Early To Rise
Title: Early to Rise
Characters/ Pairing: Wash/Taylor/Ayani
Genre: Romance, Friendship, Humor, Playful Evidently
Word Count: 5,720
Rating: R
Spoilers: General for Season One
Summary: It's a game, after a fashion; don't wake the Lieutenant. It's the one rule, the one goal, the one challenge. They fail.
A/N: I don't even...I don't even know. It's PWP. Shameless, shameless, shameless, shameless. Twitter girls fault. Done for my war with zapf_chancery. xD And prompted by inu_midoriko. Genre had to be playful, pairing ATW, and something else I don't remember.
Early To Rise
For all the differences between the three of them on this one matter they see perfectly eye to eye.
Taylor is a soldier. There are times were words are redundant, cannot express his point, cannot solve a problem or only compound it. Actions speak louder than words and this is a school of thought he readily subscribes to. He knows that a simple touch to his Lieutenant’s shoulder will convey everything he needs. Warn her of an enemy, tell her he’s moving, tells her what he needs of her, any number of things that it would take precious time to convey. Touch is preferable; touch is a tool, serves him well.
Washington is a soldier, a field medic. Words waste time in dire situations; actions alleviate these problems. She can offer comfort to a wounded soldier, yes, but figures it’s more effective to simply keep him from bleeding to death, get his insides stuffed back where they belong. She’s used to touch, her career relies on it. Touch is a tool, serves her well. A touch to her CO’s arm, eyes flashing informing him of things that might (would) be considered insubordinate when put to words (stay still, sit down, I’m not finished with you yet).
Ayani is a politician, in bearing if not in name, and while words are her theater, a stage she glides across with enviable aplomb, she understands the merit of touch. A brush of her hand over her husband’s thigh says in one motion what it would take a sentence to convey (she’s bored of this party; she can think of a better way to keep themselves entertained; take her to bed); a simple tightening of her jaw, squaring her shoulders (tends to proceed the verbal evisceration of her opponent, a warning, plain and simple, for all in the area to depart).
Touch defines them, defines their relationships.
And, for the time being, is something of a game between them.
Wash sits at her table, runs a finger idly along the rim of her glass, the crystal making a soft humming sound under her touch. The Lieutenant looks the picture of boredom (better than showing the exhaustion she is truly feeling), eyes scanning the crowd in disinterest, searching for faces she will ultimately have forgotten in the morning. Foreign dignitaries, the occasional General and more politicians then she could shake a damn stick at. If this is the cost of success she is very much considering whether or not failure might be a preferable career choice.
“You could at least pretend to enjoy yourself,” a familiar voice purrs from beside her, a shoulder gently nudging her own. Wash shifts slightly to better facilitate the woman’s presence at her small table, shrugging lightly. It earns her an amused eye roll, “Very eloquent, Alicia.”
“Feeling out of sorts, I suppose.”
An arched brow, green eyes sparkling, “Hmm, not enjoying yourself when you’re sequestered away in this corner? Will wonders never cease.” And there it is; a light touch to her arm, fingers ghosting over the inside of her wrist, a lick of warmth over the delicate skin, nails scrapping. The motion is accompanied with a wicked smirk, the barest quirk of lips, too toothy for innocence, too open for seductive. Some strange middle ground only Ayani Taylor can effectively straddle, “Come dance with me?”
Wash fights the urge to snort. It’s hardly forbidden for them to dance together (not even out of the ordinary, really. Too many men feeling surly, unwilling to indulge their trophy wives, and too few eligible partners) but the other woman is well aware of her feelings on the matter. Lips tightening to express her displeasure with the notion; lowered lashes and fingers twining with her own, giving a light tug, as a response, “Indulge me.”
Certainly not the first time she’s indulged the woman; puts up the requisite amount of protest, “And the Commander…?”
The Taylor woman frowns, glances towards the far side of the room. The Commander is making idle conversation with a few of the higher ranking officials present, quite the picture in his dress uniform (ignores the undignified rush of arousal the sight sends washing over her senses), nodding along in what appears as rapt concentration. The field medic has known him long enough to see through the façade.
He’s bored out of his damn mind.
Ayani tucks her hand lightly in the crook of her arm (smirks when the young woman arranges herself to better permit the touch, consciously or not facilitates more contact between them), “Should we rescue him?”
A flippant sort of shrug (saying it matters little), amber eyes flashing (saying yes, they most certainly should). The older woman makes an affirmative humming sort of sound, chuckling to herself before steeling her expression to one of pleasant indifference. His eyes brighten visibly as he catches sight of the pair of them, quickly steeled beneath his careful control. In place of the traditional greeting, he offers them a simple nod (eyes saying everything, quietly thanking them, offering to make it up to them and that thought alone sends her nerves singing), receives an echoing look from his wife and second (they’ll make certain he makes good of that offer).
He holds his hand out to the woman, who goes to him willingly, a small smile turning her features. Two weeks. It’s been nearly two weeks since the two have had any real time together. There’s very little obvious change between them. They both appear mildly indifferent to the whole of things. It’s all in the touch, the sentiment behind ever small gesture. The way his hand seems to stray ever so slightly below the line propriety dictates correct, fingers stroking over her ribs. There’s the smallest of shivers that runs through the woman.
Wash watches with a content look on her face, understands there are some things she simply has no part in, regardless of their arrangement. Especially not here. Still, her eyes linger ever so slightly as his wife leans in nearer to him to whisper something. It’s too low for her to catch (not that it’s any of her business) but it’s enough to set the man smiling.
And then Ayani is leaving his side, heading back towards her. Curious, most certainly curious. She imagines the puzzle would be easy to work out normally but her mind is hardly running on all cylinders, exhausted from two weeks in the field and too little sleep. When she catches the other woman’s gaze, arches a brow, she receives nothing more than an enigmatic little grin. Extends her arm again.
Ayani takes it blithely, presses a little more closely to her side.
“Lieutenant, would you mind if I took a rain check on our dance?”
A soft smirk, “No, ma’am.”
Green eyes flash, leaning in nearer to her, “And would you mind escorting me back to my room?”
That one does cause her to pause. She is familiar with the particular look playing havoc would the older woman’s features, has indulged it often enough. And while it sends a thrill through her, it brings with it a strange sort of dread, her body already prepared to protest such a course of action.
This is pointedly ignored; instead of doing the logical thing, the reasonable thing, she nods, “Of course.” Her vision is more than a tad hazy around the edges, eyes protesting being open so long, resting so little. She needs sleeps desperately. But the woman is trailing fingers idly over the sensitive skin of her wrists, near to her and warm. And the prospect of spending the night with the Commander is…too much to ignore.
Logic can wait.
__
“Alicia?”
She’s barely aware of the hand on her arm, runs a hand through her hair as her vision sways dangerously. Needs to sit down; she needs to sit down or the simple fact of the matter is she’s going to fall. The idea is shameful (nearly as bad as leaning on Ayani for support) and so she heads for the nearest sofa. The Taylor woman is following in her wake, concern obvious on her features. She takes a seat beside her; the back of her hand to the medic’s forehead. “You don’t feel warm,” a frown, “How much did you have to drink?”
