Just One Word
Prompt: Skye/Carter- Rain
Fill for: mercscilla
Word Count: 1050
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance
Prompt: Jim/Elisabeth- Morning
Fill for: bellakitse
Word Count: 780
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance/Family
Prompt: Reilly/Dunham-New
Fill for: zapf_chancery
Word Count: 939
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance/Humor
Prompt: Taylor/Wash/Taylor - Hard
Fill for: mercscilla
Word Count: 500
Rating: R
Genre: Romance
Prompt: Taylor/Wash - Yes
Fill for: makesometime
Word Count: 611
Rating: R
Genre: Romance/Humor
Just One Word
Pairing: Skye/Carter
It’s a jungle. A tropical jungle. And it doesn’t matter how many days the sun shines, and it doesn’t matter how hot it was yesterday or today or any other damn day; it’s still a jungle, and it’s tropical and it still rains like someone’s just up and decided, “Huh, how could I make this day any worse? By dropping a damn river on Tate’s head, obviously.”
Skye growls to herself, ignores the protest in her aching muscles (warm, burning (pleasantly or unpleasantly, strange how it’s difficult to tell anymore)), a constant reminder of the distance she’s travelled and the distance she has yet to go. The slick underbrush tears at the fabric of her leggings, some cutting, tearing, others simply brush against her, leave slick trails of moisture across the fabric. A hand through her hair, brushing the damp strands from her eyes, attempt to fit it back into a more manageable mass. The bun she’d bound it in hours previously is half undone, the majority of the curly tendrils now hanging about her shoulders, plastered to her neck, her face. As uncomfortable and unmanageable as the jungle she’s navigated a thousand times.
It shouldn’t have taken this long. She knows it; Mira undoubtedly knows it. Which means only one thing…
A goddamn search party.
It should be a gratifying prospect, something that brings her relief. She’s tired, soaked and shivering, and the prospect of deliverance from these conditions should rally her spirits.
It doesn’t. The notion brings with it an undeniable pang of shame, frustration. Because it’ll be him the Sixer leader sends and the idea that he should see her set so low is…
Repulsive. Spurs her onward, overtired muscles running more off of stubborn determination than anything else. She’ll find her own way; she’ll make it there. And when he returns, as wet and as miserable as she is, she’ll flash him her most winning grin. Revel in her victory, that she succeeded without him, that’s she’s capable on her own. It has her smirking to herself, parting a particularly thick bit of foliage, sliding through. The path here looks slightly more familiar but the signs she’s become accustomed to marking her path with are different in the dark, different through the heavy veil of gray and the light glistening off the falling liquid.
The noise alone is not to blame. Even in the perfect stillness of the night it would be difficult to hear the man’s approach, feet silent and light, blanketed by the din of the jungle. The bastard moves in behind her, close enough for her to feel his warmth through her ruined clothes, never enough to touch. Never to touch. Voice, smooth, almost caressing her senses as his words bite and tease, “Dangerous for you to go wandering in the jungle so late, Princess. You never know what kinds of monsters you might find.”
She turns, doesn’t bother to conceal the sneer, “I think I’m beginning to realize.” An amused chuckle meets her and then simply silence, the man pointedly ignoring her comment, opting for this instead. A wise move; somehow the combination of his proximity, the disparity between his heat and the cool rush of the water over her (suddenly) heated flesh, striking. The young woman represses the urge to shudder (shiver), turns. It brings her shoulder briefly into contact with his chest. It shouldn’t affect her in such a way. Shouldn’t set her skin tingling, shouldn’t a lot of things.
But it does.
He’s staring at her, gaze dark, sliding over her, makes her feel remarkably small, with her hair hanging in damp waves, clothes torn, soaked, covered in mud. Like something that’s crawled up and out of some lake and not the respectable (something in her head laughs at that; infuriating that it’s his voice that accompanies the sentiment) young woman she is. Filthy, lost and small, completely at the mercy of the damnable man. Carter flashes her a wicked smirk, “Just tell me when you’re done playing hero, sweetheart. One word and I’ll get you out of here.”
“One word? Then I guess “get the hell away from me” is out of the question?”
He shrugs, “Need a hell of a hyphen, but with you dressed like that I’m not going to argue semantics.”
She glares, blue eyes meeting his dark ones, neither willing to yield (the basis, perhaps, on which their relationship, whatever it is, is built), give ground. She’s too proud to ask for his assistance, too proud to bend knee to such a man. He’s too amused by her vaunted piety, her supposed high minded morality, to even give consideration to his own discomfort. That’s he’s every bit as inconvenienced by this as she is. The young woman shifts, crosses her arms over her chest.
