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So...I guess I'm shipping Kara/Laura hardcore now? WHOOPS. How does this shit happen? What is wrong with me? I JUST WANT A HUGE POLY LOVE FEST WITH KARA AT THE CENTER.

So anyway. If Kara/Laura interests you in the least, here are some fics! I'm not posting all of them, as there were 35 (yikes!) and not all of them are ones that I wish to remember. One day soon, I will link to the other ones. Here are the highlights. Your comments are always so very cherished and appreciated, especially as this ship is a new one for me. 

So thankful to [livejournal.com profile] astreamofstars for being so lovely and supportive and flaily with me (and making me cry. twice.). You should check out all four of her gorgeous K/LR fics, as I could already believe she started shipping them, like, literally five minutes ago (as opposed to me...who started shipping them 20 minutes ago). Had so much fun battling it out. *hugs fandom so tight it bursts*

( Issues - NC17 - 1700 words - Mild Angst, Porn )





When Kara arrives to sickbay after flying CAP, still in her regulation tanks, Laura scoots over on the thin mattress in order to make room for the pilot.

“You sure?” Kara asks.

“I prefer it,” says Laura, tapping the side of the bed, gesturing for Kara to come.

Kara nods and closes the curtains, takes a seat on top of the sheets. “How are you feeling?” Kara asks, stroking the side of Laura’s face with her thumb.

Laura laughs, the action draining and painful, but ultimately worth it. “You don’t usually ask stupid questions, Kara,” she says.

Kara smiles, but Laura can tell she’s forcing it.

“I’m feeling fine, Kara,” says Laura, “glad that you’re here.”

“You don’t have to lie to me to make me feel better.”

“But I like seeing you smile—really smile,” says Laura.

“Well, then you have to say something funny.”

Laura says the first ridiculous thing that pops into her head. “Chief in a pink bunny suit.”

It does the trick. Kara is suddenly laughing powerfully, her voice carrying throughout sickbay. Laura joins in, but clamps her palm over Kara’s mouth to quiet her down. Kara begins to speak, and Laura feels her lips tickle against her hand.

Then, a deliberate kiss on Laura’s fingers, soft and lingering, with just the slightest hint of tongue. “You can’t request my smile then try to stifle it, Sir,” says Kara, placing Laura’s hand on her lap.

“I’m the President. I do what I want.”

Then they’re both laughing again, and Laura forgot that even though she’s dying, she can feel happy.

“Oh, almost forgot,” says Kara, digging into the pockets of her BDUs. She removes a small object wrapped in layers of cloth.

“What’s this?” asks Laura, curious.

“Open it. I made it for you,” Kara says.

Laura unravels the tattered fabric to reveal a stone idol—Minerva, judging by the owl etched intricately on the figure’s front. A woman, about 6 inches tall, holds a staph triumphantly, the style of the carving primitive but undeniably detailed and beautiful.

“You made this?” Laura asks.

Kara nods her head. “Do you like it okay? If not, I can make another one.”

“No, it’s perfect. Gods, Kara, thank you.”

“She’ll protect you,” Kara says.

Laura reaches out and takes Kara’s hand, squeezes it tight, everything between them over the last two years feeling suddenly so painful—because it will most certainly end, sooner rather than later; and when Laura dies, who’ll be left to protect Kara? To whisper into her ear that she’s perfect just as the gods have made her?”

“Kara?”

“Yes?”

“I need you to make me a promise, and you have to keep it.”

“Of course. What is it?” Kara asks, her hand still snug inside Laura’s. “You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t promise you.”

Laura nods. That’s what she’d been counting on. “After I go, I need you to remember to take care of yourself. I need you to remember that your life is worth living.”

Kara pulls away slightly, but Laura refuses to let go of the girl’s hand. “Is that the polite, romantic way of telling me not to go on a bender?” Kara asks, turning her face.

“It’s a polite, romantic way of telling you I don’t want to have to worry that my death will mean your death, too. Do you understand?”

Kara doesn’t turn back around, but Laura sees her head moving up and down. “I understand,” she whispers. “It’s a promise.”

“Good,” says Laura. “Now—Captain Agathon in a bikini.”

Kara laughs gently, turning back around. “You always did know how to make me smile.”








Laura is jostled awake by Kara’s fitful movements, her elbows and legs refusing to still, shoving Laura to the side. Another nightmare.