“Not enough for this,” the Lieutenant manages, “It’s nothing.”
“Liar.”
For once, she isn’t lying. Shakes her head, dark hair whipping about her shoulders, “Just tired.” It doesn’t entirely convince the other woman, the concern conveyed in the delicate brush of hair away from her face. Ayani lays her back to rest despite her desire to rise. “Need to…”
“Sit down, Lieutenant Washington,” the hand on her shoulder, the steel in her tone, leaves no room for debate. “You are not feeling well. You aren’t going to risk wandering the halls.”
“Not wandering, ma’am; room’s three floors down.” It’s seventy-three…or was it seven….? It doesn’t matter. Another push on her shoulder insures she will stay precisely where she is. Rearranging the pillows to allow her to rest more comfortably; finds her desire to resist her coddling is lessening exponentially.
“You’re staying here, Alicia.”
And her head is throbbing too incessantly for her to argue. She nearly winces when the other woman adjusts the lights in the suite, holds a hand over her eyes. Too long without sleep; she’s been far too long without sleep, tested even her own impressive limits. Taylor is hardly any better. That the man is somehow still managing to function is outstanding, let alone treat with the high ups. She simply nods, vision already fogging warningly as her eyes threaten to slide shut.
She feels the couch shift as Ayani takes a seat beside her, drawing her head to rest on her lap. It is, admittedly, preferable to the arm of the sofa. Fingers stroking through her hair, gently lulling her off, feels lips against her forehead. Sleep, entirely welcome and much needed, embraces her readily. She sleeps; doesn’t know for how long.
It’s all a blur, a shift in scenery barely registered in her foggy thoughts. Only aware of the sensation of movement, the warmth against her as she’s gathered to an unyielding chest; is surrounded by the familiar scent of her CO, hands warm even through the fabric of her uniform. It’s soothing, relaxing, and she finds herself instinctively curling in towards him. The movement is noted with a pleased sort of chuckle, a brush of his lips over the rise of her cheek.
For a moment, she doesn’t wonder if he intends to take her back to her room (realizes there are a number of reasons that would not prove prudent). But he goes nowhere near the door. Takes her towards their bedroom instead; not the first time she’s shared a bed with the two of them, though the novelty has yet to wear off. Eyes open, closed, open again. Can mark the signs of exhaustion over his features, bags under those wonderful eyes of his; there’s something endearing to it. He’s barely functioning and still takes the time to tend to her.
If she were even halfway conscious, she’d thank him for it. Perhaps not verbally but they’ve never needed words, have they? The fact remains and she curls a finger in the fabric of his uniform to express her appreciation. It is noted with a small nod, a smile. Tugs down the sheets on the left side of the bed and lays her down. It will hardly be comfortable to sleep in her uniform but no one is in the mood to complain over such things. The Lieutenant hums before relaxing back into the pillows.
A moment of nothing before the man slides in beside her, throws an arm lazily over her waist. Its weight is a comforting presence, a reminder that she is not alone, and she drifts off to the pleasant, soothing sound of her CO’s breathing, soft and silent in the din of the autumn night.
__
It’s difficult to tell how many hours it’s been (many) but it’s still dark out when he awakens. Is vaguely aware of Alicia curled against his back. Is more aware of the woman currently brushing kisses over his chest; not an unpleasant thing to awaken to. He offers his mysterious benefactor a small smile, pleased. The man lets out a pleased groan.
And Wash shifts behind him, muttering in her sleep. It’s enough to cause both to pause, stilling immediately. It’s comical, after a fashion, Ayani teasing her lower lip between her teeth to keep from chuckling. It has been too long, however. Nearly two weeks without her…she’s never been one for caution in regards to matter such as this and he knows better than to assume something so small as Wash’s groan will dissuade her.
Those elegant hands of hers are brushing across his chest again, nails barely scrapping to leave faint traces of pink in their wake across the pale flesh. His breath catches in his throat as her hands dip lower, sliding inside his boxers. Fingers closing around him as her lips find his, loving him, so eager to demonstrate how desperately she’s missed him (needs him). To feel her touch again is…
He frowns; it takes every bit of his strength to still her movements, catching her hand. When she frowns, he places a chaste (or near as they can manage) kiss to her lips, “Not here.”
“Not in our bed?”
There’s a note of amusement to her tone, as if the notions intrigues her (and he logs that away for future reference) ; he shakes his head. Indicates Wash, sleeping so soundly beside them, beautiful and serene looking (a part of him desires to kiss her in that moment…simply so young looking, so darkly beautiful). “Wash.”
“Nothing she hasn’t seen….”
Nathaniel chuckles lowly, a kiss to the tips of her fingers, “Let the woman sleep, Ayani.”
Something wicked flashes in the depths of those green eyes, mingles seamlessly with the naked desire as she leans in to drag her teeth over his jaw, rolling him to lie atop her. “Who said anything about waking her?” Barely a throaty purr in his ear as she drags the lobe between her lips.
There’s a certain appeal to the prospect, he cannot lie. And having her so close to him after so long…
He smirks at her, nodding.
It’s a game, after a fashion; don’t wake the Lieutenant. It’s the one rule, the one goal, the one challenge. Don’t wake Wash.
They fail.
__
There’s something about the older woman’s expression, the bent of her figure, the entirety of her, which is simply intoxicating in that moment. The poise, the composure, she so often carries herself with is pointedly absent, stripped from her as her free hand clutches futilely at the sheets near her side, the other finding purchase in her husband’s too short hair. Arches, goes almost painfully taut, as Taylor sucks with more intensity, groaning around the sheet she’s clenched between her teeth. The material bunches around her throat, falls conveniently over her breasts before sliding aside, leaving the smooth skin of her abdomen exposed, a knee raised to better facilitate the man between her legs.
Quite the sight to awaken to, really; Wash considers feigning sleep (knows neither would be fooled by such a thing). Instead, the young soldier props herself up on an elbow, smirks down at the straining woman. Green eyes open to take her in only to lull shut once more. No words, no smart remark; she’s too far gone to manage it. There’s some strange power in the notion (Ayani, as a rule, always has something to say) and the medic smiles to herself, to the man.
Taylor grins at her, pulls back (to the dismay of his wife), “Morning, Wash.”
“Sir.”
He rests his chin on his wife’s lower abdomen (pointedly ignores the warning buck of her hips), “Sleep alright?”
“Very restful, sir, feeling refreshed,” she arches a brow at the low growl beside her. Ayani is favoring her with a dark look, green eyes warning, very clearly unamused by their little game. A challenging sort of expression as if asking whether or not she really wants to go down that road.
Considering the older woman’s penchant for mischief, the decision is a potentially dangerous one.
She forges ahead regardless, “And you, sir?”
