Title: The Limit of a Function as X Approaches the Edge of a Cliff
Characters & Pairings: Kara/Lee, Laura
Summary: AU, but the 12 Colonies are/is still the 12 Colonies. Academy!Fic. Kara and Lee, as usual, are unable to resist each other.
Warnings: Porn. So. Much. Porn. ...and as usual, angst.
Words Count: 6100 words
A/N: I used prompts from wicked_sassy, rirenec, and workerbee73. I am hoping that I will be able at some point to write things for others who so kindly left me ideas.
This was supposed to be a sequel to First Name Basis, but I ended up turning it into its own thing. You will no doubt see similarities between the two 'verses, though.
Comments are always cherished.
Kara doesn’t know much about Lee, only that he fraks her good and proper. If there’s a wall, he’s pushing her up against it. If there’s a table, he’s lifting her up onto it.
Nights, when she’s alone in her dorm room, she slides her fingers beneath the waistband of her briefs thinking of his lips and his chest and his dick and his eyes and the sound of his jerky breathing when he comes in her mouth.
She even thinks of him on dull Sunday evenings, like now, as she gathers up a select few of her mother’s belongings into a small box. The remainder of Socrata’s possessions will be auctioned off shortly, the earnings used to pay off debts—not that selling the tattered furniture, chipped and fading, will be a particularly lucrative endeavor. The house is shit, and everything inside of it is shit.
The largest part of Kara, the most important part of Kara, the truest part of Kara—would rather see her mother’s decrepit bungalow burn to the ground. Kara’d even gone so far as to cover her momma’s room with petrol and diesel and tylium, a triad of fossil fuels—just in case—just in case one of them decided not to work, decided not to be violent enough, decided not to kill every remnant of Socrata’s ghost.
But then she’d cleaned it up, wiped the stinking oil away with soap and a sponge, threw the gasoline-soaked sheets into the laundry and folded them up after they dried, the smell of her mother impossible to wash off.
She’ll settle for gunfire, which is its own kind of arson. After filling the box up with her mother’s things, she kicks the door of the small house shut. She throws everything into the backseat of her truck, hops into the driver’s seat, starts up the engine, then hightails it down the boulevard until she merges onto the highway. The truck is at 100 klicks per hour, then 120, 140, 160. Drivers honk, simultaneously perturbed and frightened, like they don’t know Kara’s reaction times are superhuman in speed, like they think she’s capable of crashing—when she’s not. She’s always at that point just before the breakdown, just before the collision. That’s her life. They should seriously consider making her callsign Precipice Girl, for the way she’s always standing on cliff ledges.
Kara weaves between cars, swearing at anyone daring to honour the speed limit. Her exit sneaks up on her, and she has to cross over four lanes at once to make it, a chorus of honks trumpeting behind her. In the woods that surround the Academy, in the clearing where she and Lee had first frakked, abandoning a game of Capture the Flag to undress each other and go at it like frakking animals -- this is the place she always goes when she can’t wrap her brain around how frakked up everything is, where she pretends she’s on the edge of the universe, everything suddenly clear.
Parking at the outer rim of the forest, she gets out, grabs the box. It isn’t too long of a trek to the small, grassy plain, and she’s there in no more than fifteen minutes. The trees stand menacingly around her, but she’s not afraid. Kara is Artemis, and these are the wildlands she hunted. She lines up the items from the box one by one, like foot soldiers in formation—a bone china teapot, a tin of coins, an ink jar, a frame encasing Socrata’s Medal of Valor, an old bottle of fine, aged whiskey, a few other knick-knacks. After putting several meters between her and the objects, she lies on the ground, belly to the grass, and removes the handgun tucked into back waist of her jeans. The stars and the moons light up the grove nicely, and Kara puts a bullet through each of the artifacts tainted with her mother’s hand, until all that Socrata was is in tatters, stories and memories dying like lightning bugs—bright and fluorescent before suddenly going black.
She almost doesn’t hear her phone vibrating over the ringing gunfire. There’s a new text message from Lee.
Lee: you aren’t in your room.
Kara: this is true.
Kara: i’m in the clearing. had to take care of some shit. sorry.
Lee: you’re in our clearing?
Kara:. my clearing.
Lee: mind if I crash the party?
Kara: nope. come and join me. i’m just practising with my new Glock anyway.
Lee: you’re the only girl i know who takes a gun to a party.
