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Second Sin (BSG 2003, Starbuck/Dualla) NC-17
A thousand apologies for the lateness.
Title: Second Sin
Author: Leyenn
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Starbuck/Dualla
Spoilers: The miniseries and 33.
Summary: It's simply the end of the world.
A/N: Utmost thanks to Rachel for the beta. Written for Voleuse.
Second Sin
"Kara, Dee. Dee, Kara."
That was it. A nod and a smile; a cocky grin. Simple, really.
Simplicity is not Kara Thrace. Two months later and she's pressing that cocky grin against that smile and feeling it broaden, open with a laugh and draw her in.
(Actually it's two months, six days and a handful of hours into the early morning, but no one's counting.)
She hasn't felt this way since Zak. She's missed it. She hates it.
It's all impulse. Heat. They dive under the showers halfway through the night, bruises on shoulder blades and shuddered laughter and her hands drenched in black hair: fingers down her body and she pushes Dee back under the spray, and the sweat and scent of it washes away before she can believe it's real.
Nine months into their tour they share a grin or two over the mess table. Whatever they did and had is shoved down deep inside, just a few hours of surrender hidden away behind a smirk and a cigar. They're speaking; they're civil; they smile. Sometimes when she's not watching herself, she laughs just a little too hard.
It gets easier. Mostly it gets easier because they don't talk about it, so she can mostly forget she really cared that much.
She doesn't have it in her to care that much, and she mostly believes it.
*
Life comes in three parts, three spokes of the wheel, three frakking notches on her bunk.
Then.
(Zak. Caprica. Fresh tobacco. Letters from her father.)
Now.
(Her Viper. Her CAG. FTL jumps and an aching knee and her bunk is home.)
And in between, the end of the worlds.
*
"Hey."
"Hi." Dualla looks up at her entering the room, her towel slung over her shoulder. It's late. (Too late.) The showers are deserted. There's still eighty-five and more holes in their collected soul, eighty-five and more holes in those unwritten rosters that won't ever be filled.
"I was just leaving," Dualla says.
"Don't." It's out before she knows she's speaking. She looks over. "I mean. No need." Time ticks away on the wall, all of it, every second of it meaningless. "Right?"
Right on time, Dualla offers her a smile. She isn't sure what to do with it any more, so she passes it back.
She scrubs her face fast and strips off her shirt, pretending all the time not to see Dualla not pretending not to watch her in the mirror. She lays her hands across the flat of her stomach and drums a rhythm with her fingers, a rhythm like an old tune vaguely remembered.
The mirrors are too misted over to look herself in the eye as she goes for the hem of her sweats, but it's her mind that's too clouded (too late) to see the hand that grabs her wrist before she can.
Her head snaps around - it's reflex - and then she's moving, and kissing, and not entirely sure which arrived first.
She gasps hot and hard into Dualla's mouth as the water smacks her in the back, in the back of the neck and the hollow of her spine and plasters her hair darkly to her head. Fingers come up to rake it back, short fingernails pushing against her scalp and behind her ears. The water is hot, hot, hot and the clock is counting down meaningless time, and all the while she's still almost-dressed and Dualla, Anastasia Dualla -
"Holy frak," comes from her mouth, and although it's not a yowl it might do a passable impression of one. This is solely because Dualla - Ana - no, no, Dee, this is Dee gripping her hard and sucking hot, precious water from the hollow of her neck, and now she remembers the tune.
She drops her head back and shakes it hard. Water splashes against her eyelids, streaks her face, the only sensitive part of her already naked that she needs to cover, and she butts her head back against the tile.
"Frak," again, and almost again, as Dee gets lower. She's holding Starbuck's wrists behind her back, not-quite holding hands, pushing her to attention as that gorgeous mouth moves lower and leaves a pretty little bruised trail behind. Dee follows the line of her neck, the curve of her shoulder to her collarbone to the line of clinging Fleet-issue clothes almost black with water.
She's still wearing her sweat pants and bra, and she's still wearing them when Dee's head ducks beneath her breasts and Dee's tongue finds the muscles of her stomach, tracing each one. The water streams down her face, stings her neck, stiffens her nipples against wet fabric, runs the length of her stomach in rivers to fall on Dee's tongue, clean and fresh with just a hint of Starbuck. She imagines how that tastes.
She remembers how that tastes.
Dee's tongue gliding up her body, searching, seeking, finding, makes her groan at being licked through hot wet fabric plastered on her breasts. A swirl of tongue on the other side of cotton makes her nipple hard and her body shriek so loud, she bites her lip and feels it sting.
Her hands become free only when Dee's are on her ass and hauling her forward, with her shoulders pushed back for water to run and pool and spill out between her breasts. She moans over the faint taste of biting through her skin.
