Morning (1/1)
Title: Morning
Part: 1 of 1.
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Word Count: 1248.
Rating: R.
Spoilers: Through 2x19-20 "Lay Down Your Burdens."
Characters: Kara/Sam.
Excerpt: He doesn't know why he felt the urge to chase fake privacy, but it's their routine; it's his last chance ever to lose control with Kara in the place where Starbuck sleeps.
Author's Note: For leiascully because she is wonderful beyond wonderfulness and this is all a part of my plan to be HER when I grow up! Also for smut-tuesdays because they are the best days of the week! Fact.
I freaking love comments, but I also freaking love when people just read my fic even if they are too tired to comment. To that end: I have installed a poll at the bottom so all you have to do is click a button. Let's see how that goes. FEEL FREE TO ALSO LEAVE A COMMENT. I live for your thoughts.
All her gear is packed. Tanks, shorts, flight suit; Kara's even tossed her pungent, festering socks into a bag and promised to dunk them in a river once they get to New Caprica's surface. Sam doesn't have much to speak of - whatever he could hold into his hands before they lifted off from Caprica - but that, too, is tied into a bundle and stuffed at the bottom of Kara's locker, dormant until the morning shuttle.
He's in a lazy version of the clothes he'll wear tomorrow, his linen shirt all the way unbuttoned and his feet bare. Propriety has never mattered much in the pilots' locker; with half the pilots gone, it matters even less. He takes a long breath of scrubbed, recycled oxygen, and catches a whiff of smoke when Kara leans against her pillow and lights a cigar.
He grins over at her, rubs her knee as casually as possible. "Feeling good, babe?"
Kara's lips curve up while the end of her stogie glows cat's-eye orange, and she widens her eyes. Her hair's getting longer: Sam doesn't dare say it, but she looks less like a hardass and more like his lover every day. Surrounded by sky, he imagines her with long hair, that easy laugh, maybe even a dress. It's a dream, but so was re-colonization.
She passes him the smoke, and he pulls it into his lungs. He knows it bothers her that her drags are often longer than hers, but he loves her bothered too. The fumarella is acid on the way down, strong and twiggy and alive. He wonders how different it will feel to smoke in atmospheric air, to huff it out at the horizon.
"Don't hog the cigar, Sammy."
"Don't call me Sammy," he retorts, and hands it over.
"You love it."
He just winks.
They finish two more together in a quiet hour, trading the lighter back and forth like comrades. The low, hiccupping light of her narrow rack is relaxing to him for the first time: the Resistance is over, and Kara has - incredibly - mustered out. To everyone else they look like civilians in love, about to start a placid life.
He wishes he could believe it.
"I hear they grow this down there," says Kara, stamping the ash into the wall with the pad of her thumb. "We gotta make ourselves a stockpile."
She tosses him that grin, innocent and provocative both somehow, and straddles his hips. He holds her lightly, his fingers grazing the skin at her sides, and for a moment it's dizzying all over again: Starbuck, badass Viper pilot who mounted a Colonial rescue mission to save him, who taught him to fire an old-fashioned Stallion and kept her blonde hair shorn with a straight razor. The women he'd known before her had been mostly C-Bucs cheerleaders, flighty like bees, or his distant sisters, who understood his training regimen about as well as he understood their need to wear a different pair of shoes to every party.
When Sam glances up to meet Kara's eyes she's already watching, shaking her head at him. "You think too much," she says, and attacks his mouth. The taste of her lips is more powerful than alcohol, and much newer; he can barely keep up with the demands of her tongue. But he's always liked physical challenges, schooling his body to master every situation, and he knows Kara's weak spots too. He predicts, in a blurred combination of muscle memory and conscious thought, that when he slides his hands into the small of her back and down she will arch closer, turning soft so he can scrape his teeth and tongue across the flesh of her neck. She breathes in rushed staccato across the top of his ear; like this she always reminds him of a coyote, a lynx, a panther - a wild animal that will never be appeased. He tastes the first of her sweat drops, and sucks in deep.
She snickers when he closes the curtain, shifting her to one side on his lap. He doesn't know why he felt the urge to chase fake privacy, but it's their routine; it's his last chance ever to lose control with Kara in the place where Starbuck sleeps.