Kara: that’s only cuz you didn’t grow up in my neighborhood. so you coming?
Lee: yeah, just give me some time. got to return this stupid overdue library book.
Kara: you still haven’t returned that crap? you must have a 100-cubit
fine by now.
Lee: i’ve been busy with other things. namely you.
Lee: see you in a half hour?
Kara: k. i’ll be waitin, flyboy.
She wishes, for a moment, that she’d worn something more attractive than fading blue jeans and an old thinning t-shirt with Buccaneers emblazoned across the chest. Work clothes. Underneath the ensemble are her rattiest briefs, transparent almost, and too big. But she’s fine to let Lee be the pretty one, the perfect one. Brokenness suits her, like the color black. Why perpetuate a lie? Better she wear her crooked ways on her sleeve, so when she disappoints, people nod expectantly rather than cry.
She counts the stars as she waits for him, gets to one thousand and eight before Lee arrives, still dressed in as-for-class uniform, the only thing missing his side cap.
“Hi,” he says, smiling, beautiful. She tugs him down so that he can join her on the grass, too impatient to bother with small talk before kissing him, letting her legs fall open as her body winds up tightly with need. He’s on the same page. Frakking has become their new breathing, and touching each other after being apart is like coming up from air. Lee straddles her hips, unbuttons her trousers and pulls them down, exposing her thighs. He leans down until their lips meet again, scorching, and places his hand over the wet spot on her briefs. As they’re kissing, Lee rubs between her legs, and Kara’s unfastening his trousers. The sparks of electricity she feels has her thinking maybe she’s not a body at all, but a web of copper wire. They kiss harder and harder, each of them growing increasingly less inhibited, less bothered by the fact that their lives have come to revolve around frakking each other as hard and as often as possible.
She hears him say she’s frakking gorgeous or something like that, but she’s too focused on the muscles of his arms and stomach to really hear him, too busy rubbing her hands under his shirt, feeling his tongue against hers. Then he’s pulling her knickers to the side, filling her with his cock. When their bodies meet, she feels denser than a neutron star.
They are savage in their frakking. He wants her, she wants him, and neither of them much sees the point in mediating their exchanges with flowers or chocolate or conversation. Better to just collide. Better to just explode. Better to just frak and frak and frak until they forget they are separate entities at all with lives and problems and dysfunctional families.
His class work suffers. Hers doesn’t.
“This is becoming a bit of a problem,” says Lee, his sweaty chest pressed to her back hard and hot one Tuesday night. They are naked in Kara’s dorm room, tangled in sheets, joined.
“It’s been a problem for a while,” says Kara, taking a couple of his fingers, kissing them softly. She’s never been one for spooning, but she’s not yet ready for the part of the evening where they have to break away.
“If I don’t ace my chem midterm tomorrow, it’ll be impossible to finish the class with anything higher than a B-, and if that happens, my dad will frakking kill me. And yet, here I am, with you, when I should be studying.”
“Is your dad a hard ass?”
Lee slides onto his back, places his hands under his head. “There are worse fathers, I guess,” he says. “Yours?”
“He was nice enough.”
“Did he die?” asks Lee.
Kara is silent. They’re not supposed to talk about stuff like this. She pulls the sheets up a little over her shoulders, stares at the ceiling of her bunk, carved with her name.
“Maybe,” says Kara. “He left a long time ago. I don’t know where he is. For all I know, he’s been dead for years.”
“And your mother?”
“Died a few weeks ago,” Kara says. “Cancer.”
“Frak,” he says, turning slightly, pulling her a little closer. “You didn’t tell me.”
“Yeah, well, you know,” she says, shrugging.
“Right,” he says. “If you ever want to talk about it—I don’t know—I lost my brother a little over a year ago now. It’s not the same. But yeah.”
“Don’t want to talk. Just want to frak,” says Kara, pulling herself on top of him, bending down to kiss him.
In the morning, she throws on her grey wool slacks, her white button-down, her patent leather oxfords. She’s pissed at herself for waiting until reveille to get up. If she’d set her phone alarm like she’d meant to, she could’ve snuck in some time on the flight sims. As it is, she’d been too wrapped up in Lee’s body to do much of anything last night.
Brushing her hair and teeth, splashing warm water on her face, she tries to make herself look presentable before heading to class.