Push comes to shove, and he yields. Something in him softens just briefly in his gaze when she’s incapable of repressing her shiver. He scowls, takes that final step forward and unclasps the leathery material tied at his neck, drapes it hastily over her shoulders. It has her eyes widening, mouth opening to protest almost immediately (though she cannot regret the protection it offers, cannot regret the lingering heat, the sensation of him, licking over her skin) and the Sixer holds up a hand, scowls, “Can’t have you dying on me now, can I, Princess?”
The smirk that turns her lips is a little more knowing, a little more edged than it has any right, offers him an out, “Mira would be angry.”
His answering nod is too hasty, the fingers suddenly clasping her arm a little too forceful (and somehow, that doesn’t intimidate her, revels in the feel of his fingers through the damp material of her shirt), “Glad you understand. Now come on; we’ve got a long walk. Never seen someone get so damn lost so quickly…”
The words are harsh but don’t dull her smirk any. And though she’s cold, she’s perfectly capable of following him. Has done it hundreds of times before. Funny, then, that he never releases her arm. Funny, then, that she never tries to move away. Just a step behind him as they move through the jungle rain.
_________________
Prompt: Jim/Elisabeth- Morning
Fill for:
bellakitse
Word Count: 780
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance/Family
After years apart the few feet between them hardly seems an insurmountable distance. If he listens, if he focuses, he can almost pick out the sound of her breathing amidst the silence of the morning, mingled seamlessly with the light snores of his children. It’s a few feet, and he’s content with it, folds his arms behind his head and lies back against the couch, closes his eyes again. Feels something like peace wash over him (a sensation that had been rare during the best moments of his old life, positively foreign in the later years), soothing over nerves time has only just begun to mend. The warm air licks at his skin, comforting, the air clean and light and new.
A striking disparity to where he’s only just been, the life he’s become accustomed to leading. Suddenly his world is open, lush and vibrant to contrast the cell he’d almost resigned to. Now there is new life, his family, his wife, but a few feet from him. Insurmountable, for now, but more manageable then millions of years of time, then prison complexes and a dying world still gasping for breath.
Jim’s very nearly drifted back asleep when he hears the soft padding of feet across the floor. They pause briefly behind him before circling to stand in front of him. The breathing, soft, silent, the particular scent (something sweet, something clean, something that simply and impossibly manages to warm his heart) identifies the intruder immediately. He allows his eyes to flutter blearily open, take in the sight of his wife. Appreciates, for perhaps the millionth time since they’re reunion, how goddamn beautiful she is. Her dark hair hangs loosely about her shoulders, a strand of it falling across her forehead. It’s charming, seeing the professional woman so disheveled, so natural. He offers her a lazy smile and she hesitantly returns it.
“Can’t sleep?”
Elisabeth shakes her head, “Considering the time that would be unfortunate. But I’d like to think I’d have more sense than to simply lie in bed tossing and turning until the early hours before I sought some remedy.”
“Then if you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing up?”
She chuckles, brushes the stray bit of hair behind her ear, “Can’t sleep.” She teases her lower lip between her teeth, takes another step forward, knees flush against the sofa. Without bothering to ask permission (she doesn’t need it), without considering whether or not it might be awkward (it is, at least momentarily), the doctor moves to sit on the edge of the couch. Favors him with a look that’s very nearly sad, warm eyes hurt, “I’m worried, Jim.” For the composed woman it’s no small admittance.
“I know,” because he knows her well enough to recognize those two simple words are the only thing she’ll accept. He reaches out to rest a hand at the crook of her elbow, gives a light tug. She comes willing, allows him to lead her until she’s lying beside him, back flush to his chest. It’s been so long that the feeling is almost something new, nearly forgotten but readily called back from memory. He buries his nose at the junction of her neck and shoulder, one of her hands coming up to caress his cheek. The other reaches for his arm, draws it to rest over her waist. To hold her, for no other reason than he can; to offer her this comfort, as he hasn’t been able to for so very long.
He feels her smile return, even if he doesn’t see it. Feels at least some of the tension dissipate and leave her. Not entirely, of course (that will take time, effort). There’s still distance between them, a wedge time has created and time will erode.
For the moment, Jim simply thanks whatever god is listening for the fresh air, for the new life. For returning him to the woman he loves, regardless of the distance.
Zoe awakens perhaps half an hour later, a stray bit of morning sunlight stirring her from her slumber. She finds her parents in the common room, both asleep, still entwined. Young she may be, but the girl recognizes a moment she has no part in, no place interrupting. The child pads into her sisters bedroom, opts to spend the early hours with her instead.
______________
Prompt: Reilly/Dunham-New
Fill for:
zapf_chancery
Word Count: 939
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance/Humor
There’s a very real part of her that’s convinced he does it on purpose. Because, frankly, no one can be so intentionally dense, and no one can be so intentionally…she struggles to find the appropriate the word. Maybe there isn’t one, she isn’t sure. What she is sure of is that this…whatever they’ve stumbled into, is impossible.
