Ivory Lines Lead
Title: Ivory Lines Lead
Author:
alias424
Pairing: A/R
Rating: M
Warnings: PWP
Summary: It’s overconfidence, maybe, but he knows he can fix this.
A/N:
gidget_zb and
babylon_whore have completely corrupted my usual fade-to-black ways. *glares* Let it not be said that I didn't at least TRY to uphold my end of the porn on this comm, BBs!
Ivory Lines Lead
Bill waits-leaning against the hatchway, watching her pace steadily back and forth: one, two, three, four steps, her shoes clicking, turn and four again, hands restlessly rotating between her hips and elbows as she folds her arms across her chest. There’s some kind of equation here-briskness times speed plus the number of turns over laps per minute-which will tell him exactly what kind of day she’s had (not that it matters-it won’t be good). He wonders how long she’s been here.
He clears his throat. She glances up but doesn’t stop pacing, only modifying her course so she won’t have to turn her back to him. Tension and frustration hum in the air like a negative charge, and she looks about ready to airlock the first thing that moves-so stepping fully into his quarters and closing them both in borders just on suicidal.
It’s overconfidence, maybe, but he knows he can fix this.
“Might want to take it easy on those shoes. Probably won’t be easy to find another pair.”
She pauses only long enough to step out of her shoes and kick them roughly aside. “There. One pair of soles I can actually save.”
Easily a joke if she had said it with a grin, but the tone’s all wrong, and his forehead furrows into a frown he won’t otherwise let show. “There’s still the floor to watch out for.”
“If this ship of yours can’t stand up to a little pacing, Admiral, then we’re all frakked.”
He allows himself a split-second (a small smile) to think about how much he loves the way her voice wraps around that word: all hard consonants and rough edges where everything is usually so smooth and politically correct. But there will be time to revel in that (when he gets her to repeat it, breathlessly) later-for now….
“Is everything all right?”
The easy (obvious) question earns him an easy (obviously wrong) answer: “I’m fine.”
Tip-toes here, both in words and as he crosses the room. She slows, allows him to approach her (needs this as much as anything or she wouldn’t be here). He always forgets how small she is-the fragility that shimmers under all that strength and power, that somehow manages to glimmer through it without the added height of her shoes. “You just seem a little… on edge.”
“I’m fine,” she repeats, waving a hand at him. But he catches it, pulls her to him.
“Laura. Relax.”
Laura simmers. Or tries to. There’s something satisfying in slow-burning anger-it may color the world in livid, streaking reds, but at least it colors it at all (adds something to the black abyss of space, the metallic grays of the ships, their homes).
“Relax?”
It shouldn’t work that way: a name, a word, magically fixing everything, releasing pent-up tension as easily as if he’s hit some kind of valve (which, frankly, can’t possibly exist if her own fingers haven’t found it by now). And maybe it doesn’t-more his hand on hers than his voice that blends light with the reds and shadows (intent on making everything rosy and better even if it never will be). It shouldn’t work that way either-but it does-and she hates herself and loves him all at once.
At first she thinks the sharp pleasure-pain radiates from this sudden rush of feeling-and then she feels his hands: fingers and thumbs kneading, massaging.
His hands, his hands, Gods, his hands….
“Your shoulders are full of knots,” he murmurs close to her ear.
“I’ll have Cottle take a look next time I’m in sickbay.”
Her head shouldn’t tilt to the side to allow him more room to work. Shouldn’t, but does anyway, and his hand sweeps aside her hair, fingers pouncing on the newly-exposed terrain in an instant-rough and strong, soothing tired muscles and soft skin and anger… and when there’s nothing left to ease, they begin to build: layer upon layer of sensation that-
“You better not,” she thinks she hears him mumble, voice and hands both suddenly, strangely (thrillingly), possessive.
She smiles softly, slowly turns her head and looks back at him over her shoulder through half-lidded eyes. “What was that?”
Bill fumbles-hands stopping, coming to rest on her shoulders, eyes never losing hers-as he tries to reach for words that don’t sound anything (frighteningly) like love when really that’s all there is.
Her grin is infectious, so that’s easy enough to return, and he’s learned that silly schoolboy responses are something men never quite outgrow (and women always expect it anyway). “Nothing.”
“You,” she’s turning fully around now, and he has just enough time to prepare himself for that flirtingly accusatory look she’s sure to have at the ready, “are a terrible liar, Admiral Adama.”
