BSG FIC :: "Quiet Surrender" [Laura/Kara, NC17] :: A b'day present for geekgrrllurking
Title: Quiet Surrender
Author: A. Magiluna Stormwriter
Email: stormwriter@shatterstorm.net
Rating: NC17
Pairings: Laura Roslin/Kara "Starbuck" Thrace
Date Written: 22 May 2010
Word Count: 944
Recipient: geekgrrllurking
Prompt: Q is for Quiet
Summary: So many arguments dancing on the tip of your tongue, so many reasons why this is probably the worst frakking idea you've ever had.
Spoilers: None specifically, but consider this all happening before New Caprica.
Website: ShatterStorm Productions - Frisked & Conquered
Link to: http://f-n-c.shatterstorm.net/
Archive: ShatterStorm Productions only…all others ask for permission & we'll see…
Author’s Disclaimer: "Battlestar Galactica," the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Ron Moore, David Eick, SciFi, R&D TV, Sky TV, and USA Cable Entertainment LLC. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliated with "Battlestar Galactica," SciFi, or any representatives of the actors whose characters are involved.
Author’s Notes: This was written for geekgrrllurking's birthday. She'd requested the prompt back in March. I'd been planning to do the whole list of prompts in alphabetical order, but this was the only prompt she'd made. And I felt like writing it. So here it is. Only the muses were being… difficult yesterday when I tried to get this written in the first place. You know, on her birthday and all. But at least they didn't totally fuck off to Bora Bora again…
Hope you like it, Geek! And happy belated birthday.
Dedication: My muses, for always pulling thru in the end…
Beta:
shatterpath [Thanks for the awesome last line, Doggie!]
"Quiet Surrender"
By A. Magiluna Stormwriter
So many arguments dancing on the tip of your tongue, so many reasons why this is probably the worst frakking idea you've ever had. But it wasn’t your idea, was it? No, not really. It's all her fault; she just sauntered into the room like she owns the place, all sunshine hair, arrogant swagger, and dark promises glinting in those expressive eyes.
You're the President of the frakking Twelve Colonies and you should be better than this: body pressed against the wall in a darkened, but not completely deserted corridor; skirt hiked up around your hips as you writhe against the rough material of her pants; shirt and bra tugged aside as her lips and teeth worry at your (cancer-free… for now) right nipple; breath coming in quiet gasps, terrified someone will hear, will investigate, will find you in your indiscretion.
What will the Quorum think if they ever find out? You're a grown woman, not some frakking hormonal teenager, and you should know better than this. Didn't your relationship with Adar teach you anything about mixing sex and politics? But he never did anything like this, did he? Never did anything for your benefit, your enjoyment; well, nothing that would matter in the end. As long as it didn't interfere with his personal and political agendas.
A particularly sharp nip at your nipple forces the breath from your lungs in a sudden moan, and your hips buck up against hers in response. "Quit your frakking thinking," she growls against your skin, shifting to move her thigh up higher between your legs, pressing your body even harder against the bulkhead.
You want to retort with something pithy, something scathing, but the shift in body positions has brought your clit into more direct contact with multiple wrinkles in her pants. "Gods damn it!" She grinds her leg up into your body again and the words are out of your mouth before your mind registers them as more than a thought. Her dark chuckle is insidious as it wraps around you, permeates your skin right down to your soul, all smoky tang like the cigars she smokes. "Frak you, Starbuck!"
"With pleasure, Madame President."
Her lips return to tormenting your acutely sensitive nipple, thigh moving slowly but steadily against your skin. Without thought, your hands are suddenly gripping her hips, trying to pull her closer, faster. It's bad enough you've gotten yourself into this situation; you should have some control over how it ends. The thought barely forms in your mind when your hands are tightly gripped and held above your head, that evil chuckle of hers almost a purr in your ear.
"Uh-uh, darlin'. You may be in charge on Colonial One, but right here, right now? I'm in charge. I know when people come along this corridor on a regular basis. I know how far voices carry, too." Despite yourself, you struggle against her grip, knowing it's futile before you even attempt it. "And I know that you want nothing more right now than for me to frak you until you're screaming and begging for more."