Made worse by the fact that she’s isn’t entirely certain when it began or how it began or even if she gave her consent for it to begin. It had just…happened. That irritates the logical Corporal more than most anything else.
Sitting alone on her bunk, she ponders the gift in front of her. Flowers. Dunham’s fond of sending her flowers. She’d asked him about it once (cornered him is perhaps the more appropriate description) and received a noncommittal shrug in return (flowers were pretty, smelt good; she was pretty, smelt good, seemed the logical conclusion to reach). She’d told him, without a hint of a doubt, that she was tired of them. Didn’t need them. It was silly of him to waste his wages on something that was going to die in a few days anyway.
So the flowers had stopped. For a day or two.
And then she’d found new ones waiting on her bunk, a little more wild, their colors more vibrant and the note attached left her a little torn, (irritation and a begrudging respect), a surprisingly tight script informing her these flowers were perfectly acceptable (hadn’t spent his wages on them, and she couldn’t fault him for offering her a free gift, could she?).
The particular species is an odd one, the colors a beautiful crimson, the middle section almost honey colored, very nearly the shade of her eyes. The stem is thorny, thick, as if it came off some sort of bush rather than a mere plant. She fingers one of the edges, frowns at the sharpness and the drop of blood that greets her, pools on her finger. Must have been a pain in the ass to get and there’s no less than twelve of them, all perfectly bound together.
It has Reilly frowning at the sentimentality (and that’s all; nothing more, if Dunham wants to get his clumsy ass stuck in a tree picking flowers that’s his own problem, she isn’t going to worry over it). Familiar booted footsteps catch her attention, the particular gait impossible to mistake (quick, succinct, determined) and the soldier moves to her feet, unwittingly takes the gift with her. Is rapidly face to face with Alicia Washington, the Lieutenant looking more than a little worn from her latest excursion OTG; the elder woman levels an impressive glare at the bundle in her arms.
“Kid got them to you already, did he?”
“Yes, ma’am. Were waiting for me when I returned from patrol.”
Washington chuckles, shakes her head, “Have to hand it to him, Dunham’s fairly determined.”
“To get himself killed, maybe.”
An inelegant snort, “Closer to the truth than you know,” the Lieutenant levels an accusing finger at the flowers, a motion Reilly might have found amusing if not for the severity of her tone, “You should have seen the damn thing those came off of. Only a goddamn idiot would have looked at it and thought, huh, think I should climb that. And there’s Dunham, scaling away because the flowers he could reach just weren’t good enough.” Another irritable glance, an idle motion to the blood staining her field armor, coloring the skin of her hands, “Had to put a few stitches in him and he nearly feel to his death. Twice.”
“He’s an idiot,” and she hates that it comes out almost fond, far less insistent then it should. The other woman notes it with an arched brow, an amused quirk of her lips and shrugs.
“All men are, Corporal. It’s more a matter of finding the good kind of stupid instead of the pain in the ass variety. Which,” she frowns, looks a little sad, “Is sometimes easier said than done. Always, easier said than done.” The older woman’s comm. lets out a ringing noise, says she’s again being summoned. The Commanders voice fills the air (another briefing, though it’s hardly needed and she’s technically off duty), and Washington simply nods, a sort of mask snapping into place. It’s a moment too slow (always is) and the trace of fondness beyond simple camaraderie shows, if only for a second. She spins on her heel, ready to depart before pausing, pins the younger woman with a pointed look, “Men are idiots, Corporal,” a light shrug, a smirk that says she’s resigned to it, “But sometimes, women aren’t much better.”
It leaves her alone, a jumble of entirely unwelcome emotions playing havoc in her head. Stares at the gift tucked under her arm (new today, and when they’re dead a few days from now, she doesn’t for a second doubt there will be yet another set, vibrant and alive, to replace them, on and on) and after the departing woman.
Reilly sets the gift on her bed, reaches for her comm.. “Private Dunham?”
There’s a brief moment of silence on the other end, then a hesitant, “Reading you, ma’am.”
“Report to the barracks in five, soldier. There’s a matter I’d like to discuss.” Nothing more, nothing less, and yet the kids voice is surprisingly warm, almost hopeful.
“On my way, Corporal.”
The kids an idiot, clumsy and too determined, and more than a little…something she can’t figure out a name for. He’s an idiot.
But maybe she’s an idiot too, and there’s something oddly charming in the notion.
_________________
Prompt: Taylor/Wash/Taylor - Hard
Fill for:
mercscilla
Word Count: 500
Rating: R
Genre: Romance
There’s a striking difference in her men (and no matter how many times she repeats the phrase it refuses to lose its appeal, its newness) present at all times, highlighted during their little interludes. No matter how far gone she is, no matter what half conscious state of bliss they’ve managed to lull her into, she’s always aware who the hands roaming over her belong to, is always able to identify the lips playing over her heated skin. Always.
