Title: Command and Control
Author: nnaylime (eman)
Taboo: Fraternization between ranks, Femslash
Summary: “I never expected to have the same sort of relationship with you that I do with Adama.”
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (RDM)
Characters: Kara Thrace/Helena Cain
Spoilers: Anything through Resurrection Ship 2.
Rating: TV-M
Disclaimer: I own nothing and claim nothing. This is a derivative work of fan authored fiction based on the reimagined series Battlestar Galactica.
Notes: For the dooooooom ficathon. pocketwitch talked me into it, and she and shellysmk get thanks for the beta and tireless cheerleading and shows of confidence– but the chemistry between Cain and Kara nearly melted the screen for the all-too-few moments they were together, and I kinda had to do it anyway.


You see something of yourself in the compact blonde standing in front of you now. Her chin thrust out, a small show of defiance in the face of the dressing down that she expects. You can bend me to your will, she is silently saying, but you will not break me. There’s a big part of you that’s tempted, that wants to see just how far you can push this brash young officer.

Instead, you reward her – her initiative and spirit need to be nourished – like a willful colt that will become a champion racehorse.

Her surprise is palpable, her cynicism cutting, as though she’s waiting for the catch. You yearn to reach out and touch her, a gentle hand to the shoulder or forearm to reassure her. Not now, though – now you are her commanding officer – now you must command her respect.

The disbelief slowly fades from her face, replaced by dawning comprehension. You can tell compliments and shows of confidence are rare. She doesn’t know what to make of you, and it unsettles her. You dismiss her, sparing her any further discomfort.

As she walks away, you allow yourself the pleasure of watching the way the fabric of her dress uniform plays over the muscles of her legs and the gentle swing of her hips. She’s utterly unselfconscious, and moves with athleticism, crossing the room efficiently, her mind already on the new duties you’ve given her.

“Captain Thrace,” you call after her at the last minute. She turns, confused, expectant, again thrusting her chin forward in defiance of her nerves. “I’d like you to join me in my quarters for dinner. I’m interested in your observations on the air group. I think it’ll do them good to shake things up down there.”

She nods, her face furrowed in concentration and consternation. “Yes, ma’am.”

You allow a slight smile to escape and then reign it in at the moment it reaches your eyes – always controlled, always controlling.


The knock at your hatch is direct, and you close Adama’s watch logs to answer it.

“Captain.” You nod curtly. “Come in.”

“Admiral.” She is deferential, respectful, standing at attention.

“At ease, Captain.” You relax as she does, and allow yourself to smile again.

“Let’s go back to my private quarters.” You angle your head in the direction of the next room. “I do sit down when I eat.”

She seems to relax a little bit at that, and allows herself a smile. “I’d wondered,” she admits.

You stand up a little straighter as you lead the way and find yourself talking to fill the silence. “It’s fish, I’m afraid,” you inform her. “We harvested some on a planet outside the last sector, and need to be sure to eat it before it goes bad.”

“Fish is fine,” she answers. Her attention is now preoccupied by observation of your quarters.

“They’re from Tauron,” you tell her, noticing that her gaze has been lingering on the sculptures hanging from on your bulkhead. “Made out of scrap metal salvaged from the original Cylons.”

Her large eyes widen, and she takes a few hesitant steps closer to examine them more carefully. You nod in silent permission, and she reaches out, tracing the lines of the closet one. “I never thought I’d see something good come out of a Cylon,” she says.

“The only good Cylon is a dead Cylon,” you answer.

“So say we all,” she responds, and turns away from the artwork. Your eyes meet hers for a brief moment, a flash, a spark, a question, and an answer. You can see the slow shift take place, though she doesn’t relax – if anything she seems slightly more on edge, as she now grows to think of you not just as a superior officer, but as a person – a woman.

She shifts her weight and looks down, as though embarrassed. You want to comfort her, but don’t want to push her. The tension is broken by the arrival of dinner.

“Thank you,” you nod curtly to the enlisted man who has brought the food. “Dismissed.”

He salutes and backs away. She sits on the sofa across the table from you, waiting for you to start eating before she picks up her own fork.

“You wanted my impression of the pilots,” she begins after you’ve eaten the first few bites in silence.

You smile, recognizing in her your own tendency to use work as a safety net. “That can wait,” you say, “I know it’s been a long day.” You pause and study her again. Dropping your guard, you speak as you’re thinking.

“I was wrong about you,” you tell her. “I’d moved you over here to give you more discipline, but what you really needed was more opportunities to grow.”

