Passing the Time

BY : Bebe
Category: 1 through F > Andromeda
Dragon prints: 2579
Disclaimer: I do not own Andromeda, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Title: Passing the Time, Part 8

Author’s Note: Up on time! Not much to say this chapter except for you all to enjoy and, please, review.

Tyr could hear Beka thumping around in the bedroom. She was in a bad mood and had been all day, so he had elected to stay in the kitchen most of the day and leave the rest of the small house to her. It wasn’t a hardship, as the newest place had a kitchen as a separate room rather than as part of a large main room, and he had decided to make soup, especially since the amount of chopping required would give him an easy excuse to stay there. It would also be good for a meal considering the grey, drizzly, late-winter day outside, which happened to be the reason Beka was currently banging the door of something with far more force than really required. She’d been nothing but vocal about going straight from one wintry planet to another, no matter his protests that it was on the cusp of spring.

At least she’d appreciated the oversized bathtub, judging by how often she convinced him to join her.

That didn’t stop her from being irritable about the weather, though, or letting him know it, and now he groaned quietly when he heard her stomping toward the kitchen door. He still straightened his features and pretended to focus on further chunking the last of the root vegetables before she came through the doorway.

“It’s still raining.” She stomped more, now up to just behind his shoulder. When he glanced at her, trusting that she wouldn’t take his head off for daring to nor would he slice his own fingers in that second, she was glaring out the window over the counter.

“Yes.” He finished cutting and starting putting the pieces into the pot.

“I want it to stop raining already. I’m sick of weather.”

“I know.”

“And I’m tired of mud.”

“You’ve said.” He risked another look back, this time trying not to smile. She was in socks rather than her customary boots, the footwear caked in drying mud by the door after she’d tried walking outside this morning. She’d been lucky to get her foot extricated with the boot still on it, and his laughing then had perhaps contributed to her mood as much as the earth trying to suck her down.

“And I want some decent artificial gravity and actual clean air.”

“The air here is clean.”

“It hasn’t been properly filtered. It’s not clean.”

He wasn’t even going to try to argue the semantics of cleanliness with her. Instead he started to add the vegetables to the pot simmering on the stove. These were the last he had to add for a while, and he was already considering whether he should start making something else as long as he was here. That was assuming that she left again, at least, and he had the kitchen in peace for a while longer. She didn’t seem inclined to give him that, however. She was still standing just behind him, bouncing on the balls of her feet and scowling at the world beyond the window.

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked finally, moving to the small sink to wash the vegetable juices off his hands. Still looking broody, she didn’t answer until after he’d shut off the water again.

“What’re you making?”

“Soup. And possibly bread.” He was already considering ingredients and what would go well with the soup, if she left him alone to do so.

She snorted. “You cook, you bake… I’m surprised you don’t have a flowered apron. It’s like having a wife that can kill things.”

He leaned against the counter and eyed her carefully. “A wife?”

“Yeah, a wife. You’re more domestic than I am.” Beka looked absolutely disdainful, even arrogant. He couldn’t decide whether it was an improvement over her earlier irritable position or not. She turned her back to the table, facing him completely. “When you said you could cook I didn’t think it was because you were the homemaker type.”

He shifted, crossing his arms carefully over his chest. “Would you prefer that I leave our diet to you? Processed, premade food that does nothing but use what little money we have and barely nourish either of us?”

“Served me fine for years. You’re just picky. Either that or it’s an excuse to show off.”

Now he was starting to get irritable. “Yes, Captain Valentine, I am exceedingly picky as to what I eat. That would be why I have suddenly developed a double-X chromosome. Are you satisfied with that explanation?”

“And it’s back to ‘Captain Valentine’ rather than ‘Beka’ now. You’ve gone frigid or something.” She snorted again. “You really are a wife, aren’t you?”

It was only two steps for him from the counter to where she stood in front of the table, and he made it before she could have registered the movement. With one hand on either side of her, she was caged, but when she looked up at him she was still defiant, although he could still hear her heartbeat trip into a slightly faster rhythm with his proximity. “Frigid,” he repeated, deadpan.

She didn’t even blink. “Frigid. Frozen. Stick up the—”

He growled.

“And getting PMS, too,” she added, without missing a beat.

He didn’t consider the action until after he’d done it. A hand on her forearm, a twist, a step forward, and she was captive, pinned between his body and the table with her wrists crossed securely at the base of her spine. She’d gasped at the motion, and he would have to tell her that she’d neglected her defense the next time they sparred. Not now, though. Now she was caught, and he needed to decide what to do with her. Her heart was hammering, distracting, and he could smell the faintest hint of adrenaline. Not the sick scent of fear, though, or the more pleasant one of arousal, the two things he was accustomed to with those triggers and her close proximity.

“So,” she asked, and her voice was a little more uneven than it had been a moment before, “playing caveman now to prove your masculinity? Gonna club me over the head and drag me off to your cave just as soon as you do something to keep the soup from burning?”