She manages to tear off his shirt, even though he begins by pulling it willingly over his shoulders, and she loses her own top with the same relish. He wants to slow her down; Sam Anders is a fool perpetually running errands. When she presses his shoulders to the bed, he leans back, playing hard-to-get. For his trouble she rewards him with a smirk and sits up, rolling her hips so he arches against the bed and closes his eyes. He lets her undo the zipper on his trousers, lets her yank everything off and undress him first. He even lets her flash-strip herself, foregoing slow seduction, but he opens his eyes to watch.
A moment beats and she's flat on top of him again, her breasts pressing into him like blessings. Kara here and now is sweet and trusting, her eyes spilling the secrets the rest of her refuses to acknowledge. Sam suspects that it is these moments that sustain him most of all, and he is ashamed of himself for the thought - for liking so much the way she takes him in when she's open on top of him, for the way she lets go and grinds into his body with all her strength, for the glow in her skin when she throws her head back and claims him like a conquering lioness.
He reaches up to her breasts, kneads her nipples between his fingers as she groans. Kara and Sam have an unspoken accord: All the gentleness comes from him, all the danger-tinged passion from her. And yet they break their own rules, because Sam's hands on her chest grow firm, and Kara starts to croon into the belly of the top bunk.
She takes his hands and thrusts them toward the nub between her legs; his fingers start soft and agonizing, barely there, and it's always unbelievable how electrifying it is when she bucks against him and yells desperation. Sam regards the ever-starlit curves of Kara Thrace, and traces the shape of their new life into her skin with his knuckles. She shouts his name.
It's not that that does it, but the next thing: she sinks down, her back a bow, and Sammy whispers from her lips in a tone he's never heard. He knows when she's trying too hard, when she's trying too little, when she wants to bend him to her will and when she doesn't care. She doesn't mean to humor him, but she can't help it; he knows that, too. And this Sammy is without agenda - it hits his ears and stays, and he thinks she might not even have noticed that it came out, that it floated through the air and connected them.
Each time they get a little bit closer.
He pulls her back against him, and they are comrades still as they grin at each other through the afterglow.
"You ready?" he asks, wrapping a ribbon of her hair around his finger. She's breathless, surrounded by flyaway strands.
"Sure," she answers, and rubs her thumb across his lower lip. He laughs, and she laughs, and she kisses him hard, and they will be sleepless and giddy on the morning shuttle.
Poll Morning
Part: 1 of 1.
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Word Count: 1248.
Rating: R.
Spoilers: Through 2x19-20 "Lay Down Your Burdens."
Characters: Kara/Sam.
Excerpt: He doesn't know why he felt the urge to chase fake privacy, but it's their routine; it's his last chance ever to lose control with Kara in the place where Starbuck sleeps.
Author's Note: For leiascully because she is wonderful beyond wonderfulness and this is all a part of my plan to be HER when I grow up! Also for smut-tuesdays because they are the best days of the week! Fact.
I freaking love comments, but I also freaking love when people just read my fic even if they are too tired to comment. To that end: I have installed a poll at the bottom so all you have to do is click a button. Let's see how that goes. FEEL FREE TO ALSO LEAVE A COMMENT. I live for your thoughts.
All her gear is packed. Tanks, shorts, flight suit; Kara's even tossed her pungent, festering socks into a bag and promised to dunk them in a river once they get to New Caprica's surface. Sam doesn't have much to speak of - whatever he could hold into his hands before they lifted off from Caprica - but that, too, is tied into a bundle and stuffed at the bottom of Kara's locker, dormant until the morning shuttle.
He's in a lazy version of the clothes he'll wear tomorrow, his linen shirt all the way unbuttoned and his feet bare. Propriety has never mattered much in the pilots' locker; with half the pilots gone, it matters even less. He takes a long breath of scrubbed, recycled oxygen, and catches a whiff of smoke when Kara leans against her pillow and lights a cigar.
He grins over at her, rubs her knee as casually as possible. "Feeling good, babe?"
Kara's lips curve up while the end of her stogie glows cat's-eye orange, and she widens her eyes. Her hair's getting longer: Sam doesn't dare say it, but she looks less like a hardass and more like his lover every day. Surrounded by sky, he imagines her with long hair, that easy laugh, maybe even a dress. It's a dream, but so was re-colonization.
She passes him the smoke, and he pulls it into his lungs. He knows it bothers her that her drags are often longer than hers, but he loves her bothered too. The fumarella is acid on the way down, strong and twiggy and alive. He wonders how different it will feel to smoke in atmospheric air, to huff it out at the horizon.