And there it is-the grinning mischief lighting (and darkening) her eyes, and that low, all-business-and-pleasure tone that quirks the corner of her mouth…. All that, and he’s somehow still standing. So far, so good.
“You’re supposed to be relaxing, Madam President.”
“And you’re supposed to be making me.”
He has her hand in both of his, playing with her fingers, pressing warmth into them as he traces and bends, letting himself think that it’s not his that are trembling. “That an order?”
Her lips twitch, a smile that wants to grow wider. “If it has to be.”
Lifting her hand, he spins her in a motion that’s half a dance and sets to work once again, hands sweeping across her back, lips pressing close to her ear… “Yes, sir.” …to punctuate phrases with nips and kisses (dot his i’s and cross his t’s)… “Okay, sir.” … that spot just behind- “Anything you say, sir.”
Laura laughs (and hums, a moan catching in her throat).
It shouldn’t surprise her that he’s memorized all the right places, knows just the combination of time and pressure to send her reeling-vision bursting in pinks that bleed into soft oranges and bright yellows. It shouldn’t-but it does, every godsdamned time, and instead of worrying or wondering, she sighs and arches against him, feels him chuckle.
“Is everything all right?” he asks again, teasing this time and against her throat-the way he should ask everything, really-and she smiles slowly. He thinks he’s in control.
“Of course,” she answers lazily, concentrating on other tasks while his focus is elsewhere-cursing her shaky fingers (and the sadist bastard behind buttonholes) and trying to keep her breaths measured.
Finally, success, and she reaches a now-free hand over her shoulder to rest on the back of his head, twisting her head so they are breathing the same breath but not moving her lips over his, not yet.
“Bill?”
“Hmm-mmm?” A question that breaks and lengthens into surprise as she swiftly captures it with lips and teeth and tongue, claiming and reclaiming-victory is hers even if he doesn’t surrender (and has never tasted so good). His arm slips around her waist, fingers jerking at the shock (a soft sound passing from his mouth to hers) of finding skin, but quickly splaying, stroking.
She grins against his lips, and her own breathing may be quick and panting now, but his is just as harsh. “Too slow.”
Bill groans-tries to hold it in and fails miserably, and then just doesn’t give a frak anymore.
She’s turned and slipped out of her jacket and blouse in one fluid, graceful motion, her somehow still-nimble fingers managing to make quick work of the buttons on his uniform, while he can’t even seem to get his to work well enough to make any headway on all this bare skin. He expects her to divest him of his jacket immediately, so it’s something of a surprise when he’s suddenly being tugged by his lapels, twisted roughly and shoved against his rack with a huff.
Her lips are on his lips (and his nose, his jaw, his chin, his throat), her hands on his belt buckle, and he thinks that somewhere along the way he hears, “Boots”-tries to follow orders and ends up only tying both them and the shoes in knots.
The woman knows what she wants (what she needs) and isn’t afraid to go after it-he knows what she needs (and wants) and will be damned if she thinks he’s going to let her do all the work.
“Laura,” he gasps, realizing then that he’s already breathless, and he pulls her closer, sliding a thigh between hers and slipping a hand around to trace barely-there lines and circles (and words and love) on the soft skin where her skirt has ridden up.
He pauses-(always) needs a moment to stare, admire, and she’s (always) impatient, shifting her hips, but lets him have it. On edge and wanting, he’s conjured up these legs while plotting flight formations-Raptors turning at the bend of the knee, curving down the calf and pulling away at the ankle. Half-asleep, he’s seen points on DRADIS that bounce like that crossed calf in moments of bored agitation. He’s had those legs twisted around his legs (and hips and waist and head), and still every time he-
“Bill.” She’s stilled, but still poised (almost pouting)-he can feel every muscle tensed and waiting.
He presses a kiss to her temple. “Relax.”
Laura sighs-some frustration, mostly anticipation. “Easier said than-”
He doesn’t make her wait long, one arm snaking around her as his fingers slip up and up, hitting silk and lace and approving with a swift flick of his thumb. And then he’s pushing past and up and there-and everything afterwards is measured in finger-lengths and fingertips and force and friction, as he explores all those places they both know and finds others neither knew existed.
Fingers everywhere and thumb, oh there-other hand hot and possessive on her waist, fingers carrying the rhythm and providing a counterbalance-mouth skating down her neck, detouring to nip at her collarbone, then continuing, and he’s nuzzling into her breasts-and it’s too much and not enough and-
“Frak,” she mutters, burying her face in his neck as he hits just-and then again. “Frak….”