“Commander Adama gave me plenty of opportunities,” she answers, quickly, an edge in her voice. She’s loyal.

“I realize that Adama means a lot to you. . .” You’re on shaky ground now. “Maybe it’s better for you to be away from him . . . it’s never a good idea for a . . . family to serve together.”

“Commander Adama treats his entire crew like family.” She’s begun pushing her food around her plate.

“And you, in particular, are like a daughter to him.” You tell her, not mincing words. “That can be very dangerous.”

“I don’t see that it’s any more dangerous than any other command relationship.” She pushes her plate away and looks up at you, a challenge, a response. You feel a chill that comes with a rush of fear and excitement.

“Indeed,” you answer. “But sometimes taking a risk has its benefits.” You pause, allowing her the time to contemplate your words, and then add, “You of all people ought to appreciate that, Captain.”

She clears her throat and you can see a faint blush creeping up her cheeks. “Of course,” she says quickly, and looks up to once more meet your eyes, a challenge, an answer. “I never expected to have the same sort of relationship with you that I do with Adama.”

“And his son,” you press.

“Zak was in the past.” Her defenses raise again, and she takes a sip of water.

“I wasn’t talking about Zak,” you answer, though you suspect she already knew that.

She fidgets with her dog tags. “Lee and I are friends.”

“Friends,” you repeat –somewhere between a question and a statement.

She takes another drink. “Friends,” she affirms.

“Good to know,” you answer and lick your lips.

“Yeah . . .” She stands and smoothes the wrinkles out of her uniform. “I should go.”

“Captain Thrace—” You stop her with a hand on her arm.

She turns. “Ma’am?”

“I’d like to see you tomorrow evening after watch. Here. My quarters.”

“Ma’am—” she acknowledges. This time, she lets the briefest hint of a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. This time, her blush isn’t quite as pronounced.

This time, you don’t hide the fact that you watch her walk from the room.


The liquor burns its way down your throat.

Kara Thrace matches you drink for drink – her smile growing freer as the alcohol enters her system.

You study her from across the high table, wondering at the twist of fate that brought you together. “You aren’t afraid of me,” you observe.

“No, ma’am,” she answers and drains the last of her drink, “I’m not.”

“Are you afraid of anything?” you ask, wondering what the answer would be.

“Not much.”

“Good.” You nod and reach out to lay your hand on hers.

She looks down at your coupled hands as though the visual confirmation of what she feels is necessary before she’ll believe it. She looks again at you and smiles slightly, hesitantly,

“And you?” she asks and looks again at your hand on hers. “What are you afraid of?”

“Failure, Kara.” You use her first name. “I’ll do whatever it takes to win.”

She raises her eyebrows. “I believe it.”

You remove your hand from hers, slowly, letting your fingers trail over her skin, and pour another drink. You raise the decanter in offering to her, but she declines.

“No excess tonight?”

“I have an early duty call,” she explains, almost apologetically. “There’s not much time left.”

“No,” you agree and put down your glass. You run your finger over the edge, and then dip it into your mouth, sucking the last bits of alcohol off. “I’m not in the mood for dinner tonight,” you say finally.

“Of course,” she responds. “I’ll just . . .” She salutes awkwardly and begins to move toward your hatch.

“That wasn’t what I had in mind either,” you correct her gently, and she stops suddenly.

“Oh,” she says, and then blushes at her own naivety. “Oh . . .”

She turns, walks back into the main room, and you step aside. “After you,” you say and put a hand on the small of her back to guide her. You feel her shiver slightly under your touch, and you marvel again at the exquisite creature that is Kara Thrace.

You lift your hair off your neck as you slip out of your uniform jacket. She watches you, her expression inscrutable, and you feel compelled to fill the silence. “You don’t have to do this, Kara,” you use her name again; this is personal. “There won’t be any . . . repercussions.”

“I’m not one to worry about . . . repercussions.” She answers and smiles. “I’d have thought you’d realized that by now.” You see a flick of bright pink tongue as she moistens her lips.

You step forward, and cup her face in your hand, tracing the swell of her cheek with your thumb. She leans into the caress, drinking up your attention, thirsty for it. “My dear girl,” you say in spite of yourself, “how long has it been?”

She doesn’t answer you. Instead, she turns her head to kiss your palm. The sensation is electric, running through you like a hot current and leaving you cold in its wake.

