a tiger is a tiger (not a lamb)
Title: a tiger is a tiger (not a lamb)
Date posted: 01-12-10
Fandom: BSG
Disclaimer: The characters involved belong to NBC and Universal. Which is probably a good thing.
Notes: Written for bsg_pornbattle, for crossover (Mad Men), Caprica/Joan Harris, silk stockings, silence. Very much inspired by nicole_anell's fic.
"Does Mr Sterling know he's in love with you?" Caprica has learned that with what they're paying, they're allowed to say whatever they want and they'll be indulged with a laugh or a response.
Joan rewards her with the former. "My, but fortune favors the bold, doesn't it?" She's taken to supervising the Sixes- or, as she calls them, the girls- before shoots, so they don't look tawdry. Tawdry is the word Joan had used, and she had explained in a matter-of-fact way that when girls are too pretty, as they are, there is a fine line between good taste and, she minced out with lips pursed with distaste, vulgarity. There are other women on set to safeguard them from this, but none are as specific as Joan. She knows everything. "Mr Sterling is married," she says, her voice sweet but meaning acidic, and she adjusts the drape of Caprica's string of pearls. Her hands are smooth and cool. "That means that he's in love with someone else, just like I am."
This shoot is of the Sixes playing sports, put in sprightly tennis whites or modest blue bathing suits and told to look fun and flirty and above all, "healthy and All-American," as Mr Draper said. He drinks more than he should, Caprica's noticed, and when the partners took her to dinner he was without an escort. Mr Sterling's wife Jane is young and has all of Joan's attitude with none of her charm. Or beauty, if Caprica's being honest- Jane is pretty but ordinary, whereas Joan is all fire and gleam.
Her sisters are being herded onto the set, where beach balls and tennis rackets are strewn about, waiting for six pairs of identical hands to pose with them. Caprica hasn't responded to Joan's lie- she knows that Mr Sterling is in love with Joan by the way he speaks to his wife, and the way he looks at Mrs Harris- but instead meets Joan's eyes in the mirror in understanding. It is one thing to move on, it another for someone to move on from you. She poses with tennis equipment and tall glasses of lemonade, her smile all joy and no threat, and watches Joan monitor them from the sidelines.
Joan does not believe in bringing her professional life home, but when Caprica calls on her, she can hardly refuse to let her in. Their account is worth millions, and Joan knows her place. Her apartment is not as nice as the one Caprica shares with her sisters on the upper East side, but it's clean and well-furnished and it belongs to Joan and Joan alone. "Would you like any refreshments?" Joan asks, acting as though the apartment is full of guests and not just Caprica alone on the sofa, spring-like in butter yellow and pale blue. Joan, she imagines, would taste like the fine cognac Mr Sterling had recommended when she had made it clear that she wouldn't be drinking the more feminine sherry. Joan had told Caprica- in a sly, instructive way- on more than one occasion that she mustn't be so bold. "Men like women who are powerful, but not more powerful than they are." Caprica liked that Joan explained this to her as if she didn't know, as though unfamiliarity with the ways of Earth meant unfamiliarity with the opposite sex. She liked that Joan was so eager to explain it, as she was everything.
She shakes her head and lets Joan move around the apartment that she is so lucky to have and fiddle with the ring that she worked so hard to get. She sits a respectable distance away on the couch, and looks at Caprica in a maternal way. "Now," she says, her hands smoothing over her skirt and eyes wide with sympathy, "what's this all about?"
She imagines telling Joan about Gaius, and the stern talking-to that would earn her, or about how differently each of her sisters is handling this new home, which would only garner polite disinterest and a reminder of how in company, one shouldn't monopolize the conversation. She wants most to tell Joan how she is meant for so much more than a husband overseas and a job where she can only instruct from the sidelines. She wants to tell Joan that she's perfect.
Caprica makes up a story that's just enough to keep Joan interested and sympathetic without boring her, and they talk so late and long that Joan says only people of ill repute would be out. She only raises an eyebrow when she walks in on Caprica changing into one of her nighties- the arms above her head and breasts exposed, stockings and garters still in place. "Let me," Joan says, "Or you'll just make a mess of it." Her fingers are exquisite as she rolls the stockings down Caprica's legs, putting them to the side, and Caprica's breath hitches slightly when she takes care of the garter belt as well. "No one talks about these sorts of things," Joan says firmly, and Caprica nods dizzily, and pulls Joan up to kiss her.