"Don't hog the cigar, Sammy."
"Don't call me Sammy," he retorts, and hands it over.
"You love it."
He just winks.
They finish two more together in a quiet hour, trading the lighter back and forth like comrades. The low, hiccupping light of her narrow rack is relaxing to him for the first time: the Resistance is over, and Kara has - incredibly - mustered out. To everyone else they look like civilians in love, about to start a placid life.
He wishes he could believe it.
"I hear they grow this down there," says Kara, stamping the ash into the wall with the pad of her thumb. "We gotta make ourselves a stockpile."
She tosses him that grin, innocent and provocative both somehow, and straddles his hips. He holds her lightly, his fingers grazing the skin at her sides, and for a moment it's dizzying all over again: Starbuck, badass Viper pilot who mounted a Colonial rescue mission to save him, who taught him to fire an old-fashioned Stallion and kept her blonde hair shorn with a straight razor. The women he'd known before her had been mostly C-Bucs cheerleaders, flighty like bees, or his distant sisters, who understood his training regimen about as well as he understood their need to wear a different pair of shoes to every party.
When Sam glances up to meet Kara's eyes she's already watching, shaking her head at him. "You think too much," she says, and attacks his mouth. The taste of her lips is more powerful than alcohol, and much newer; he can barely keep up with the demands of her tongue. But he's always liked physical challenges, schooling his body to master every situation, and he knows Kara's weak spots too. He predicts, in a blurred combination of muscle memory and conscious thought, that when he slides his hands into the small of her back and down she will arch closer, turning soft so he can scrape his teeth and tongue across the flesh of her neck. She breathes in rushed staccato across the top of his ear; like this she always reminds him of a coyote, a lynx, a panther - a wild animal that will never be appeased. He tastes the first of her sweat drops, and sucks in deep.
She snickers when he closes the curtain, shifting her to one side on his lap. He doesn't know why he felt the urge to chase fake privacy, but it's their routine; it's his last chance ever to lose control with Kara in the place where Starbuck sleeps.
She manages to tear off his shirt, even though he begins by pulling it willingly over his shoulders, and she loses her own top with the same relish. He wants to slow her down; Sam Anders is a fool perpetually running errands. When she presses his shoulders to the bed, he leans back, playing hard-to-get. For his trouble she rewards him with a smirk and sits up, rolling her hips so he arches against the bed and closes his eyes. He lets her undo the zipper on his trousers, lets her yank everything off and undress him first. He even lets her flash-strip herself, foregoing slow seduction, but he opens his eyes to watch.
A moment beats and she's flat on top of him again, her breasts pressing into him like blessings. Kara here and now is sweet and trusting, her eyes spilling the secrets the rest of her refuses to acknowledge. Sam suspects that it is these moments that sustain him most of all, and he is ashamed of himself for the thought - for liking so much the way she takes him in when she's open on top of him, for the way she lets go and grinds into his body with all her strength, for the glow in her skin when she throws her head back and claims him like a conquering lioness.
He reaches up to her breasts, kneads her nipples between his fingers as she groans. Kara and Sam have an unspoken accord: All the gentleness comes from him, all the danger-tinged passion from her. And yet they break their own rules, because Sam's hands on her chest grow firm, and Kara starts to croon into the belly of the top bunk.
She takes his hands and thrusts them toward the nub between her legs; his fingers start soft and agonizing, barely there, and it's always unbelievable how electrifying it is when she bucks against him and yells desperation. Sam regards the ever-starlit curves of Kara Thrace, and traces the shape of their new life into her skin with his knuckles. She shouts his name.
It's not that that does it, but the next thing: she sinks down, her back a bow, and Sammy whispers from her lips in a tone he's never heard. He knows when she's trying too hard, when she's trying too little, when she wants to bend him to her will and when she doesn't care. She doesn't mean to humor him, but she can't help it; he knows that, too. And this Sammy is without agenda - it hits his ears and stays, and he thinks she might not even have noticed that it came out, that it floated through the air and connected them.
Each time they get a little bit closer.
He pulls her back against him, and they are comrades still as they grin at each other through the afterglow.
"You ready?" he asks, wrapping a ribbon of her hair around his finger. She's breathless, surrounded by flyaway strands.
"Sure," she answers, and rubs her thumb across his lower lip. He laughs, and she laughs, and she kisses him hard, and they will be sleepless and giddy on the morning shuttle.
Poll Morning