Dee bites her nipple through cotton and trickling water: she moans louder. To her own ears it sounds like she's laughing, and she only stops when Dee moves.
One hand down the curve of her ass, fingers splayed to curl into the seat of her pants and grip and now she's moaning, moaning hard when that other hand is between her thighs and rough, searching, seeking, wanting her. Wanting her.
She writhes to that hand, to those hands, digging her own into a waterfall of slick black hair to avoid self-serving temptation. The seam of her pants strikes home and she chokes out a cry and water splashes past her lips and she's drowning, drowning in this, in the fall of water and the waterfall, in the heat and the steam and Dee's hands and the tight hot wet dripping fabric tight against every part of her, clenched between her legs, rubbing against her clit, writhing with her as close as a second skin and wanting it just as much. Wanting the fierce hands that ride the seam of her pants up the line of her ass, the want digging deep into her own need and burning her bright. Wanting the mouth suckling her like life itself and the sharp crest of pleasure roaring up from the push and thrust of fingers and fabric between her soaked thighs.
Wanting Dee.
She shakes and groans and swears, again and again and again. She may drown in orgasm even if she can't drown in bliss because she shudders and writhes when she comes, mouth open wide, and pushes Dee's fingers harder when it starts to stop, wanting to ride it up and up again. She does - and a second time, and a third, until she wonders if she might bleed with pleasure and she has to let go or die.
Her chest is heaving. The world is almost red with the blood pounding in her ears. She's half drowned, barely standing. She never even undressed. No water now but a steady drop against the side of her neck and her own dripping skin; her nipples are hard in the sudden cold and her sweats are clinging to her, drenched and tight, painful and glorious just grazing her clit. She feels rough and raw and taken, and it feels great. It feels real.
"I don't know why I did that," Dualla says softly.
She grins. "Hey, it's the end of the world." She doesn't say the rest, doesn't say about the right time to repent our sins while she's grabbing Dualla's sodden fatigues in her pilot's hands. She slams on the spray a second time - frak rationing - and tilts her head up so that the water collects against the back of her throat, hot and light, mingling with that hint of her own taste until it dribbles between her lips.
Head down with grinning eyes and she gets less than nothing in resistance to a kiss; their mouths open and water spills between them like the liquid heat between her legs, like the heat that runs up her spine as Dee drinks from her mouth and moans.
In the now you live dangerously or not at all, and this is something Starbuck knows how to do.
*
Title: Second Sin
Author: Leyenn
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Starbuck/Dualla
Spoilers: The miniseries and 33.
Summary: It's simply the end of the world.
A/N: Utmost thanks to Rachel for the beta. Written for Voleuse.
Second Sin
"Kara, Dee. Dee, Kara."
That was it. A nod and a smile; a cocky grin. Simple, really.
Simplicity is not Kara Thrace. Two months later and she's pressing that cocky grin against that smile and feeling it broaden, open with a laugh and draw her in.
(Actually it's two months, six days and a handful of hours into the early morning, but no one's counting.)
She hasn't felt this way since Zak. She's missed it. She hates it.
It's all impulse. Heat. They dive under the showers halfway through the night, bruises on shoulder blades and shuddered laughter and her hands drenched in black hair: fingers down her body and she pushes Dee back under the spray, and the sweat and scent of it washes away before she can believe it's real.
Nine months into their tour they share a grin or two over the mess table. Whatever they did and had is shoved down deep inside, just a few hours of surrender hidden away behind a smirk and a cigar. They're speaking; they're civil; they smile. Sometimes when she's not watching herself, she laughs just a little too hard.
It gets easier. Mostly it gets easier because they don't talk about it, so she can mostly forget she really cared that much.
She doesn't have it in her to care that much, and she mostly believes it.
*
Life comes in three parts, three spokes of the wheel, three frakking notches on her bunk.
Then.
(Zak. Caprica. Fresh tobacco. Letters from her father.)
Now.
(Her Viper. Her CAG. FTL jumps and an aching knee and her bunk is home.)
And in between, the end of the worlds.
*
"Hey."
"Hi." Dualla looks up at her entering the room, her towel slung over her shoulder. It's late. (Too late.) The showers are deserted. There's still eighty-five and more holes in their collected soul, eighty-five and more holes in those unwritten rosters that won't ever be filled.
"I was just leaving," Dualla says.
"Don't." It's out before she knows she's speaking. She looks over. "I mean. No need." Time ticks away on the wall, all of it, every second of it meaningless. "Right?"
Right on time, Dualla offers her a smile. She isn't sure what to do with it any more, so she passes it back.
She scrubs her face fast and strips off her shirt, pretending all the time not to see Dualla not pretending not to watch her in the mirror. She lays her hands across the flat of her stomach and drums a rhythm with her fingers, a rhythm like an old tune vaguely remembered.