“Never better, Wash.” He smoothes his hands over his wife’s hips, presses a kiss to her skin, barely a ghost of sensation, a brush of teeth, that has her shivering in the cooler morning air. It is immediately clear however, that he has no intention of continuing the original path his lips set. “Anything I can get you?” When it looks as if Ayani will protest (the warning clench and unclench of her hand in the sheets), rises a little, he dips lower, tongue stroking over her. It’s an underhanded tactic but effective. Wash cannot help but chuckle as the other woman falls back, moaning again.
“Think you’ve got your hands full right now, Commander.”
“Nonsense, Wash. Got two free hands right here,” he waggles his fingers at her blithely enough as if to demonstrate his point. The warmth of his breath licking over his wife’s hypersensitive skin sending her arching against him anew; he stills almost completely again, smirking, “Not going to wish Wash a good morning, dear?”
The endearment sets the older woman scowling, fingers fisting almost painfully in his hair. Tongue flicking out over her lips, words growled more than spoken (and it will never cease to amaze the medic how desperately her voice changes in such situations, terribly throaty), “Alicia.”
“Ma’am,” the soldier smiles, leaning over her, dark hair tickling against the other woman’s shoulder; stops deliberately above her, just out of reach, “Are you feeling alright? You look flushed.” The Taylor opens her mouth to respond only for the words to turn to a sharp hiss of breath; the Commander’s teeth grazing across her inner thigh briefly. Another quick glance exchanged with her CO, “I’m concerned for your health.”
“How…” she groans, one of her knees hitching over her husband’s shoulder, eyes sliding shut as her breath leaves her in harsh gasps, “kind of you to notice, dear.”
With a wicked look, Wash dips her head, brushes the sheet fully aside to press lips to the exposed column of her throat, sucking in time with the woman’s (rapidly increasing) pulse. Teeth over the discoloration she’s left across the previously pale flesh, a mock frown as she speaks against her skin, “If you’re feeling under the weather you really should be getting rest. Sir…” teeth again, fingers tracing feather light patterns up her stomach, the rise of her breasts.
“Well if it’s Doctor’s orders….”
The woman let’s out an aggravated groan, tired of their damn game, their teasing. Her oft lauded patience has reached its limits. The hand in his hair tightens, dragging him down. Her free one is quickly fisted in the Lieutenant’s shirt, hauling her bodily to meet her questing lips, cutting off whatever retort had originally been intended. The sound fades off into an amused chuckle as the young woman quickly rallies to meet her. Wash is not a delicate woman in any sense of the word and in this regard she is no different, kisses hard and unforgiving. There’s a note of teasing to this one however, tongue just flicking against the older woman’s. When she moves to engage, the medic pulls back ever so slightly, refuses her the contact she seems so desperately to need.
“Two soldiers in my bed,” she’s muttering, her fingers making easy work of the fastenings of the Lieutenant’s jacket, “And neither of you can obey a damn order.”
“Have to take that up with my CO, ma’am.”
“How uninspiring,” the words break, leaving her awkwardly, airily, as her spouse punishes her for the remark, fingers undoubtedly leaving marks across the skin of her hips. She bucks again, bites down hard on Wash’s lip to keep from crying out as he runs his tongue over her, slow, languid strokes. Unfulfilling in the long run, just enough to keep her bothered, skirting the edge of her pleasure. If his chuckle is anything to go by, he has no intention of changing this. “You,” she curses (a rare thing for her) before continuing, “look uncomfortable, Alicia.” As if to make her point, she slides her hand beneath the woman’s shirt, nails scraping across her clavicle, down lower. The angle is an awkward one that prevents any real contact between them.
Wash hums against her skin, sucking on her lower lip (in perfect time with Taylor), “Feeling just fine, ma’am.”
“She’s fine, Ayani,” Taylor sounding blatantly amused as he keeps her dangling precariously on that ledge. The woman makes an outraged sound and he decides to reward her. Pushes her just a little closer (it’s becoming difficult to breath; the issue only compounded by Wash’s lips descending on hers again, teeth and tongue, mimicking the rhythm her husband has set). So close, so close, so close…
And he stops. Moves to press open mouthed kisses to the inside of her thighs, her hips, belly. It sends her crashing down from the pinnacle he’s elevated her too, pleasure fading with in a whoosh, forms an impossible amalgamation with frustration. Denied release again she’s manages to rise enough to glare at him. The man looks so smug, positively victoriously, brow arched as if to ask her what she intends to do about it.
She has a very clear answer. With a smirk she brings her knee to rest flush against his shoulder (ignores his self-satisfied expression) brings herself nearer to him, fingers ghosting down his neck.
And shoves with all her strength; not correctly braced (and certainly not expecting such an attack) the man lets out a surprised grunt, rolling back. It’s all the time she needs, tugging the Lieutenant down on top of her. Wash reacts admirably, arms moving to either side of her to spare the woman the brunt of her weight. Redundant, as that’s precisely what she’s looking for. It brings them nose to nose, Ayani’s smirking up at her, arms coming to loop around the younger woman’s waist, “Alicia. If your Commanding Officer is unable to perform the duties required of his station you are obligated to replace him, correct?”
Taylor snorts from his kneeling position on the floor, watching them in idle amusement. Wash nods slowly, suddenly cautious as the mischievous creature edges the hem of her shirt up; nails scratching over her sides, “Yes, ma’am. Though….” She slips away from the woman’s questing hands, permits her to remove the garment (the woman’s bare feet dragging her fatigues down her legs), presses her lips again to the hollow of her throat, “I’m not sure I’m well suited to this task.”
“Adapt.”
She snorts, “That an order, ma’am?”
“Legally, that might make things awkward,” nearly purring as the woman slides lower, dragging lips over her clavicle, a pale scar between her breasts (the only noticeable one marring her body in stark contrast to both her husband and the Lieutenant), teeth grazing over her abdomen. It’s far easier to fist her hands in the medic’s dark hair, pulling lightly as her hands skim over her torso. “But I’ll leave it open to interpretation…”
“An order, then,” she smiles, glancing over at her Commander for confirmation (permission); the man is simply staring at them, sitting on the edge of the bed. When she comes to rest between the older woman’s legs, he inclines his head lightly to the side, reaches out to smooth a hand over the arch in her back. It sends an impossible flood of arousal coursing through her system, voice throaty, “never have disobeyed an order….”
It’s difficult to focus with the Commander so near to her, intent on distracting her as she descends on his wife. Still so sensitive; she smirks when the first brush of her lips causes the woman to moan, arching into her. A flick of her tongue and his hands come to rest on her waist. Another and they slide upwards, cupping and kneading her breasts, lips at her neck. She’s too reactive to him and the bastard knows it, is assured of it when her breath catches, pace faltering; sucking at her pulse as he presses near to her.
