoulder, arches into him as best she’s able. The supposed show of surrender has him chuckling, sucking at the underside of her jaw.
She shifts her weight more firmly against him, lets out a hiss of breath when he thrusts forward, the fabric of their fatigues biting at her thighs, shoulders colliding with the tree at her back. The gun dips, comes to rest at the junction of her shoulder and neck as he turns his attention more fully on her.
It’s the opening she’s looking for. The gun he’s forgotten is suddenly jabbed against his ribs; he stiffens and she smirks against his mouth, drags his lower lip between her teeth. Pulls the trigger.
Her voice is nearly smug, nearly too confident, “Think you’re dead, sir.”
He reaches around to pull the soft tipped dart away from his armor, scowls at her, “Looks like it, Wash.”
His knee shifts, presses up hard against her center (he really is an awful sport…). She groans, unable to keep herself from grinding against him, lips finding his hungrily as he tears the pistol from her grasp, tosses it aside. His own follows suit, hand tangling in her hair, tongue traces hers. It’s a small battle getting undressed, gear hastily discarded, cast aside, both entirely too eager. She fists hands in his shirt, nails tearing at the skin beneath as she drags him towards her, throws the material somewhere as she tugs it over his head, nails raking down his chest. Aggressive, frenetic, he lifts her without bothering to ask, slams her back. The bight of the bark against her bare skin is almost painful, the uneven texture tearing at the delicate skin.
She shouldn’t enjoy it as much as she does, tightens her grip on him instinctively, a breathy moan leaving her. She shouldn’t be reacting as strongly as she is (but there’s that intoxicating mix again; the lines between hunter and hunted inexplicably blurred), head thrown back. The pain as it collides with the bark is pale in comparison to her delight as his hands smooth over her torso, cupping her breasts.
“Nathaniel…”
A breathy outcry, unsure precisely what she’s requesting; he thrusts upwards, fabric of his fatigues biting at her skin as he moves, effectively jarring her senses. She yelps, nails tearing down his back. Desperate panting as her breathing refuses to regulate, held too tightly to effectively manage it. The woman digs her heels against him, needs more of him, all of him. A hiss as he bites down on her shoulder, alternately sucking and nipping. With a snarl, she takes his face in her hands, forces his head back, teeth grazing his throat. Not hard enough to hurt, more forceful then they would usually employ.
She’d hidden, run. He’d given chase. He’d fled, intent on luring her out. She’d given chase, pursued.
Hunter and hunted, roles so quickly swapped.
He is the hunter here and that role shows no signs of changing. She has no desire to alter it, revels in this competition, knowing that there is one man, and one alone, that she will so willingly submit to; who can so thoroughly conquer her. His presence is crushing, stifling, and she finds herself drawing him impossibly closer.
There is the need to breathe, to get away, to put distance between them. She needs space if she’s going to survive, will die if she remains so near him. Her hands stray between them, unbuckling his trousers, moves into him instead of away from him. Unable to run, even now (knows if she pushed him away, he’d stop immediately). He kisses her hard, teeth clicking briefly before settling into a more playful pace as she shimmies, kicks his pants down his legs, boxers in tow. Doesn’t bother to step out of them, simply moves against her.
It’s the first time in their frenzied joining that he pauses, arches a brow. Asks her whether or not she wants this, wants him to take her in such a way (is still willing to stop if she doesn’t). With a growl, she pulls him back to her, slides her hands over his ribs, nails grazing over scars, flesh torn and made whole again (by her hand, more often than naught). Her nails scrape lightly over his neck, massage the muscles there, scratching up to twine in his hair, nips at his jaw.
Suitably reassured, he enters her in one hard thrust, pauses momentarily to allow her to catch her breath. Hands clasp his shoulders, bracing herself as best as she able as he begins to move again. A hiss of breath, a roll of his hips as he pounds into her, less her lover, her friend, more her hunter. A gratifying change of pace, arches and tenses against him, refuses to simply submit, be simple prey. Presses her flat against the surface behind her, catches her hands as they try and move to clasp the over her head. She bucks against him, attempts to wriggle free (far less vigorously than she really should). Puts distance between their bodies and the surface, is drug back into contact with his torso, shoved back against the tree.
“Nathaniel,” this time a snarl, tugs on the shell of his ear with her teeth. He smirks, shifts away from her, strokes suddenly shallow, light, unfulfilling.
