(no subject)
Apparently when I'm in a slump I write smut for challenges. Belatedly adding a few pieces that got written last time I had a slump coincide with one. Mature audiences are advised for all.
Originally posted here, this one was written for the Kara/Sam prompt "in your atmosphere."
"Sam?"
"Mm."
"Sammy."
The second murmur sounds like more of a protest, and she knows why but she isn't about to frakking stop.
"Come on. You told me to wake you up when I can't sleep."
"I did," he admits. In the dimness of their tent he cracks his eyelids open. "What was I thinking?" he jokes, voice thick with sleep.
"Or maybe what you said was that I should get you up?" she muses, only half in jest, and her arm ventures under their sheet. When her greedy hand wraps around him, she's rewarded by his eyes opening wider and his muscles tensing. Her toothy grin is predatory, and for once he doesn't mind the idea of being prey. "Oh, you're easy."
Less sleep-fogged by the second, he smirks. "You wouldn't want me any other way."
"Did you think about me on Caprica?" Fingers holding tight, she works him to rigidity. "Take matters into your own hands?"
"Only once or twice," he offers with a slow grin, and she dips to lick the lie off his lips.
*
Claiming ownership, Kara's tongue slips into his mouth.
She rises above him, lifting a leg over his body, and settles down over his hips. Achingly erect, he's warmed by the slickness between her thighs.
She sets a pace, rubbing against him without inviting him in, and he's helpless to resist it. His hands grope for her flushed breasts, nipples captured between his fingers and twisted, tugged toward his waiting mouth as he lifts his head and shoulders from the pillow. If stardust has a taste, he's sure it's hers.
His eyelids are heavy and the wordless sound she coaxes from his throat is raw, but by now it's all sheer want. He urges her up, and she guides the length of his cock all the way into her.
He takes a smug satisfaction in making her breath hitch first.
*
His hands skim down her sides until they come to rest on her hips, moving with her, holding her to him.
Her short fingernails carve crescents on the tops of his shoulders, the flat of his chest. He craves it, wants her writhing above him, and meets every desperate buck of her hips with all the force he can muster until he feels himself teetering precariously on that familiar edge.
"Sam."
The urgency of his name echoes in his bones. It's all he needs to lose himself deep inside her, an uneven groan signaling his release.
"Sam."
He's like a mountain she scales until she can fling herself off and give herself up to the air.
His hands on her hips are the only thing that grounds her.
First posted here, this one was for the Kara/Sam prompt "under the table."
Armed with their fourth or fifth ambrosias of the evening, Kara and Sam extract themselves from the celebrating crowd and sit at one of the two small tables covered with long white cloths on either side of the podium where the new president gave his speech earlier in the day.
"I could drink you under the table before the end of the night." Out of her, it's half threat and half promise. Her laugh is something he feels in his gut.
"Maybe you should drink me somewhere else." His hand tangles in her hair. "There's not much space under there."
Her laugh nearly turns into a snort as she swallows down more ambrosia; she raises the tablecloth and peeks underneath. "I don't know, Sammy. It doesn't seem so bad down there."
Before he can react, she's abandoned her ambrosia and dropped to her hands and knees. She disappears under the cloth, and he shakes his head, laughing himself.
A moment later he feels her hands on his knees, spreading them apart, and her face nudging dangerously near the fly of his pants.
(Instantly, they're tighter.)
"In fact" -- he can just barely hear her under there with the music and chatter nearby -- "I think there's a lot of potential here."
"Kara--" He can feel her undoing his pants, and even though his throat constricts and he doesn't try to stop her, he glances around to see if he and his amazing disappearing girlfriend caught anyone's attention.
(It doesn't look like it.)
Her fingers free his erection. There's no hesitation, not even a coy kiss: immediately he's in her mouth, engulfed. Heat buzzes through his veins, and he tries so hard to stay mute.
She wraps her finger and thumb around him, teases from hilt to head with the tip of her tongue. He passes his hand distractedly over his hair and ends up with his palm covering his face.
"Sam!"
(Every muscle tenses, both his and hers.)
