Heroes: Drink Up (Angela/Victoria | M | 900w)
[ Angela/Victoria | M | 900w | 2007-12-17 ]
Victoria was always pushing Angela.
Author’s Notes: This was originally going to be a response to the prompt memories for this porn paragraph thing, but, um, it got so long it wouldn't fit in a comment. My drabble-fu, it is broken!
Drink Up
There was a time that Victoria could mix a martini with just her left hand and a toothpick between her teeth to lean down and scoop up the olive from the tray just next to the glass.
It was a memory she had no trouble re-visiting when the nights got cold.
*
She loved to practice this little gem she learned from her bad-influence older brother in only her bra and panties when Arthur was away on one of his many business trips, waltzing all around the Petrelli mansion like she owned it. Angela watched her with a little disdain, mouth pursed at the corners, as if the trick were too tawdry to be withstood, but Victoria just laughed too loudly and straddled her fine silken skirts, refusing to let Angela get through their afternoons unrumpled and untouched. She couldn't abide the prim tilt of the chin or the twitch at the corner of Angela's mouth like the laughter was only being held in by the most delicate restraint.
She ground down on Angela, mixer in one hand and glass in the other, arching her back so her bra strained until she got a response, until Angela's firm and steady hands came up to free her chest from the strain, thumbs tweaking nipples and hips rising up to match Victoria's rhythmic insistence.
"Give me the mixer," she commanded, and Victoria opened her eyes, mouth parted as she struggled to keep her breathing even, handing it over silently. Angela took the metal by its base, showing no sign of reaction to the intense cold of the ice. She smirked, a infinitesimal curve of her lips, slipping her hand into the small of Victoria's back and leaning forward, quickly pressing the ice-cold metal to Victoria's breast, rolling it so fast that it barely touched, leaving a cold burning trail in its wake.
"Bitch," Victoria hissed, but it had no venom, just a groveling undertone that was emphasized by the bucking of her hips as Angela deftly rolled the mixer to her other breast, lingering just a bit longer.
Then she threw the mixer to the side. "Now the drink." When Victoria held it out for her, she plucked the olive out, dangling it in front of Victoria's lips, raising her eyebrows as she watched Victoria suck on it at length before chewing. Then she took the glass between two fingers, ever the socialite hostess, and, hand going farther down Victoria's spine, pulling them closer together like she was trying to prevent escape, she placed the corner of the glass to Victoria's collarbone, poured the martini all down her chest.
"God... you..." Victoria couldn't come up with a word good enough for Angela Petrelli, nothing that would fully embody the pure frustration and needing that came from being in the woman's radius, the combination of impotent rage at her disgusting confidence that she could do whatever she wanted and the grudging knowledge that she, in fact, could.
Victoria didn't have long to linger on the shortcoming, though, as Angela licked stripes down her skin, tracing slow and deliberate swirls in the alcohol and paying special attention to the skin she'd just cooled, warming it with her mouth, alternating tender and hard bites.
"Mmm, dry. Just the way I like it," she said as a preface to biting down on Victoria's neck and bluntly shoving her hand into Victoria's panties, middle finger immediately finding slickness, sliding down hard and too fast, but not really too fast, because it got Victoria crying out, moaning into it, rising up to meet it. And then, oh, fuck, Angela's finger curved and wrapped, thumb taking its place, friction all over, rough and messy and not at all calculated like most of her moves.
"When I tell you, you're going to come," she said, voice deceptively calm in Victoria's ear. "Not a second sooner."
Victoria bit her lip, nodding, beyond anger or indignation now and into pure wanting, ready to beg if that's what it took, as long as Angela didn't stop touching her, didn't stop giving her this.
"You're getting there," Angela said, tweaking her thumb, adding another finger down below, and even just the sound of her inside Victoria was enough to get her closer to the brink.
"Almost," Angela whispered, her breath starting to go ragged at the edges, hot on Victoria's ear, her hand working more frantically, deeper, rubbing at Victoria's clit so hard it was nearly painful, almost too much, but still just perfect.
Victoria nearly screamed in frustration when Angela leaned back, but it was just to adjust their positions, and she brought their faces together, foreheads pressed, and said, "now," before she kissed Victoria, biting at her lower lip and jerking three fingers inside of her. And it was too much, and just enough, and just the right spot, because Victoria unseamed from top to bottom, trembling to pieces all around Angela's rock-steady hand, crying out into her mouth and melting into her lap with the aftershocks.