You want to deny it, every last word of it, but you can't. It's that damned homebrewed rotgut that appears to be in ready supply on this ship that did it.
"Come on, Laura," she teases, nipping at your earlobe. "Don't you wander off on me now."
There are other words coming out of her mouth, you're sure of it, but none of them make any sense as two of her fingers trap your clit and gently squeeze as they scissor back and forth. Eyes closing against the overwhelming sensations she's bringing out in you, your ears are flooded with the sound of blood rushing through your veins. The need for release overcomes every other instinct you have and you bite down on your lower lip to keep from crying out your pleasure as you struggle to get free of her iron grip.
And then everything goes black as your nerves seem to short-circuit with the heady sensations.
"Hey."
The sound of her voice begins to bring you back into yourself. There are spots dancing in your field of vision and a blossom of pain at the back of your skull. The faintest tremors of orgasmic aftershock echo along your nerves, chased by a lovely lassitude.
'Hey yourself," you finally murmur roughly, tasting the tang of blood from the bite mark on your lower lip.
She slips a curled finger under your chin, tipping your head up, and smiles when you meet her gaze. "You okay to walk yet? We probably shouldn't hang around here much longer. There's a shift change coming up soon."
Nodding slowly, you acquiesce and let her fix your clothes again. Silence descends upon the two of you as she begins to lead you back toward more civilized areas of the ship, toward the raptor that will take you back to Colonial One. Unconsciously, you start to worry at your lower lip; the burst of dull pain from your earlier wound is the only thing that stops you.
"Come with me," you finally say. The words are so soft, you're not even sure you've actually said them until she turns to study your face for a moment. "Tell them I'm too drunk to maneuver my way safely back," is the first excuse that comes to mind. "Let me repay the favor?"
It feels like an eternity as she considers your offer, and you're about ready to give up when a mischievous grin lights up her face. "You're on. Maybe I can make Billy squirm in embarrassment from hearing us."
Maybe she can at that.
Author: A. Magiluna Stormwriter
Email: stormwriter@shatterstorm.net
Rating: NC17
Pairings: Laura Roslin/Kara "Starbuck" Thrace
Date Written: 22 May 2010
Word Count: 944
Recipient: geekgrrllurking
Prompt: Q is for Quiet
Summary: So many arguments dancing on the tip of your tongue, so many reasons why this is probably the worst frakking idea you've ever had.
Spoilers: None specifically, but consider this all happening before New Caprica.
Website: ShatterStorm Productions - Frisked & Conquered
Link to: http://f-n-c.shatterstorm.net/
Archive: ShatterStorm Productions only…all others ask for permission & we'll see…
Author’s Disclaimer: "Battlestar Galactica," the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Ron Moore, David Eick, SciFi, R&D TV, Sky TV, and USA Cable Entertainment LLC. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliated with "Battlestar Galactica," SciFi, or any representatives of the actors whose characters are involved.
Author’s Notes: This was written for geekgrrllurking's birthday. She'd requested the prompt back in March. I'd been planning to do the whole list of prompts in alphabetical order, but this was the only prompt she'd made. And I felt like writing it. So here it is. Only the muses were being… difficult yesterday when I tried to get this written in the first place. You know, on her birthday and all. But at least they didn't totally fuck off to Bora Bora again…
Hope you like it, Geek! And happy belated birthday.
Dedication: My muses, for always pulling thru in the end…
Beta:
shatterpath [Thanks for the awesome last line, Doggie!]
"Quiet Surrender"
By A. Magiluna Stormwriter
So many arguments dancing on the tip of your tongue, so many reasons why this is probably the worst frakking idea you've ever had. But it wasn’t your idea, was it? No, not really. It's all her fault; she just sauntered into the room like she owns the place, all sunshine hair, arrogant swagger, and dark promises glinting in those expressive eyes.