It shouldn’t be so hard to breathe; her moan bleeds into Ayani’s, nails digging at the other woman’s thighs in an attempt to gain purchase. A hint of pain added to their encounter (not entirely unwanted), sucks hard to disguise the sudden weakness in her limbs. Teeth over the shell of her ear as he presses against her (and goddamn if it doesn’t nearly break her concentration and goddamn if he doesn’t know it), “Come on, Wash.” The insistent pressure against her ass is hardly conducive to rational thought (the whole point, she supposes, scowling inwardly), “You never disobeyed an order. Get the job done.”
She lets out an irritated (aroused) hiss as his hand slides lower to rest between her legs. Her already erratic pace falters the moment he begins stroking her, a little groan caught at the back of her throat. The young woman’s eyes shut, attempt to clamp (unsuccessfully) down on the feelings coursing through her as his thumb presses hard against her clit. Can’t get through this, her finger dig at the other woman’s thighs; his voice again, through the haze of her consciousness, another trill of pleasure, “Finish what you started, Lieutenant.” A finger teasing her entrance.
The woman growls to herself, calls upon whatever remains of her control, returns to addressing her friend (the woman staring at her in a mixture of amusement and sympathy, entirely too aware what her husband is capable of). She can outlast him. She has to outlast him. Ayani’s finger wind more tightly in her hair, pulling on the thick mass (not helping, not helping, pinpricks of pleasure rushing to join her already overwhelmed senses), the woman’s soft moans coloring the air as she writhes ineffectually.
He slides a fingers (one and then two and goddamn it how is she supposed to focus) inside her, curling briefly before he begins moving. Can’t breathe, can’t think…the Lieutenant growls, adjusts her grip on the other woman, shifts her slightly to garner more room for movement, bringing one of her own hands down. Skilled, quick fingers working over her, tongue flicking with more insistence (has to finish soon or she simply won’t last; too hard to think, too hard to anything; it’s sheer will alone that keeps her going). Ayani tenses around her, the entirety of her body tensing, back arching. Wash presses her advantage (and the Commanders picks up his pace…so close…so close…)
The older woman breaks first, moaning her release as she turns her head into the pillows, clutches at the mattress for some sort of stability. It’s a beautiful sight (a wave of pride breaking over her), her mouth opened in a silent cry, so flushed, chest heaving. Finished. She almost collapses on the auburn haired creature, remains where she is for pride and pride alone. One of Taylor’s hands slides around to her abdomen, easing her up in to an awkward kneeling position in front of him. Leaves her braced on her arms on either side of his wife.
Feeling like a playful bastard this morning…
It takes effort (she can’t begin to describe how much, brain firing off signals that go nowhere, fizzle and die as she loses the capacity for rational thought) to keep herself upright when he finally enters her. Her body, already exhausted, screams for her to simply let it rest, let it fall. She glances over her shoulder, smirks instead. She can feel his smile as he presses an affectionate kiss to the juncture of her shoulder and neck. Her voice rasping over her lips, a chuckle as she throws his own words back at him, “Finish what you started, Commander.”
He smirks, one of his hands moving to incline her head towards him, catching her lips in a clumsy kiss as he begins to move. Hard, unforgiving strokes meant only to test her fortitude. Her fingers curl in the sheets, bites down hard on her lip, focuses on remaining upright, in control. “You alright down there, Wash?”
“Never better, sir,” an idle toss of her head, dark hair falling in a curtain over the side of her face, her shoulders. He reaches out absently to brush it aside (loves watching her expression as she comes, the look of near peace on her features, so rare in their lives), tucking it over the opposite side. A strange contrast of tenderness with his harsh treatment of her (her favorite way of having him, no use sugar coating it). Regardless of her body’s wishes she finds herself grinding back on him. Speaking with a confidence she does not feel as her body begins to spasm (it’s insubordinate but that can hardly matter in a situation such as this), “With all due respect, sir…at least put some effort into this…”
Taylor snorts, “Think those are fighting words, Lieutenant.”
Her look says it all. Make me regret them; prove me wrong. Something flashes behind the brilliant blue of those eyes, nearly feral, predatory, and he nods, smile too toothy. Pulls out of her only to thrust back in with a force that leaves her calling out, arms momentarily giving way beneath her; she barely catches herself in time to keep from crushing Ayani. The other woman has recovered well enough to turn to regard her.
Something almost like hesitation, desperation, perhaps a distant cousin of fear, pools in her gut at the look in those green eyes. Still heated, still dark as they fix upon her before flicking to spare her husband a glance. The two are eerily adept at convening without words and this is no different. They come to a silent consensus (and Wash comes to the conclusion that her dread was not, in fact, imagined), he intensifying his pace as she edges herself up on her elbows, catches the young woman’s lips in a searing kiss. Harder than the delicate woman usually indulges in, perfectly suited for her husband’s unforgiving pace. Tongue tracing her teeth before engaging her, flicking and nipping as one of her hands trails over her side.
“Cheating…”
“What’s that now, Wash?”
She barely manages to break with Ayani long enough to suck down much needed oxygen let alone properly convey the shattered thought, “You’re cheating…”
Teeth over her shoulder, tracing the line of a scar long faded (he’d given that one to her, more or less, attempting to stick a nasty knife wound), “Use every resource available…” she moans around his wife’s lips, focuses entirely on staying upright. So close…so close… “To break your opponent.”
“Effective,” the older woman purrs, sucking at a particularly sensitive bit of skin across the medic’s throat. Taylor takes hold of her hips, pulls her harshly back to him. It’s more than enough to push her that final inch, sends her hurtling over that precipice. It only takes hearing her screaming her release to break him, a more subtle grunt leaving him. Keeps moving to edge her along but it’s obvious she’s exhausted. Her arms waver before giving way entirely. Ayani is properly braced this time, arms winding around her torso to draw her down to rest, ghosting kisses over her face. The dark haired woman doesn’t bother moving, simply buries her head in the crook of her CO’s wife’s neck.
“Prove my point, Lieutenant?”
“Effectively, sir.”
He smirks and Ayani laughs, “Don’t look so pleased with yourself, Nathaniel.”
“I think I’ve earned a little gloating.”
The young woman’s voice is a little muffled as she speaks against her skin, “Make you pay for it later, sir.” What’s more, not one of them doubts her. Whatever their disparities in age or experience, Wash is entirely capable of holding her own. Ayani smiles into her hair, brushing fingers through the dark mass.
Taylor is left watching them for a moment, their eyes having lulled shut, slipping back into a much needed sleep. So beautiful; cannot, for the life of him, figure out what he did to deserve them (nothing, he supposes, simple chance, luck and, if not love (love; it’s love, no matter how he cuts it), something like shared lust). In the end, such thoughts are filled away for later consideration. Enjoys the sight of his women, so beautiful and exhausted and sated; moves to rest by his wife’s side. She shifts slightly to rest her head on his shoulder, smiling in her sleep.
With a content grin, he catches the hem of the sheet, draws it over them and settles in to catch whatever sleep will come to him. Does not doubt that he will awaken to his women and whatever scheme they have concocted. The thought sends his blood racing anew, blue eyes flashing in the darkness before sliding shut.