They are different, her men, regardless of their physical similarities, their rank, their penchant as leaders. And she revels in it.
Knows that the hand on her hip belongs to Nathaniel, knows that the fingers stroking her, teasingly light before delving into her are his as well. Knows the hands cupping her breasts, sometimes kneading, sometimes digging, belong to Miles. A subtle differentiation, clear as day to her.
The Commander, when push comes to shove, caresses more than touches. He is not gentle (she wouldn’t tolerate it if he was) but there’s something there, something that marks her as different. An affection, maybe, that stills him. Fingers dig, bruise occasionally, but he loves her, and it’s clearly evident. His lips ghosting over her hip as he slides to rest between her legs, a nip to the inside of her thigh, lips and tongue immediately following to chase away the itch of pain.
The Colonel is under less compulsion. Whatever he feels for her (and a part of her is painfully aware that if it’s not love it’s something dangerously akin to it), lacks the time, the painstaking care, she and Nathaniel have devoted to one another. It’s more incessant, more immediate, more determined, fingers gliding over her rip cage, a hand craning her neck to the side, teeth more than lips moving over the delicate skin there, heated breath creating an almost intoxicating sort of disparity in sensations. Her soft moans become more insistent; the sounds swallowed as the younger brother catches her in a bruising kiss. Miles dominates, leads, where Nathaniel favors a more middling approach, appreciates sparring her more than ruling her.
The Colonel is hard, unyielding; the Commander more temperate.
There are times she thinks she’s picked a favorite. There are times she’s thinks she has it all worked out. But as she crashes over the edge (Miles smirking against her lips; Nathaniel against her thigh only briefly before returning to his prior game), all such thoughts, all decisions, fly from her.
It shouldn’t be so difficult; it shouldn’t be so damned impossibly hard. In the end, she’s going to have to make a choice, knows this can’t go on forever.
But her men (hmm, there’s that feeling again) are smiling at her still, entirely too proud, and the knowledge is shunted aside for consideration another day.
______________
Prompt: Taylor/Wash - Yes
Fill for:
makesometime
Word Count: 611
Rating: R
Genre: Romance/Humor
“No.”
Admittedly, it’s meant to come out as a definitive statement. No, she would not do as he asked. No, she most certainly did not agree. No. She’s good at saying no. She’s fairly well convinced she’s reduced men, powerful men, to near tears with just that one word. One word, spoken with force and conviction and all the steel the colony knows her for.
Somehow, the original sentiment refuses to translate. The Lieutenant is left instead with something dangerously close to a breathy whimper, as if the air has suddenly up and decided to leave her lungs and the word is the only petition she can manage. She repeats it again with much the same results. Digs her nails at the biceps of the bastard that’s reduced her to such a state, glares up at him.
Taylor, true to form, smirks back down at her, leans down to ghost a kiss between her breasts, teeth and the hair of his beard teasing against her sensitive flesh. And for all her irritation, she can’t help but arch into him, body craving his touch, needing it, nerves wonderfully alive as lips trail lazy patterns over her skin. The hand fisted in her hair gives a light tug, undoes the tail she’s bound it back in. He’s partial, she’s aware, to it down, enjoys the way it frames her face, the way it fans out behind her in the somehow perfect fashion, the darkness a fitting backdrop, painting each of her expressions with more striking clarity.
The glass top of the desk is cool against her skin, a welcome change from the insistent heat of his torso, of the air around him. His hands settle on her hips, thumbs moving over the bone, over scars that have long since healed, “Don’t think I heard you last time, Lieutenant. What was that you were saying?”
Wash grits her teeth, focuses all her resolve on that one word, that one tiny word. Opens her mouth to speak and is treated to another thrust, excruciatingly, irritatingly, slow, “No.” Better, but not correct. Still leaving her too quickly, still hopelessly undermined by her legs tightening about his waist.
“Hard to respond to one word arguments, Wash. You’re going to have to give me more to go on.”
Growling, she reaches downs, catches his face between her hands, drags his lips up to hers. He’s all too willingly to meet her, terribly pleased with himself. It a fit of revenge (admittedly petty) she holds him to her a little after it’s clear they need to break for air, catches his lower lip between her teeth, sucks lightly as she pulls away. Amber eyes glaring, blue ones openly amused.
“No,” she begins, the word trailing off into a loud gasp as he grinds against her. She doesn’t need to see him to know he’s smirking, doesn’t need to hear his chuckle to know he’s already chalked himself up another victory. One of his hands fists in her hair, drags her up into a near sitting position on the edge of the desk.
“One more time, Lieutenant.”
This time she’s ready for him, and while her tone is hatefully breathy, she manages the entirety of her thought, “No, sir,” she grits her teeth, head lolling forward against his shoulder as her nails run ragged lines down his arms, “We are not having sex on your desk.”
“Think you might have been wrong, Wash.”
“Yes, sir. I was.”
