Hands All Over (1/1)
Title: Hands All Over (1/1)
Character/Pairing: Nathaniel Taylor/Alicia Washington
Word Count: 2086
Rating: NC-17
Spoiler alert: N/A
Summary: Inspired by mercscilla's prompt in the January prompt post: "Taylor is doing his nightly ritual of walking the colony, his last stop before turning to his own home is - as usual - his Lieutenant's housing unit. What is not usual are the soft sighs and low moans drifting through her half-opened window. What if she's in danger? He has to check on her, just to make sure she's okay."
Author's Note: This one actually made me blush to write. I'm not sure if it's any more explicit than I usually manage but it sure as hell feels like it... Title comes from the Maroon 5 album/song which was great mood music for this one.
The first cry catches Taylor's ear easily on the summer evening's light wind. He stops immediately, turning towards the housing unit the noise came from and identifying it as belonging to his lieutenant.
(The temptation for his feet to turn toward her door burns through him every evening as he passes what, with alarming ease, became the final stop of his patrol many many years ago.)
Normally he would force himself to walk on by.
(But he's just got back from two nights OTG and he's missed her. He always does, but for some reason this time it actually made him ache to turn and see Shannon at his side instead of his second.)
Normally he would put all the clues together - the pitch and reverberation of her cry, the darkened housing unit, the lack of gunfire - and realise what he was hearing.
(But in addition to missing her he's also tired, strung-out from being on alert for 48 hours straight.)
Normally.
The sound repeats, louder this time and he can't quite put a finger on exactly what the tone is. It breaks halfway through, lowering to a rumbling groan. There's a tinge of pain to it that his brain picks up on and runs with, drawing his footsteps toward the slightly open slats over what he knows to be her bedroom window.
Standing a few feet from the outside wall of her quarters he listens, hearing a thump and another groan that solidifies his resolve to check on her further... just in case.
He rounds the side wall of her quarters and mounts the steps to the front door silently. He unlocks it, scouts out the living area and once he finds it empty, slips inside the unit. He flicks the catch off of his holster, ready to draw his weapon at a moment's notice but still not quite certain, in a deeply buried part of his mind, that such an action will be necessary.
He walks slowly through her darkened home, feet soundless on the wooden flooring as he creeps closer to her bedroom. If he had a little angel on his shoulder after all this time it would be screaming at him that this is a ridiculous idea but he can't help the progress of his steps.
When he arrives in the doorway of her room he finds himself wishing he still warranted that guardian. Sure would save some ridiculously awkward situations.
Wash is laid out on her bed, covers tangled around one long lean leg; the other is bent at the knee with her foot braced on the mattress. Her smooth skin is easily exposed by the tiny pair of black shorts she's wearing.
Into which one hand has disappeared.
It's this that should make him turn and leave.
It's this that makes sure he stays.
His eyes trail up her body to her toned stomach, open to his gaze by the way her tank is hitched up. He can just see the trio of bullet wounds that warranted her medevac from Somalia, the skin puckered and faded white after all these years, as well as the more recent tear down the opposite side of her abdomen courtesy of a rather epic tumble the pair of them took down the side of an embankment two years ago.
She runs a hand along that mark in unison to his remembrance of having to stitch her up under her own tutelage (if they'd been closer to the colony's expert care at the time of their fall, he expects she wouldn't even have a scar, now) and up under the material. To, he presumes, pinch at one of the nipples that his brain helpfully points out to him are currently pebbled hard underneath.
He looks up to her face to see her tip her head back at this added sensation, mouth falling open with a breathy moan that goes straight to his groin.
"Nathaniel." She utters.
At first he thinks he must be dreaming, more tired that he had let himself believe. Then she smiles to herself at whatever scene is playing out behind her eyelids, biting her lip to hold in a whimper.
"More." She adds.