Physics 200 is a joke. She sketches during the lecture, hardly paying attention, thinks her time would be better served frakking Lee. But she has to take the course if she wants to major in astronautical engineering—which she does, so she can design the best Viper in the worlds, then fly it herself, trek to the center of the galaxy and sink into a black hole, coming out the other side a new person, a better person, clean and good and the opposite of a frak-up. Sometimes, she imagines herself in parallel dimensions, in cycles of time playing out alongside her, invisible. Kara in the future. Kara in the past. Kara as a painter or a professor. Kara as the Top Gun pilot during some bizarre Apocalypse on a fleet of ships trying to outrun cylons.
After class, Kara’s physics professor asks her to stay behind. She thinks maybe he’s going to bitch at her about her doodling, but instead he accuses her of cheating. She hadn’t missed a single point on the midterm, something that was, according to him, ‘impossible’. She tells him to go suck a bag of dicks.
The shrink’s name is Dr. Laura Roslin. She’s pretty. Dark hair, shrewd eyes. If Kara wasn’t so mad for Lee right now, she’d probably try to have sex with her—take those godsdamned glasses off her face, finger her on the desk until she bucked wildly.
“We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” says Roslin.
Kara shrugs. She’s been seeing therapists, guidance counselors, and psychiatrists since grade seven.
“Do you want to tell me why you think you’re here?” she continues.
“Because we live in a society that punishes strong women,” says Kara, then slumps back into her seat, crossing her arms over her chest
In addition to spending a week in hack for telling Professor Shithead to suck, literally, every cock in the Twelve Colonies, Major Wilkes insisted she talk to someone about her ‘emotional outburst.’
“How are you adjusting to Academy life?” Roslin asks.
“The fact that I’m here right now should answer that question for you,” says Kara.
The doctor smiles, pushes her glasses up her nose. Kara fights the urge to reach over and smooth down her poofy, dark hair. It’s gravity defying.
“So you’re a girl, right?” Kara asks, pouting.
Roslin smiles again before responding, “Some might even say a woman.”
“So you know about girly shit?”
Dr. Roslin crosses her legs and leans back into her chair. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re getting at?”
“There’s this guy.”
“Right,” Roslin nods, listening intently, and Kara wonders how she does that without so much as cracking smile. Because this is so frakking stupid.
“He’s nice,” says Kara.
“Are you two in a relationship?”
“Not exactly, I mean, I don’t know. What’s a relationship?”
As she’s leaving, Lee’s arriving. They both look at each other in surprise, the lobby of the shrink’s office the last place they want to be meeting.
“What are you doing here?” Lee asks, his brow knitting into a zigzag pattern.
“Punishment,” she says casually.
Kara doesn’t bounce the question back to him because she has a feeling he doesn’t want her to. “See you later,” she says.
“Yeah,” says Lee, nodding, his expression darkening. “I will.”
How is it possible that so few words have her rushing to the showers, spraying the nozzle into her clit?
Both of their roommates are in, so they sneak off campus. A motel feels too shady, even for them, so they go for burgers and fries at a hole-in-the-wall that’s open 24 hours. Dinner is far from frakking, but at least this way they can still touch, still look at each other, still get small doses of each other.
Kara gets a double cheeseburger with bacon, Lee just a milkshake and some chips. The lights are bright, too bright, and Kara sort of wonders what Lee will think of her exposed like this, shadowless. Her eyes are too angry, her nose too flat, her bones to sharp and angular. Well, if he doesn’t like it, frak him. Not everyone can look like Apollo—something he clearly has down to a science.
“So,” he says.
“I hate your outfit,” Kara blurts out.
“You look like the host of a children’s television show,” she expands, “a really, really bad one.” He’s wearing a blue collared shirt, a colorful jumper with intricate patterns pulled over top, and jeans.
“Is it the sweater?” he asks.
“It’s the sweater,” she confirms, pulling back a strand of hair that’s fallen from her pony tail. “Sorry. You look nice otherwise.”
He smiles, and Kara is suddenly glad the restaurant’s so well-lit. He’s dazzling. Lee lifts up his arms and removes the jumper, folding it up neatly into a small square, laying it gently beside him. “That better?” he asks.
“Yes,” says Kara, “but it would be even better is if you just kept going. Why stop there?”
His laugh has a devilish quality to it, like he’s used to getting his way with only a smile. Kara usually hates cocky bastards, but here she is, having a well enough time. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” he asks. “If I frakked you right here on this table? The waitress be damned?”