Looking over his fingers, he's greeted by Ellen Tigh's (tipsy) smile.
"What are you doing all by yourself over here?"
He can feel Kara vibrate with sudden (silent) laughter, and it takes him a second to form words.
"Were you abandoned?" Ellen arches her eyebrows.
Kara drags her flattened tongue across him. He's forced to swallow before he speaks. "She, ah, ran to the restroom."
"Kara Thrace should be careful," Ellen sing-songs. Behind her, he can see the Colonel approaching with two full glasses. "I'm sure there are a lot of women out here who'd be happy to snatch you up when she's not looking."
Saul's arm creeps around his wife once she's taken one of the drinks.
Hidden from sight, Kara draws him back into her mouth, and the breath he sucks in is sharp enough it should leave his mouth bleeding.
"Are you harassing young men again, Ellen?" Saul's usual stern expression has mellowed, at least for tonight, and he grins as his wife's laughter rings out.
"Just keeping him company while his lady is gone, Saul."
As relieved as he is when the Tighs draw each other's attention away from him, Kara never once relents. He picks up his nearly empty glass and buries his nose in it.
"He's probably relieved to get a quiet moment without Starbuck." Saul punctuates the thought by giving his wife a quick kiss. "We should give him a break."
Ellen smiles in apology. "You'll have to excuse us, Sam. My husband isn't off-duty often, and he's promised to dance tonight."
His answering smile is automatic (forced) as he grips the table, but it's possible they don't notice just how shallow his breath has gotten. "Don't let me stand in your way."
Once they've turned their backs on him, they're only feet away before he clenches his eyes shut and jerks his hips up from the edge of his seat. His lips finally fall slack in an almost silent frak; he nearly sees stars behind his eyelids when he spills into Kara's mouth.
(She swallows, self-satisfied, and makes sure to lick away any trace of his orgasm before she tucks him back into his pants.)
"He probably had about three drinks too many, knowing Starbuck," Saul comments to his wife as they walk toward the couples dancing under the stars. "Seemed like he wasn't feeling so great."
"Trust me, Saul," she tells him, grinning knowingly and draping an arm around his waist. "That couldn't be further from the truth."
Also found here, this was written for the Ben Linus(Lost)/Six (BSG) prompt "all part of the plan."
Through his window he can see her between the trees.
At first he thinks -- he wants to think -- it's his mother, but beyond the white dress she wears and her blonde hair, there is nothing there to link the two. Brave and foolish at ten years old, he goes outside. He swears he hears whispers on the night air, and she smiles as though she knows him.
"Hello, Ben."
"How do you know my name?"
Her smile reaches her eyes, indulgent, and she bends at the waist to bring herself closer to eye-level with him. Her fingertip touches his nose. "I know a lot about you."
Somehow, she smells like citrus and spice. He almost stops resenting the fact that she's not his mother.
*
The jungle is never quiet in the middle of the night. Tonight is worse: the French woman's baby's cries nearly echo in the night, seemingly inviting every insect around to sing out in chorus around them.
The woman begs him not to take her baby.
Charles wants him to kill it.
"Ben." Soft and rich as velvet, a voice whispers to him. Mingled spice and citrus reach his nose, and suddenly it's harder to think straight. His body would happily forget his orders and leave the tent to take her here and now in the long grass. "Surely you wouldn't consider following that order."
This time she wears dress blue enough to rival the sky at mid-day. Her arm snakes around him; her fingertips dance along his collarbone through the fabric of his shirt. The truth is he doesn't want to kill the child, and he can't even imagine how angry Charles will be if he doesn't.
"Life is precious." It's an insistence, a promise, and he feels the warm breath of each word against the shell of his ear. He doesn't think he's ever been more hopelessly aroused in his life. "You know this."
She's the only person in his adult life who's ever made him feel helpless.
*
Much like Richard, she never ages. Each time he sees her she's as blonde and shapely and beautiful as the first, when he was young enough not to fully appreciate it.