His brain is half rampant desire and half abort! abort! terror as he attempts to back-pedal out of the door and into the main room of her house. If - miracle of miracles - she hasn't sensed his presence yet, he still has time to escape and try and convince himself this has all been some massive hallucination brought on through lack of sleep.
So of course, as he takes his first step back, her eyes snap open and latch onto his.
"Sir!" She says, sounding an odd mixture of horrified and... what? Relieved? Her hand retracts from her top and tugs it down before she props herself up on her elbow.
"No." He says, stepping forward even as she raises an eyebrow at him and her jaw drops slightly in disbelief. He wants to point out that she's the one with her hand still in her shorts but feels perhaps it's for the best not to. "Don't let me interrupt." He continues, voice deep and wavering in all the wrong ways.
She gapes at him for a horrifyingly long moment. A million scenarios play through his mind (each more awful and injury-inducing for him than the next) until her eyes flutter closed and she settles back with her head on the pillow.
He sees her take a deep breath before her hand begins to move again and he stumble-leans against the wall before his legs give out through shock. Not only has she actually listened, but she is willing to indulge him.
He definitely doesn't deserve this woman in his life.
He watches as she pulls her top up and over her head with her free hand, exposing her torso to him completely. His eyes are drawn to her breasts - he's only human, goddammit - as she circles a nipple with the pad of her index finger. He's itching to lend a hand but doesn't dare move in case it breaks whatever spell she's expertly weaving over the pair of them.
He can just about make out the hand in her shorts moving in the dull light of the room, moonlight shining through and illuminating the bed in unhelpful patches. Deciding to tempt fate he walks slowly towards her, her eyes opening to track his progress even though she doesn't protest - in fact, if anything this urges her on.
When he gets to the end of the bed he reaches out for her knees, holding her skin firmly. He runs his hands up her thighs and grasps the hem of the shorts to pull them down her legs, opening all of her to his hungry gaze. Once she's free of the material he steps back and resumes his earlier position, watching.
He's truly silent from then on. She appears to retreat back into whichever fantasy she was toying with before he arrived, her mouth curves upwards as her nails run lightly over her stomach. She doesn't look at him (for some reason this doesn't bother him as much as he expects it to) but he knows she's playing up to his presence.
Her legs fall open wider than they previously were to completely reveal the motion of her hand to him. He feels himself stir as her fingers delve deeper and shifts uncomfortably to relieve the growing pressure. The desire to rub a hand over himself in response is nearly impossible to bear but he somehow forces himself to remain steady. He's already taken one liberty tonight and he's not going to push his luck - he manages to justify the lowering of one hand to rest on his hip, fingers curling to rest over his belt, but that is the only movement he allows.
Wash is starting to shudder, her strong muscles tensing and flexing as she works herself to orgasm. The noises escaping her lips are increasing in both frequency and volume, each one hitting him with a force that feels equivalent to a sonic pulse. When he hears his name for the second time he can't help the groan that he responds with. Her eyes open and she looks at him, smile widening as her eyes fix on his obvious arousal.
"Commander." She moans. On purpose.
Minx.
She rubs over her bundle of nerves and cannot maintain their stare as she buries her head in her pillow, hair falling to partially cover her face. (He wants nothing more than to lean over her and push it out of the way to watch her expression as she breaks.) The hand not currently occupied reaches up to her breast again and squeezes. She stills for a second before she shivers and lets out an almost animalistic keen, signalling her crash over the edge.
He can't stop his feet from moving then, crossing to the bed even as she's still coming down. She squints up at him as she stretches, resting the back of her hand on her forehead. Then she starts to laugh and it's so infectious that he joins her. She slowly eases herself to her knees in front of him and he catches her wrist to pull her up against him.
She looks deeply into his eyes as she places the hand he reached for on his cheek, searching for something he isn't certain of. If the way she relaxes into his hold isn't enough of an indication that she finds what she's looking for, the press of her lips to his can't get much more convincing.