Date posted: 01-12-10
Fandom: BSG
Disclaimer: The characters involved belong to NBC and Universal. Which is probably a good thing.
Notes: Written for bsg_pornbattle, for crossover (Mad Men), Caprica/Joan Harris, silk stockings, silence. Very much inspired by nicole_anell's fic.
"Does Mr Sterling know he's in love with you?" Caprica has learned that with what they're paying, they're allowed to say whatever they want and they'll be indulged with a laugh or a response.
Joan rewards her with the former. "My, but fortune favors the bold, doesn't it?" She's taken to supervising the Sixes- or, as she calls them, the girls- before shoots, so they don't look tawdry. Tawdry is the word Joan had used, and she had explained in a matter-of-fact way that when girls are too pretty, as they are, there is a fine line between good taste and, she minced out with lips pursed with distaste, vulgarity. There are other women on set to safeguard them from this, but none are as specific as Joan. She knows everything. "Mr Sterling is married," she says, her voice sweet but meaning acidic, and she adjusts the drape of Caprica's string of pearls. Her hands are smooth and cool. "That means that he's in love with someone else, just like I am."
This shoot is of the Sixes playing sports, put in sprightly tennis whites or modest blue bathing suits and told to look fun and flirty and above all, "healthy and All-American," as Mr Draper said. He drinks more than he should, Caprica's noticed, and when the partners took her to dinner he was without an escort. Mr Sterling's wife Jane is young and has all of Joan's attitude with none of her charm. Or beauty, if Caprica's being honest- Jane is pretty but ordinary, whereas Joan is all fire and gleam.
Her sisters are being herded onto the set, where beach balls and tennis rackets are strewn about, waiting for six pairs of identical hands to pose with them. Caprica hasn't responded to Joan's lie- she knows that Mr Sterling is in love with Joan by the way he speaks to his wife, and the way he looks at Mrs Harris- but instead meets Joan's eyes in the mirror in understanding. It is one thing to move on, it another for someone to move on from you. She poses with tennis equipment and tall glasses of lemonade, her smile all joy and no threat, and watches Joan monitor them from the sidelines.
Joan does not believe in bringing her professional life home, but when Caprica calls on her, she can hardly refuse to let her in. Their account is worth millions, and Joan knows her place. Her apartment is not as nice as the one Caprica shares with her sisters on the upper East side, but it's clean and well-furnished and it belongs to Joan and Joan alone. "Would you like any refreshments?" Joan asks, acting as though the apartment is full of guests and not just Caprica alone on the sofa, spring-like in butter yellow and pale blue. Joan, she imagines, would taste like the fine cognac Mr Sterling had recommended when she had made it clear that she wouldn't be drinking the more feminine sherry. Joan had told Caprica- in a sly, instructive way- on more than one occasion that she mustn't be so bold. "Men like women who are powerful, but not more powerful than they are." Caprica liked that Joan explained this to her as if she didn't know, as though unfamiliarity with the ways of Earth meant unfamiliarity with the opposite sex. She liked that Joan was so eager to explain it, as she was everything.
She shakes her head and lets Joan move around the apartment that she is so lucky to have and fiddle with the ring that she worked so hard to get. She sits a respectable distance away on the couch, and looks at Caprica in a maternal way. "Now," she says, her hands smoothing over her skirt and eyes wide with sympathy, "what's this all about?"
She imagines telling Joan about Gaius, and the stern talking-to that would earn her, or about how differently each of her sisters is handling this new home, which would only garner polite disinterest and a reminder of how in company, one shouldn't monopolize the conversation. She wants most to tell Joan how she is meant for so much more than a husband overseas and a job where she can only instruct from the sidelines. She wants to tell Joan that she's perfect.
Caprica makes up a story that's just enough to keep Joan interested and sympathetic without boring her, and they talk so late and long that Joan says only people of ill repute would be out. She only raises an eyebrow when she walks in on Caprica changing into one of her nighties- the arms above her head and breasts exposed, stockings and garters still in place. "Let me," Joan says, "Or you'll just make a mess of it." Her fingers are exquisite as she rolls the stockings down Caprica's legs, putting them to the side, and Caprica's breath hitches slightly when she takes care of the garter belt as well. "No one talks about these sorts of things," Joan says firmly, and Caprica nods dizzily, and pulls Joan up to kiss her.