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to it.
Characters/ Pairing: Wash/Taylor/Ayani
Genre: Romance, Friendship, Humor, Playful Evidently
Word Count: 5,720
Rating: R
Spoilers: General for Season One
Summary: It's a game, after a fashion; don't wake the Lieutenant. It's the one rule, the one goal, the one challenge. They fail.
A/N: I don't even...I don't even know. It's PWP. Shameless, shameless, shameless, shameless. Twitter girls fault. Done for my war with zapf_chancery. xD And prompted by inu_midoriko. Genre had to be playful, pairing ATW, and something else I don't remember.
Early To Rise
For all the differences between the three of them on this one matter they see perfectly eye to eye.
Taylor is a soldier. There are times were words are redundant, cannot express his point, cannot solve a problem or only compound it. Actions speak louder than words and this is a school of thought he readily subscribes to. He knows that a simple touch to his Lieutenant’s shoulder will convey everything he needs. Warn her of an enemy, tell her he’s moving, tells her what he needs of her, any number of things that it would take precious time to convey. Touch is preferable; touch is a tool, serves him well.
Washington is a soldier, a field medic. Words waste time in dire situations; actions alleviate these problems. She can offer comfort to a wounded soldier, yes, but figures it’s more effective to simply keep him from bleeding to death, get his insides stuffed back where they belong. She’s used to touch, her career relies on it. Touch is a tool, serves her well. A touch to her CO’s arm, eyes flashing informing him of things that might (would) be considered insubordinate when put to words (stay still, sit down, I’m not finished with you yet).
Ayani is a politician, in bearing if not in name, and while words are her theater, a stage she glides across with enviable aplomb, she understands the merit of touch. A brush of her hand over her husband’s thigh says in one motion what it would take a sentence to convey (she’s bored of this party; she can think of a better way to keep themselves entertained; take her to bed); a simple tightening of her jaw, squaring her shoulders (tends to proceed the verbal evisceration of her opponent, a warning, plain and simple, for all in the area to depart).
Touch defines them, defines their relationships.
And, for the time being, is something of a game between them.
Wash sits at her table, runs a finger idly along the rim of her glass, the crystal making a soft humming sound under her touch. The Lieutenant looks the picture of boredom (better than showing the exhaustion she is truly feeling), eyes scanning the crowd in disinterest, searching for faces she will ultimately have forgotten in the morning. Foreign dignitaries, the occasional General and more politicians then she could shake a damn stick at. If this is the cost of success she is very much considering whether or not failure might be a preferable career choice.
“You could at least pretend to enjoy yourself,” a familiar voice purrs from beside her, a shoulder gently nudging her own. Wash shifts slightly to better facilitate the woman’s presence at her small table, shrugging lightly. It earns her an amused eye roll, “Very eloquent, Alicia.”
“Feeling out of sorts, I suppose.”
An arched brow, green eyes sparkling, “Hmm, not enjoying yourself when you’re sequestered away in this corner? Will wonders never cease.” And there it is; a light touch to her arm, fingers ghosting over the inside of her wrist, a lick of warmth over the delicate skin, nails scrapping. The motion is accompanied with a wicked smirk, the barest quirk of lips, too toothy for innocence, too open for seductive. Some strange middle ground only Ayani Taylor can effectively straddle, “Come dance with me?”
Wash fights the urge to snort. It’s hardly forbidden for them to dance together (not even out of the ordinary, really. Too many men feeling surly, unwilling to indulge their trophy wives, and too few eligible partners) but the other woman is well aware of her feelings on the matter. Lips tightening to express her displeasure with the notion; lowered lashes and fingers twining with her own, giving a light tug, as a response, “Indulge me.”
Certainly not the first time she’s indulged the woman; puts up the requisite amount of protest, “And the Commander…?”
The Taylor woman frowns, glances towards the far side of the room. The Commander is making idle conversation with a few of the higher ranking officials present, quite the picture in his dress uniform (ignores the undignified rush of arousal the sight sends washing over her senses), nodding along in what appears as rapt concentration. The field medic has known him long enough to see through the façade.
He’s bored out of his damn mind.
Ayani tucks her hand lightly in the crook of her arm (smirks when the young woman arranges herself to better permit the touch, consciously or not facilitates more contact between them), “Should we rescue him?”
A flippant sort of shrug (saying it matters little), amber eyes flashing (saying yes, they most certainly should). The older woman makes an affirmative humming sort of sound, chuckling to herself before steeling her expression to one of pleasant indifference. His eyes brighten visibly as he catches sight of the pair of them, quickly steeled beneath his careful control. In place of the traditional greeting, he offers them a simple nod (eyes saying everything, quietly thanking them, offering to make it up to them and that thought alone sends her nerves singing), receives an echoing look from his wife and second (they’ll make certain he makes good of that offer).
He holds his hand out to the woman, who goes to him willingly, a small smile turning her features. Two weeks. It’s been nearly two weeks since the two have had any real time together. There’s very little obvious change between them. They both appear mildly indifferent to the whole of things. It’s all in the touch, the sentiment behind ever small gesture. The way his hand seems to stray ever so slightly below the line propriety dictates correct, fingers stroking over her ribs. There’s the smallest of shivers that runs through the woman.
Wash watches with a content look on her face, understands there are some things she simply has no part in, regardless of their arrangement. Especially not here. Still, her eyes linger ever so slightly as his wife leans in nearer to him to whisper something. It’s too low for her to catch (not that it’s any of her business) but it’s enough to set the man smiling.
And then Ayani is leaving his side, heading back towards her. Curious, most certainly curious. She imagines the puzzle would be easy to work out normally but her mind is hardly running on all cylinders, exhausted from two weeks in the field and too little sleep. When she catches the other woman’s gaze, arches a brow, she receives nothing more than an enigmatic little grin. Extends her arm again.
Ayani takes it blithely, presses a little more closely to her side.
“Lieutenant, would you mind if I took a rain check on our dance?”
A soft smirk, “No, ma’am.”
Green eyes flash, leaning in nearer to her, “And would you mind escorting me back to my room?”
That one does cause her to pause. She is familiar with the particular look playing havoc would the older woman’s features, has indulged it often enough. And while it sends a thrill through her, it brings with it a strange sort of dread, her body already prepared to protest such a course of action.
This is pointedly ignored; instead of doing the logical thing, the reasonable thing, she nods, “Of course.” Her vision is more than a tad hazy around the edges, eyes protesting being open so long, resting so little. She needs sleeps desperately. But the woman is trailing fingers idly over the sensitive skin of her wrists, near to her and warm. And the prospect of spending the night with the Commander is…too much to ignore.
Logic can wait.
__
“Alicia?”
She’s barely aware of the hand on her arm, runs a hand through her hair as her vision sways dangerously. Needs to sit down; she needs to sit down or the simple fact of the matter is she’s going to fall. The idea is shameful (nearly as bad as leaning on Ayani for support) and so she heads for the nearest sofa. The Taylor woman is following in her wake, concern obvious on her features. She takes a seat beside her; the back of her hand to the medic’s forehead. “You don’t feel warm,” a frown, “How much did you have to drink?”