He teases her mouth open with his tongue as her hand moves down over his torso to his zipper. She draws it down, swallowing his moan as the increasingly strained material parts over his length. Her other hand slips inside both his pants and his underwear and he feels her fingers, still slick with her own arousal, wrap around him.
The slide of her hot fist over him is maddening. He knows that he won't be able to hold out for long, wouldn't have been able to even without her little show. She continues to kiss him as her hand moves and he worries briefly for the scratch of his beard on her sensitive skin until her thumb swipes over his head and all conscious thought flees.
She hums happily against his mouth when his hand falls to her hip for additional support, both of hers now moving faster over him. Her free hand runs up under his own t-shirt this time, scraping fingernails over his stomach and back as she pulls her upper body ever nearer to his own. She splays her hand flat against his lower back, the heat soothing any residual aches out of his body.
She bites his lower lip at the same moment as she squeezes him firmly and with a couple more pumps of her fist he comes apart, spilling into her grip as she slowly drags her hand over him through the aftershocks of his orgasm.
He doesn't have the strength available to protest as Wash pulls her hand out from his fly, using her other thumb and forefinger to raise his zipper. She grabs the front of his t-shirt and wipes her hand on it with a wicked smirk before patting his stomach condescendingly and scooting back up the bed.
She looks so pleased with herself that he can't stop his hand from snaking out to grab her ankle and pull, hard. She slides down the mattress to collide with his chest as he leans over her.
Her deep heaving breaths of surprise rub her naked chest against his t-shirt; he can see the reignition of lust in her eyes at the sensation.
"Not fair, lieutenant."
"Who said anything... about... fair?" She asks as she struggles to control her breathing.
"You made me come in my pants." He says, vaguely offended.
"Less... messy."
He looks down at his ruined t-shirt and back to her with a raised eyebrow. "Not for me."
"Permission not to give a damn, sir." She grins, allowing herself to fall backwards on the bed and draw him with her.
He grins, lips meeting her throat as he settles over her. "Permission denied." He says into her skin, letting her help him undress - he'll worry about the logistics of getting back to his quarters in dirty clothes later.
Very much later.
Character/Pairing: Nathaniel Taylor/Alicia Washington
Word Count: 2086
Rating: NC-17
Spoiler alert: N/A
Summary: Inspired by mercscilla's prompt in the January prompt post: "Taylor is doing his nightly ritual of walking the colony, his last stop before turning to his own home is - as usual - his Lieutenant's housing unit. What is not usual are the soft sighs and low moans drifting through her half-opened window. What if she's in danger? He has to check on her, just to make sure she's okay."
Author's Note: This one actually made me blush to write. I'm not sure if it's any more explicit than I usually manage but it sure as hell feels like it... Title comes from the Maroon 5 album/song which was great mood music for this one.
The first cry catches Taylor's ear easily on the summer evening's light wind. He stops immediately, turning towards the housing unit the noise came from and identifying it as belonging to his lieutenant.
(The temptation for his feet to turn toward her door burns through him every evening as he passes what, with alarming ease, became the final stop of his patrol many many years ago.)
Normally he would force himself to walk on by.
(But he's just got back from two nights OTG and he's missed her. He always does, but for some reason this time it actually made him ache to turn and see Shannon at his side instead of his second.)
Normally he would put all the clues together - the pitch and reverberation of her cry, the darkened housing unit, the lack of gunfire - and realise what he was hearing.
(But in addition to missing her he's also tired, strung-out from being on alert for 48 hours straight.)
Normally.
The sound repeats, louder this time and he can't quite put a finger on exactly what the tone is. It breaks halfway through, lowering to a rumbling groan. There's a tinge of pain to it that his brain picks up on and runs with, drawing his footsteps toward the slightly open slats over what he knows to be her bedroom window.
Standing a few feet from the outside wall of her quarters he listens, hearing a thump and another groan that solidifies his resolve to check on her further... just in case.