“Sorry, Wash,” he isn’t the least bit repentant, “Hard for a dead man to keep it up.”
A wicked snicker, “Pun intended?”
“Damn right it is, woman.”
Opens her mouth to respond; the words, elegant in her head, come out as little more than an impressive moan as he thrusts into her with impressive force, strikes a sinfully perfect spot within her. Evidently determined to prove his point, he sets an aggressive rhythm, the sort he know she prefers. Fast and almost brutally hard. She’ll be sore in the morning, this she does not doubt. For the moment though it’s everything she needs, the most perfect release for her pent up frustrations, the tension of the hunt.
A wild cry escapes her, strokes his ego as she’s reduced to a boneless heap in his arms, head lolling against his shoulder. Pleased moans as he continues to move within her, still clinging to his control, pushing her further, further. She presses a kiss to the side of his head, teeth grazing his ear as she breathes against him, “Let go, Commander.”
His title, not his name; his rank, the power he holds over her, her airy tones caressing it, tasting it on her tongue. The stoic man nearly shudders beneath her touch, her muscles clenching around him, urging him on, to simply submit. It’s a word neither are fond of, are only willing to indulge in regards to each other. She moans his title again; lips over his temple. Feels the ache in her mounting again, the incessant swell of pleasure (too soon; she scowls at how reactive she is to him) returning. Cannot help the smile that turns her features at the expression of concentration plaguing him as he attempts to hold out, bring her release again before finding his own. Something so charming, so selfless, so terribly at odds with the aggressive bent of their encounter, she cannot effectively still the warmth flooding her chest. It’s nothing more than a shallow groan this time, following him over the edge as his lips find hers in a kiss too tender for their evening. A hand tangles tiredly in her hair, leans his forehead against her own. Revel in the shared moment, the unified heat, as they regain their bearings.
He gives her arm an affectionate squeeze as they separate, both redressing quickly, none too eager to leave themselves so exposed in the deadly jungle. Without thinking, she reaches to retrieve his discarded pistol.
And cannot help the shark bark of laughter that escapes her. It earns her a bemused look from her Commander and she holds the weapon out to him, shaking her head, “You were out, Taylor.” An empty gun. He’d held an empty gun to her head.
His smirk is positively wicked, “You didn’t need to know that.”
“That’s cheating.”
Taylor sports a nearly feral grin, blue eyes flashing as he moves in on her, rests a hand on her bare hip. The man leans in close enough to brush his lips over the rise of her cheek, down to ghost a kiss over her lips, “Just means we’ll have to have a rematch. Give you a chance to prove your worth.”
The words shouldn’t affect her as strongly as they do; Wash finds herself nearly shivering, decides to glare at him to mask the momentary indiscretion. It matters little; they are both aware of her reaction.
A rematch…
She’s hard pressed to think of a more appealing prospect.
Character/Pairing: Taylor/Wash
Word Count: 2689
Genre: Romance/Fluff
Rating: R
Spoiler Alert: Season 1, Episode 3: Instinct
Summary: After Taylor returns from dealing with the rogue swarm of pterosaurs, Wash goes to check on him.
Author’s Note: Gift fic for admiralkate, who requested a reunion after said episode if W/T had an established relationship. She even had a mission report for it, which was awesome! (And hopefully I met the criteria...)
Safe Returns
It doesn’t matter how many years she’s done this. Somehow, it never gets any easier. Wash spends the majority of the night in his office, sitting at his desk, running through his files, helping where she can. Requisition reports are filled, patrol schedules drafted, the hours of the evening bleeding into the early morning. Sleep rarely comes to her when he’s OTG for any reason; now that there is a real threat the notion of it is impossible. Glancing out the window, she sighs. Sunlight floods the pavilion and the Shannon woman is back to her pacing. Her feet are leading her out towards the Doctor before she can think better of it.
The two women exchange glances, a mutual feeling dancing in their eyes. Concern, affection the Lieutenant attempts (and fails) to mask; both sentiments expressed openly in the other woman’s eyes. For a moment, it seems like there is nothing; there is only the empty horizon, spanning out before them, more hours spent worrying, pacing fitfully. And then, a cloud of dust, the Rhino coming into sight. It closes the distance with a speed she would venture to say is dangerous, the gate only just finishing opening as it comes to an abrupt stop in the pavilion.