Now, as much as he hides it, he craves her sex, her scent, with the fervor of an addict. When she fails to show up in his times of need, he calmly and quietly takes his frustration out on the people around him, pawns to his king.
The day he's told about the tumor on his spine, he sits alone in his bedroom, anger simmering.
"Are you there?" he asks the stillness of the room, feeling as though he's being mocked. "I'd like to hear your explanation for this."
He feels her presence the instant she appears in his doorway, this time in a short red dress that lovingly skims her skin. Locking his door behind her, she walks toward his bed with feline grace. She sits on his bed, one long leg crossed over the other, without waiting for an invitation.
"It isn't the end of the world, Ben." Her eyes are less sympathetic than they should be. "It's not even the end of this island."
"But is it the end of my life?"
She says nothing but cants her head to one side in a level of appraisal he isn't used to from her and doesn't like. His tongue feels thick.
"I have done everything you advised me to."
"Ben." Uncrossing her legs, she leans forward. The neckline of her dress plunges, and even now, even so angry, he can feel himself stiffen with desire as he only ever does with her, for her. Her hands rest on his knees. "God will provide."
*
Two days later his world rattles as a plane rips into pieces in the sky above them.
Not wasting a moment, he steps forward and calls out orders to Goodwin and Ethan, demands passenger lists in three days, and sends them off. To Juliet, her Stephen King book in her hands, he gives an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. "So I guess I'm out of the book club."
Her eyes are bluest when she's on the verge of tears; today she turns away from him before she even comes close.
Behind Juliet stands a vision wearing the same bright red dress of two days before. Her hair gleams white-gold in the sunlight, and she gives him the radiant smile of one victorious. His pulse quickens; he finds it impossible to look away.
Later, citrus and spice riding the air, he drives himself into her with a force that makes her gasp deliciously against him.
He decides to allow himself faith for a little longer.
First posted here, this was for the Kara/Leoben prompt "this isn't real."
He has her spread out like a feast on a dining room table, the same one where she used to eat uncomfortable meals with her mother and sculpt her mashed potatoes with her fork until they looked like something more interesting. With her hips raised as if in offering and her thighs tight against his ears, he treats his tongue to the taste of her until she goes molten at the core.
On the ceiling she sees the mandala, but she knows she never painted it there.
In a shower stall at the academy, she stands with her back to his chest, water coursing down their torsos. He braces one arm on the tile wall and winds the other around her to tease her to wetness. He's pressed, hard and ready, against the curve of her ass, and his lips part against her tattooed shoulderblade as though he'd drink the ink right off her skin.
Breath ragged, she looks down to notice a familiar pattern in the drain beneath their feet.
On the countertop in her apartment's kitchen, perched way too close to the sink for comfort, she wraps her legs around his waist and digs her heels into the backs of his thighs, spurring him on. His fingers map out each segment of her spine, and her name drops reverently from his lips. She arches, voice rasping, and for once she hates her need.
A candle flickers over on her table, and she can make out circles in the wax that's dripped off.
Stretched out on the Command and Control station in the CIC, she chokes back a guttural sound when he sinks himself into her. He wears a uniform, fly open, a taste of sacrilege; her skin burns from the stiff fabric's continuous rub. She lifts her legs, draping them over his shoulders, and he clutches one of her ankles like a prize, his fingertips never less than deliberate but still eager enough to bruise.
Over their heads, the DRADIS console shows a cloud of contacts, each highlighted onscreen by a circle.
He comes at her while she's painting, turning her around to face him, and presses her back against the wet wall. Sticky paint drips into her hair, smudges down her face. She grips his shoulders, clawing at his flesh, and when she drops to the floor she pulls him down with her, onto her. Her heart flutters like a trapped thing in her chest, and he works to free it.
More of the white paint sticks to her skin -- and his -- than to the mandala on the wall.
She wakes shiny with sweat, her chest heaving. An persistent heat pulses between her thighs, and if she didn't see Hot Dog's amused eyes shining down at her from his bunk, her hand would shove aside the damp crotch of her underwear and earn her some relief.