“I can’t help it if I know what I want,” she says, then shrugs, then takes a sip of her Coke.
“And I can’t help it if I love women who know what they want.”
“You just turned about ten different shades of red in less than five seconds, Kara,” says Lee.
“About as many shades of red that are in that sweater,” she says, pointing to his discarded jumper. Kara takes a bite out of her burger then takes Lee’s milkshake and has a sip of it. “So—”
“You’re beautiful,” he interrupts. “I’m sure it’s something you probably hear all the time, and I know it’s cliché, but it’s true.”
Kara flicks one of her chips at his face.
They spend the evening walking around Caprica City. It’s kind of cool. Lee is smart and funny and hilariously nitpicky, a side to him she’s never seen before. There’ve been hints at it—his meticulous uniform, his shoes shined to perfection, his punctuality, the crisp part in his hair, the sculpted perfection of his body. Even the way he fraks her—it’s not that it feels rehearsed—nothing like that. But it’s so good.
Everything about the evening is cautious, both of them preferring to keep things on the lighter side. After a game of ‘never-have-I-ever’, they play ‘would-you-rather’.
“Would you rather eat only beans on toast for a year, or have Tropos be president?” Kara asks, taking a swig from her flask before handing it off to Lee.
“Beans on toast for a year, definitely,” he says, “but that’s because I like beans on toast. It’s the only thing my mother knew how to make besides frozen chicken nuggets—and those were always cold on the inside. But better Tropos than Adar, no?”
Lee laughs, shaking his head. “So you’re voting for Adar?”
“Falacci,” she says.
“Falacci? Are you crazy?”
“Yes,” says Kara. “I am. But that’s not why I’m voting for him.”
“Then why?” he asks, incredulous.
“Because he’s the only candidate who said he’d dissolve Gemenon’s fascist ass Guardian Council, effectively abolishing the abortion ban there.” Kara says it like it’s obvious, because it is. Who else would she vote for? Despots disguised as centrists?
“So you’d have him eradicate Gemenon’s religious freedom then?” says Lee. “One of the foundations of the Articles of Colonization?”
“If it means protecting people, yeah, of course.”
“Save them from themselves?” asks Lee, and he has this morally indignant tone as he says it, like a frakking asshole, like he thinks he’s some stupid freedom fighter rather than just a boy who likes to read books about freedom fighters.
“My mom was stationed there for three frakking years. I lived there,” says Kara. “It was my home. You have no idea what it’s like to be on a planet where your body doesn’t belong to you—or even to the gods—but to some random assortment of people who think they know best, even though they clearly don’t know shit about anything. You assume Colonial government protects everyone’s religious freedom there, but the Guardian Council didn’t speak for me, it didn’t speak for a lot of people I met there.”
“Look—don’t get me wrong, I’m not religious at all, but don’t you think believers have the right to live on a planet where the laws are in line with their religious doctrine? And the people who’d rather live somewhere more secular, they can move.”
“With what money? With what resources? And where to? Caprica, where they’re discriminated against? Frak that. And every time Gemenese citizens try to mobilize, to get some political leverage, it’s Colonial government that shuts them down, in the name of Gemenon religious freedom—but really to appease that frakking Council, who has ultimate say in what planetary resources the larger Colonial government gets. It’s frakked up. People like Adar keep the moral Council in power so they can guarantee themselves adequate supply Gemenese tylium. You’re naïve if you think otherwise. And maybe a little bit stupid.”
“Okay, okay ,okay,” says Lee, putting up his hands in surrender. “You’re kind of a piece of work, aren’t you?”
Kara lets her head dip down, then lifts it back up defiantly. “Look, I’ve got to go,” she says, making a show of checking the time on her phone.
“Kara,” says Lee. “Come on. Don’t be like that.”
“It’s late,” she says, turning.
Kara removes a cigarette from her pocket, holds it between her teeth, but never gets around to actually lighting it. She’s trying to be healthy or something. Or maybe her lighter’s just out of butane.
Dr. Roslin offers her a cuppa, but Kara declines. Unless tea has alcohol. Kara’s pretty sure that it doesn’t, though it’d be a much welcome evolutionary advancement to the camellia plant.
Kara slumps into the leather chair and throws her bag onto the floor. “So what’s on the menu today, doc?” Kara asks.
“That’s up to you,” says Laura. “Would you like to talk about how you’re holding up since your mother’s recent passing?”