The reunion passes in a blur (Elisabeth free to twine her arms about her mate; Wash is forced to simply fuss over the Commander, gently reaches out to touch an angry abrasion on the back of his neck; he leads her hand away with an amused, patronizing, sort of look), emotions she will never permit to show across her features running roughshod internally. Relief, a feeling so potent it’s nearly painful, is the foremost of these. When Taylor dismisses himself to get some rest she’s left smiling, entirely content, glances after him as subtly as she can manage before turning to head back towards Command.
She’s been there no more than fifteen minutes before Guzman steps through the door, a brow arched as if to ask what she’s doing there. She’s been on duty for the better part of the last forty eight hours and is undoubtedly as exhausted as Taylor. The Chief of Security jabs a thumb over his shoulder, “C’mon, Lieutenant. You’ve got better places to be.”
“Until the Commander returns…”
The man shakes his hand, crosses to rest them on the surface of the desk, “It’s paperwork, Wash. Go get some rest. I’ll handle things until you’re back on your feet.”
It means more than he thinks (or she is willing to ascribe to him; Guz is clever, undoubtedly knows about them and has enough respect (and presence of mind) to keep it to himself and she gives his shoulder a friendly squeeze as she passes. With as much subtlety as she can manage she shifts her course, heads for the Commander’s unit rather than her own. It isn’t out of the ordinary, not really. In fact, it’s entirely in keeping that she should visit him after such a trying ordeal, procure some sort of debriefing.
She has nothing of the sort in mind.
Her body nearly aches with exhaustion, overtired muscles protesting each of her movements. The Lieutenant wants nothing more than to curl up in a ball and sleep away the remainder of the day. She punches the pass code to his home from memory more than anything else, steps inside before he can even welcome her. She doesn’t bother to knock (they’re too far past it; it’s more strange for one of them to be absent from the others home than to simply arrive), is toeing off her boots before she can call out a greeting. Wash runs a hand tiredly through her hair, removes the leather tie holding it back. The dark hair spills across her shoulders, the dispersal of weight entirely too welcome, alleviating some of the pain in her head almost instantly.
Regardless of propriety she’s shedding her armor. The material is cast aside with a haste she’d be proud of any other day, slung over the back of his dining chairs as she makes her way to the bedroom. Her shirt follows suit (though it does not have the fortune of making it to the table, falls off the counter to pool on the floor), fatigues unbuckled and unzipped, barely hanging off her hips, before she steps over the threshold. He’s laying back on the bed (still wearing his armor, still bleeding, still filthy) a hand over his eyes. He lifts a finger to peer at her, arches a brow at her state of undress, “That eager to have me back eh, Wash?”
The woman snorts, collapses face down beside him on the mattress, “I don’t have the energy to mount a proper response to that, sir.”
“Thank god.”
Wash chuckles, shifts to lie on her side. It brings her torso flush with his left arm; he favors her with a tired smile, brushes the backs of his fingers across her lower abdomen. Simple as the motion is she finds it oddly soothing, the warmth leaving lines across her skin. She finds her eyes lolling shut, shifts into his touch. It would be the simplest thing in the world, falling asleep right now. The prospect is an appealing one, calls out to her with an intensity that is almost overwhelming. It is only when Taylor shifts, the fabric of his field armor scratching against the blankets, that she cracks an eye open, sighs.
She plucks at his sleeve, eyes the cuts across his face, the dirt smeared across its planes, “You need a shower.”
“I’ll shower in the morning.”
“It is the morning,” the Lieutenant eases herself up into a sitting position, glances down at him. He really is a damn mess, bleeding all over the bed. Taylor shows no signs of moving and so she slides from the bed, stands between his legs. A part of her mind is convinced this is nearly degrading. Another, that it’s oddly intimate. The rest is simply determined to have him clean and healthy before he shares a bed with her. Her fingers unclasp his belt, unbutton fatigues, sliding them down his legs (is grateful he had the foresight to remove his own boots). The man arches a brow, an entirely too smug smirk turning his lips.
“Don’t think that’s going to help me get clean, Wash.”
“You think I’m going to let you touch me like this, sir, and I’ll have to assume you hit your head on the way back with Shannon,” the threat falls somewhat flat in no small part to the amusement lacing her tone. He hums in agreement (contentment) as she leans over him, hands coming to rest on his hips as she undoes the armor, pulls him up into a sitting position to slide it off him. He removes his own shirt, allows her to take his hand, pull him to his feet. The woman throws an expectant glance towards the adjoining bathroom.