Disgusted by his amusement, by the Cylon invading the personal space of her dreams, by her own misplaced desire, she pushes herself out of bed instead and refuses to go back to sleep.
Originally posted here, this one was written for the Kara/Sam prompt "in your atmosphere."
"Sam?"
"Mm."
"Sammy."
The second murmur sounds like more of a protest, and she knows why but she isn't about to frakking stop.
"Come on. You told me to wake you up when I can't sleep."
"I did," he admits. In the dimness of their tent he cracks his eyelids open. "What was I thinking?" he jokes, voice thick with sleep.
"Or maybe what you said was that I should get you up?" she muses, only half in jest, and her arm ventures under their sheet. When her greedy hand wraps around him, she's rewarded by his eyes opening wider and his muscles tensing. Her toothy grin is predatory, and for once he doesn't mind the idea of being prey. "Oh, you're easy."
Less sleep-fogged by the second, he smirks. "You wouldn't want me any other way."
"Did you think about me on Caprica?" Fingers holding tight, she works him to rigidity. "Take matters into your own hands?"
"Only once or twice," he offers with a slow grin, and she dips to lick the lie off his lips.
*
Claiming ownership, Kara's tongue slips into his mouth.
She rises above him, lifting a leg over his body, and settles down over his hips. Achingly erect, he's warmed by the slickness between her thighs.
She sets a pace, rubbing against him without inviting him in, and he's helpless to resist it. His hands grope for her flushed breasts, nipples captured between his fingers and twisted, tugged toward his waiting mouth as he lifts his head and shoulders from the pillow. If stardust has a taste, he's sure it's hers.
His eyelids are heavy and the wordless sound she coaxes from his throat is raw, but by now it's all sheer want. He urges her up, and she guides the length of his cock all the way into her.
He takes a smug satisfaction in making her breath hitch first.
*
His hands skim down her sides until they come to rest on her hips, moving with her, holding her to him.
Her short fingernails carve crescents on the tops of his shoulders, the flat of his chest. He craves it, wants her writhing above him, and meets every desperate buck of her hips with all the force he can muster until he feels himself teetering precariously on that familiar edge.
"Sam."
The urgency of his name echoes in his bones. It's all he needs to lose himself deep inside her, an uneven groan signaling his release.
"Sam."
He's like a mountain she scales until she can fling herself off and give herself up to the air.
His hands on her hips are the only thing that grounds her.
First posted here, this one was for the Kara/Sam prompt "under the table."
Armed with their fourth or fifth ambrosias of the evening, Kara and Sam extract themselves from the celebrating crowd and sit at one of the two small tables covered with long white cloths on either side of the podium where the new president gave his speech earlier in the day.
"I could drink you under the table before the end of the night." Out of her, it's half threat and half promise. Her laugh is something he feels in his gut.
"Maybe you should drink me somewhere else." His hand tangles in her hair. "There's not much space under there."
Her laugh nearly turns into a snort as she swallows down more ambrosia; she raises the tablecloth and peeks underneath. "I don't know, Sammy. It doesn't seem so bad down there."
Before he can react, she's abandoned her ambrosia and dropped to her hands and knees. She disappears under the cloth, and he shakes his head, laughing himself.
A moment later he feels her hands on his knees, spreading them apart, and her face nudging dangerously near the fly of his pants.
(Instantly, they're tighter.)
"In fact" -- he can just barely hear her under there with the music and chatter nearby -- "I think there's a lot of potential here."
"Kara--" He can feel her undoing his pants, and even though his throat constricts and he doesn't try to stop her, he glances around to see if he and his amazing disappearing girlfriend caught anyone's attention.
(It doesn't look like it.)
Her fingers free his erection. There's no hesitation, not even a coy kiss: immediately he's in her mouth, engulfed. Heat buzzes through his veins, and he tries so hard to stay mute.
She wraps her finger and thumb around him, teases from hilt to head with the tip of her tongue. He passes his hand distractedly over his hair and ends up with his palm covering his face.
"Sam!"
(Every muscle tenses, both his and hers.)
Looking over his fingers, he's greeted by Ellen Tigh's (tipsy) smile.