And frankly, she never been more damn ecstatic about it.
Fill for: mercscilla
Word Count: 1050
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance
Prompt: Jim/Elisabeth- Morning
Fill for: bellakitse
Word Count: 780
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance/Family
Prompt: Reilly/Dunham-New
Fill for: zapf_chancery
Word Count: 939
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance/Humor
Prompt: Taylor/Wash/Taylor - Hard
Fill for: mercscilla
Word Count: 500
Rating: R
Genre: Romance
Prompt: Taylor/Wash - Yes
Fill for: makesometime
Word Count: 611
Rating: R
Genre: Romance/Humor
Just One Word
Pairing: Skye/Carter
It’s a jungle. A tropical jungle. And it doesn’t matter how many days the sun shines, and it doesn’t matter how hot it was yesterday or today or any other damn day; it’s still a jungle, and it’s tropical and it still rains like someone’s just up and decided, “Huh, how could I make this day any worse? By dropping a damn river on Tate’s head, obviously.”
Skye growls to herself, ignores the protest in her aching muscles (warm, burning (pleasantly or unpleasantly, strange how it’s difficult to tell anymore)), a constant reminder of the distance she’s travelled and the distance she has yet to go. The slick underbrush tears at the fabric of her leggings, some cutting, tearing, others simply brush against her, leave slick trails of moisture across the fabric. A hand through her hair, brushing the damp strands from her eyes, attempt to fit it back into a more manageable mass. The bun she’d bound it in hours previously is half undone, the majority of the curly tendrils now hanging about her shoulders, plastered to her neck, her face. As uncomfortable and unmanageable as the jungle she’s navigated a thousand times.
It shouldn’t have taken this long. She knows it; Mira undoubtedly knows it. Which means only one thing…
A goddamn search party.
It should be a gratifying prospect, something that brings her relief. She’s tired, soaked and shivering, and the prospect of deliverance from these conditions should rally her spirits.
It doesn’t. The notion brings with it an undeniable pang of shame, frustration. Because it’ll be him the Sixer leader sends and the idea that he should see her set so low is…
Repulsive. Spurs her onward, overtired muscles running more off of stubborn determination than anything else. She’ll find her own way; she’ll make it there. And when he returns, as wet and as miserable as she is, she’ll flash him her most winning grin. Revel in her victory, that she succeeded without him, that’s she’s capable on her own. It has her smirking to herself, parting a particularly thick bit of foliage, sliding through. The path here looks slightly more familiar but the signs she’s become accustomed to marking her path with are different in the dark, different through the heavy veil of gray and the light glistening off the falling liquid.
The noise alone is not to blame. Even in the perfect stillness of the night it would be difficult to hear the man’s approach, feet silent and light, blanketed by the din of the jungle. The bastard moves in behind her, close enough for her to feel his warmth through her ruined clothes, never enough to touch. Never to touch. Voice, smooth, almost caressing her senses as his words bite and tease, “Dangerous for you to go wandering in the jungle so late, Princess. You never know what kinds of monsters you might find.”
She turns, doesn’t bother to conceal the sneer, “I think I’m beginning to realize.” An amused chuckle meets her and then simply silence, the man pointedly ignoring her comment, opting for this instead. A wise move; somehow the combination of his proximity, the disparity between his heat and the cool rush of the water over her (suddenly) heated flesh, striking. The young woman represses the urge to shudder (shiver), turns. It brings her shoulder briefly into contact with his chest. It shouldn’t affect her in such a way. Shouldn’t set her skin tingling, shouldn’t a lot of things.
But it does.
He’s staring at her, gaze dark, sliding over her, makes her feel remarkably small, with her hair hanging in damp waves, clothes torn, soaked, covered in mud. Like something that’s crawled up and out of some lake and not the respectable (something in her head laughs at that; infuriating that it’s his voice that accompanies the sentiment) young woman she is. Filthy, lost and small, completely at the mercy of the damnable man. Carter flashes her a wicked smirk, “Just tell me when you’re done playing hero, sweetheart. One word and I’ll get you out of here.”
“One word? Then I guess “get the hell away from me” is out of the question?”
He shrugs, “Need a hell of a hyphen, but with you dressed like that I’m not going to argue semantics.”
She glares, blue eyes meeting his dark ones, neither willing to yield (the basis, perhaps, on which their relationship, whatever it is, is built), give ground. She’s too proud to ask for his assistance, too proud to bend knee to such a man. He’s too amused by her vaunted piety, her supposed high minded morality, to even give consideration to his own discomfort. That’s he’s every bit as inconvenienced by this as she is. The young woman shifts, crosses her arms over her chest.