“Not enough for this,” the Lieutenant manages, “It’s nothing.”
“Liar.”
For once, she isn’t lying. Shakes her head, dark hair whipping about her shoulders, “Just tired.” It doesn’t entirely convince the other woman, the concern conveyed in the delicate brush of hair away from her face. Ayani lays her back to rest despite her desire to rise. “Need to…”
“Sit down, Lieutenant Washington,” the hand on her shoulder, the steel in her tone, leaves no room for debate. “You are not feeling well. You aren’t going to risk wandering the halls.”
“Not wandering, ma’am; room’s three floors down.” It’s seventy-three…or was it seven….? It doesn’t matter. Another push on her shoulder insures she will stay precisely where she is. Rearranging the pillows to allow her to rest more comfortably; finds her desire to resist her coddling is lessening exponentially.
“You’re staying here, Alicia.”
And her head is throbbing too incessantly for her to argue. She nearly winces when the other woman adjusts the lights in the suite, holds a hand over her eyes. Too long without sleep; she’s been far too long without sleep, tested even her own impressive limits. Taylor is hardly any better. That the man is somehow still managing to function is outstanding, let alone treat with the high ups. She simply nods, vision already fogging warningly as her eyes threaten to slide shut.
She feels the couch shift as Ayani takes a seat beside her, drawing her head to rest on her lap. It is, admittedly, preferable to the arm of the sofa. Fingers stroking through her hair, gently lulling her off, feels lips against her forehead. Sleep, entirely welcome and much needed, embraces her readily. She sleeps; doesn’t know for how long.
It’s all a blur, a shift in scenery barely registered in her foggy thoughts. Only aware of the sensation of movement, the warmth against her as she’s gathered to an unyielding chest; is surrounded by the familiar scent of her CO, hands warm even through the fabric of her uniform. It’s soothing, relaxing, and she finds herself instinctively curling in towards him. The movement is noted with a pleased sort of chuckle, a brush of his lips over the rise of her cheek.
For a moment, she doesn’t wonder if he intends to take her back to her room (realizes there are a number of reasons that would not prove prudent). But he goes nowhere near the door. Takes her towards their bedroom instead; not the first time she’s shared a bed with the two of them, though the novelty has yet to wear off. Eyes open, closed, open again. Can mark the signs of exhaustion over his features, bags under those wonderful eyes of his; there’s something endearing to it. He’s barely functioning and still takes the time to tend to her.
If she were even halfway conscious, she’d thank him for it. Perhaps not verbally but they’ve never needed words, have they? The fact remains and she curls a finger in the fabric of his uniform to express her appreciation. It is noted with a small nod, a smile. Tugs down the sheets on the left side of the bed and lays her down. It will hardly be comfortable to sleep in her uniform but no one is in the mood to complain over such things. The Lieutenant hums before relaxing back into the pillows.
A moment of nothing before the man slides in beside her, throws an arm lazily over her waist. Its weight is a comforting presence, a reminder that she is not alone, and she drifts off to the pleasant, soothing sound of her CO’s breathing, soft and silent in the din of the autumn night.
__
It’s difficult to tell how many hours it’s been (many) but it’s still dark out when he awakens. Is vaguely aware of Alicia curled against his back. Is more aware of the woman currently brushing kisses over his chest; not an unpleasant thing to awaken to. He offers his mysterious benefactor a small smile, pleased. The man lets out a pleased groan.
And Wash shifts behind him, muttering in her sleep. It’s enough to cause both to pause, stilling immediately. It’s comical, after a fashion, Ayani teasing her lower lip between her teeth to keep from chuckling. It has been too long, however. Nearly two weeks without her…she’s never been one for caution in regards to matter such as this and he knows better than to assume something so small as Wash’s groan will dissuade her.
Those elegant hands of hers are brushing across his chest again, nails barely scrapping to leave faint traces of pink in their wake across the pale flesh. His breath catches in his throat as her hands dip lower, sliding inside his boxers. Fingers closing around him as her lips find his, loving him, so eager to demonstrate how desperately she’s missed him (needs him). To feel her touch again is…
He frowns; it takes every bit of his strength to still her movements, catching her hand. When she frowns, he places a chaste (or near as they can manage) kiss to her lips, “Not here.”
“Not in our bed?”
There’s a note of amusement to her tone, as if the notions intrigues her (and he logs that away for future reference) ; he shakes his head. Indicates Wash, sleeping so soundly beside them, beautiful and serene looking (a part of him desires to kiss her in that moment…simply so young looking, so darkly beautiful). “Wash.”
“Nothing she hasn’t seen….”
Nathaniel chuckles lowly, a kiss to the tips of her fingers, “Let the woman sleep, Ayani.”
Something wicked flashes in the depths of those green eyes, mingles seamlessly with the naked desire as she leans in to drag her teeth over his jaw, rolling him to lie atop her. “Who said anything about waking her?” Barely a throaty purr in his ear as she drags the lobe between her lips.
There’s a certain appeal to the prospect, he cannot lie. And having her so close to him after so long…
He smirks at her, nodding.
It’s a game, after a fashion; don’t wake the Lieutenant. It’s the one rule, the one goal, the one challenge. Don’t wake Wash.
They fail.
__
There’s something about the older woman’s expression, the bent of her figure, the entirety of her, which is simply intoxicating in that moment. The poise, the composure, she so often carries herself with is pointedly absent, stripped from her as her free hand clutches futilely at the sheets near her side, the other finding purchase in her husband’s too short hair. Arches, goes almost painfully taut, as Taylor sucks with more intensity, groaning around the sheet she’s clenched between her teeth. The material bunches around her throat, falls conveniently over her breasts before sliding aside, leaving the smooth skin of her abdomen exposed, a knee raised to better facilitate the man between her legs.
Quite the sight to awaken to, really; Wash considers feigning sleep (knows neither would be fooled by such a thing). Instead, the young soldier props herself up on an elbow, smirks down at the straining woman. Green eyes open to take her in only to lull shut once more. No words, no smart remark; she’s too far gone to manage it. There’s some strange power in the notion (Ayani, as a rule, always has something to say) and the medic smiles to herself, to the man.
Taylor grins at her, pulls back (to the dismay of his wife), “Morning, Wash.”
“Sir.”
He rests his chin on his wife’s lower abdomen (pointedly ignores the warning buck of her hips), “Sleep alright?”
“Very restful, sir, feeling refreshed,” she arches a brow at the low growl beside her. Ayani is favoring her with a dark look, green eyes warning, very clearly unamused by their little game. A challenging sort of expression as if asking whether or not she really wants to go down that road.
Considering the older woman’s penchant for mischief, the decision is a potentially dangerous one.
She forges ahead regardless, “And you, sir?”