You're the President of the frakking Twelve Colonies and you should be better than this: body pressed against the wall in a darkened, but not completely deserted corridor; skirt hiked up around your hips as you writhe against the rough material of her pants; shirt and bra tugged aside as her lips and teeth worry at your (cancer-free… for now) right nipple; breath coming in quiet gasps, terrified someone will hear, will investigate, will find you in your indiscretion.
What will the Quorum think if they ever find out? You're a grown woman, not some frakking hormonal teenager, and you should know better than this. Didn't your relationship with Adar teach you anything about mixing sex and politics? But he never did anything like this, did he? Never did anything for your benefit, your enjoyment; well, nothing that would matter in the end. As long as it didn't interfere with his personal and political agendas.
A particularly sharp nip at your nipple forces the breath from your lungs in a sudden moan, and your hips buck up against hers in response. "Quit your frakking thinking," she growls against your skin, shifting to move her thigh up higher between your legs, pressing your body even harder against the bulkhead.
You want to retort with something pithy, something scathing, but the shift in body positions has brought your clit into more direct contact with multiple wrinkles in her pants. "Gods damn it!" She grinds her leg up into your body again and the words are out of your mouth before your mind registers them as more than a thought. Her dark chuckle is insidious as it wraps around you, permeates your skin right down to your soul, all smoky tang like the cigars she smokes. "Frak you, Starbuck!"
"With pleasure, Madame President."
Her lips return to tormenting your acutely sensitive nipple, thigh moving slowly but steadily against your skin. Without thought, your hands are suddenly gripping her hips, trying to pull her closer, faster. It's bad enough you've gotten yourself into this situation; you should have some control over how it ends. The thought barely forms in your mind when your hands are tightly gripped and held above your head, that evil chuckle of hers almost a purr in your ear.
"Uh-uh, darlin'. You may be in charge on Colonial One, but right here, right now? I'm in charge. I know when people come along this corridor on a regular basis. I know how far voices carry, too." Despite yourself, you struggle against her grip, knowing it's futile before you even attempt it. "And I know that you want nothing more right now than for me to frak you until you're screaming and begging for more."
You want to deny it, every last word of it, but you can't. It's that damned homebrewed rotgut that appears to be in ready supply on this ship that did it.
"Come on, Laura," she teases, nipping at your earlobe. "Don't you wander off on me now."
There are other words coming out of her mouth, you're sure of it, but none of them make any sense as two of her fingers trap your clit and gently squeeze as they scissor back and forth. Eyes closing against the overwhelming sensations she's bringing out in you, your ears are flooded with the sound of blood rushing through your veins. The need for release overcomes every other instinct you have and you bite down on your lower lip to keep from crying out your pleasure as you struggle to get free of her iron grip.
And then everything goes black as your nerves seem to short-circuit with the heady sensations.
"Hey."
The sound of her voice begins to bring you back into yourself. There are spots dancing in your field of vision and a blossom of pain at the back of your skull. The faintest tremors of orgasmic aftershock echo along your nerves, chased by a lovely lassitude.
'Hey yourself," you finally murmur roughly, tasting the tang of blood from the bite mark on your lower lip.
She slips a curled finger under your chin, tipping your head up, and smiles when you meet her gaze. "You okay to walk yet? We probably shouldn't hang around here much longer. There's a shift change coming up soon."
Nodding slowly, you acquiesce and let her fix your clothes again. Silence descends upon the two of you as she begins to lead you back toward more civilized areas of the ship, toward the raptor that will take you back to Colonial One. Unconsciously, you start to worry at your lower lip; the burst of dull pain from your earlier wound is the only thing that stops you.
"Come with me," you finally say. The words are so soft, you're not even sure you've actually said them until she turns to study your face for a moment. "Tell them I'm too drunk to maneuver my way safely back," is the first excuse that comes to mind. "Let me repay the favor?"
It feels like an eternity as she considers your offer, and you're about ready to give up when a mischievous grin lights up her face. "You're on. Maybe I can make Billy squirm in embarrassment from hearing us."
Maybe she can at that.