last part in the series, finally
Title: Arachne into a Spider [5/5]
Prompt: Roslin/Tory, recognition
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: through "Crossroads"
A/N: titles from Ovid's Metamorphoses (1717 translation, Pallas=Athena). I have a thesaurus addiction, as you may have noticed; I banned myself from the thesaurus while writing this fic. It helped. mandysbitch, my rock, did the rest.
Summary: OTP 2.0 in 5 PWPs
[ i. one at the loom | ii. the web is ty'd | iii. with nimble flight the shuttles play | iv. then threads of gold | v. still by constant weaving ]
I shouldn't have bothered her. I shouldn't have wanted her. I shouldn't have dreamt of her.
I shouldn't be undoing my shirt while she watches, licking my fingers and painting a shine on the curve of my breast.
I shouldn't be an I. But some days, desire eats at me worse than the cancer. Some days, the way this girl stares is the only reminder that I'm still human.
Some days, I hate her for it. Tonight, I love the way she looks at me, like my body is a delicacy and not a disease.
"Tory," I say. She raises her eyes from the stripe of skin bared by my open buttons. "If you're done using it, give it to me." One hand makes a fist, but with the other she holds out the sex toy. The heft of the metal is tantalizing. I slip out of my pants slowly, a striptease, watching her face as my hips, my thighs, my knees come into view. When I kick them aside, I'm naked except for the oversized shirt I wore to bed.
It was the damn dreams that woke me. They're worse since I increased the chamalla, since Baltar was acquitted, since Starbuck was reborn. I sleep when I have to; otherwise I barricade myself in work. Tory keeps vigil with me, mostly, napping on the office couch. It was too quiet when I sent her home. I fled back to consciousness from the opera house, sweating and trembling, disoriented in the bedroom hush. When she's in the office, I can hear her breathing through the curtain.
I shouldn't have gone to her room. She likes to tell me that terminal illness earns me some indulgences. She likes to do what she can to help me sleep. I don't think she knew that I look in on her to calm myself. Her quarters are little more than a cubicle with a cot; it's easy enough to peek around the partition. I didn't expect her to be awake.
The makeshift door scraped on the carpet. When I leaned into the gap, she was scrambling to cover herself: pushing down her nightshirt, pulling up the sheet. If I hadn't seen the dildo before she tossed the bedding over it, I would have retreated, mortified. I recognized the dildo. Galactica's sex toy exchange tends to pass through Kara.
I stepped into the room. "Don't let me interrupt."
Tory was flushed with embarrassment.
"You must be happy your girlfriend's back," I said. "Starbuck doesn't make those available to just anyone."
Tory crossed her arms. She was angry. Angry is appealing on her. "I frakked her once," she said. "And not that it's any of your business, Laura, but she's not the only one."
"That was a hell of a frak, I imagine."
Tory wet her lips. "You would know."
Now I was angry. "If you're not going to finish," I said, "you won't mind if I take a turn."
If I close my eyes while I strip, I could be onstage at the opera, lights blinding me to the faces in the audience (Caprica and Athena? Kara and Tory?). In the dreams, I sometimes think I glimpse Tory (dark hair rounding a corner, just beyond my field of vision). I always wake then, before I can catch her.
I don't close my eyes. I keep them on her as I move the chair to face her, sit down with my legs spread. Tonight, I'm alive. I can feel the pulse in my cunt when I part the lips with my fingers; it's been weeks since even I touched myself there. I arch my back and the shirt falls to expose one of my nipples. Tory squirms on the bed, rubs her bare leg.
I pick up the dildo, trace the double shafts, test the bend in the rubber hinge. The giving end is ovoidal, tapered like a fist. I hiss when I push it inside me, muscles out of practice. Tory bunches her fingers in the sheet. Her gaze is hot on my skin.
"Oh," I say, rolling my hips. The bulb hits me just right. "I see why Kara likes this."
Tory makes a strangled noise and then she's on me, kissing me, groping my breasts and the cock. Gods, I missed her mouth. Her desperate tongue opens me more than the toy does.
She bites my neck and squeezes my nipple. She pumps the cock against my clit. "I was thinking about you," she says. "When I was frakking myself. Not anyone else."
I run my hands up her spine, hard enough to feel the friction between us. She lifts her arms so I can pull the shift over her head. She's perfect, nude, curved and burnished. I want to mark her. I shouldn't frak her. I shouldn't care who she fraks. I shouldn't remember how to be a woman, not now. Tory reminds me.