Taylor sighs, thumb brushing over a scar on her abdomen, “How long’s it been since you showered, Lieutenant?” Her silence is taken as confirmation of his original thought (forty eight hours…she’s feeling oily, a little more grimy from the exertions of the last two days) and he laces his fingers with her, tugging her after him. She’s too tired to summon the appropriate amount of energy to resist.
“This isn’t going to help…”
He smirks at her, “What makes you say that, Lieutenant?”
“Experience.”
“Well,” he sighs, turns to brush his hands down her waist, taking the material with him. She steps out of her fatigues, pleased by the look in his blue eyes as his gaze sweeps over her. The throaty quality of his voice is distinctly at odds with his words, “Don’t think you have to worry about that today; too damn tired to give you an effective showing.”
Wash nods, moves past him to start the shower. The water heats quickly; she brings it to near scalding, eager to have it beating against her sore muscles. Quickly discarding the remainder of her clothing, she steps in, begins the process of scrubbing herself clean. And god, does it feel good. The temperature is nearly uncomfortable but the bite is a welcome one, her skin becoming pinker; she plucks the waiting wash towel from the rack, wets it, drags it over her arms. Her neck, down her torso, feels the dirt, the tension of the day, slipping away much as the water breaks about her shoulders.
She’s well on her way to being clean before she notices the Commander has not joined her. With a bemused smile on her face she turns, finds him staring. The sentiment there steals her breath momentarily, the naked attraction (devotion, affection, something dangerously like love) playing havoc with the blue of his eyes.
“Sir?”
There’s something ridiculous about standing in front of him nude, the water pouring down on her, as he stares slack jawed. She takes a step forward, intent on pulling him in after her, and he shakes his head, holds up a hand. With a smile, she extends the cloth to him instead, turns so her back is facing him (a small thing to anyone else, bespeaking an infinite trust between them. They are soldiers, each capable of destroying the other, and she exposes herself to him willingly). For a moment, she wonders if he’s fallen asleep. But fingers clasp lightly about her wrist, press a kiss there, before retrieving the towel. He rests a hand over the swell of her hip, gently trails the cloth down her back, follows the lines of the muscle there. It’s a remarkably soothing experience, his fingers caressing, kneading the overtired muscles as he works, warm water beating down on them. She leans back against his chest, feels him rest his chin on the top of her head.
With a smile, she turns, takes the cloth from his hand, and begins the process of cleaning the dirt and sweat from him. Her ministrations are met with a confused look. The woman simply rolls her eyes, smoothes her hands over the muscles of his torso. She does not often submit herself in this sort of way (and he has no desire to see her in such a subservient role) but they are both tired, both relieved at his safe return, and both feel woefully sentimental. She tips his head down, delicately cleans the dirt away, careful of the scratches.
Something changes in his eyes, the blue darkening with a familiar sentiment. Regardless of her exhaustion, she finds herself leaning forward, swiping a particularly stubborn line of dried blood near the corner of his lips aside with her tongue. The taste is acrid but tolerable; a kiss to his jaw, chin, one to his lips, each of the various injuries marring his features, all feather light.
Taylor smirks, rests a hand at the nape of her neck, brings her flush against him, replaces her delicate touches with a sound kiss, tongue stroking her lower lip before seeking entrance. Her arms come up around his neck, grinds against him out of habit more than anything else, their slick skin creating an intriguing sort of friction. He gives her ass an affectionate pat, lifts her leg. Snickering against his lips, she tips her head to the side, “I thought you were too tired.”
“Guess you just inspire me, Wash.”
She catches his lower lip between her teeth, doesn’t bother to hide her flattered grin; with a hop, she twines her legs around his waist, allows him a moment to adjust to her added weight before arching against him. Taylor grins, dips his head to press a kiss to her shoulder, presses her against the shower wall. The cool material is a startling change from the heat of the water, the heat of his skin, and causes her to shiver involuntarily, clutch him to her more tightly.