"What are you doing all by yourself over here?"
He can feel Kara vibrate with sudden (silent) laughter, and it takes him a second to form words.
"Were you abandoned?" Ellen arches her eyebrows.
Kara drags her flattened tongue across him. He's forced to swallow before he speaks. "She, ah, ran to the restroom."
"Kara Thrace should be careful," Ellen sing-songs. Behind her, he can see the Colonel approaching with two full glasses. "I'm sure there are a lot of women out here who'd be happy to snatch you up when she's not looking."
Saul's arm creeps around his wife once she's taken one of the drinks.
Hidden from sight, Kara draws him back into her mouth, and the breath he sucks in is sharp enough it should leave his mouth bleeding.
"Are you harassing young men again, Ellen?" Saul's usual stern expression has mellowed, at least for tonight, and he grins as his wife's laughter rings out.
"Just keeping him company while his lady is gone, Saul."
As relieved as he is when the Tighs draw each other's attention away from him, Kara never once relents. He picks up his nearly empty glass and buries his nose in it.
"He's probably relieved to get a quiet moment without Starbuck." Saul punctuates the thought by giving his wife a quick kiss. "We should give him a break."
Ellen smiles in apology. "You'll have to excuse us, Sam. My husband isn't off-duty often, and he's promised to dance tonight."
His answering smile is automatic (forced) as he grips the table, but it's possible they don't notice just how shallow his breath has gotten. "Don't let me stand in your way."
Once they've turned their backs on him, they're only feet away before he clenches his eyes shut and jerks his hips up from the edge of his seat. His lips finally fall slack in an almost silent frak; he nearly sees stars behind his eyelids when he spills into Kara's mouth.
(She swallows, self-satisfied, and makes sure to lick away any trace of his orgasm before she tucks him back into his pants.)
"He probably had about three drinks too many, knowing Starbuck," Saul comments to his wife as they walk toward the couples dancing under the stars. "Seemed like he wasn't feeling so great."
"Trust me, Saul," she tells him, grinning knowingly and draping an arm around his waist. "That couldn't be further from the truth."
Also found here, this was written for the Ben Linus(Lost)/Six (BSG) prompt "all part of the plan."
Through his window he can see her between the trees.
At first he thinks -- he wants to think -- it's his mother, but beyond the white dress she wears and her blonde hair, there is nothing there to link the two. Brave and foolish at ten years old, he goes outside. He swears he hears whispers on the night air, and she smiles as though she knows him.
"Hello, Ben."
"How do you know my name?"
Her smile reaches her eyes, indulgent, and she bends at the waist to bring herself closer to eye-level with him. Her fingertip touches his nose. "I know a lot about you."
Somehow, she smells like citrus and spice. He almost stops resenting the fact that she's not his mother.
*
The jungle is never quiet in the middle of the night. Tonight is worse: the French woman's baby's cries nearly echo in the night, seemingly inviting every insect around to sing out in chorus around them.
The woman begs him not to take her baby.
Charles wants him to kill it.
"Ben." Soft and rich as velvet, a voice whispers to him. Mingled spice and citrus reach his nose, and suddenly it's harder to think straight. His body would happily forget his orders and leave the tent to take her here and now in the long grass. "Surely you wouldn't consider following that order."
This time she wears dress blue enough to rival the sky at mid-day. Her arm snakes around him; her fingertips dance along his collarbone through the fabric of his shirt. The truth is he doesn't want to kill the child, and he can't even imagine how angry Charles will be if he doesn't.
"Life is precious." It's an insistence, a promise, and he feels the warm breath of each word against the shell of his ear. He doesn't think he's ever been more hopelessly aroused in his life. "You know this."
She's the only person in his adult life who's ever made him feel helpless.
*
Much like Richard, she never ages. Each time he sees her she's as blonde and shapely and beautiful as the first, when he was young enough not to fully appreciate it.
Now, as much as he hides it, he craves her sex, her scent, with the fervor of an addict. When she fails to show up in his times of need, he calmly and quietly takes his frustration out on the people around him, pawns to his king.