*
To this day, all it took was the smell of olives to get her wet.
Victoria was always pushing Angela.
Author’s Notes: This was originally going to be a response to the prompt memories for this porn paragraph thing, but, um, it got so long it wouldn't fit in a comment. My drabble-fu, it is broken!
Drink Up
There was a time that Victoria could mix a martini with just her left hand and a toothpick between her teeth to lean down and scoop up the olive from the tray just next to the glass.
It was a memory she had no trouble re-visiting when the nights got cold.
*
She loved to practice this little gem she learned from her bad-influence older brother in only her bra and panties when Arthur was away on one of his many business trips, waltzing all around the Petrelli mansion like she owned it. Angela watched her with a little disdain, mouth pursed at the corners, as if the trick were too tawdry to be withstood, but Victoria just laughed too loudly and straddled her fine silken skirts, refusing to let Angela get through their afternoons unrumpled and untouched. She couldn't abide the prim tilt of the chin or the twitch at the corner of Angela's mouth like the laughter was only being held in by the most delicate restraint.
She ground down on Angela, mixer in one hand and glass in the other, arching her back so her bra strained until she got a response, until Angela's firm and steady hands came up to free her chest from the strain, thumbs tweaking nipples and hips rising up to match Victoria's rhythmic insistence.
"Give me the mixer," she commanded, and Victoria opened her eyes, mouth parted as she struggled to keep her breathing even, handing it over silently. Angela took the metal by its base, showing no sign of reaction to the intense cold of the ice. She smirked, a infinitesimal curve of her lips, slipping her hand into the small of Victoria's back and leaning forward, quickly pressing the ice-cold metal to Victoria's breast, rolling it so fast that it barely touched, leaving a cold burning trail in its wake.
"Bitch," Victoria hissed, but it had no venom, just a groveling undertone that was emphasized by the bucking of her hips as Angela deftly rolled the mixer to her other breast, lingering just a bit longer.
Then she threw the mixer to the side. "Now the drink." When Victoria held it out for her, she plucked the olive out, dangling it in front of Victoria's lips, raising her eyebrows as she watched Victoria suck on it at length before chewing. Then she took the glass between two fingers, ever the socialite hostess, and, hand going farther down Victoria's spine, pulling them closer together like she was trying to prevent escape, she placed the corner of the glass to Victoria's collarbone, poured the martini all down her chest.
"God... you..." Victoria couldn't come up with a word good enough for Angela Petrelli, nothing that would fully embody the pure frustration and needing that came from being in the woman's radius, the combination of impotent rage at her disgusting confidence that she could do whatever she wanted and the grudging knowledge that she, in fact, could.
Victoria didn't have long to linger on the shortcoming, though, as Angela licked stripes down her skin, tracing slow and deliberate swirls in the alcohol and paying special attention to the skin she'd just cooled, warming it with her mouth, alternating tender and hard bites.
"Mmm, dry. Just the way I like it," she said as a preface to biting down on Victoria's neck and bluntly shoving her hand into Victoria's panties, middle finger immediately finding slickness, sliding down hard and too fast, but not really too fast, because it got Victoria crying out, moaning into it, rising up to meet it. And then, oh, fuck, Angela's finger curved and wrapped, thumb taking its place, friction all over, rough and messy and not at all calculated like most of her moves.
"When I tell you, you're going to come," she said, voice deceptively calm in Victoria's ear. "Not a second sooner."
Victoria bit her lip, nodding, beyond anger or indignation now and into pure wanting, ready to beg if that's what it took, as long as Angela didn't stop touching her, didn't stop giving her this.
"You're getting there," Angela said, tweaking her thumb, adding another finger down below, and even just the sound of her inside Victoria was enough to get her closer to the brink.
"Almost," Angela whispered, her breath starting to go ragged at the edges, hot on Victoria's ear, her hand working more frantically, deeper, rubbing at Victoria's clit so hard it was nearly painful, almost too much, but still just perfect.
Victoria nearly screamed in frustration when Angela leaned back, but it was just to adjust their positions, and she brought their faces together, foreheads pressed, and said, "now," before she kissed Victoria, biting at her lower lip and jerking three fingers inside of her. And it was too much, and just enough, and just the right spot, because Victoria unseamed from top to bottom, trembling to pieces all around Angela's rock-steady hand, crying out into her mouth and melting into her lap with the aftershocks.
*
To this day, all it took was the smell of olives to get her wet.