“No,” says Kara.
“Fair enough,” Dr. Roslin says, nodding, taking a sip from her own cup of tea. “And how are things going with your guy?”
“A couple of weeks ago you mentioned you were interested in someone?”
“Oh yeah,” says Kara. “Frak him.”
“The thing is,” starts Kara, “I don’t like most people. Because I think most people are shit, you understand?”
“I may have sensed that about you,” says Dr. Roslin, trying to hide a smile with a sip of tea, but Kara sees it.
“And this guy—let’s call him Apollo, because Lords of Kobol, that’s who he looks like—I thought maybe he wasn’t shit, you know?”
“But?” asks Dr. Roslin, setting down her cuppa, her notebook, her pen.
“He thinks he knows everything, but he doesn’t.”
“What?” Kara asks
“You don’t think you know everything?”
“I sure as hell know more than he does,” says Kara, raising her voice, as she’s wont to do.
“Maybe you can help him see your point of view, find some common ground,” says Laura, annoyingly calm. Kara’s never met someone quite like that before, so thoroughly unfazed by everything. There’s a hardness about her—but not the same kind of hardness as Socrata or Kara. It’s not that it’s kinder. Just more steady. Less volatile. Her shield is durable and light, made from some perfect element Kara has not yet discovered.
“Common ground is a lie made up by politicians,” Kara says.
“And yet here you are, a warrior for these politicians.”
“I’m a warrior for myself. And the people I love. That’s it,” says Kara.
“Why don’t you talk more about that?”
“The people you love.”
Kara thinks about it, leans onto the arm of the chair. “I loved my father,” says Kara. “And my mother. There were some teachers I had growing up that weren’t so bad. There’s my best friend, Karl, but he graduated last year.”
“No other friends?”
“I have a coupla people I play triad with.”
“Sounds like a difficult way to go through life,” says Laura, “with so few people, I mean.”
“I’ve always held up fine,” Kara says.
“Of course. I don’t doubt it. You are very strong.”
“I guess,” Kara says. “Can I tell you something my mom once said?”
“Yes, please do,” says Laura.
“She said—If the gods meant for people to get along, they’d have made us all a lot nicer. I think it’s true in a way. Maybe if I was meant to be loved, I’d be more lovable.”
“Is that what you think, Kara?” For the first time, Kara sees an emotion cross Dr. Roslin’s face that’s not carefully constructed, but she can’t figure out what it is, isn’t sure she wants to.
“That you’re unlovable? Is that what you think?”
Kara sighs, displaying her exasperation plainly. This is exactly why she can’t frakking stand shrinks. “The point is that Apollo’s an ass. We’re different people, so what’s the point in trying to be bffs or soulmates or whatever the frak you have in mind.”
Laura smiles sadly, then speaks. “But tell me, Kara—and try to answer this as honestly as possible—do you think maybe if you opened up to a few more people, didn’t use petty disagreements as an excuse to…unfriend everyone, for lack of better terminology, do you think things might be a little easier sometimes?”
“Are you telling me I should try to make up with Apollo?” asks Kara.
Laura scoots forward in her chair, rests her elbows on her knees. “I’m asking you if you’d like to make up with Apollo, and if the answer to that question is yes, I want you to think about what’s holding you back from actually doing it.”
He’s there when she’s finished her appointment, waiting in the lobby, reading a copy of Colonial Life. Kara tries to dodge him, but he looks up just as she’s making her way out the door.
“Kara,” he calls.
She ignores him, keeps walking, but she hears him chasing after.
“Please,” he says.
When she turns around, he’s standing there like a godsdamn stricken puppy, all doe eyed and pouty. “What, Lee?” asks Kara.
“Lords, I don’t know,” he says. He runs his fingers through his hair, pulling at the dark strands. “I miss you.”
“You miss frakking me, you mean,” she says.
“That, too,” he admits. It looks like maybe he’s about go on, but he’s lost for words. Kara doesn’t have the patience for this today, nor any day. She likes burning bridges. The orange glow from the blazes is beautiful. And people are meant to move forward, not back. What would be the point of making up with Lee? It’s not that she’s holding a grudge. Really, it hadn’t been that big of a deal, and she’s willing to admit she may have overreacted. But still, she’s over him, she’s over him, she’s over him. Who’s Lee again?
“I like you a lot,” he says. “But if you say the word, I’m gone.”