Rubbing sleep from her eyes and flipping on the bedside table lamp, Laura gently rouses Kara. “Wake up,” she says, hands gripping her shoulders. Kara whimpers, and Laura ‘s heart breaks. “Wake up, sweet, is just a dream.”

Kara’s eyes flash open.

“Do you want some water?” Laura asks.

“Would prefer vodka,” says Kara, her voice coarse from only just waking.

Laura’s learned that Kara sleeps more restfully with several shots in her system, a fact that disturbs her but she’s unwilling to comment on. She worries, but Kara’s life is her own.

“Do you want to tell me what you were dreaming about this time?”

“Don’t remember,” grunts out Kara.

Laura knows it’s a lie.

“Do you want to go ahead and get up? Watch something to get your mind off things?” she offers.

Kara rolls over and checks the time on the clock. “You’ve got work in the morning.”

Laura shrugs.

“I think I’m okay—just, will you not fall asleep until I’m asleep?”

Nodding, Laura pulls Kara close into an embrace, her front to the girl’s back. They lie like that for several minutes, Kara’s breathing getting softer and steadier.

“Kara?” Laura whispers. No answer.

She kisses her on the cheek, turns off the lamp, and returns to sleep.








Thanks to [livejournal.com profile] astreamofstars for the prompt, "serpents and vipers"!

Laura knows she’s going to regret this in the morning, but right now, she’s too boozed up on absinthe to care. Kara’s smiling widely across from her, her forearm outstretched as man digs a needle into her wrist, inking a viper into her skin.

“Why a tattoo of a snake?” Laura asks, flipping through the binder of graphics at the seedy parlor, hoping she’ll find something she won’t hate herself too much for in the morrow.

“Because serpents are a sign of things to come,” says Kara, “and they’re a battle cry. They strike viciously and without mercy, which is sometimes the only thing we can do to survive.”

“An interesting interpretation of the Book of Pythia,” says Laura, continuing to thumb through the pages.

Kara shrugs. “Plus, it’ll remind me of my bird.”

“Your bird?”

“My baby,” Kara says, trying to clarify, but Laura still doesn’t get it. Kara uses her free hand to reach into her pocket and pull out her phone. She presses a few buttons until there’s a picture of a fighter jet on the screen. “My Viper,” says Kara.

“Almost as beautiful as you,” says Laura.

Kara looks away before Laura can tell if she’s blushing or not. “The viper represents the shape of things to come—good or bad.”

Suddenly enthralled by the old myths, Laura puts down the binder and pulls out her phone, searching the internet for an old cave painting she’d seen in a museum once—serpents numbering two and ten. She finds it, two serpents twisted together, in the middle of a circle of ten other snakes.

“Where do you want it?” the tattoo artist asks, his voice gruff.

“Somewhere where no one will see,” she says.

“Except me, of course,” Kara adds.

“Of course.”








“Tell me about your first time,” Kara says, the buzz of alcohol emboldening her. She and Laura pass a flask back and forth as they sit in the President’s office.

“The first time, what?”

“The first time you frakked,” Kara says, leaning in close to Laura’s neck, her voice low, her lips nearly touching the woman’s ear.

“You go first,” Laura says.

Kara shrugs, takes another swig of rotgut. “It was with Major Thea Hunt,” she starts. “I was a first-year in flight school, seventeen or eighteen maybe—a godsdamn baby, looking back. I don’t even remember why I’d been in her office, probably in trouble, knowing me. But anyway. I knew she was into me. I pulled my chair close to hers—all innocent like, pretending I just couldn’t hear well, thinking I was so frakking slick. Then I asked her if she wanted to lick me off. And she said ‘gods yes’ or something like that. And the rest is history.”

Laura’s laughing by the time Kara gets to the end of the story. “I sooooo don’t believe that,” she says.

“It’s true!” Kara insists. “I made her stay between my legs until I got off three times.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mind,” says Laura.

“You certainly don’t,” Kara snorts. “Now you go. Tell me.”

“Do I have to?” asks Laura.

“Yes.”

Laura sighs and leans back into the couch, her side resting into Kara’s. “I was fifteen, and it was absolutely awful. All wet and sticky—but not in a good way. And I remember thinking that I never wanted to do it ever again after it was over. The boy’s name was Leo, I think. Ugh. I still have nightmares about our braces clanking together.”

“Well,” says Kara, “maybe we ought try to replace those awful memories with new good ones. What do you say?” She grabs Laura’s chin and turns her face to hers, licking her lips greedily.