He rounds the side wall of her quarters and mounts the steps to the front door silently. He unlocks it, scouts out the living area and once he finds it empty, slips inside the unit. He flicks the catch off of his holster, ready to draw his weapon at a moment's notice but still not quite certain, in a deeply buried part of his mind, that such an action will be necessary.
He walks slowly through her darkened home, feet soundless on the wooden flooring as he creeps closer to her bedroom. If he had a little angel on his shoulder after all this time it would be screaming at him that this is a ridiculous idea but he can't help the progress of his steps.
When he arrives in the doorway of her room he finds himself wishing he still warranted that guardian. Sure would save some ridiculously awkward situations.
Wash is laid out on her bed, covers tangled around one long lean leg; the other is bent at the knee with her foot braced on the mattress. Her smooth skin is easily exposed by the tiny pair of black shorts she's wearing.
Into which one hand has disappeared.
It's this that should make him turn and leave.
It's this that makes sure he stays.
His eyes trail up her body to her toned stomach, open to his gaze by the way her tank is hitched up. He can just see the trio of bullet wounds that warranted her medevac from Somalia, the skin puckered and faded white after all these years, as well as the more recent tear down the opposite side of her abdomen courtesy of a rather epic tumble the pair of them took down the side of an embankment two years ago.
She runs a hand along that mark in unison to his remembrance of having to stitch her up under her own tutelage (if they'd been closer to the colony's expert care at the time of their fall, he expects she wouldn't even have a scar, now) and up under the material. To, he presumes, pinch at one of the nipples that his brain helpfully points out to him are currently pebbled hard underneath.
He looks up to her face to see her tip her head back at this added sensation, mouth falling open with a breathy moan that goes straight to his groin.
"Nathaniel." She utters.
At first he thinks he must be dreaming, more tired that he had let himself believe. Then she smiles to herself at whatever scene is playing out behind her eyelids, biting her lip to hold in a whimper.
"More." She adds.
His brain is half rampant desire and half abort! abort! terror as he attempts to back-pedal out of the door and into the main room of her house. If - miracle of miracles - she hasn't sensed his presence yet, he still has time to escape and try and convince himself this has all been some massive hallucination brought on through lack of sleep.
So of course, as he takes his first step back, her eyes snap open and latch onto his.
"Sir!" She says, sounding an odd mixture of horrified and... what? Relieved? Her hand retracts from her top and tugs it down before she props herself up on her elbow.
"No." He says, stepping forward even as she raises an eyebrow at him and her jaw drops slightly in disbelief. He wants to point out that she's the one with her hand still in her shorts but feels perhaps it's for the best not to. "Don't let me interrupt." He continues, voice deep and wavering in all the wrong ways.
She gapes at him for a horrifyingly long moment. A million scenarios play through his mind (each more awful and injury-inducing for him than the next) until her eyes flutter closed and she settles back with her head on the pillow.
He sees her take a deep breath before her hand begins to move again and he stumble-leans against the wall before his legs give out through shock. Not only has she actually listened, but she is willing to indulge him.
He definitely doesn't deserve this woman in his life.
He watches as she pulls her top up and over her head with her free hand, exposing her torso to him completely. His eyes are drawn to her breasts - he's only human, goddammit - as she circles a nipple with the pad of her index finger. He's itching to lend a hand but doesn't dare move in case it breaks whatever spell she's expertly weaving over the pair of them.
He can just about make out the hand in her shorts moving in the dull light of the room, moonlight shining through and illuminating the bed in unhelpful patches. Deciding to tempt fate he walks slowly towards her, her eyes opening to track his progress even though she doesn't protest - in fact, if anything this urges her on.
When he gets to the end of the bed he reaches out for her knees, holding her skin firmly. He runs his hands up her thighs and grasps the hem of the shorts to pull them down her legs, opening all of her to his hungry gaze. Once she's free of the material he steps back and resumes his earlier position, watching.
He's truly silent from then on. She appears to retreat back into whichever fantasy she was toying with before he arrived, her mouth curves upwards as her nails run lightly over her stomach. She doesn't look at him (for some reason this doesn't bother him as much as he expects it to) but he knows she's playing up to his presence.