“Never better, Wash.” He smoothes his hands over his wife’s hips, presses a kiss to her skin, barely a ghost of sensation, a brush of teeth, that has her shivering in the cooler morning air. It is immediately clear however, that he has no intention of continuing the original path his lips set. “Anything I can get you?” When it looks as if Ayani will protest (the warning clench and unclench of her hand in the sheets), rises a little, he dips lower, tongue stroking over her. It’s an underhanded tactic but effective. Wash cannot help but chuckle as the other woman falls back, moaning again.
“Think you’ve got your hands full right now, Commander.”
“Nonsense, Wash. Got two free hands right here,” he waggles his fingers at her blithely enough as if to demonstrate his point. The warmth of his breath licking over his wife’s hypersensitive skin sending her arching against him anew; he stills almost completely again, smirking, “Not going to wish Wash a good morning, dear?”
The endearment sets the older woman scowling, fingers fisting almost painfully in his hair. Tongue flicking out over her lips, words growled more than spoken (and it will never cease to amaze the medic how desperately her voice changes in such situations, terribly throaty), “Alicia.”
“Ma’am,” the soldier smiles, leaning over her, dark hair tickling against the other woman’s shoulder; stops deliberately above her, just out of reach, “Are you feeling alright? You look flushed.” The Taylor opens her mouth to respond only for the words to turn to a sharp hiss of breath; the Commander’s teeth grazing across her inner thigh briefly. Another quick glance exchanged with her CO, “I’m concerned for your health.”
“How…” she groans, one of her knees hitching over her husband’s shoulder, eyes sliding shut as her breath leaves her in harsh gasps, “kind of you to notice, dear.”
With a wicked look, Wash dips her head, brushes the sheet fully aside to press lips to the exposed column of her throat, sucking in time with the woman’s (rapidly increasing) pulse. Teeth over the discoloration she’s left across the previously pale flesh, a mock frown as she speaks against her skin, “If you’re feeling under the weather you really should be getting rest. Sir…” teeth again, fingers tracing feather light patterns up her stomach, the rise of her breasts.
“Well if it’s Doctor’s orders….”
The woman let’s out an aggravated groan, tired of their damn game, their teasing. Her oft lauded patience has reached its limits. The hand in his hair tightens, dragging him down. Her free one is quickly fisted in the Lieutenant’s shirt, hauling her bodily to meet her questing lips, cutting off whatever retort had originally been intended. The sound fades off into an amused chuckle as the young woman quickly rallies to meet her. Wash is not a delicate woman in any sense of the word and in this regard she is no different, kisses hard and unforgiving. There’s a note of teasing to this one however, tongue just flicking against the older woman’s. When she moves to engage, the medic pulls back ever so slightly, refuses her the contact she seems so desperately to need.
“Two soldiers in my bed,” she’s muttering, her fingers making easy work of the fastenings of the Lieutenant’s jacket, “And neither of you can obey a damn order.”
“Have to take that up with my CO, ma’am.”
“How uninspiring,” the words break, leaving her awkwardly, airily, as her spouse punishes her for the remark, fingers undoubtedly leaving marks across the skin of her hips. She bucks again, bites down hard on Wash’s lip to keep from crying out as he runs his tongue over her, slow, languid strokes. Unfulfilling in the long run, just enough to keep her bothered, skirting the edge of her pleasure. If his chuckle is anything to go by, he has no intention of changing this. “You,” she curses (a rare thing for her) before continuing, “look uncomfortable, Alicia.” As if to make her point, she slides her hand beneath the woman’s shirt, nails scraping across her clavicle, down lower. The angle is an awkward one that prevents any real contact between them.
Wash hums against her skin, sucking on her lower lip (in perfect time with Taylor), “Feeling just fine, ma’am.”
“She’s fine, Ayani,” Taylor sounding blatantly amused as he keeps her dangling precariously on that ledge. The woman makes an outraged sound and he decides to reward her. Pushes her just a little closer (it’s becoming difficult to breath; the issue only compounded by Wash’s lips descending on hers again, teeth and tongue, mimicking the rhythm her husband has set). So close, so close, so close…
And he stops. Moves to press open mouthed kisses to the inside of her thighs, her hips, belly. It sends her crashing down from the pinnacle he’s elevated her too, pleasure fading with in a whoosh, forms an impossible amalgamation with frustration. Denied release again she’s manages to rise enough to glare at him. The man looks so smug, positively victoriously, brow arched as if to ask her what she intends to do about it.
She has a very clear answer. With a smirk she brings her knee to rest flush against his shoulder (ignores his self-satisfied expression) brings herself nearer to him, fingers ghosting down his neck.
And shoves with all her strength; not correctly braced (and certainly not expecting such an attack) the man lets out a surprised grunt, rolling back. It’s all the time she needs, tugging the Lieutenant down on top of her. Wash reacts admirably, arms moving to either side of her to spare the woman the brunt of her weight. Redundant, as that’s precisely what she’s looking for. It brings them nose to nose, Ayani’s smirking up at her, arms coming to loop around the younger woman’s waist, “Alicia. If your Commanding Officer is unable to perform the duties required of his station you are obligated to replace him, correct?”
Taylor snorts from his kneeling position on the floor, watching them in idle amusement. Wash nods slowly, suddenly cautious as the mischievous creature edges the hem of her shirt up; nails scratching over her sides, “Yes, ma’am. Though….” She slips away from the woman’s questing hands, permits her to remove the garment (the woman’s bare feet dragging her fatigues down her legs), presses her lips again to the hollow of her throat, “I’m not sure I’m well suited to this task.”
“Adapt.”
She snorts, “That an order, ma’am?”
“Legally, that might make things awkward,” nearly purring as the woman slides lower, dragging lips over her clavicle, a pale scar between her breasts (the only noticeable one marring her body in stark contrast to both her husband and the Lieutenant), teeth grazing over her abdomen. It’s far easier to fist her hands in the medic’s dark hair, pulling lightly as her hands skim over her torso. “But I’ll leave it open to interpretation…”
“An order, then,” she smiles, glancing over at her Commander for confirmation (permission); the man is simply staring at them, sitting on the edge of the bed. When she comes to rest between the older woman’s legs, he inclines his head lightly to the side, reaches out to smooth a hand over the arch in her back. It sends an impossible flood of arousal coursing through her system, voice throaty, “never have disobeyed an order….”
It’s difficult to focus with the Commander so near to her, intent on distracting her as she descends on his wife. Still so sensitive; she smirks when the first brush of her lips causes the woman to moan, arching into her. A flick of her tongue and his hands come to rest on her waist. Another and they slide upwards, cupping and kneading her breasts, lips at her neck. She’s too reactive to him and the bastard knows it, is assured of it when her breath catches, pace faltering; sucking at her pulse as he presses near to her.