He knew. Egging him on even after she’d been captured, this was Beka spoiling for a fight, or at least a war of wits. She would keep it up until he walked away or escalated it, but with an attractive, usually-willing woman trapped in his arms he wanted neither. “Perhaps I should,” he murmured, lips by her ear. She stiffened. “Not club you, that would be… undesirable… but proving that I am in fact male, since you seem so willing to denigrate that fact?”

“Arm-wrestling competition, then?”

He shook his head. “Something more basic.” He wrapped his hand more securely around both of her wrists, enough to slow her down should she try something, and used the other to inch her shirt up. She was holding her breath as he did. “I don’t know,” he said quietly as the hem of it slid up over her bra, “why you seem so nervous. I’m supposed to be more in charge of this than I usually am, aren’t I? A man wouldn’t let his woman take over sex when he could control it?” She snorted, faintly, and seemed like she was about to say something, but then he abandoned the shirt as out of his way and tugged the cup of the bra down. Her nipple tightened when he touched it, and he heard her breath catch. “You don’t seem to be objecting, at least.”

“Want me to?” she asked brightly. There was sarcasm in her words, but he ignored it.

“You can, but I can’t guarantee that I would listen. I shouldn’t, according to your view.” He dipped his head to brush his lips over her neck, then carefully— it was awkward with only one hand, the other trapping hers still— reached to expose the other breast. She twisted against the touch, but he wasn’t sure whether it was to get him to return to the first or simply an attempt to get loose. He gripped her wrists tighter, stopping short of painful force, and otherwise ignored the twist, focusing on the second side as he tugged the fabric away.

“I never said,” there was a break in her voice as he drew a circle around the second nipple, “it was my view.”

“You called me a wife. It was implied.” The fabric was still blocking his access, but he had enough out of the way that he could start to tease her. That faint interruption in her last sentence had told him almost as much as the slight peak in her scent, heady and familiar. He could feel the stirrings of response in his own body at the change and at the visual appeal of the exposed pink and white skin framed by the black shirt and bra.

He kept the faint touches going, changing from side to side whenever she seemed to respond fully to what he was doing, occasionally kissing or sucking or licking at her neck just for variety. The erratic but definite increase in her heartrate appealed to him on an even more visceral level than the skin that showed; if he hadn’t been able to tell otherwise, her breathing alone would have assured him that she was interested, shallow and faster despite the occasional tug away from him, doubtless when she thought he was sufficiently distracted. Even the smell of her now-definite arousal was affecting him, curling through his body to his groin. He was considering taking the activity up to the next level when he heard her say, goading, “So are you actually going to do anything, oh manly one, or are you just going to keep feeling me up?”

Vaguely irritated by the presumption that he wasn’t going to go further, he pinched the nipple he had been focusing his attention on and made her gasp. She jerked at his grip more forcefully. “No!” and she froze. “If you want me to, in fact, prove it, you’re going to have to stay,” he mocked her, hearing her heart skip a beat, but her next tug was nowhere near as strong as that one had been.

“Then either prove it or let me go.”

He would have shrugged. Instead he dropped his hand to her waist and unfastened the pants, sliding his fingers in the opening and pressing, the small noise she made either of protest or of impatience. With that in mind, he pulled away, working under the waistband to ease it down over her hips. His only hesitation, when he was working the pants down to her thighs, was over what a problem this would pose if he needed her to move, but then again relocation would give her a chance to pull away, and the table was solid hardwood and doubtless sturdy enough for his purposes. She stayed curiously still through his progress.

The first sign of rebellion was when he got the pants down to her feet. With his hand still stretched up to her wrists, he only had one to work with, so her reluctance to lift her feet posed a problem. “Beka.”

“What? Problems?” The sickly-sweet tone of her voice broadcast her refusal to cooperate before he even asked. Giving up on that tack, he balanced in a crouch and considered. After a long moment, he tickled the arch of her foot. “Ah!” and she jerked her foot up and away. He took advantage of that second to pull the clothing away. “You bastard.”

“Hardly.” He stood again after pulling the pants out of the way to the side. They were still tangled around one ankle, but he doubted that trick would work twice. Instead he chose to distract her, sweeping his hand down her stomach and resting it briefly between her legs. Even though she still had on her underwear, her scent was stronger than ever, and it was hard for him to focus; his boneblades had long since risen and he had to be careful to avoid catching her flesh with the tips. Trying to reorient himself, he cupped his fingers against her to make her squirm, but he could just barely feel the dampness through the fabric. Giving into the temptation it represented, he eased the underwear aside to give him access to her soft, damp folds. She wasn’t as wet as she could be yet, but the heat that he could feel against his fingers as he drew them through the curls was encouraging. With one smooth motion, he slid a finger into her, deep as he could go.

