creepy, but ultimately harmless (etben) wrote in mjcountdown,
creepy, but ultimately harmless


Do you know how many that is? That is ONE WEEK LEFT, people! ONE WEEK!

*boogies on down*, um. Once upon a time (by which I mean yesterday), I typoed airport as airporn (and no, I don't know how). shoemaster thought this was hysterical (which it is), and that I should write it.

Which I have. Because I am her bitch.

So, um. Kara Thrace/OFC, Kara Thrace/Lee Adama, Kara Thrace/Zak Adama, Kara Thrace/Kara Thrace's hands (not in that order). (oh so very) NC-17. Plane!sex. 1700-odd words (because I am a freak).


Kara Thrace is going back to Picon, and she is not frakking happy about it. Trust Sahiya to get sick a day and a half after Kara's gone on leave, when she's still close enough to be worth recalling, but before she's had anything like the vacation she wanted.

And gods, she wanted it—still wants it, with the blood in her veins and the air in her lungs, every molecule of her body aching for the beach at Qualai, for the sun-warmed rocks, the tiny house perched on the cliff, for Zak, for Zak, for Zak.

They were going to have so much sex, this leave - frak until we can't see straight, Zak's last letter says, until we can't move for love or money - and now Kara's here, on this gods-be-damned red-eye shuttle back to Picon, and she's so horny she wants to scream.

Still: Zeus made her with hands, and Kara is more than willing to use them. It won't be the first time Kara's taken care of herself on a plane, and she'll bet the last shreds of her leave that it won't be the last.

The plane is mostly empty—the one good thing about the late-night flight from Caprica to Picon is that nobody in their right mind wants to take it, so it's quiet, at least. A few other pilots up front, some civilians, and one person, maybe a man, maybe a woman, all the way down at the other end of Kara's row—asleep before they've even lifted off, covered in a coat, head turned away.

So she goes for it—rearranges her skirt under the blankets and touches herself, sliding her fingers against the damp fabric between her legs, and it's good, but it's not enough. She's been looking forward to her vacation all week, all month, and her hands just aren't big enough, aren't strong enough, aren't what she wants in any way. She thinks about Zak: his mouth, his hands, his cock; the sweet smile on his face in the early morning; the way his thighs look when she's sucking him off. It's good, it's good—and then the plane alters course, shifts just enough to throw her out of the fantasy, and she loses the edge.

She takes the moment to look around, but nobody's paying any attention. She slouches back down in her seat, getting one leg up on her back under the cover of the blanket, and slides her hands back between her legs, pressing up and in. Lee, this time, because she's never pretended to be a saint. Lee, snapping at her, back-and-forth and over and over, easy as flying on a clear day—Lee Adama, cranky and crotchety, no fun at all except when he is. Kara thinks about pushing him back against the wall, leaning into his space, breathing his air. She pushes, just like she always pushes, but this time Lee snaps, leaning forward to kiss her wild and hungry, all teeth and wet, slick tongue. His hands slide down her back, pulling her close enough to feel him hard against her thigh, and she pushes in further, grinning when he moans into her mouth, pinning him against the wall.

Against the wall, yeah, or on a bed, somewhere quiet and lonely, somewhere she can hold him down and ride his cock until he's swearing at her in between his gasps, until his eyes are wide and his hair is messy with sweat. She imagines it all: holding herself above him, teasing him until he's wild and twitching, and then sliding down, careful, gentle. He's hung, she knows—unisex heads are what they are, and nobody has any privacy, in the fleet. She knows how he'd feel, how good it would be, letting his cock stretch her, fill her, yes, gods, Lee.

She'd frak him until her thighs started to ache, and then pull off, kiss away his moaning, slide down to suck him. She'd be slow, slow and lazy, savoring the taste of herself against his skin, pressing his legs against the covers when he tried to move—which he would, because he's Lee Adama and she knows him. Still, she's stronger than he is, stronger and meaner both, and she could keep him in one place.

Then, oh—Lee's cock in her mouth, thick and weighty, warm blood and salt, and Zak behind her, sliding into the space Lee left. He's not as big, but he knows her, and his hands on her body are good, good, good. She pushes back against him, and his hands glide over her breasts, down to her hips, holding her steady as he pushes into her, fast and then faster, pushing her down onto Lee's cock. The two of them together would be—frak, it would be great, would be better than anything, she can feel it in her bones, in the clench of her cunt around her fingers, the hum of sensation in her skin. Zak behind her, Lee in front of her—Zak, Lee—Zak—

Through mostly-closed eyes, she sees a flash of movement off to her left, pale gold and pink. She freezes, blinking the sex from her eyes, and then glances over, even though she knows what she'll see: the civilian at the other end of the row is awake, awake and watching her frak herself with both hands.