And Kara gives Laura three new memories to replace the old one.








The first time Kara cries into Laura's chest—the woman is terrified. When did the two of them come to this? When did hot, violent, clawing fraks metamorphose into holding onto each other for dear life? Laura doesn't know what to make of Kara's tears sliding down the skin of her breasts, droplets of salt water mixing with Laura's sweat.

Kara had come knocking, obviously sloshed, waking up Laura from sleep.

“Have you eaten today?” Laura had asked, wrapping her arm around the girl’s waist as she stumbled inside, taking on some of her weight.

Kara’d shrugged, then said, “I hate her so much.”

Laura hated her, too—her, being Socrata. She’s been dead for two weeks, but her legacy lives on in all of Kara’s mangled skin, scars invisible to the naked eye, but ever present if you squint.

That’s when it happened, Kara’s head diving into Laura’s embrace, her fingers clutching the fabric of Laura’s low cut sleep shirt. It was the first time she'd cried since her mother’s passing—only days after Kara’d said, “I will not shed a single tear for that woman.”

Now here they are, bruising each other with the force of their grips.

“Shhh,” Laura says, kissing the top of Kara’s head. “I’m here.” It’s all that she can think to say, and even though it’s terribly inadequate, at least it’s true.








There’s a quiet knock on the door of her office, and Kara asks, “Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

She fiddles with her pen before letting it fall to her desk, then works her fingers over her eyes and temples. “Come in, Sir.”

The hatch creaks open, and Laura steps inside, dogging the latch once she’s through the opening. From the looks of it, she’d come right to Kara’s office after hopping off the Raptor from Galactica.

“Madame President,” Kara says, and she doesn’t bother to keep the cold out of her voice.

“Kara,” Laura says.

“If you came all the way to Pegasus to have it out, you’ve wasted your time. I’m very busy.”

Laura moves toward the desk, legs purposeful and determined. She looks tired, and Kara has to smother the urge to bring the president over to the couch where they could lie and hold each other and forget the worlds have ended.

“You haven’t spoken to me in two weeks,” says Laura, “or have come to see me.”

Kara stuffs the papers she’s been working on into a folder, crams it into one of her already overfilled drawers.

“Yes,” says Kara, “since about the time you bent over and took Gemenon’s cock up your ass and made abortion illegal. Interesting timing, that.”

Laura’s face hardens. “I made the decision I thought was best.”

“Best for who?” Kara asks. “For you? For your political career? What about the people of this fleet? What about the women counting on you? What about me?” she adds at the end, her fury lessening somewhat at the sight of Laura standing before her with an expressionless mask on her face, a sure sign that she's breaking on the inside. 

When Laura doesn’t say anything, just readjusts and straightens her glasses, Kara shakes her head. “You know, I hope Baltar wins.”

Laura squeezes her eyes shut briefly, a tiny fissure in her façade, before she opens them and nods her head. “I miss you, Kara,” is all she says before turning, opening the hatch, and shutting it again, before leaving Kara alone again.








The cuts on Kara’s thighs are old and faded, little pink whispers of past pains. But Laura kisses each one, runs her tongue along the nearly invisible welts. Below her, Kara shudders, her legs jerking from the sensation of Laura’s tongue, lips, and occasional teeth.

“What is it?” Kara asks, lifting herself up onto her shoulders so that she can see.

“Your scars,” says Laura. “Did you do these to yourself?”

Kara answers by pulling away, trying to move off of the bed, but Laura grips her thigh hard. “It’s okay,” she says, even though it's not, not wanting to ever have to imagine a Kara who needed to do that to herself to survive. But she plants a kiss on one of the lines anyway, “they’re a part of you,” she goes on, offering up another kiss, “and therefore I love them.”








Kara’s slumped over on the bartop at the Nail & Head when Laura walks over, retrieving Kara’s keys from the bartender.

“Laura—”

“Just don’t,” Laura says. “Come on.”

Kara nods, sliding off the barstool, stumbling into Laura’s arms.

*

Even though it’s Kara’s home and Kara’s life, Laura takes it upon herself to empty every bottle of whiskey down the kitchen sink drain while Kara’s heaving in the next room.

It won’t make a difference, but it still feels damn good.

Laura joins Kara in the washroom, rubs her back.

“Sorry,” Kara moans.

“Me, too,” says Laura.