Her legs fall open wider than they previously were to completely reveal the motion of her hand to him. He feels himself stir as her fingers delve deeper and shifts uncomfortably to relieve the growing pressure. The desire to rub a hand over himself in response is nearly impossible to bear but he somehow forces himself to remain steady. He's already taken one liberty tonight and he's not going to push his luck - he manages to justify the lowering of one hand to rest on his hip, fingers curling to rest over his belt, but that is the only movement he allows.
Wash is starting to shudder, her strong muscles tensing and flexing as she works herself to orgasm. The noises escaping her lips are increasing in both frequency and volume, each one hitting him with a force that feels equivalent to a sonic pulse. When he hears his name for the second time he can't help the groan that he responds with. Her eyes open and she looks at him, smile widening as her eyes fix on his obvious arousal.
"Commander." She moans. On purpose.
Minx.
She rubs over her bundle of nerves and cannot maintain their stare as she buries her head in her pillow, hair falling to partially cover her face. (He wants nothing more than to lean over her and push it out of the way to watch her expression as she breaks.) The hand not currently occupied reaches up to her breast again and squeezes. She stills for a second before she shivers and lets out an almost animalistic keen, signalling her crash over the edge.
He can't stop his feet from moving then, crossing to the bed even as she's still coming down. She squints up at him as she stretches, resting the back of her hand on her forehead. Then she starts to laugh and it's so infectious that he joins her. She slowly eases herself to her knees in front of him and he catches her wrist to pull her up against him.
She looks deeply into his eyes as she places the hand he reached for on his cheek, searching for something he isn't certain of. If the way she relaxes into his hold isn't enough of an indication that she finds what she's looking for, the press of her lips to his can't get much more convincing.
He teases her mouth open with his tongue as her hand moves down over his torso to his zipper. She draws it down, swallowing his moan as the increasingly strained material parts over his length. Her other hand slips inside both his pants and his underwear and he feels her fingers, still slick with her own arousal, wrap around him.
The slide of her hot fist over him is maddening. He knows that he won't be able to hold out for long, wouldn't have been able to even without her little show. She continues to kiss him as her hand moves and he worries briefly for the scratch of his beard on her sensitive skin until her thumb swipes over his head and all conscious thought flees.
She hums happily against his mouth when his hand falls to her hip for additional support, both of hers now moving faster over him. Her free hand runs up under his own t-shirt this time, scraping fingernails over his stomach and back as she pulls her upper body ever nearer to his own. She splays her hand flat against his lower back, the heat soothing any residual aches out of his body.
She bites his lower lip at the same moment as she squeezes him firmly and with a couple more pumps of her fist he comes apart, spilling into her grip as she slowly drags her hand over him through the aftershocks of his orgasm.
He doesn't have the strength available to protest as Wash pulls her hand out from his fly, using her other thumb and forefinger to raise his zipper. She grabs the front of his t-shirt and wipes her hand on it with a wicked smirk before patting his stomach condescendingly and scooting back up the bed.
She looks so pleased with herself that he can't stop his hand from snaking out to grab her ankle and pull, hard. She slides down the mattress to collide with his chest as he leans over her.
Her deep heaving breaths of surprise rub her naked chest against his t-shirt; he can see the reignition of lust in her eyes at the sensation.
"Not fair, lieutenant."
"Who said anything... about... fair?" She asks as she struggles to control her breathing.
"You made me come in my pants." He says, vaguely offended.
"Less... messy."
He looks down at his ruined t-shirt and back to her with a raised eyebrow. "Not for me."
"Permission not to give a damn, sir." She grins, allowing herself to fall backwards on the bed and draw him with her.
He grins, lips meeting her throat as he settles over her. "Permission denied." He says into her skin, letting her help him undress - he'll worry about the logistics of getting back to his quarters in dirty clothes later.
Very much later.