I take handfuls of her ass and pull her closer, warm and solid and real. The dildo is pinned between us, and she grinds against the ridge, fingers tangled in my hair, nipples tracing patterns on my chest. "Please," she says. I try not to imagine the ways she could finish that sentence.
"How wet are you?" Her throat tastes salty. She reaches for my wrist, drawing my hand between her legs. "No," I say. "I want you to show me. Show me what you were doing when I walked in on you."
She groans, but clambers off me when I nudge her hips. Splayed on the cot, she mirrors me, legs open and hand between them. I palm the dildo, holding it against me. She dips two fingertips inside her, and spreads her lips so I can see her glistening center. She slides the fingers up until they frame her clit. She whimpers, and never stops looking at me.
"I know how you like to watch me," she says, stroking herself in circles. "Are you going to spend the rest of your life watching? Or are you going to take what you frakking want, for once?"
In the dreams, she's always just out of focus, just out of reach. Here, she's all presence and flesh. "Turn over," I say.
I kneel behind her on the mattress. From what I know of the mechanics, the position will be easiest to finesse. And I've always loved this view: the cello of her back, the peach of her ass, her cunt a juicy bite mark. On her knees and elbows, she tilts her hips toward me, pleading. I haven't touched her yet. I put one hand on her thigh, digging into the muscle. With the other, I aim the cock, tip poised to enter her.
"Hold still," I say. I can hear her breathing, fast and shallow. I lean into her, and the cock comes with me, inch by inch. It's like sorcery: in, and the vee presses on my clit; out, and the egg rocks against me. When I move, we gasp in tandem.
"It's not a good quality in an assistant, being so desirable." I move faster; she moans louder. "It's inappropriate. It's dangerous." I grab a fistful of her hair, arching her into me.
"Please," she says. "Can I touch myself?" Her voice is hoarse.
"Can you be less distracting, less reckless? No, I don't think so." Tonight, she's mine.
I don't expect her to disobey. She pulls away without warning, flips me over and pins me under her. I forget, sometimes, how fierce she is.
"No?" she says, holding me down. "You don't really want to tell me no."
I forget, sometimes, how the weight of her body thrills me. "What do I want, Tory?"
Straddling me, she holds the cock and sinks down onto it. She leans forward to lick my ear, and I feel her breath stuttering. "You want me to tell you yes," she says. Then she pushes upright, cups her breasts and rides me. "Yes," she says. The dildo churns inside me, to the rhythm of her hips. "Frak, yes," she says. "Laura."
She's close, luminous and shaking. It's true: there's nothing I want more than to watch her come. I wedge my fingers between us, curling them against the slip-slide of her clit. She goes rigid, claps a hand over her mouth to catch the scream. Almost gone myself, I reach up and squeeze her throat. "Look at me," I say. Her gaze is searing. Choking and trembling, she's pure life, and I want to leech her into me. I know she'd take the cancer from me, if she could.
When she's spent, she falls prone on top of me, pillowed by my shoulder. "Ask me another question," she says.
I cross my arms over her back, holding her. "Will I see Earth before I die?"
She picks up her head and kisses me. She kisses my jaw, my collarbone, my sternum, my belly. She settles between my legs and kisses my hipbone. Then she looks up at me. "Yes," she says, and tugs the dildo till my cunt releases it.
Gods, I missed her mouth. The way she devours me, I don't feel empty, but she fills me with her fingers anyway. The first time, cramped in a cot like this one, she slayed me with this hunger and precision. Her mouth resurrects me.
If I close my eyes, the visions swirl out of the darkness. I prop myself on my elbows to watch her, and try to steer her face with my hips.
She stops to press me back down, palm over my heart. "Hold still," she says. "Trust me."
I shouldn't trust her. I shouldn't be here, in this fantasy, with her. I shouldn't close my eyes, but I do. I lay back, supine on the opera's grand staircase, and let her take me. Anchored on her tongue and fingers, I can inhabit this place without running. The pleasure is too captivating to escape.
I shouldn't come. Tonight, I don't give a frak what I shouldn't do.
I don't realize I'd slept until her caresses wake me. I wasn't dreaming. She's walking her fingers up the ladder of my ribs to my armpit, where I'm ticklish. She's nestled half on top of me, and I turn my head to look at her.
"If I needed you to kill me," I say, "could you do it?"
Her hand stills on my skin. "No," she says. Our hair is intermingled on the pillow, like a tapestry. She inhales. "Could you? Kill me, if you had to?"
I trace her lips, her brow, her cheekbones. I forget, sometimes, how beautiful she is.