They settle it with a race—Kara in her truck, Lee in his car. Kara wins, it’s over. Lee wins—Kara has to give him a second chance. Simple. Kara’d wanted to do a run in the sims, but there was no guarantee they’d be able to get access. Besides—a drag race, that’s real, actual movement forward. She’s all about the forward momentum.
Kara tells a couple of people who live in the barracks with her, hall mates. She’ll need someone to verify her win, after all. Word spreads, though, and at midnight in a huge abandoned lot not too far away from the Academy, there are about forty or fifty folks breaking curfew to witness the showdown.
It’s nice. This is the kind of shit she’s good at. A show. A spectacle. She can be just who everybody wants, loudmouthed and cocky. Besides, it’s not like it’s much of a deviation from her actual personality.
Lee’s less comfortable with the crowd, she can tell. He’s quiet, keeping to himself, only chancing glances at Kara every now and then. She almost feels bad that she’s going to totally dominate this. That’s why she’d suggested it in the first place. When Lee told her he would go as soon as she told him to, she took it as a challenge, a dare. Well, two could play that game.
She remembers her conversation with Laura:
Laura’d said – If you’re so sure you’re going to win, why not just get it over with and call it off? Why drag it out with this race business? Just for kicks?
Yeah – Kara had said – I guess. I like danger.
Then Laura said, in that frustratingly calm way of hers, - or maybe a part of you is hoping that he’ll win?
“You ready?” Lee asks.
“Please,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“Right,” says Lee.
She climbs up into her truck as he slides into his car. Some first-year named Brendan counts them off.
She’s flying. Her truck is loud and ugly, while Lee’s car is sleek and tricked out with a hot paint job. Still, she pulls ahead of him with ease. Her first order of business when she graduated from high school had been to boss up the engine of her baby.
Lee kept up with ease, nearly head to head with her, and catching up. Kara slammed the pedal harder, watched the speedometer rise and rise, her transmission handling the increase in velocity beautifully. Thank gods they were doing a straight course. No doubt Lee’s car could handle a turn better than her truck could. This is how it’s supposed to feel—epinephrine and sweat and the approaching finish line, an end she can never quite reach.
So why does she let up on the gas just as she’s about to cross?
Why does she let Lee zoom past her?
Why isn’t she totally frakking pissed when he jumps out of his stupid, prissy car smiling like an egotistical little shit?
Everyone leaves once the show is over, already headed back to campus. The frakup and the tightwad did their dance, and now they’re all bored—wondering if all of this was worth breaking curfew, getting in trouble, and ending up in hack or with scrub duty.
Kara watches Lee linger, waving off the last of his friends.
“Hey,” he says, tapping on the window of her truck, his previously smug smile replaced with something shyer.
She rolls down the window, but refuses to look at Lee.
“What?” she asks, still trying to figure out what the hell she did, and why.
“You know, if you want to renege—”
“No,” she says, “it’s fine. You won fair and square.”
“Kara, I’m not going to make y—”
“Just frakking, okay? That’s it. No burgers and fries. No conversation. No games of would-you-rather or any of that bullshit.”
“So it’d be alright if I got in the truck with you right now?” he asks. “As long as it was just to frak? Is that what you want?
Kara shrugs, but she feels her cheeks reddening—wonders if Lee sees it. He opens the driver’s side door. “Lie back, Kara,” he says, his voice deep and low and needy. “Is this okay?” he asks. Yes, Lee, it’s okay. It’s more than okay. It’s a thousand times more than okay. If he doesn’t start touching her right frakking now, she’ll combust, and that will be the end of Kara, let alone Kara/Lee.
“It’s okay,” she says.
Lee nods, pulls down the elastic waist of her gym shorts, lays a trail of kisses up her thighs, stopping as he reaches the edge of her underwear. “Did you know that my favorite pastime is hearing you beg for my cock?” he asks. “I wonder if I could get you to do it tonight. What do you think the chances of that happening are? If I lick you until you come, screaming, then kiss my way up your body, touching you everywhere with my tongue and my fingers, my cock pushing inside you just barely, then pulling out, would that be enough you think to make you beg for it?”
Kara’s a little bit disgusted with herself, because even though he’s barely touched her, she’s already moaning. When she’s with Lee, she’s so frakking easy.
She feels his mouth between her legs, can make out the impression of his lips between the cloth of her briefs. Then she feels his tongue through the fabric, then feels his fingers pulling down her panties, then feels him licking inside of her, then up and down, then in long strokes, then against her clit.