You run your thumb over her supple lower lip, and she laps her tongue out, catlike, teasing.

Her unique mixture of confidence and naďveté is maddening. It would be so easy for you to try to overpower her, throw her to the couch, force her – but you won’t, you can’t. Hands, shaking with the control you’re struggling maintain, you instead smooth her hair, and then lean in to very deliberately kiss her.

Her lips are lush and yielding, and then slowly she grows more demanding, returning the kiss with a fire that matches your own. You break for air, and she licks her lips again. You can’t help but watch her tongue.

You reach out and brush a wayward strand of hair from her face. Then, slowly, you begin to unfasten the catches on her uniform jacket. She places her hands over yours, stilling you and pushing you away. With another grin, she meets your eyes and finishes the process herself.

Her nipples are erect, visible even through the layers of her sports bra and tank. Her breasts, firm, high, though not overly full, are another layer of mystery that you yearn to decipher.

Eagerly, though never losing control, you untuck her tanks. She raises her arms, gasping, and lets you pull them off her.

Her skin is flushed, a sheen of perspiration rests dewy on her breastbone. You kiss her again, and she is now greedy, tasting you with the same recklessness that led her to fly the stealth craft on an unauthorized mission, the same initiative that got your attention in the first place.

She slides her hands into the waistband of your trousers to knead at your rear. Momentarily, you luxuriate in the sensation that her strong, skilled fingers draw forth, before pushing her down into the couch and taking command – as is your due. You bite her lower lip gently to remind her that you’re the one in charge.

She grins up at you--a mirth bordering on insolence adding light to her eyes-- and tugs on your tanks. Impatiently, you sit up and doff them. Her curious fingers trace the margins where your bra meets skin, every-so-often dipping inward. You shiver; her hands are as cold as her mouth is hot.

You push her hands away, another show of force. She struggles, but only briefly, ultimately relenting and letting you pull her bra off.

Her nipples stand like tiny rosebuds against her creamy flesh. Again exercising control, you turn your attention away from them, instead kissing the cleft between her breasts, savoring the salty, smoky flavor of her skin.

Her leg hooks over yours and she pulls you closer.

She’s strong; you knew that. It’s once again tempting to see how far you can push her, but it’s too soon, you remind yourself – too soon to take from her everything you want, too soon to give to her everything you have to offer. Like a newly discovered planet, you’re still learning her, still charting the contours of her body – peaks and valleys, plains and forests – she is lush and ripe.

You bite teasingly at her collarbone, still staying deliberately away from her breasts, and she gasps, “frak me!” whether an exclamation or a directive, you don’t know. She tugs at your bra, drawing it up trying to pull it over your head, and impatiently, you sit back to let her remove it.

Her eyes drift over your breasts, she sighs and licks her lips. Her excitement is nearly palpable, tangible, and you feel your nipples grow tighter -- reacting to her, to the energy between you.

You push her, forcing her back to the couch, retaking control. She sighs again, this one seeming to be one of relaxation and pleasure rather than anticipation.

You reach for her breasts now, drawing one nipple between your fingers. She arches her back, pushing her shoulders into your couch, and a sound-almost like a growl-resonates from deep in her throat.

You bury your face again in the cleft between her breasts – lapping now and then to taste her. Then you move to her breast, suckling, taking her nipple first between your lips, and then biting, gently but still forcefully. She gasps, and bites down on her lip in an attempt to remain quiet.

So controlled. So much like you. And yet, you note, turning your attention to her other breast, so unlike you. As carefully controlled as she is, she’s also guileless. She gasps as you continue to suckle, and arches against your mouth.

You pull back, taking yet another look at her. She squirms closer to you, stroking your hair and then the side of your face, smiling at you with an expression that you could only describe as devotion.

“Dear girl,” you whisper again, “my dear Kara.” Her smile widens, and she trails her hand down your arm.

You catch her hand and bring it up to your mouth, kissing her palm, and then one-by-one, her fingers.

When you release her hand, she takes the opportunity to touch you some more, trailing her damp fingers blindly down your breastbone and then reaching for your breast, as though still not quite believing she is free to do so. She pinches your nipple, and you shiver, involuntarily, in response. The sensation is nearly electric.

You lean into it, and then slide slightly downward, away from her curious hands. Hungrily, you kiss her breastbone again, and then lower, to pay similar attention her abdomen and navel. You dip your tongue in and out of her navel, and she squirms, writhing her hips underneath you.