Bill grins-and braces himself, ready for the blow as she pounds a frustrated fist against his chest when he pulls out, both hands at her waist.
“Bastaaarrrd,” she moans in one breath, and the next, “Why the frak are you so dressed?”
“Little busy.” He lifts her onto his rack, lets her push his jacket off his shoulders before he determinedly sets back to his boots, concentration stuttering as her bra falls on top of them. He grits his teeth, doesn’t risk an upward glance, knowing it’ll cost him. “Orders from the frakking President.”
“Which you didn’t follow…” Her gasp draws his attention immediately, and frak, her breasts and her hands- “… seeing as the frakking President is still unfrakked.”
“Not for long.”
“Yes.” And by the time he’s removed his tanks, her skirt has joined them on the floor. “Because you don’t get to be in charge anymore.”
He lies back, pulls her towards him. “Was I ever?”
Laura hums-reaching out for and settling over him (home), eyes closing.
She finds his hand, his lips, with her eyes still squeezed shut-memory and heat and sensation intertwining as he surges up into her.
So close, so close, so close already that everything’s tightening and compressing and melting into colors much too soon: heartbeats and breathing and muscles trembling, pigments spilling over-his breaths (hers) brilliant and rapid and blue-his hands squeezing as tightly as she needs, golden and warm-his mouth pressing urgent red and pink-soft kisses anywhere, everywhere, and-
“Bill….”
Everything. Nothing. Black and reds and pinks and him-his voice low and reassuring in her ear, and it’s love no matter what the words are.
He kisses softly, sweetly, his hands sweeping in broad arcs over her shoulders, her back, giving her time to remember how to breathe. She thanks him (for the few slow seconds, for relieving the tension) pressing her mouth to the hollow of his throat and humming, stretching slowly, luxuriously, to feel all that skin and muscle against her own. And when her tongue darts out, tasting the tang of salt and him and moving onward, he seems to take that as his cue, starts to move again.
“Quick study,” she murmurs-so soon and should be sated but everything’s still bursting into streaks of white light and the blue of his eyes.
He chuckles, the sound catching, is close, she can tell, but he’ll wait for her-his hand stealing between them already and finding-finding-there- “Good teacher.”
Author:
alias424
Pairing: A/R
Rating: M
Warnings: PWP
Summary: It’s overconfidence, maybe, but he knows he can fix this.
A/N:
gidget_zb and
babylon_whore have completely corrupted my usual fade-to-black ways. *glares* Let it not be said that I didn't at least TRY to uphold my end of the porn on this comm, BBs!
Ivory Lines Lead
Bill waits-leaning against the hatchway, watching her pace steadily back and forth: one, two, three, four steps, her shoes clicking, turn and four again, hands restlessly rotating between her hips and elbows as she folds her arms across her chest. There’s some kind of equation here-briskness times speed plus the number of turns over laps per minute-which will tell him exactly what kind of day she’s had (not that it matters-it won’t be good). He wonders how long she’s been here.
He clears his throat. She glances up but doesn’t stop pacing, only modifying her course so she won’t have to turn her back to him. Tension and frustration hum in the air like a negative charge, and she looks about ready to airlock the first thing that moves-so stepping fully into his quarters and closing them both in borders just on suicidal.
It’s overconfidence, maybe, but he knows he can fix this.
“Might want to take it easy on those shoes. Probably won’t be easy to find another pair.”
She pauses only long enough to step out of her shoes and kick them roughly aside. “There. One pair of soles I can actually save.”
Easily a joke if she had said it with a grin, but the tone’s all wrong, and his forehead furrows into a frown he won’t otherwise let show. “There’s still the floor to watch out for.”
“If this ship of yours can’t stand up to a little pacing, Admiral, then we’re all frakked.”
He allows himself a split-second (a small smile) to think about how much he loves the way her voice wraps around that word: all hard consonants and rough edges where everything is usually so smooth and politically correct. But there will be time to revel in that (when he gets her to repeat it, breathlessly) later-for now….
“Is everything all right?”
The easy (obvious) question earns him an easy (obviously wrong) answer: “I’m fine.”
Tip-toes here, both in words and as he crosses the room. She slows, allows him to approach her (needs this as much as anything or she wouldn’t be here). He always forgets how small she is-the fragility that shimmers under all that strength and power, that somehow manages to glimmer through it without the added height of her shoes. “You just seem a little… on edge.”