“Frak,” she says, or thinks that what she says.
She tugs his head closer into her, needing more pressure, more tongue, more Lee. His hands move in lazy circles up her ribcage, teasing, before wandering down again to her thighs, spreading her wider open.
“Lee,” says Kara, mewling, his mouth pressed to her cunt worshipfully. He makes her remember why she loves being alive, loves having a body that can frakking do shit, loves being able to feel like the most important thing in the cosmos isn’t life and death or black holes or whatever, but this series of moments, building and escalating. She looks down, watching Lee’s eyes fixed to hers as he tongues her.
His tongue flicking against her clit, the way his hands caress her body—Kara’s already there, Lee’s name loud on her lips, her hips writhing and twisting.
Even as she finishes, her breaths coming staggered and in judders, she’s already thinking about pulling Lee up her body, rubbing herself off while he’d frak her face, his cock hard and big and salty in her mouth. Yes, there’s a distinct possibility she might beg for it.
It only takes her a couple of weeks to break the frakking-only rule. She can’t help it. She likes talking to him. He’s smart. He makes her laugh. He’s terribly cute when he gets up on his soapbox. And it seems like he likes talking to her to, like he’s for some reason interested in what she has to say and stuff, which is nothing special in Kara’s opinion—even though she’s usually right, and he’s usually wrong.
Frakking turns into frakking and talking, which turns into frakking and talking and going out to dinner, which turns into frakking and talking and going out to dinner and Lee calling her his girlfriend.
Kara pretends she hates the way it sounds.
As the end of the school year draws near, finals only weeks away, Kara and Lee are able to see each other less and less—which means each frak is all the more desperate and bruising and explosive. They are aware that they are each other’s lifelines, but neither of them quite knows what to do with this situation.
“Can’t you two stay in touch over the summer?” Dr. Roslin asks, hair as poofy as ever, glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose.
“Like be each other’s pen pals? I don’t think so,” says Kara, and this time she is drinking tea, rich with milk and sugar, just how she likes it. Laura fixes her own cup with a squeeze of lemon, and Kara can’t help but think it’s the bourgiest thing she’s ever seen, some bizarre Caprican custom that needs to go the way of the dinosaurs.
“Didn’t you say you’d be in Caprica volunteering at a shelter over the summer? Will Cadet Apollo not be planetside?”
“Yeah, I guess. I mean, he’s interning for the Tropos campaign,” says Kara, rolling her eyes.
“So what’s the problem?” Laura asks.
“We won’t get to see each other as much, regardless. Once a week, and that’s with both of us making lots of sacrifices.
“And you don’t want to make those sacrifices?”
Kara fiddles with the hem of her shirt, enjoying the few moments in the day where she gets to leave it untucked.
“You’re afraid he doesn’t want to make the sacrifices?”
“He’s going to meet a lot of interesting people,” says Kara. “Which is fine. That doesn’t bother me. But I’m not going to pretend like I’m anything special compared to these douchewads he’ll be interning with—with perfect bodies and bone structures, rich parents, and shallow, naïve ideas about how to change the world—which Apollo is really into, by the way.”
“Really into good bone structure?” Laura asks,
“Changing the world,” says Kara, realizing after she says it that Dr. Roslin had been joking.
“Maybe it’s about time you realize that the gods did make you lovable,” says Laura. “Very. Like you said yourself last session, it doesn’t matter how many of your mother’s things you throw away or shoot at. She’s never going to disappear completely. But even if her words are hard to unlearn—from what I’ve seen, you are unbelievably brave, which means you’re capable of taking the emotional risks your mother couldn’t.”
Kara takes a sip of her tea, which is quite good, even sans booze.
“Did you let me win?” Lee asks, looking up from his practise chem final.
“Do you promise?”
Kara conveniently stuffs a load of noodles into her mouth, bits of the broth dripping onto her military history book, blurring the ink. It seems as if the soup is no more fond of the text than Kara is.
“I knew it,” says Lee.
“Sorry,” Kara shrugs.
“Why are you sorry? Lords know I’m not.”
Kara thinks it’s funny how he’s always invoking the gods, even though he doesn’t believe in any of them—which is fine, since Kara doesn’t mind believing enough for both of them. Leap of faith and all that. Emotional risks, blah blah. Happy endings. Forward momentum.