It shouldn’t be so hard to breathe; her moan bleeds into Ayani’s, nails digging at the other woman’s thighs in an attempt to gain purchase. A hint of pain added to their encounter (not entirely unwanted), sucks hard to disguise the sudden weakness in her limbs. Teeth over the shell of her ear as he presses against her (and goddamn if it doesn’t nearly break her concentration and goddamn if he doesn’t know it), “Come on, Wash.” The insistent pressure against her ass is hardly conducive to rational thought (the whole point, she supposes, scowling inwardly), “You never disobeyed an order. Get the job done.”
She lets out an irritated (aroused) hiss as his hand slides lower to rest between her legs. Her already erratic pace falters the moment he begins stroking her, a little groan caught at the back of her throat. The young woman’s eyes shut, attempt to clamp (unsuccessfully) down on the feelings coursing through her as his thumb presses hard against her clit. Can’t get through this, her finger dig at the other woman’s thighs; his voice again, through the haze of her consciousness, another trill of pleasure, “Finish what you started, Lieutenant.” A finger teasing her entrance.
The woman growls to herself, calls upon whatever remains of her control, returns to addressing her friend (the woman staring at her in a mixture of amusement and sympathy, entirely too aware what her husband is capable of). She can outlast him. She has to outlast him. Ayani’s finger wind more tightly in her hair, pulling on the thick mass (not helping, not helping, pinpricks of pleasure rushing to join her already overwhelmed senses), the woman’s soft moans coloring the air as she writhes ineffectually.
He slides a fingers (one and then two and goddamn it how is she supposed to focus) inside her, curling briefly before he begins moving. Can’t breathe, can’t think…the Lieutenant growls, adjusts her grip on the other woman, shifts her slightly to garner more room for movement, bringing one of her own hands down. Skilled, quick fingers working over her, tongue flicking with more insistence (has to finish soon or she simply won’t last; too hard to think, too hard to anything; it’s sheer will alone that keeps her going). Ayani tenses around her, the entirety of her body tensing, back arching. Wash presses her advantage (and the Commanders picks up his pace…so close…so close…)
The older woman breaks first, moaning her release as she turns her head into the pillows, clutches at the mattress for some sort of stability. It’s a beautiful sight (a wave of pride breaking over her), her mouth opened in a silent cry, so flushed, chest heaving. Finished. She almost collapses on the auburn haired creature, remains where she is for pride and pride alone. One of Taylor’s hands slides around to her abdomen, easing her up in to an awkward kneeling position in front of him. Leaves her braced on her arms on either side of his wife.
Feeling like a playful bastard this morning…
It takes effort (she can’t begin to describe how much, brain firing off signals that go nowhere, fizzle and die as she loses the capacity for rational thought) to keep herself upright when he finally enters her. Her body, already exhausted, screams for her to simply let it rest, let it fall. She glances over her shoulder, smirks instead. She can feel his smile as he presses an affectionate kiss to the juncture of her shoulder and neck. Her voice rasping over her lips, a chuckle as she throws his own words back at him, “Finish what you started, Commander.”
He smirks, one of his hands moving to incline her head towards him, catching her lips in a clumsy kiss as he begins to move. Hard, unforgiving strokes meant only to test her fortitude. Her fingers curl in the sheets, bites down hard on her lip, focuses on remaining upright, in control. “You alright down there, Wash?”
“Never better, sir,” an idle toss of her head, dark hair falling in a curtain over the side of her face, her shoulders. He reaches out absently to brush it aside (loves watching her expression as she comes, the look of near peace on her features, so rare in their lives), tucking it over the opposite side. A strange contrast of tenderness with his harsh treatment of her (her favorite way of having him, no use sugar coating it). Regardless of her body’s wishes she finds herself grinding back on him. Speaking with a confidence she does not feel as her body begins to spasm (it’s insubordinate but that can hardly matter in a situation such as this), “With all due respect, sir…at least put some effort into this…”
Taylor snorts, “Think those are fighting words, Lieutenant.”
Her look says it all. Make me regret them; prove me wrong. Something flashes behind the brilliant blue of those eyes, nearly feral, predatory, and he nods, smile too toothy. Pulls out of her only to thrust back in with a force that leaves her calling out, arms momentarily giving way beneath her; she barely catches herself in time to keep from crushing Ayani. The other woman has recovered well enough to turn to regard her.
Something almost like hesitation, desperation, perhaps a distant cousin of fear, pools in her gut at the look in those green eyes. Still heated, still dark as they fix upon her before flicking to spare her husband a glance. The two are eerily adept at convening without words and this is no different. They come to a silent consensus (and Wash comes to the conclusion that her dread was not, in fact, imagined), he intensifying his pace as she edges herself up on her elbows, catches the young woman’s lips in a searing kiss. Harder than the delicate woman usually indulges in, perfectly suited for her husband’s unforgiving pace. Tongue tracing her teeth before engaging her, flicking and nipping as one of her hands trails over her side.
“Cheating…”
“What’s that now, Wash?”
She barely manages to break with Ayani long enough to suck down much needed oxygen let alone properly convey the shattered thought, “You’re cheating…”
Teeth over her shoulder, tracing the line of a scar long faded (he’d given that one to her, more or less, attempting to stick a nasty knife wound), “Use every resource available…” she moans around his wife’s lips, focuses entirely on staying upright. So close…so close… “To break your opponent.”
“Effective,” the older woman purrs, sucking at a particularly sensitive bit of skin across the medic’s throat. Taylor takes hold of her hips, pulls her harshly back to him. It’s more than enough to push her that final inch, sends her hurtling over that precipice. It only takes hearing her screaming her release to break him, a more subtle grunt leaving him. Keeps moving to edge her along but it’s obvious she’s exhausted. Her arms waver before giving way entirely. Ayani is properly braced this time, arms winding around her torso to draw her down to rest, ghosting kisses over her face. The dark haired woman doesn’t bother moving, simply buries her head in the crook of her CO’s wife’s neck.
“Prove my point, Lieutenant?”
“Effectively, sir.”
He smirks and Ayani laughs, “Don’t look so pleased with yourself, Nathaniel.”
“I think I’ve earned a little gloating.”
The young woman’s voice is a little muffled as she speaks against her skin, “Make you pay for it later, sir.” What’s more, not one of them doubts her. Whatever their disparities in age or experience, Wash is entirely capable of holding her own. Ayani smiles into her hair, brushing fingers through the dark mass.
Taylor is left watching them for a moment, their eyes having lulled shut, slipping back into a much needed sleep. So beautiful; cannot, for the life of him, figure out what he did to deserve them (nothing, he supposes, simple chance, luck and, if not love (love; it’s love, no matter how he cuts it), something like shared lust). In the end, such thoughts are filled away for later consideration. Enjoys the sight of his women, so beautiful and exhausted and sated; moves to rest by his wife’s side. She shifts slightly to rest her head on his shoulder, smiling in her sleep.
With a content grin, he catches the hem of the sheet, draws it over them and settles in to catch whatever sleep will come to him. Does not doubt that he will awaken to his women and whatever scheme they have concocted. The thought sends his blood racing anew, blue eyes flashing in the darkness before sliding shut.
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to it.