Fic: The Morning After
Title: The Morning After
Rating: T
Word count: 850
Summary: Post-Disquiet "missing scene" type fic. Written for defyingnormalcy as part of the adama-roslin holiday gift exchange.
Neither one of them wants to sleep all night-- it’s utter contentment, their heated skin pressed together, Laura nestled in Bill’s arms. But the candles eventually burn out, and their bodies, exhausted by their lovemaking, demand rest.
She’s not sure how long they actually slept; this whole evening had felt a dream, like a haze finally lifted and stripped them of tired pretensions (we can’t do this, we shouldn’t do this). Even when her eyes closed, she could still see the golden reflection of the candlelight off his skin, mirroring her own radiance back at her. She can feel it, can still feel it when she wakes in his snug embrace.
He’s hard against her backside, and she shifts against him shamelessly, because she wants to and she can. He murmurs unintelligibly and pulls her closer against him. His cock twitches and his breathing becomes uneven, and she knows he’s awake.
“I love you,” he whispers against her ear. He hadn’t said it last night-- hadn’t needed to. But now he finally does-- because he wants to, and he can.
“Good morning to you, too,” she says, her voice a teasing lilt. She rolls over to face him so he can see her smile.
“Oh-four-thirty,” he says with authority, no chrono needed. “I need to get back to my quarters, get cleaned up.”
Her eyes open wider, blink once in understanding. They both have...responsibilities. Him more so than her.
“Come with me?” he asks.
“That depends,” she says.
“On what?”
She grins, happier than she can remember being in the longest time. “On whether we can continue this--” she drapes a long leg over him and pulls herself closer “--when we get there.”
He groans. “Yeah.”
At that, she rolls out of the narrow rack and throws on her sweatsuit. “I’m ready.”
“I’m not,” he grumbles, tucking his half-erect cock into his boxers as he pulls them up.
Dainty feet slip into clunky black shoes. “Race you there.”
He just shakes his head at her, but when he pushes himself up off the rack with minimal protest, she knows she’s won.
* * *
In the end they don’t jog there, though there is a surreptitious urgency to their movements as they slink through the corridors, his arm wrapped around her waist, from her guest quarters back to their home. She allows herself to dwell for just a moment on why she left in the first place, and knows she won’t leave again.
There are few people about at this early hour, but Laura still feels a sense of relief when Bill locks the hatch behind them. She’s given up so much to get to this point, with him, and she’s not ready for it to end yet -- for the outside to encroach on their happiness.
Last night they had taken their time, gently exploring one another, wanting it to last. Now they’re back on a timetable. She tugs him into the head, turns on the taps to the shower.
The hot water soothes their strained muscles. Bill washes up quickly, then turns his attentions to her. She leans against him, he holds her up as his hands lather soap over her shoulders, breasts, navel. A pleased hum escapes her lips when he reaches the juncture of her thighs, and she turns in his arms and kisses him.
“Rack,” she says, brushing away the last soap bubbles from his chest.
He carefully dries her off with his towel and wraps his brown robe around her when he notices the raised bumps that have broken out across her flesh. She’s not sure that it’s because she’s cold, but the robe feels so soft and smells so good that she doesn’t protest, though her time wearing it is short-lived, as it quickly comes off again before she stretches out on his rack.
Their second time feels like it could be their fortieth, or six hundredth; they’d learned each other well the previous evening, the past four years. It’s comfortable, and satisfying, and exactly what they both want to be doing.
And it’s over entirely too quickly for Laura’s liking, she thinks as Bill begins to disrupt the peaceful aftermath, no doubt intending to go back into the head and get dressed. She pulls the covers up over them both and wraps her limbs around him. “Stay here,” she pleads.
He laughs wistfully, holds her close. “Would that I could,” he says. He kisses her scalp, her temple, her cheekbone, her nose, and she wants him to keep going, to resume again, but he doesn’t. He can’t, she knows.
“Just because I have to get up doesn’t mean you do,” he says. “Stay here, rest. All day, if you want.” He picks his robe up off the floor and helps her back into it. To keep her warm, since he can’t.
She just might do that, she thinks as her lids grow heavy. She won’t lie around all day, but a few more hours of sleep, surrounded by Bill’s scent, and sheets, and robe, at least until the coffee shows up, sounds like a plan.