Embarrassing, a little—but then Kara recognizes the girl. She was on the dock before they boarded, over at the other end, flirting with the crew and jumping away, pretending to be offended when they slid hands down her sides, across her breasts. She's short, blonde, pretty in an unremarkable sort of way, but she's got a body most people don't get without paying, and she knows how to use it. Girl looks like a Mandi or a Tandi, maybe a Laci, something sweet and mock-innocent—but the name's not important, in the end. Kara knows a wild-child when she sees one, the kind of girl who likes to frak and isn't afraid to ask.

She knows exactly who she's dealing with, here.

And Tandi's not offended or scandalized by what she's seen, either: her cheeks are pink, but her eyes are half-lidded and eager, and she smiles back when Kara catches her eyes. Kara takes a moment to think about it, but there's no question, really, and she lifts up a corner of the blanket and raises an eyebrow.

Tandi scoots over without hesitation, across the middle bank of seats and into the spot next to Kara. Her skirt slides up when she sits down, revealing long, pale legs. She doesn't smooth it down, either—just lets Kara look her fill, then grabs the corner of the blanket and twitches it over her legs, curling close, her breasts pressing warm and soft against Kara's chest.

"Hi," she says, licking her lips, looking up at Kara from under too-long lashes. "How are you?"

Kara doesn't answer, though; she's not interested in knowing names or sharing stories. Instead, she leans forward enough to kiss, slides her mouth into the Tandi's mouth, slides her hand up one smooth, sleek thigh. Tandi lets out a little gasp, fake-startled, and falls forward into the kiss, scraping long, sharp nails against the skin of Kara's hip, her belly, her nipple. Kara bites down on her lip, but Tandi just presses harder, sudden flaring pain that shades over into pleasure in another heartbeat. She grins, smug as a cat in the sunshine, and then Kara gets one hand under her thigh and pulls until Tandi is sprawled half across her lap, no leverage at all, open for Kara to touch and tease and take.

This is what Kara wanted: sex, frakking, sweat and skin under her hands. It's not the smooth, blunt pressure of Lee's cock inside her, not the smell of Zak and sex and lazy mornings in bed—it's the scrape of nails, the curve of breasts, the slick inevitability of a cunt clenching around her fingers. Different—but still good, gods, so good it hurts. Tandi's whimpering, now, little gasps and moans that get louder when Kara spreads her fingers, forcing her wider. Maybe the rest of the plane can hear her, and maybe not; Kara's not interested. Tandi's panting, desperate breaths, her smooth young breasts, the way she jumps and shivers when Kara runs a finger over her clit: these things are interesting.

Other people aren't, not unless they want to frak.

Tandi's close, now, her pulse rabbiting away against Kara's mouth. She reaches one arm back, trying to touch Kara, to anchor herself, but Kara twists her fingers just so, presses Tandi's legs that much wider, bites down on the side of that long, elegant neck. A gasp, a shiver, and Tandi comes apart in her arms, around her fingers—surprisingly quiet, considering all the noise she's been making up to this point.

Before Kara can push her off, she's moving, sliding to her knees and onto the floor, throwing one last wink before she disappears under the blanket.

That's the nice thing about these old planes: they've got a hell of a lot more legroom than the newer, faster models.

Tandi's nails run up her legs, pushing her skirt out of the way, and then back down, pushing her underwear to her ankles, holding Kara trapped. She can feel that honey-blonde hair against her thighs, soft and baby-fine, and then a warm, wet mouth on her clit, all soft, wet tongue and smooth, glossy lips. She hisses out a breath between clenched teeth and slides down in her seat, pushing herself onto Tandi's face; in return, she gets more pressure and a pinch on her thigh. It's a warning, but it's not a denial, so Kara lets her body ease into a rhythm, slow and sultry and so good it makes her eyes roll back in her head. Tandi follows along, giving her the pressure she craves, pushing her harder and faster and higher and higher until she's there, flying apart and back together on waves of exulting pleasure.

She takes a moment to breathe, after, and then unclenches her hand enough to rest it, shaking, on the crown of Tandi's head. When she comes out from under the blanket, her mouth wet and sloppy with sex, and Kara kisses it all away before pushing her back towards her seat. Girl goes with good grace, though, and one last ridiculous wink.

Kara pulls her panties back up, smoothes her skirt down, resettles the blanket, and goes back to sleep.

The red-eye isn't all bad, really.


And just think - if you really hate it, you can tell me so in person in A WEEK OMFG.

(although obviously I would prefer it if you didn't)
Tags: bsg
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