The day he's told about the tumor on his spine, he sits alone in his bedroom, anger simmering.
"Are you there?" he asks the stillness of the room, feeling as though he's being mocked. "I'd like to hear your explanation for this."
He feels her presence the instant she appears in his doorway, this time in a short red dress that lovingly skims her skin. Locking his door behind her, she walks toward his bed with feline grace. She sits on his bed, one long leg crossed over the other, without waiting for an invitation.
"It isn't the end of the world, Ben." Her eyes are less sympathetic than they should be. "It's not even the end of this island."
"But is it the end of my life?"
She says nothing but cants her head to one side in a level of appraisal he isn't used to from her and doesn't like. His tongue feels thick.
"I have done everything you advised me to."
"Ben." Uncrossing her legs, she leans forward. The neckline of her dress plunges, and even now, even so angry, he can feel himself stiffen with desire as he only ever does with her, for her. Her hands rest on his knees. "God will provide."
*
Two days later his world rattles as a plane rips into pieces in the sky above them.
Not wasting a moment, he steps forward and calls out orders to Goodwin and Ethan, demands passenger lists in three days, and sends them off. To Juliet, her Stephen King book in her hands, he gives an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. "So I guess I'm out of the book club."
Her eyes are bluest when she's on the verge of tears; today she turns away from him before she even comes close.
Behind Juliet stands a vision wearing the same bright red dress of two days before. Her hair gleams white-gold in the sunlight, and she gives him the radiant smile of one victorious. His pulse quickens; he finds it impossible to look away.
Later, citrus and spice riding the air, he drives himself into her with a force that makes her gasp deliciously against him.
He decides to allow himself faith for a little longer.
First posted here, this was for the Kara/Leoben prompt "this isn't real."
He has her spread out like a feast on a dining room table, the same one where she used to eat uncomfortable meals with her mother and sculpt her mashed potatoes with her fork until they looked like something more interesting. With her hips raised as if in offering and her thighs tight against his ears, he treats his tongue to the taste of her until she goes molten at the core.
On the ceiling she sees the mandala, but she knows she never painted it there.
In a shower stall at the academy, she stands with her back to his chest, water coursing down their torsos. He braces one arm on the tile wall and winds the other around her to tease her to wetness. He's pressed, hard and ready, against the curve of her ass, and his lips part against her tattooed shoulderblade as though he'd drink the ink right off her skin.
Breath ragged, she looks down to notice a familiar pattern in the drain beneath their feet.
On the countertop in her apartment's kitchen, perched way too close to the sink for comfort, she wraps her legs around his waist and digs her heels into the backs of his thighs, spurring him on. His fingers map out each segment of her spine, and her name drops reverently from his lips. She arches, voice rasping, and for once she hates her need.
A candle flickers over on her table, and she can make out circles in the wax that's dripped off.
Stretched out on the Command and Control station in the CIC, she chokes back a guttural sound when he sinks himself into her. He wears a uniform, fly open, a taste of sacrilege; her skin burns from the stiff fabric's continuous rub. She lifts her legs, draping them over his shoulders, and he clutches one of her ankles like a prize, his fingertips never less than deliberate but still eager enough to bruise.
Over their heads, the DRADIS console shows a cloud of contacts, each highlighted onscreen by a circle.
He comes at her while she's painting, turning her around to face him, and presses her back against the wet wall. Sticky paint drips into her hair, smudges down her face. She grips his shoulders, clawing at his flesh, and when she drops to the floor she pulls him down with her, onto her. Her heart flutters like a trapped thing in her chest, and he works to free it.
More of the white paint sticks to her skin -- and his -- than to the mandala on the wall.
She wakes shiny with sweat, her chest heaving. An persistent heat pulses between her thighs, and if she didn't see Hot Dog's amused eyes shining down at her from his bunk, her hand would shove aside the damp crotch of her underwear and earn her some relief.
Disgusted by his amusement, by the Cylon invading the personal space of her dreams, by her own misplaced desire, she pushes herself out of bed instead and refuses to go back to sleep.