“I’m fine,” she repeats, waving a hand at him. But he catches it, pulls her to him.
“Laura. Relax.”
Laura simmers. Or tries to. There’s something satisfying in slow-burning anger-it may color the world in livid, streaking reds, but at least it colors it at all (adds something to the black abyss of space, the metallic grays of the ships, their homes).
“Relax?”
It shouldn’t work that way: a name, a word, magically fixing everything, releasing pent-up tension as easily as if he’s hit some kind of valve (which, frankly, can’t possibly exist if her own fingers haven’t found it by now). And maybe it doesn’t-more his hand on hers than his voice that blends light with the reds and shadows (intent on making everything rosy and better even if it never will be). It shouldn’t work that way either-but it does-and she hates herself and loves him all at once.
At first she thinks the sharp pleasure-pain radiates from this sudden rush of feeling-and then she feels his hands: fingers and thumbs kneading, massaging.
His hands, his hands, Gods, his hands….
“Your shoulders are full of knots,” he murmurs close to her ear.
“I’ll have Cottle take a look next time I’m in sickbay.”
Her head shouldn’t tilt to the side to allow him more room to work. Shouldn’t, but does anyway, and his hand sweeps aside her hair, fingers pouncing on the newly-exposed terrain in an instant-rough and strong, soothing tired muscles and soft skin and anger… and when there’s nothing left to ease, they begin to build: layer upon layer of sensation that-
“You better not,” she thinks she hears him mumble, voice and hands both suddenly, strangely (thrillingly), possessive.
She smiles softly, slowly turns her head and looks back at him over her shoulder through half-lidded eyes. “What was that?”
Bill fumbles-hands stopping, coming to rest on her shoulders, eyes never losing hers-as he tries to reach for words that don’t sound anything (frighteningly) like love when really that’s all there is.
Her grin is infectious, so that’s easy enough to return, and he’s learned that silly schoolboy responses are something men never quite outgrow (and women always expect it anyway). “Nothing.”
“You,” she’s turning fully around now, and he has just enough time to prepare himself for that flirtingly accusatory look she’s sure to have at the ready, “are a terrible liar, Admiral Adama.”
And there it is-the grinning mischief lighting (and darkening) her eyes, and that low, all-business-and-pleasure tone that quirks the corner of her mouth…. All that, and he’s somehow still standing. So far, so good.
“You’re supposed to be relaxing, Madam President.”
“And you’re supposed to be making me.”
He has her hand in both of his, playing with her fingers, pressing warmth into them as he traces and bends, letting himself think that it’s not his that are trembling. “That an order?”
Her lips twitch, a smile that wants to grow wider. “If it has to be.”
Lifting her hand, he spins her in a motion that’s half a dance and sets to work once again, hands sweeping across her back, lips pressing close to her ear… “Yes, sir.” …to punctuate phrases with nips and kisses (dot his i’s and cross his t’s)… “Okay, sir.” … that spot just behind- “Anything you say, sir.”
Laura laughs (and hums, a moan catching in her throat).
It shouldn’t surprise her that he’s memorized all the right places, knows just the combination of time and pressure to send her reeling-vision bursting in pinks that bleed into soft oranges and bright yellows. It shouldn’t-but it does, every godsdamned time, and instead of worrying or wondering, she sighs and arches against him, feels him chuckle.
“Is everything all right?” he asks again, teasing this time and against her throat-the way he should ask everything, really-and she smiles slowly. He thinks he’s in control.
“Of course,” she answers lazily, concentrating on other tasks while his focus is elsewhere-cursing her shaky fingers (and the sadist bastard behind buttonholes) and trying to keep her breaths measured.
Finally, success, and she reaches a now-free hand over her shoulder to rest on the back of his head, twisting her head so they are breathing the same breath but not moving her lips over his, not yet.
“Bill?”
“Hmm-mmm?” A question that breaks and lengthens into surprise as she swiftly captures it with lips and teeth and tongue, claiming and reclaiming-victory is hers even if he doesn’t surrender (and has never tasted so good). His arm slips around her waist, fingers jerking at the shock (a soft sound passing from his mouth to hers) of finding skin, but quickly splaying, stroking.
She grins against his lips, and her own breathing may be quick and panting now, but his is just as harsh. “Too slow.”
Bill groans-tries to hold it in and fails miserably, and then just doesn’t give a frak anymore.