The mirrors are too misted over to look herself in the eye as she goes for the hem of her sweats, but it's her mind that's too clouded (too late) to see the hand that grabs her wrist before she can.
Her head snaps around - it's reflex - and then she's moving, and kissing, and not entirely sure which arrived first.
She gasps hot and hard into Dualla's mouth as the water smacks her in the back, in the back of the neck and the hollow of her spine and plasters her hair darkly to her head. Fingers come up to rake it back, short fingernails pushing against her scalp and behind her ears. The water is hot, hot, hot and the clock is counting down meaningless time, and all the while she's still almost-dressed and Dualla, Anastasia Dualla -
"Holy frak," comes from her mouth, and although it's not a yowl it might do a passable impression of one. This is solely because Dualla - Ana - no, no, Dee, this is Dee gripping her hard and sucking hot, precious water from the hollow of her neck, and now she remembers the tune.
She drops her head back and shakes it hard. Water splashes against her eyelids, streaks her face, the only sensitive part of her already naked that she needs to cover, and she butts her head back against the tile.
"Frak," again, and almost again, as Dee gets lower. She's holding Starbuck's wrists behind her back, not-quite holding hands, pushing her to attention as that gorgeous mouth moves lower and leaves a pretty little bruised trail behind. Dee follows the line of her neck, the curve of her shoulder to her collarbone to the line of clinging Fleet-issue clothes almost black with water.
She's still wearing her sweat pants and bra, and she's still wearing them when Dee's head ducks beneath her breasts and Dee's tongue finds the muscles of her stomach, tracing each one. The water streams down her face, stings her neck, stiffens her nipples against wet fabric, runs the length of her stomach in rivers to fall on Dee's tongue, clean and fresh with just a hint of Starbuck. She imagines how that tastes.
She remembers how that tastes.
Dee's tongue gliding up her body, searching, seeking, finding, makes her groan at being licked through hot wet fabric plastered on her breasts. A swirl of tongue on the other side of cotton makes her nipple hard and her body shriek so loud, she bites her lip and feels it sting.
Her hands become free only when Dee's are on her ass and hauling her forward, with her shoulders pushed back for water to run and pool and spill out between her breasts. She moans over the faint taste of biting through her skin.
Dee bites her nipple through cotton and trickling water: she moans louder. To her own ears it sounds like she's laughing, and she only stops when Dee moves.
One hand down the curve of her ass, fingers splayed to curl into the seat of her pants and grip and now she's moaning, moaning hard when that other hand is between her thighs and rough, searching, seeking, wanting her. Wanting her.
She writhes to that hand, to those hands, digging her own into a waterfall of slick black hair to avoid self-serving temptation. The seam of her pants strikes home and she chokes out a cry and water splashes past her lips and she's drowning, drowning in this, in the fall of water and the waterfall, in the heat and the steam and Dee's hands and the tight hot wet dripping fabric tight against every part of her, clenched between her legs, rubbing against her clit, writhing with her as close as a second skin and wanting it just as much. Wanting the fierce hands that ride the seam of her pants up the line of her ass, the want digging deep into her own need and burning her bright. Wanting the mouth suckling her like life itself and the sharp crest of pleasure roaring up from the push and thrust of fingers and fabric between her soaked thighs.
Wanting Dee.
She shakes and groans and swears, again and again and again. She may drown in orgasm even if she can't drown in bliss because she shudders and writhes when she comes, mouth open wide, and pushes Dee's fingers harder when it starts to stop, wanting to ride it up and up again. She does - and a second time, and a third, until she wonders if she might bleed with pleasure and she has to let go or die.
Her chest is heaving. The world is almost red with the blood pounding in her ears. She's half drowned, barely standing. She never even undressed. No water now but a steady drop against the side of her neck and her own dripping skin; her nipples are hard in the sudden cold and her sweats are clinging to her, drenched and tight, painful and glorious just grazing her clit. She feels rough and raw and taken, and it feels great. It feels real.
"I don't know why I did that," Dualla says softly.
She grins. "Hey, it's the end of the world." She doesn't say the rest, doesn't say about the right time to repent our sins while she's grabbing Dualla's sodden fatigues in her pilot's hands. She slams on the spray a second time - frak rationing - and tilts her head up so that the water collects against the back of her throat, hot and light, mingling with that hint of her own taste until it dribbles between her lips.
Head down with grinning eyes and she gets less than nothing in resistance to a kiss; their mouths open and water spills between them like the liquid heat between her legs, like the heat that runs up her spine as Dee drinks from her mouth and moans.
In the now you live dangerously or not at all, and this is something Starbuck knows how to do.
*