It isn’t the best sex they’ve ever had, hell, it’s hardly near the top. But it’s satisfying, affectionate, reassures them both in a ways they will never admit to needing. She feels her breath catch in her throat as she nears her peak, holds his head to her shoulder. Exhaustion renders his strokes more erratic (her own pace suffering as well), their kisses sloppy. Her cry is, true to form, impressive, the sound echoing off the shower walls. The man chuckles against her skin. For whatever reason, she finds herself joining him, drags her lips across his forehead, scratches nails over his shoulders. “Something funny, sir?”
He shrugs, nuzzles his nose against the rise of a breast, “Just thinking.”
“And the colony shudders…” The insubordinate quip earns her an affectionate nip over the delicate skin and she groans, fingers brushing through his dripping hair. He grins, raises a brow at her expectant expression, looks rather wicked as he drags lips up her throat. There’s a squawk from outside the window and both stiffen. It’s not one of the little menaces that just terrorized the colony but the event is still near enough in their minds to evoke caution. She relaxes with a chuckle, stares towards the thing. Something runs through her mind, something he told Malcolm earlier. She brushes her thumb over a cut on his cheek, “So those birds….make a lot of noise, do they?”
Taylor smiles, “Got nothing on you, Wash.”
She can’t help but roll her eyes, the affection in his tone so blatantly obvious she can’t effectively clamp down on the fond smile threatening to turn her lips. A shake of her head and she steps out of the shower, hand searching for her towel; she’s pulling it back towards her when arms snake around her waist, snatches the material from her and tosses it aside. The Commander hauls her bodily out of the bathroom, both dripping wet. It’s his house so she’s less outraged over the mess but she twists in protest regardless, laughs when he tosses her on the bed, tugging the covers down. He slides in beside her almost immediately, arm thrown over her waist.
In a few hours this will be miserably uncomfortable. With a content sigh, she brushes a stray bit of hair from his forehead, curls beside him, allows herself to fall into much needed sleep.
Title: Up the Wrong Tree
Character/Pairing: Taylor/Wash
Word Count: 2452
Genre: Romance
Rating: R
Spoiler Alert: None
Summary: She's playing a game of cat and mouse, more dangerous than it has any right being; still unsure of which role is hers.
Author’s Note: Gift fic for inu_midoriko who requested W/T, something about guns, and a tree. xD And lo, it too had to involve smut. All the gifts involve smut. This amuses me. Hope you like it, gorgeous!
Up The Wrong Tree
Her chest constricts painfully as she ducks beneath the edge of the shallow ravine, presses herself as tightly as she can against the depth of the enclosure. She regulates her breathing, allows it to escape her in little more than restricted hisses of air, silent in the jungle ambiance. Every muscle in her body goes rigid, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice, every one of her senses suddenly hyper aware.
Narrowed eyes scan the tree line, searching for her pursuer. No sign, no noise. She is not such a fool as to believe herself free for it. Her fingers tighten around the pistol sitting in her lap, still held at the ready. A stray piece of dark hair falls in front of her eyes; it is quickly batted aside. She can afford no such distractions, nothing impeding her vision, nothing.
She is playing a game of cat and mouse, more deadly than it has any right being; still unsure which role is hers. The Lieutenant, the huntress, listens again, listens for the crack of a twig, the brushing aside of foliage, anything. Is met only with silence.
And then she hears it. A footstep, light, carefully measured, as it makes its way through the underbrush. Soon, it is resting right above her head.
She bites down on her lower lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood. In a moment it will all be over. Her pursuer will undoubtedly check her hiding place and there will be no escape. She adjusts her grip on the weapon, frowns. One shot left. She has one shot left.
It won’t be enough. Not to end things, not even an effective distraction.
Wash presses against the wall, allows her dark hair to spill in front of her face. Combined with the black of her armor, the darkness of the hole, it is an effective camouflage. Listens as her assailant stops above her; another pause, as if searching, attempting to divine her location through sheer force of will alone; silence, a displeased growl. Then steps again, moving on and away from her. She remains where she is for a long moment, listens to see whether or not it’s a ploy, to see if it intends to double back.
It’s do or die and the huntress is loathe hiding like some frightened animal. Counting to three, she slides down, hoists herself back over the edge. With a determined expression she holds her pistol at the ready, follows the light indentations that mark her opponents steps through the jungle. Slight things she has no right noticing but her hyper awareness highlights. She keeps low, stealthy and silent as one of the great creatures prowling the primeval world.
