Getting Apollo's pants off is a job that has to be done carefully and thoroughly. Starbuck takes his time. It's not because he's not eager to get cracking with the delights that Apollo hides in his pants, mind you; it's more that Starbuck loves the anticipation, savouring what's to come. Taking his time getting there adds a piquancy that never stales.

Mine, he thinks, every time, wondering and grateful.

He loves the slow pulling down of the zip, the way that his left hand has to rest on Apollo's hip to hold the material taut so he can get a good grip on the metal tag and start tugging. Apollo always jumps slightly when Starbuck's hand rubs gently against the jutting hip bone and Starbuck looks forward to that. Apollo grins at him and licks his lips. Starbuck's grip tightens as he smiles back and leans down for another kiss. There's been a lot of kisses.

Mine, he thinks again.

He loves the way that Apollo's hips move up slowly until Apollo's bowed upward, balanced on his heels and his shoulders to allow Starbuck to slide the waistband down. Apollo often holds the pose for a micron or two, to allow Starbuck to run both hands over Apollo's buttocks, smoothing the softer fabric of the shorts against them. They're always warm in his hands, firm, inviting. When Apollo straightens his bowed back and lowers his hips, he crooks a finger at Starbuck, beckoning for another kiss. Starbuck loves that too, licking his way into Apollo's hot, wet mouth.

Mine.

He loves teasing the fabric down over Apollo's knees. He licks and kisses his way down the inside of Apollo's left thigh, loving every little twitch as the strong muscles contract and quiver under his tongue.  Then he goes back and licks and kisses his way down Apollo's right thigh, soothing the little quivers all the way down to Apollo's knees. Starbuck loves Apollo's knees. There's a little scar on the right one that he presses his lips against, tongue washing the shiny puckered white skin. That makes Apollo laugh, a deep throaty laugh that no-one other than Starbuck ever hears. Starbuck loves that, that Apollo has a laugh for him alone.

Still mine.

He loves freeing Apollo's feet. Apollo has long feet, like his hands; a patrician's hands and feet, long and slender and elegant. He licks Apollo's ankles, swirling his tongue around them. It's a shame that Apollo's feet have to be hidden inside heavy combat boots for most of the time. It's a shame too, remarks Starbuck, that despite their elegance, Apollo falls over his own feet so often. Klutz, he says, whisking the pants away and finally freeing the long legs. Apollo pouts, and Starbuck goes back for another little kiss or six, consoling this time.

All mine, he thinks, and wonders if he'll ever dare say it aloud.

And Starbuck really loves knowing that he gets to do this all over again as this time, he takes off Apollo's shorts.  And when he starts, hands settling on Apollo's hips and finger slipping under the waistband to touch warm skin, Apollo says it for him. 

"Yours," says Apollo.  And smiles.