She’s turned and slipped out of her jacket and blouse in one fluid, graceful motion, her somehow still-nimble fingers managing to make quick work of the buttons on his uniform, while he can’t even seem to get his to work well enough to make any headway on all this bare skin. He expects her to divest him of his jacket immediately, so it’s something of a surprise when he’s suddenly being tugged by his lapels, twisted roughly and shoved against his rack with a huff.
Her lips are on his lips (and his nose, his jaw, his chin, his throat), her hands on his belt buckle, and he thinks that somewhere along the way he hears, “Boots”-tries to follow orders and ends up only tying both them and the shoes in knots.
The woman knows what she wants (what she needs) and isn’t afraid to go after it-he knows what she needs (and wants) and will be damned if she thinks he’s going to let her do all the work.
“Laura,” he gasps, realizing then that he’s already breathless, and he pulls her closer, sliding a thigh between hers and slipping a hand around to trace barely-there lines and circles (and words and love) on the soft skin where her skirt has ridden up.
He pauses-(always) needs a moment to stare, admire, and she’s (always) impatient, shifting her hips, but lets him have it. On edge and wanting, he’s conjured up these legs while plotting flight formations-Raptors turning at the bend of the knee, curving down the calf and pulling away at the ankle. Half-asleep, he’s seen points on DRADIS that bounce like that crossed calf in moments of bored agitation. He’s had those legs twisted around his legs (and hips and waist and head), and still every time he-
“Bill.” She’s stilled, but still poised (almost pouting)-he can feel every muscle tensed and waiting.
He presses a kiss to her temple. “Relax.”
Laura sighs-some frustration, mostly anticipation. “Easier said than-”
He doesn’t make her wait long, one arm snaking around her as his fingers slip up and up, hitting silk and lace and approving with a swift flick of his thumb. And then he’s pushing past and up and there-and everything afterwards is measured in finger-lengths and fingertips and force and friction, as he explores all those places they both know and finds others neither knew existed.
Fingers everywhere and thumb, oh there-other hand hot and possessive on her waist, fingers carrying the rhythm and providing a counterbalance-mouth skating down her neck, detouring to nip at her collarbone, then continuing, and he’s nuzzling into her breasts-and it’s too much and not enough and-
“Frak,” she mutters, burying her face in his neck as he hits just-and then again. “Frak….”
Bill grins-and braces himself, ready for the blow as she pounds a frustrated fist against his chest when he pulls out, both hands at her waist.
“Bastaaarrrd,” she moans in one breath, and the next, “Why the frak are you so dressed?”
“Little busy.” He lifts her onto his rack, lets her push his jacket off his shoulders before he determinedly sets back to his boots, concentration stuttering as her bra falls on top of them. He grits his teeth, doesn’t risk an upward glance, knowing it’ll cost him. “Orders from the frakking President.”
“Which you didn’t follow…” Her gasp draws his attention immediately, and frak, her breasts and her hands- “… seeing as the frakking President is still unfrakked.”
“Not for long.”
“Yes.” And by the time he’s removed his tanks, her skirt has joined them on the floor. “Because you don’t get to be in charge anymore.”
He lies back, pulls her towards him. “Was I ever?”
Laura hums-reaching out for and settling over him (home), eyes closing.
She finds his hand, his lips, with her eyes still squeezed shut-memory and heat and sensation intertwining as he surges up into her.
So close, so close, so close already that everything’s tightening and compressing and melting into colors much too soon: heartbeats and breathing and muscles trembling, pigments spilling over-his breaths (hers) brilliant and rapid and blue-his hands squeezing as tightly as she needs, golden and warm-his mouth pressing urgent red and pink-soft kisses anywhere, everywhere, and-
“Bill….”
Everything. Nothing. Black and reds and pinks and him-his voice low and reassuring in her ear, and it’s love no matter what the words are.
He kisses softly, sweetly, his hands sweeping in broad arcs over her shoulders, her back, giving her time to remember how to breathe. She thanks him (for the few slow seconds, for relieving the tension) pressing her mouth to the hollow of his throat and humming, stretching slowly, luxuriously, to feel all that skin and muscle against her own. And when her tongue darts out, tasting the tang of salt and him and moving onward, he seems to take that as his cue, starts to move again.
“Quick study,” she murmurs-so soon and should be sated but everything’s still bursting into streaks of white light and the blue of his eyes.
He chuckles, the sound catching, is close, she can tell, but he’ll wait for her-his hand stealing between them already and finding-finding-there- “Good teacher.”