"Yes," I say. "I think I could."
Prompt: Roslin/Tory, recognition
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: through "Crossroads"
A/N: titles from Ovid's Metamorphoses (1717 translation, Pallas=Athena). I have a thesaurus addiction, as you may have noticed; I banned myself from the thesaurus while writing this fic. It helped. mandysbitch, my rock, did the rest.
Summary: OTP 2.0 in 5 PWPs
[ i. one at the loom | ii. the web is ty'd | iii. with nimble flight the shuttles play | iv. then threads of gold | v. still by constant weaving ]
I shouldn't have bothered her. I shouldn't have wanted her. I shouldn't have dreamt of her.
I shouldn't be undoing my shirt while she watches, licking my fingers and painting a shine on the curve of my breast.
I shouldn't be an I. But some days, desire eats at me worse than the cancer. Some days, the way this girl stares is the only reminder that I'm still human.
Some days, I hate her for it. Tonight, I love the way she looks at me, like my body is a delicacy and not a disease.
"Tory," I say. She raises her eyes from the stripe of skin bared by my open buttons. "If you're done using it, give it to me." One hand makes a fist, but with the other she holds out the sex toy. The heft of the metal is tantalizing. I slip out of my pants slowly, a striptease, watching her face as my hips, my thighs, my knees come into view. When I kick them aside, I'm naked except for the oversized shirt I wore to bed.
It was the damn dreams that woke me. They're worse since I increased the chamalla, since Baltar was acquitted, since Starbuck was reborn. I sleep when I have to; otherwise I barricade myself in work. Tory keeps vigil with me, mostly, napping on the office couch. It was too quiet when I sent her home. I fled back to consciousness from the opera house, sweating and trembling, disoriented in the bedroom hush. When she's in the office, I can hear her breathing through the curtain.
I shouldn't have gone to her room. She likes to tell me that terminal illness earns me some indulgences. She likes to do what she can to help me sleep. I don't think she knew that I look in on her to calm myself. Her quarters are little more than a cubicle with a cot; it's easy enough to peek around the partition. I didn't expect her to be awake.
The makeshift door scraped on the carpet. When I leaned into the gap, she was scrambling to cover herself: pushing down her nightshirt, pulling up the sheet. If I hadn't seen the dildo before she tossed the bedding over it, I would have retreated, mortified. I recognized the dildo. Galactica's sex toy exchange tends to pass through Kara.
I stepped into the room. "Don't let me interrupt."
Tory was flushed with embarrassment.
"You must be happy your girlfriend's back," I said. "Starbuck doesn't make those available to just anyone."
Tory crossed her arms. She was angry. Angry is appealing on her. "I frakked her once," she said. "And not that it's any of your business, Laura, but she's not the only one."
"That was a hell of a frak, I imagine."
Tory wet her lips. "You would know."
Now I was angry. "If you're not going to finish," I said, "you won't mind if I take a turn."
If I close my eyes while I strip, I could be onstage at the opera, lights blinding me to the faces in the audience (Caprica and Athena? Kara and Tory?). In the dreams, I sometimes think I glimpse Tory (dark hair rounding a corner, just beyond my field of vision). I always wake then, before I can catch her.
I don't close my eyes. I keep them on her as I move the chair to face her, sit down with my legs spread. Tonight, I'm alive. I can feel the pulse in my cunt when I part the lips with my fingers; it's been weeks since even I touched myself there. I arch my back and the shirt falls to expose one of my nipples. Tory squirms on the bed, rubs her bare leg.
I pick up the dildo, trace the double shafts, test the bend in the rubber hinge. The giving end is ovoidal, tapered like a fist. I hiss when I push it inside me, muscles out of practice. Tory bunches her fingers in the sheet. Her gaze is hot on my skin.
"Oh," I say, rolling my hips. The bulb hits me just right. "I see why Kara likes this."
Tory makes a strangled noise and then she's on me, kissing me, groping my breasts and the cock. Gods, I missed her mouth. Her desperate tongue opens me more than the toy does.
She bites my neck and squeezes my nipple. She pumps the cock against my clit. "I was thinking about you," she says. "When I was frakking myself. Not anyone else."
I run my hands up her spine, hard enough to feel the friction between us. She lifts her arms so I can pull the shift over her head. She's perfect, nude, curved and burnished. I want to mark her. I shouldn't frak her. I shouldn't care who she fraks. I shouldn't remember how to be a woman, not now. Tory reminds me.