Push comes to shove, and he yields. Something in him softens just briefly in his gaze when she’s incapable of repressing her shiver. He scowls, takes that final step forward and unclasps the leathery material tied at his neck, drapes it hastily over her shoulders. It has her eyes widening, mouth opening to protest almost immediately (though she cannot regret the protection it offers, cannot regret the lingering heat, the sensation of him, licking over her skin) and the Sixer holds up a hand, scowls, “Can’t have you dying on me now, can I, Princess?”
The smirk that turns her lips is a little more knowing, a little more edged than it has any right, offers him an out, “Mira would be angry.”
His answering nod is too hasty, the fingers suddenly clasping her arm a little too forceful (and somehow, that doesn’t intimidate her, revels in the feel of his fingers through the damp material of her shirt), “Glad you understand. Now come on; we’ve got a long walk. Never seen someone get so damn lost so quickly…”
The words are harsh but don’t dull her smirk any. And though she’s cold, she’s perfectly capable of following him. Has done it hundreds of times before. Funny, then, that he never releases her arm. Funny, then, that she never tries to move away. Just a step behind him as they move through the jungle rain.
_________________
Prompt: Jim/Elisabeth- Morning
Fill for:
bellakitse
Word Count: 780
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance/Family
After years apart the few feet between them hardly seems an insurmountable distance. If he listens, if he focuses, he can almost pick out the sound of her breathing amidst the silence of the morning, mingled seamlessly with the light snores of his children. It’s a few feet, and he’s content with it, folds his arms behind his head and lies back against the couch, closes his eyes again. Feels something like peace wash over him (a sensation that had been rare during the best moments of his old life, positively foreign in the later years), soothing over nerves time has only just begun to mend. The warm air licks at his skin, comforting, the air clean and light and new.
A striking disparity to where he’s only just been, the life he’s become accustomed to leading. Suddenly his world is open, lush and vibrant to contrast the cell he’d almost resigned to. Now there is new life, his family, his wife, but a few feet from him. Insurmountable, for now, but more manageable then millions of years of time, then prison complexes and a dying world still gasping for breath.
Jim’s very nearly drifted back asleep when he hears the soft padding of feet across the floor. They pause briefly behind him before circling to stand in front of him. The breathing, soft, silent, the particular scent (something sweet, something clean, something that simply and impossibly manages to warm his heart) identifies the intruder immediately. He allows his eyes to flutter blearily open, take in the sight of his wife. Appreciates, for perhaps the millionth time since they’re reunion, how goddamn beautiful she is. Her dark hair hangs loosely about her shoulders, a strand of it falling across her forehead. It’s charming, seeing the professional woman so disheveled, so natural. He offers her a lazy smile and she hesitantly returns it.
“Can’t sleep?”
Elisabeth shakes her head, “Considering the time that would be unfortunate. But I’d like to think I’d have more sense than to simply lie in bed tossing and turning until the early hours before I sought some remedy.”
“Then if you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing up?”
She chuckles, brushes the stray bit of hair behind her ear, “Can’t sleep.” She teases her lower lip between her teeth, takes another step forward, knees flush against the sofa. Without bothering to ask permission (she doesn’t need it), without considering whether or not it might be awkward (it is, at least momentarily), the doctor moves to sit on the edge of the couch. Favors him with a look that’s very nearly sad, warm eyes hurt, “I’m worried, Jim.” For the composed woman it’s no small admittance.
“I know,” because he knows her well enough to recognize those two simple words are the only thing she’ll accept. He reaches out to rest a hand at the crook of her elbow, gives a light tug. She comes willing, allows him to lead her until she’s lying beside him, back flush to his chest. It’s been so long that the feeling is almost something new, nearly forgotten but readily called back from memory. He buries his nose at the junction of her neck and shoulder, one of her hands coming up to caress his cheek. The other reaches for his arm, draws it to rest over her waist. To hold her, for no other reason than he can; to offer her this comfort, as he hasn’t been able to for so very long.
He feels her smile return, even if he doesn’t see it. Feels at least some of the tension dissipate and leave her. Not entirely, of course (that will take time, effort). There’s still distance between them, a wedge time has created and time will erode.
For the moment, Jim simply thanks whatever god is listening for the fresh air, for the new life. For returning him to the woman he loves, regardless of the distance.
Zoe awakens perhaps half an hour later, a stray bit of morning sunlight stirring her from her slumber. She finds her parents in the common room, both asleep, still entwined. Young she may be, but the girl recognizes a moment she has no part in, no place interrupting. The child pads into her sisters bedroom, opts to spend the early hours with her instead.
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Prompt: Reilly/Dunham-New
Fill for:
zapf_chancery
Word Count: 939
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance/Humor
There’s a very real part of her that’s convinced he does it on purpose. Because, frankly, no one can be so intentionally dense, and no one can be so intentionally…she struggles to find the appropriate the word. Maybe there isn’t one, she isn’t sure. What she is sure of is that this…whatever they’ve stumbled into, is impossible.