She has never held the role of hunted long, refuses to submit to it now. With a growl, she presses herself flat to a tree, edges around the corner.
And there is her attacker, simply waiting. She lungs to the side, barely avoids his initial attack. Her hand is caught, pistol thrown from her grasp. She lashes out with her foot, catches on something (she isn’t entirely certain what, too eagerly twisting away, throwing herself bodily towards her weapon). From the sound, she has only a second before her opponent recovers. Her fingers find the trigger; spin so she’s facing him.
Only he’s closer than she anticipates. She brings the butt of the gun down, thumping him on the shoulder as she tosses herself into a roll, making for the trees. Something zooms past her (a shot) and she winces at the closeness, the air grazing her cheek. She’s fast, but not fast enough, feels a hand grasping at the material of her field armor, spinning her around. With enough force to steal the air from her lungs she finds herself slammed against one of the great jungle trees. Sweat beading on her forehead, she scowls, glares into the face of her attacker.
Amused (aroused) blue eyes peer back at her, Taylor’s face determined as he presses the barrel of his gun against her forehead. “Think it’s time for you to surrender, woman.”
They both know she never will; he steps forward, smirking as he brings them fully into contact, pins her between his body and the unyielding surface behind her. Too smug; she grits her teeth as one of his legs finds its way between hers, gently edges them apart. Resists the urge to grind against him; arousal flooding her (wonders if it says something about her mental state that such a situation affects her so) as he leans into her, nose tracing the rise of her cheek, nipping at her ear. Her free hand comes up to clutch his shoulder, arches into him as best she’s able. The supposed show of surrender has him chuckling, sucking at the underside of her jaw.
She shifts her weight more firmly against him, lets out a hiss of breath when he thrusts forward, the fabric of their fatigues biting at her thighs, shoulders colliding with the tree at her back. The gun dips, comes to rest at the junction of her shoulder and neck as he turns his attention more fully on her.
It’s the opening she’s looking for. The gun he’s forgotten is suddenly jabbed against his ribs; he stiffens and she smirks against his mouth, drags his lower lip between her teeth. Pulls the trigger.
Her voice is nearly smug, nearly too confident, “Think you’re dead, sir.”
He reaches around to pull the soft tipped dart away from his armor, scowls at her, “Looks like it, Wash.”
His knee shifts, presses up hard against her center (he really is an awful sport…). She groans, unable to keep herself from grinding against him, lips finding his hungrily as he tears the pistol from her grasp, tosses it aside. His own follows suit, hand tangling in her hair, tongue traces hers. It’s a small battle getting undressed, gear hastily discarded, cast aside, both entirely too eager. She fists hands in his shirt, nails tearing at the skin beneath as she drags him towards her, throws the material somewhere as she tugs it over his head, nails raking down his chest. Aggressive, frenetic, he lifts her without bothering to ask, slams her back. The bight of the bark against her bare skin is almost painful, the uneven texture tearing at the delicate skin.
She shouldn’t enjoy it as much as she does, tightens her grip on him instinctively, a breathy moan leaving her. She shouldn’t be reacting as strongly as she is (but there’s that intoxicating mix again; the lines between hunter and hunted inexplicably blurred), head thrown back. The pain as it collides with the bark is pale in comparison to her delight as his hands smooth over her torso, cupping her breasts.
“Nathaniel…”
A breathy outcry, unsure precisely what she’s requesting; he thrusts upwards, fabric of his fatigues biting at her skin as he moves, effectively jarring her senses. She yelps, nails tearing down his back. Desperate panting as her breathing refuses to regulate, held too tightly to effectively manage it. The woman digs her heels against him, needs more of him, all of him. A hiss as he bites down on her shoulder, alternately sucking and nipping. With a snarl, she takes his face in her hands, forces his head back, teeth grazing his throat. Not hard enough to hurt, more forceful then they would usually employ.
She’d hidden, run. He’d given chase. He’d fled, intent on luring her out. She’d given chase, pursued.
Hunter and hunted, roles so quickly swapped.
He is the hunter here and that role shows no signs of changing. She has no desire to alter it, revels in this competition, knowing that there is one man, and one alone, that she will so willingly submit to; who can so thoroughly conquer her. His presence is crushing, stifling, and she finds herself drawing him impossibly closer.