I take handfuls of her ass and pull her closer, warm and solid and real. The dildo is pinned between us, and she grinds against the ridge, fingers tangled in my hair, nipples tracing patterns on my chest. "Please," she says. I try not to imagine the ways she could finish that sentence.
"How wet are you?" Her throat tastes salty. She reaches for my wrist, drawing my hand between her legs. "No," I say. "I want you to show me. Show me what you were doing when I walked in on you."
She groans, but clambers off me when I nudge her hips. Splayed on the cot, she mirrors me, legs open and hand between them. I palm the dildo, holding it against me. She dips two fingertips inside her, and spreads her lips so I can see her glistening center. She slides the fingers up until they frame her clit. She whimpers, and never stops looking at me.
"I know how you like to watch me," she says, stroking herself in circles. "Are you going to spend the rest of your life watching? Or are you going to take what you frakking want, for once?"
In the dreams, she's always just out of focus, just out of reach. Here, she's all presence and flesh. "Turn over," I say.
I kneel behind her on the mattress. From what I know of the mechanics, the position will be easiest to finesse. And I've always loved this view: the cello of her back, the peach of her ass, her cunt a juicy bite mark. On her knees and elbows, she tilts her hips toward me, pleading. I haven't touched her yet. I put one hand on her thigh, digging into the muscle. With the other, I aim the cock, tip poised to enter her.
"Hold still," I say. I can hear her breathing, fast and shallow. I lean into her, and the cock comes with me, inch by inch. It's like sorcery: in, and the vee presses on my clit; out, and the egg rocks against me. When I move, we gasp in tandem.
"It's not a good quality in an assistant, being so desirable." I move faster; she moans louder. "It's inappropriate. It's dangerous." I grab a fistful of her hair, arching her into me.
"Please," she says. "Can I touch myself?" Her voice is hoarse.
"Can you be less distracting, less reckless? No, I don't think so." Tonight, she's mine.
I don't expect her to disobey. She pulls away without warning, flips me over and pins me under her. I forget, sometimes, how fierce she is.
"No?" she says, holding me down. "You don't really want to tell me no."
I forget, sometimes, how the weight of her body thrills me. "What do I want, Tory?"
Straddling me, she holds the cock and sinks down onto it. She leans forward to lick my ear, and I feel her breath stuttering. "You want me to tell you yes," she says. Then she pushes upright, cups her breasts and rides me. "Yes," she says. The dildo churns inside me, to the rhythm of her hips. "Frak, yes," she says. "Laura."
She's close, luminous and shaking. It's true: there's nothing I want more than to watch her come. I wedge my fingers between us, curling them against the slip-slide of her clit. She goes rigid, claps a hand over her mouth to catch the scream. Almost gone myself, I reach up and squeeze her throat. "Look at me," I say. Her gaze is searing. Choking and trembling, she's pure life, and I want to leech her into me. I know she'd take the cancer from me, if she could.
When she's spent, she falls prone on top of me, pillowed by my shoulder. "Ask me another question," she says.
I cross my arms over her back, holding her. "Will I see Earth before I die?"
She picks up her head and kisses me. She kisses my jaw, my collarbone, my sternum, my belly. She settles between my legs and kisses my hipbone. Then she looks up at me. "Yes," she says, and tugs the dildo till my cunt releases it.
Gods, I missed her mouth. The way she devours me, I don't feel empty, but she fills me with her fingers anyway. The first time, cramped in a cot like this one, she slayed me with this hunger and precision. Her mouth resurrects me.
If I close my eyes, the visions swirl out of the darkness. I prop myself on my elbows to watch her, and try to steer her face with my hips.
She stops to press me back down, palm over my heart. "Hold still," she says. "Trust me."
I shouldn't trust her. I shouldn't be here, in this fantasy, with her. I shouldn't close my eyes, but I do. I lay back, supine on the opera's grand staircase, and let her take me. Anchored on her tongue and fingers, I can inhabit this place without running. The pleasure is too captivating to escape.
I shouldn't come. Tonight, I don't give a frak what I shouldn't do.
I don't realize I'd slept until her caresses wake me. I wasn't dreaming. She's walking her fingers up the ladder of my ribs to my armpit, where I'm ticklish. She's nestled half on top of me, and I turn my head to look at her.
"If I needed you to kill me," I say, "could you do it?"
Her hand stills on my skin. "No," she says. Our hair is intermingled on the pillow, like a tapestry. She inhales. "Could you? Kill me, if you had to?"
I trace her lips, her brow, her cheekbones. I forget, sometimes, how beautiful she is.
"Yes," I say. "I think I could."