Made worse by the fact that she’s isn’t entirely certain when it began or how it began or even if she gave her consent for it to begin. It had just…happened. That irritates the logical Corporal more than most anything else.
Sitting alone on her bunk, she ponders the gift in front of her. Flowers. Dunham’s fond of sending her flowers. She’d asked him about it once (cornered him is perhaps the more appropriate description) and received a noncommittal shrug in return (flowers were pretty, smelt good; she was pretty, smelt good, seemed the logical conclusion to reach). She’d told him, without a hint of a doubt, that she was tired of them. Didn’t need them. It was silly of him to waste his wages on something that was going to die in a few days anyway.
So the flowers had stopped. For a day or two.
And then she’d found new ones waiting on her bunk, a little more wild, their colors more vibrant and the note attached left her a little torn, (irritation and a begrudging respect), a surprisingly tight script informing her these flowers were perfectly acceptable (hadn’t spent his wages on them, and she couldn’t fault him for offering her a free gift, could she?).
The particular species is an odd one, the colors a beautiful crimson, the middle section almost honey colored, very nearly the shade of her eyes. The stem is thorny, thick, as if it came off some sort of bush rather than a mere plant. She fingers one of the edges, frowns at the sharpness and the drop of blood that greets her, pools on her finger. Must have been a pain in the ass to get and there’s no less than twelve of them, all perfectly bound together.
It has Reilly frowning at the sentimentality (and that’s all; nothing more, if Dunham wants to get his clumsy ass stuck in a tree picking flowers that’s his own problem, she isn’t going to worry over it). Familiar booted footsteps catch her attention, the particular gait impossible to mistake (quick, succinct, determined) and the soldier moves to her feet, unwittingly takes the gift with her. Is rapidly face to face with Alicia Washington, the Lieutenant looking more than a little worn from her latest excursion OTG; the elder woman levels an impressive glare at the bundle in her arms.
“Kid got them to you already, did he?”
“Yes, ma’am. Were waiting for me when I returned from patrol.”
Washington chuckles, shakes her head, “Have to hand it to him, Dunham’s fairly determined.”
“To get himself killed, maybe.”
An inelegant snort, “Closer to the truth than you know,” the Lieutenant levels an accusing finger at the flowers, a motion Reilly might have found amusing if not for the severity of her tone, “You should have seen the damn thing those came off of. Only a goddamn idiot would have looked at it and thought, huh, think I should climb that. And there’s Dunham, scaling away because the flowers he could reach just weren’t good enough.” Another irritable glance, an idle motion to the blood staining her field armor, coloring the skin of her hands, “Had to put a few stitches in him and he nearly feel to his death. Twice.”
“He’s an idiot,” and she hates that it comes out almost fond, far less insistent then it should. The other woman notes it with an arched brow, an amused quirk of her lips and shrugs.
“All men are, Corporal. It’s more a matter of finding the good kind of stupid instead of the pain in the ass variety. Which,” she frowns, looks a little sad, “Is sometimes easier said than done. Always, easier said than done.” The older woman’s comm. lets out a ringing noise, says she’s again being summoned. The Commanders voice fills the air (another briefing, though it’s hardly needed and she’s technically off duty), and Washington simply nods, a sort of mask snapping into place. It’s a moment too slow (always is) and the trace of fondness beyond simple camaraderie shows, if only for a second. She spins on her heel, ready to depart before pausing, pins the younger woman with a pointed look, “Men are idiots, Corporal,” a light shrug, a smirk that says she’s resigned to it, “But sometimes, women aren’t much better.”
It leaves her alone, a jumble of entirely unwelcome emotions playing havoc in her head. Stares at the gift tucked under her arm (new today, and when they’re dead a few days from now, she doesn’t for a second doubt there will be yet another set, vibrant and alive, to replace them, on and on) and after the departing woman.
Reilly sets the gift on her bed, reaches for her comm.. “Private Dunham?”
There’s a brief moment of silence on the other end, then a hesitant, “Reading you, ma’am.”
“Report to the barracks in five, soldier. There’s a matter I’d like to discuss.” Nothing more, nothing less, and yet the kids voice is surprisingly warm, almost hopeful.
“On my way, Corporal.”
The kids an idiot, clumsy and too determined, and more than a little…something she can’t figure out a name for. He’s an idiot.
But maybe she’s an idiot too, and there’s something oddly charming in the notion.
_________________
Prompt: Taylor/Wash/Taylor - Hard
Fill for:
mercscilla
Word Count: 500
Rating: R
Genre: Romance
There’s a striking difference in her men (and no matter how many times she repeats the phrase it refuses to lose its appeal, its newness) present at all times, highlighted during their little interludes. No matter how far gone she is, no matter what half conscious state of bliss they’ve managed to lull her into, she’s always aware who the hands roaming over her belong to, is always able to identify the lips playing over her heated skin. Always.
They are different, her men, regardless of their physical similarities, their rank, their penchant as leaders. And she revels in it.