She stiffened with a swift intake of breath. He was amazed at the tightness of her around his finger at first, despite the ease of the slide in, but when he didn’t do anything after a moment she relaxed, her muscles loosening accordingly, though still nowhere near what he was used to. He waited another beat before curling the finger simultaneous with pressing the heel of his hand against her mound and felt her shiver.

“Tyr—”

“Shh. Aren’t I as the man supposed to be responsible for your pleasure as well as mine?”

She let out a slow breath, interrupted by the glide of his hand in- and outside her. “Yes. But you’re still not doing anything I can’t do myself. Or another woman could do for me.” Another finger and despite the taunts she moaned, a barely-there noise. “Still not… being very… manly!” He’d moved faster, interrupted her sentence, but she’d still continued, and he felt a flash of irritation, her intended effect.

“Very well.” He pulled his hand away, unfastened his own clothing and pushed it out of the way. The release itself felt good, the sounds she’d been making having gone straight to his groin, and he closed his eyes when the tip of his erection rubbed against the bunched cloth of her underwear. She tried to take advantage of his distraction, wrenching her arms against his grip, and he removed her leverage by moving her forward, not far enough for her to be against the table but bent over it at the waist, hovering centimeters above. She started to protest but he didn’t listen, instead taking advantage of her position to push just barely into her and make her cry out instead.

She was still tight, just wet enough to ease the friction but not enough for him to do what he wanted and drive into her hard and deep without hurting her. He worked his way slowly inside her, his torturously creeping progress wringing faint noises from her. She didn’t sound pained, but he still moved carefully until their bodies met and he had to stop for a deep breath at the feel of her body clinging to him. It was awkward, but he managed to reach around her again to rub gently at her clit, something that made her relax marginally more. Still doing that, he carefully, slowly pulled back before pushing forward again.

The friction from his fingers and erection was working to increase her wetness, making the slide easier. When she clenched around him at the depth of one stroke he groaned, his fingers loosening enough for her to pull an arm free. Rather than try to move away she braced herself against the table, pushing back against him and raising her torso incrementally, giving him easier access to that cluster of nerves. He took advantage of it, slipping in time with the slow thrusts and feeling her relax. At the depth of the next stroke he stilled, leaning against her back and whispering at her ear. “I suspect that if I were to ask, you would tell me that I am still not being obviously masculine, since I was trying to show concern for your comfort. Therefore,” and the words were harder to focus on when she dipped her head to expose her neck and shifted her hips slightly against his hand, “I’m not going to ask.”

He didn’t go slowly on the next stroke, driving her forward and catching his own hand against the edge of the table. He didn’t care; the appreciative gasp was enough to convince him to keep going, and his main focus was on getting her to come before the heat in his own body overwhelmed him. Her heart was racing now, but so was his own, and when her socked foot started to slide on the floor she pressed harder against his fingers even after he used them and his grip on her arm to pull her higher. He could feel her foot come to rest against his boot.

She was hot around him, a wet clutch as he slammed into her, and he knew this wasn’t going to last. It was too good, and he could try to take care of her first but it wasn’t likely to happen with the way his body was tightening no matter how hard he tried to push it away. Then it was too late, the feeling seizing him at the base of his spine and sparking outward. She rippled over him as he buried himself in her the last time, fingers curling on her, and he dimly realized that her own body was shuddering in time with his and drawing out his own spasms.

They were huddled together over the table, still intertwined, when he finally eased back into full awareness. He let go of her arm, carefully separating them, and listened to her slowing breathing for a moment. “I perhaps should be more sure of this than I am, but you did…?”

She treated him to a snort of laughter. It wasn’t as disdainful as it had been earlier, though, so perhaps his efforts had served to soothe her irritation somewhat. “Yeah, I did, mister manly, just barely. Great show of controlling everything there.”

“I can hardly account for the vagaries of your biology.” He started to put their clothes back in order, making her jump when he brushed his hand over her nipple while getting the bra back into place. “Other than that, I assume I did in fact prove my manliness?” Having gotten her shirt and underwear back into place, he reached for his own pants, but she twisted between his body and the table to fasten them for him.

“Well, you did prove the whole dominating thing, not that I couldn’t have told that by how often you try to get me into the handcuffs. But,” and having gotten the waist buttoned she pushed him back so she could get her own back over her legs, “I’m still pretty sure that a woman with the right… accessories… could do just as well.”

He would have grumbled, nearly did, but saw the flash of humor on her lips as she glanced up at him. “So essentially my only remaining recourse would be to impregnate you to prove my status as a man, since that’s the only remaining benchmark. Perhaps I should do that?” Her next look up was nervous, and he held her gaze as she straightened and worked the fabric over her hips. When he saw her trying to form a sentence, speech temporarily defeating her momentarily, he let the smile spread slowly over his lips. He only held it a moment before he started laughing.

“Oh, shut up, Anasazi. And get started on the bread, you got me hungry.”



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