*

Kara is sick and incoherent enough that Laura doesn’t feel comfortable letting herself sleep while the girl’s in that state, so after tucking her into bed, she sits on the windowsill of the bedroom, shaking Kara awake every hour or so.

At dawn, the sun paints Kara’s skin a beautiful amber. It’s an illusion, the peaceful look on her face, but tired and worn, Laura believes for a moment it’s real.








The wind sweeps through the valley lazy and soft, a reprieve from the thick July heat. Kara is chopping wood, dressed in a tank and shorts.

“You’re going to burn,” Laura says.

“Too bad the last bottle of sunscreen in the universe is back on Caprica,” says Kara, raising the axe above her head, letting it swing down and crack through the wood.

“Are the last long sleeve shirts, trousers, and hats back on Caprica, too?” Laura asks, sipping her mug of tea, which long ago grew cold.

“It’s too hot for all that,” says Kara, continuing to chop. She hadn’t heeded Laura’s advice to wear gloves, and Laura already knows that later she’ll have to rub salve into the red blisters that’ll have erupted across Kara’s palms.

“At least put on a—”

“It’s my body,” Kara says.

Of course it is—Laura knows this. Before her recovery, she’d asked for that very same dignity, the right to do with her own body what she pleased. But Cottle had already removed nine suspicious moles from Kara’s body, leaving little scars and divots in their place.

Earth, in this case, is the opposite of salvation. At least on Galactica, there was no sun, and therefore no radiation.

“I worry,” Laura says. “That’s all.”

Kara sighs, letting the axe fall to the ground. “If I put on a cap, will that get you off my back?”

Laura smiles. “No promises.”







Thanks to [livejournal.com profile] astreamofstars for the prompt, "crash"!

The call comes a quarter after eleven, when Laura’s just stepped out of the shower, her body finally soothed enough that maybe she’ll be able to get some sleep. She bundles herself into a robe than walks over to the telephone, her wet feet leaving tracks across the tiles and wood floor.

“Hello?” she picks up.

There are the words crash and Kara Thrace and hospital on the other end of the line, and Laura hangs up.

She’s lived through this, on a larger scale, before, yet it seems cold and unfamiliar, like it's happening in someone else's nightmare.

It only takes her five minutes to dress herself, pull on trainers, and head out to the car. The hospital’s in the next town over. Her foot is heavy on the pedal, weighing it down, and there’s a small prayer on her tongue that she, too, will crash.








Kara’s making tea in only her knickers and a bra, sauntering around the kitchen like she actually lives here, rather than just fraks the woman who happens to own the place. Digging around in the fridge, she finds a carafe of milk and removes it—then takes out the carton of eggs while she’s at it. A loaf of day-old sourdough baguette sits on the counter, and a jar of sugar waits, already open. Virgon toast is her favorite; she hopes Laura feels the same way.

The loft is quiet, and Kara begins to hum, letting her voice remember the tunes that her father used to play for her on his beaten up, upright piano.

“What is that?” Kara hears. She turns, watches as Laura straightens herself up, putting on her glasses and pressing down her hair. She’s cutest like this—when she just wakes up—before she’s got her shields all raring to go.

“Virgon toast,” says Kara. “I hope you don’t mind.” She’s sliced up the bread, is dipping it in the mixture of milk, eggs, cinnamon, sugar, and vanilla extract.

“No, no, not that. The song.”

Kara shrugs. “Don’t know. Something my dad taught me. Why?”

Laura hoists herself up onto the counter, her night shirt riding up so that Kara can see her underwear. “I don’t know. It’s beautiful. I feel like I’ve heard it before. Gives me chills.”

“But the Virgon toast is fine?”

Laura slides off the counter. “Just don’t burn anything up. I’m gonna grab a quick shower.”

“Where do you keep the powdered sugar?” Kara asks.

“You obviously own the place, Kara. I think you can find it.”

Kara blushes despite herself, begins ransacking the cabinets for ingredients.




Date: 2012-05-17 07:39 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] astreamofstars.livejournal.com


I had so much fun flailing with you!! Seriously, I don't know where this ship came from, but apparently I am adding it to my stable of Laura!ships in a big way. And now I have to go track down all THIRTY FIVE of your ficlets so I can save them. You are a writing demon.

Date: 2012-05-18 03:00 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] letterstonorah.livejournal.com
You are a writing demon.

Hee! It was so fun tweeting about all of it. That definitely helped to spurn me on. Couldn't have done it without you. So, so much fun.

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