Knows that the hand on her hip belongs to Nathaniel, knows that the fingers stroking her, teasingly light before delving into her are his as well. Knows the hands cupping her breasts, sometimes kneading, sometimes digging, belong to Miles. A subtle differentiation, clear as day to her.
The Commander, when push comes to shove, caresses more than touches. He is not gentle (she wouldn’t tolerate it if he was) but there’s something there, something that marks her as different. An affection, maybe, that stills him. Fingers dig, bruise occasionally, but he loves her, and it’s clearly evident. His lips ghosting over her hip as he slides to rest between her legs, a nip to the inside of her thigh, lips and tongue immediately following to chase away the itch of pain.
The Colonel is under less compulsion. Whatever he feels for her (and a part of her is painfully aware that if it’s not love it’s something dangerously akin to it), lacks the time, the painstaking care, she and Nathaniel have devoted to one another. It’s more incessant, more immediate, more determined, fingers gliding over her rip cage, a hand craning her neck to the side, teeth more than lips moving over the delicate skin there, heated breath creating an almost intoxicating sort of disparity in sensations. Her soft moans become more insistent; the sounds swallowed as the younger brother catches her in a bruising kiss. Miles dominates, leads, where Nathaniel favors a more middling approach, appreciates sparring her more than ruling her.
The Colonel is hard, unyielding; the Commander more temperate.
There are times she thinks she’s picked a favorite. There are times she’s thinks she has it all worked out. But as she crashes over the edge (Miles smirking against her lips; Nathaniel against her thigh only briefly before returning to his prior game), all such thoughts, all decisions, fly from her.
It shouldn’t be so difficult; it shouldn’t be so damned impossibly hard. In the end, she’s going to have to make a choice, knows this can’t go on forever.
But her men (hmm, there’s that feeling again) are smiling at her still, entirely too proud, and the knowledge is shunted aside for consideration another day.
______________
Prompt: Taylor/Wash - Yes
Fill for:
makesometime
Word Count: 611
Rating: R
Genre: Romance/Humor
“No.”
Admittedly, it’s meant to come out as a definitive statement. No, she would not do as he asked. No, she most certainly did not agree. No. She’s good at saying no. She’s fairly well convinced she’s reduced men, powerful men, to near tears with just that one word. One word, spoken with force and conviction and all the steel the colony knows her for.
Somehow, the original sentiment refuses to translate. The Lieutenant is left instead with something dangerously close to a breathy whimper, as if the air has suddenly up and decided to leave her lungs and the word is the only petition she can manage. She repeats it again with much the same results. Digs her nails at the biceps of the bastard that’s reduced her to such a state, glares up at him.
Taylor, true to form, smirks back down at her, leans down to ghost a kiss between her breasts, teeth and the hair of his beard teasing against her sensitive flesh. And for all her irritation, she can’t help but arch into him, body craving his touch, needing it, nerves wonderfully alive as lips trail lazy patterns over her skin. The hand fisted in her hair gives a light tug, undoes the tail she’s bound it back in. He’s partial, she’s aware, to it down, enjoys the way it frames her face, the way it fans out behind her in the somehow perfect fashion, the darkness a fitting backdrop, painting each of her expressions with more striking clarity.
The glass top of the desk is cool against her skin, a welcome change from the insistent heat of his torso, of the air around him. His hands settle on her hips, thumbs moving over the bone, over scars that have long since healed, “Don’t think I heard you last time, Lieutenant. What was that you were saying?”
Wash grits her teeth, focuses all her resolve on that one word, that one tiny word. Opens her mouth to speak and is treated to another thrust, excruciatingly, irritatingly, slow, “No.” Better, but not correct. Still leaving her too quickly, still hopelessly undermined by her legs tightening about his waist.
“Hard to respond to one word arguments, Wash. You’re going to have to give me more to go on.”
Growling, she reaches downs, catches his face between her hands, drags his lips up to hers. He’s all too willingly to meet her, terribly pleased with himself. It a fit of revenge (admittedly petty) she holds him to her a little after it’s clear they need to break for air, catches his lower lip between her teeth, sucks lightly as she pulls away. Amber eyes glaring, blue ones openly amused.
“No,” she begins, the word trailing off into a loud gasp as he grinds against her. She doesn’t need to see him to know he’s smirking, doesn’t need to hear his chuckle to know he’s already chalked himself up another victory. One of his hands fists in her hair, drags her up into a near sitting position on the edge of the desk.
“One more time, Lieutenant.”
This time she’s ready for him, and while her tone is hatefully breathy, she manages the entirety of her thought, “No, sir,” she grits her teeth, head lolling forward against his shoulder as her nails run ragged lines down his arms, “We are not having sex on your desk.”
“Think you might have been wrong, Wash.”
“Yes, sir. I was.”
And frankly, she never been more damn ecstatic about it.