There is the need to breathe, to get away, to put distance between them. She needs space if she’s going to survive, will die if she remains so near him. Her hands stray between them, unbuckling his trousers, moves into him instead of away from him. Unable to run, even now (knows if she pushed him away, he’d stop immediately). He kisses her hard, teeth clicking briefly before settling into a more playful pace as she shimmies, kicks his pants down his legs, boxers in tow. Doesn’t bother to step out of them, simply moves against her.
It’s the first time in their frenzied joining that he pauses, arches a brow. Asks her whether or not she wants this, wants him to take her in such a way (is still willing to stop if she doesn’t). With a growl, she pulls him back to her, slides her hands over his ribs, nails grazing over scars, flesh torn and made whole again (by her hand, more often than naught). Her nails scrape lightly over his neck, massage the muscles there, scratching up to twine in his hair, nips at his jaw.
Suitably reassured, he enters her in one hard thrust, pauses momentarily to allow her to catch her breath. Hands clasp his shoulders, bracing herself as best as she able as he begins to move again. A hiss of breath, a roll of his hips as he pounds into her, less her lover, her friend, more her hunter. A gratifying change of pace, arches and tenses against him, refuses to simply submit, be simple prey. Presses her flat against the surface behind her, catches her hands as they try and move to clasp the over her head. She bucks against him, attempts to wriggle free (far less vigorously than she really should). Puts distance between their bodies and the surface, is drug back into contact with his torso, shoved back against the tree.
“Nathaniel,” this time a snarl, tugs on the shell of his ear with her teeth. He smirks, shifts away from her, strokes suddenly shallow, light, unfulfilling.
“Sorry, Wash,” he isn’t the least bit repentant, “Hard for a dead man to keep it up.”
A wicked snicker, “Pun intended?”
“Damn right it is, woman.”
Opens her mouth to respond; the words, elegant in her head, come out as little more than an impressive moan as he thrusts into her with impressive force, strikes a sinfully perfect spot within her. Evidently determined to prove his point, he sets an aggressive rhythm, the sort he know she prefers. Fast and almost brutally hard. She’ll be sore in the morning, this she does not doubt. For the moment though it’s everything she needs, the most perfect release for her pent up frustrations, the tension of the hunt.
A wild cry escapes her, strokes his ego as she’s reduced to a boneless heap in his arms, head lolling against his shoulder. Pleased moans as he continues to move within her, still clinging to his control, pushing her further, further. She presses a kiss to the side of his head, teeth grazing his ear as she breathes against him, “Let go, Commander.”
His title, not his name; his rank, the power he holds over her, her airy tones caressing it, tasting it on her tongue. The stoic man nearly shudders beneath her touch, her muscles clenching around him, urging him on, to simply submit. It’s a word neither are fond of, are only willing to indulge in regards to each other. She moans his title again; lips over his temple. Feels the ache in her mounting again, the incessant swell of pleasure (too soon; she scowls at how reactive she is to him) returning. Cannot help the smile that turns her features at the expression of concentration plaguing him as he attempts to hold out, bring her release again before finding his own. Something so charming, so selfless, so terribly at odds with the aggressive bent of their encounter, she cannot effectively still the warmth flooding her chest. It’s nothing more than a shallow groan this time, following him over the edge as his lips find hers in a kiss too tender for their evening. A hand tangles tiredly in her hair, leans his forehead against her own. Revel in the shared moment, the unified heat, as they regain their bearings.
He gives her arm an affectionate squeeze as they separate, both redressing quickly, none too eager to leave themselves so exposed in the deadly jungle. Without thinking, she reaches to retrieve his discarded pistol.
And cannot help the shark bark of laughter that escapes her. It earns her a bemused look from her Commander and she holds the weapon out to him, shaking her head, “You were out, Taylor.” An empty gun. He’d held an empty gun to her head.
His smirk is positively wicked, “You didn’t need to know that.”
“That’s cheating.”
Taylor sports a nearly feral grin, blue eyes flashing as he moves in on her, rests a hand on her bare hip. The man leans in close enough to brush his lips over the rise of her cheek, down to ghost a kiss over her lips, “Just means we’ll have to have a rematch. Give you a chance to prove your worth.”
The words shouldn’t affect her as strongly as they do; Wash finds herself nearly shivering, decides to glare at him to mask the momentary indiscretion. It matters little; they are both aware of her reaction.
A rematch…
She’s hard pressed to think of a more appealing prospect.