Rating: T
Word count: 850
Summary: Post-Disquiet "missing scene" type fic. Written for defyingnormalcy as part of the adama-roslin holiday gift exchange.
Neither one of them wants to sleep all night-- it’s utter contentment, their heated skin pressed together, Laura nestled in Bill’s arms. But the candles eventually burn out, and their bodies, exhausted by their lovemaking, demand rest.
She’s not sure how long they actually slept; this whole evening had felt a dream, like a haze finally lifted and stripped them of tired pretensions (we can’t do this, we shouldn’t do this). Even when her eyes closed, she could still see the golden reflection of the candlelight off his skin, mirroring her own radiance back at her. She can feel it, can still feel it when she wakes in his snug embrace.
He’s hard against her backside, and she shifts against him shamelessly, because she wants to and she can. He murmurs unintelligibly and pulls her closer against him. His cock twitches and his breathing becomes uneven, and she knows he’s awake.
“I love you,” he whispers against her ear. He hadn’t said it last night-- hadn’t needed to. But now he finally does-- because he wants to, and he can.
“Good morning to you, too,” she says, her voice a teasing lilt. She rolls over to face him so he can see her smile.
“Oh-four-thirty,” he says with authority, no chrono needed. “I need to get back to my quarters, get cleaned up.”
Her eyes open wider, blink once in understanding. They both have...responsibilities. Him more so than her.
“Come with me?” he asks.
“That depends,” she says.
“On what?”
She grins, happier than she can remember being in the longest time. “On whether we can continue this--” she drapes a long leg over him and pulls herself closer “--when we get there.”
He groans. “Yeah.”
At that, she rolls out of the narrow rack and throws on her sweatsuit. “I’m ready.”
“I’m not,” he grumbles, tucking his half-erect cock into his boxers as he pulls them up.
Dainty feet slip into clunky black shoes. “Race you there.”
He just shakes his head at her, but when he pushes himself up off the rack with minimal protest, she knows she’s won.
* * *
In the end they don’t jog there, though there is a surreptitious urgency to their movements as they slink through the corridors, his arm wrapped around her waist, from her guest quarters back to their home. She allows herself to dwell for just a moment on why she left in the first place, and knows she won’t leave again.
There are few people about at this early hour, but Laura still feels a sense of relief when Bill locks the hatch behind them. She’s given up so much to get to this point, with him, and she’s not ready for it to end yet -- for the outside to encroach on their happiness.
Last night they had taken their time, gently exploring one another, wanting it to last. Now they’re back on a timetable. She tugs him into the head, turns on the taps to the shower.
The hot water soothes their strained muscles. Bill washes up quickly, then turns his attentions to her. She leans against him, he holds her up as his hands lather soap over her shoulders, breasts, navel. A pleased hum escapes her lips when he reaches the juncture of her thighs, and she turns in his arms and kisses him.
“Rack,” she says, brushing away the last soap bubbles from his chest.
He carefully dries her off with his towel and wraps his brown robe around her when he notices the raised bumps that have broken out across her flesh. She’s not sure that it’s because she’s cold, but the robe feels so soft and smells so good that she doesn’t protest, though her time wearing it is short-lived, as it quickly comes off again before she stretches out on his rack.
Their second time feels like it could be their fortieth, or six hundredth; they’d learned each other well the previous evening, the past four years. It’s comfortable, and satisfying, and exactly what they both want to be doing.
And it’s over entirely too quickly for Laura’s liking, she thinks as Bill begins to disrupt the peaceful aftermath, no doubt intending to go back into the head and get dressed. She pulls the covers up over them both and wraps her limbs around him. “Stay here,” she pleads.
He laughs wistfully, holds her close. “Would that I could,” he says. He kisses her scalp, her temple, her cheekbone, her nose, and she wants him to keep going, to resume again, but he doesn’t. He can’t, she knows.
“Just because I have to get up doesn’t mean you do,” he says. “Stay here, rest. All day, if you want.” He picks his robe up off the floor and helps her back into it. To keep her warm, since he can’t.
She just might do that, she thinks as her lids grow heavy. She won’t lie around all day, but a few more hours of sleep, surrounded by Bill’s scent, and sheets, and robe, at least until the coffee shows up, sounds like a plan.