A spontaneous ficlet for astreamofstars, though I'm sure it's too late now to matter. Alas! Hope you enjoy, tulip, and that you might get perked up!
Kara/Laura. NC17. Teensy bit of underage depending on your country of origin (17 years old). 1400 words.
Laura first sees the girl in the museum gift shop, pocketing a statuette of Artemis while she thinks no one is looking. When Laura clears her throat, raises her eyebrow, the girl with hazel eyes and light-colored hair looks up, slightly embarrassed to have been caught red handed. She recovers quickly, eyes darting around the shop to make sure no one else is looking at her. Then, while her gaze is locked on Laura’s, she takes another statuette, this time one of Aphrodite, and stuffs it under her jacket.
“You cheeky devil,” Laura says.
The girl smiles, and it’s beautiful, then she shrugs and walks right on out the shop.
It isn’t until the following day that Laura sees the girl again, in the Colson Room, a long hallway of art donated by a Caprican family with old money. The pickpocket is sitting on a bench, using charcoal to sketch out the painting of Hercules fighting the Hydra. Laura walks up, takes a seat next to her, and watches her work.
“Impressive,” Laura says.
“I know,” says the girl, wiping her hand across her cheek, coal smearing all over her nose. Laura removes a handkerchief from her pocketbook and reaches over to take care of the black smudge. Surprised, the girl draws back, turning to face Laura.
“You had something on your nose,” says Laura, holding up the white cloth that’s now streaked black.
“Thanks,” she says, then turns back to her drawing, though not quickly enough that Laura can’t see she is blushing.
“You know, I could report you for what you did yesterday. I work here.”
“I know. Laura Roslin. Chief Curator. I’m here everyday. I know the ropes. So,” the girl says, facing Laura head on, that same challenging look on her face as before, “are you going to report me, then?”
She’s prettier than Laura had initially realized—her messy ponytail and tomboyish clothes covering up the brightness of her eyes.
“I didn’t think so,” says the girl. She holds out her hand, “I’m Kara, by the way.”
Laura starts to see her everywhere. The Swanson Gallery. The Museum Café. The Statue Corridor. The Pythia Wing.
One day, finally, Laura asks, “Shouldn’t you be in school or something?”
“Gap year,” says Kara.
Shrugging, Kara slings a messenger bag over her shoulder. “Come have a drink with me, Laura.”
“You’re ridiculous.” She keeps her arms crossed over her chest, refusing to budge.
“Why?” Kara asks. “Come with me. It’ll be fun. I promise you won’t regret it.”
“Are you even old enough?” she asks, relaxing, letting her arms drop to her side.
“Oldish enough,” she says, grabbing Laura’s hand, pulling her, “certainly old enough to show you a good time.”
“I’m working now.”
“So some of us have responsibilities and things to take care of.”
“Okay. Sorry. Yeah, that makes sense. Cool, so I’ll see you around then?” says Kara.
She darts off, turning around the corner, disappearing.
One day passes, then two, three, four. Laura doesn’t see her anywhere.
Laura’s having her tea at work tonight, finishing up late. She eats on the steps at the front of the museum, flipping through paperwork. She looks up when she hears a plane flying by overhead, then notices across the street a flash of blonde hair.
It’s dark out, but she knows that it’s Kara walking into the bar. Laura gathers up her things and stuffs them into her bag, then runs over, finding the girl inside, sitting in a booth.
“Kara,” Laura says, putting a hand on her shoulder.
Kara turns, and Laura swallows.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she says, taking a seat next to Kara.
“Why’s that?” asks Kara, drinking what looks like a scotch, straight.
“You know why.”
“Let me buy you one drink. Just one.”
Laura sighs, looks around, “Okay. One.”
But one vodka tonic turns into two—and the next thing Laura realises, the two of them are in Laura’s flat, removing clothes between kisses, hands fumbling under shirts, fingers sliding into knickers.
“Stop, stop, stop,” says Laura, pulling back, trying to gather her senses. It doesn't help matters that Kara looks unbearably sexy, stripped down to her black sports bra and a pair of dark grey boxer briefs.
Laura’d forgotten she had a thing for tomboys, for flat, sculpted abs and toned arms. In comparison, Laura feels too thin, too small, not enough. But then her eyes catch the way Kara is looking at her, like she is some work of art, or something.
“Are you sure you want me to stop?” Kara asks, unbuttoning Laura’s shirt, bending slightly to put her mouth around one of Laura’s nipples, shucking her bra to the side. Laura places her hand on the back of Kara’s head, pressing her down hard. Kara licks her way up to Laura's neck. “You are unbelievable,” she says. Her hands graze Laura’s sides, caressing the skin with covetous strokes. “How are you making me want you so much?”
They fall rather ungracefully onto the bed, Kara on top, Laura’s legs already locked tightly around Kara’s waist, her hips rocking upward feverishly. Kara, sympathetic, moves a hand between them, brushing over Laura’s clit before moving in circles over her entrance.
Laura doesn’t remember the last time she’d been so desperate for friction, for someone else’s touch. But she’s rutting into Kara’s fingers like mad, craning her neck into Kara’s tongue, hardly caring that a couple of hours ago, she was certain that Kara was too young and too wild to ever consider starting up with.
She’s not sure how she got from there to saying yes when Kara asked to follow her home, to inviting her up into her place, letting Kara press her against a wall, demanding, her arms unmoving on either side of Laura’s head.
Kara moans when she darts her tongue along Laura’s pulse point, just above the collarbone, muttering something Laura barely hears. You are so beautiful like this.
“Please,” Laura says, reaching her hand down, grabbing Kara’s wrist, repositioning her fingers onto her clit.
Everything is too much and not enough at the same time—Kara’s fingers and tongue seemingly everywhere at once. Distantly, Laura recognises the feel of soaked knickers sliding up and down in a steady rhythm along her thigh—knows that it’s Kara getting herself off. Laura should be reciprocating in some way, but she can’t focus, her body a storm of jolting nerves.
“Come for me,” Kara says, and it’s a demand, not a request. “I want to hear you let go.”
Between Kara’s fingers, voice, lips, and grinding hips, Laura is is arching up and convulsing, everything hot and explosive.
She holds onto Kara tight, no doubt breaking the skin on the girl’s back with her nails. As Laura hits the pique of her climax, almost screaming with the force of it, Kara begins to stiffen and clench on top of her, too, her teeth biting Laura’s neck hard, quieting what’s surely a loud moan.
Laura’s still shaking when it’s all over, feeling completely unhinged, and Kara whispers, “I’ve got you,” resting her head on Laura’s chest.
They are silent for minutes, refusing to let go of each other, and even after Kara slides off top, they are clutching.
“I’m going to get a drink of water,” Kara finally says, kissing Laura on the shoulder before sitting. “Do you need anything while I’m up?”
“I wouldn’t mind a water. The kitchen’s to your left,” says Laura, gesturing to just outside the bedroom.
Kara nods and stands, her bra long ago abandoned, her briefs askew, revealing far too much of the skin of her bum to be practical as underwear. She stretches, her breasts lifting, her body lengthening, and Laura almost wishes she hadn’t come so godsdamned hard so she’d have the energy for another go at it.
Kara returns with two mugs of water. “Sorry, couldn’t find the glasses,” she says.
“This is fine.” Laura takes the cup, gulps it thirstily.
Kara falls back into bed, pulling the covers over her, sidling up close to Laura. When she’s finished with her mug, Laura sets it down, and flips off the bedside lamp. She snuggles into Kara, hardly noticing that it’s been years since she’s let a lover spend the night.