You move lower, to the waistband of her trousers. Quickly, deftly, you undo her belt buckle, and unfasten the button and fly. She raises her hips, letting you slide her pants down, and then gracelessly kicks them off.

Her black, military issue panties stand out against her creamy skin, and you run your hand lightly along the margins, watching her shiver in response, her nipples grow tighter. You stroke her lightly through the fabric – drawing your finger slowly over her clit. She raises her hips against your hand, and you begin to stroke her harder, moving your thumb in tight, controlled circles.

She sucks her breath in between clenched teeth, and you can see the well-defined muscles of her legs tighten. You peel her panties back, and she obligingly lifts her hips once more, letting you slide them down her legs. Muscled legs, athletic, strong; she shivers again, those beautiful muscles tightening.

You can feel her hip bones--hard spots in her otherwise soft flesh. Her thatch of curls is damp and sparse. You run your fingers through it, and then dip them into the cleft they cover. Kara is wet, ready, eager.

“Admiral . . .” She shifts her hips on the sofa moving both against and toward your touch.

You freeze. “My name is Helena.” Duty and position – honor – you may toe that line and push it, but you don’t cross it. Not in war. Not in love. Not in whatever this is. You are her superior – you will dominate her – but not as an officer.

Her face blanks and there’s a distance to her expression which is quickly replaced by a brightness, and you can see her weighing the potential ramifications of ignoring you. “Helena,” you repeat, more forcefully, and nip at her collarbone. “Say it.”

She looks at you, open, guileless, a challenge, and remains silent. “Say it,” you repeat, and pinch her nipple, a warning, a punishment.

“Helena,” she says, and her grin makes it clear that she’s saying your name by choice. “Helena,” she repeats, this time more seriously. She’s not only testing you; she’s trying to make a connection.

“Kara,” you answer. It’s a dangerous game, no less so because you know what you’re doing. The danger lies in your inability to stop yourself. “You’re frakking beautiful,” you inform her.

“You, too,” Kara says, gazing down your body with a look of wonder. You believe her in that moment; she’s incapable of disguising her feelings. You brush your thumb against her clit and she rewards you with a tiny shiver, her tiny pink nipples grow tighter – like pebbles, pearls, and you blow across them, noting with satisfaction the flush that spreads over her body.

Teasing, but a bit more. You want her ready. You’re winding her up, waiting to see where she’ll go when you finally set her free.

You brush her clit again, this time harder, and she grunts as she bucks against your hand. You pull back, and blow a thin stream of air over her cleft.

Starbuck. You contemplate her call sign. You see the stars in her – in her eyes, in her spirit, in her need to take risks – burning brightly before burning out entirely. The buck, though – that could only be found by looking – seeing the not fully tamed animal hiding behind her eyes. Finding the play for freedom in the muscles of her back. Starbuck. And yet, you tell yourself, you can’t think of her as such. She is Kara. Starbuck is a callsign – another tie to the military that you will not, cannot, acknowledge. Not now. Not with her.

She groans again as you press your index finger against her. Every muscle in her legs is rock hard, and she’s biting her lips in anticipation. You lower your mouth to her, and she cries out, primaly – a noise that sounds both pained and excited. You continue to tongue her and she again wails, crying out, her alto echoing throughout your quarters.

Her cries become rhythmic, a reflection of what you’re doing to her. Her fingers bite into your shoulders – a welcome pain – a tangible reminder of who she is and what she can do. And then, her cries escalate, coming faster than you’re moving, and you feel and see the spasm move through her.

“Oh, my gods,” she gasps, tiny aftershocks still moving through her. “Oh, my gods . . .” Her hazel eyes drill into yours asking the one question you’d prayed would never cross her lips. “Why?”

There are a ton of unspoken questions in there, and you know it. You’ve gained nothing appreciable from the encounter – taming her and bringing her over the edge of ecstasy and asking for nothing in return. It’s not normal. There’s no way to make her understand the discipline – the pleasure that comes from denying yourself – the fear you have in being pushed over the very same edge you just sent her. Instead you say simply, “Because, Kara.”

“But,” she protests, moving to reciprocate, reaching for you – wanting to give you what she’s just received. You stop her, taking her hand in yours and squeezing it gently.

“It’s okay,” you reassure her. “Next time.”

You’ve said it before. She doesn’t have to know that this is the first time you’ve meant it. You see her eyes darken in confusion – her wish to not put off for an unspecified ‘next time’ what she’d happily give you now, but you repeat it. “It’s late; next time.”