fic: BSG/Blakes 7: power became my lover
Title: power became my lover
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003) /Blake's 7
Pairing: Laura Roslin/Servalan
Rating: R
NB: possible dubcon
A/N: sabinelagrande, the Hedonism Bot and I apologize for nothing. ;)
Disclaimers: This isn't for profit, just for fun and the thrill of a middle-of-the-night smutfic. Laura Roslin belongs to RDM, David Eick, Sci-Fi, NBC Universal and their various subsidiaries. Servalan belongs to Terry Nation and the BBC. Title from a line in the B7 episode, "Sand."
Laura is sitting by the window when Servalan enters her room, a welcome distraction from the boredom of her afternoon.
In the few months that Laura has been on Earth, she has learned that the Federation President doesn't simply walk into a room. She stalks, but she does it carefully, quietly, with every step a study in graceful malevolence. Servalan often reminds Laura of the Sixes. She has that same perfect combination of power and beauty, and she moves like she has more power in one little finger than the whole of the Colonial and Federation forces combined.
From where she's standing, Laura isn't sure that's not so.
They hadn't been on Earth a week before Servalan had her naked against a wall in her office, moaning, her legs shaking from the sudden shock of orgasm. Laura has always been attracted to power. It drew her to Richard, it drew her to Bill, and now it has drawn her to Servalan. Her time with Servalan has been the most dangerous flirtation she has ever had with power, startling in its intensity and nearly overwhelming in its focus. She's never wanted anyone more.
Across the room, Servalan removes a gun that has been hidden away somewhere in the filmy material of her dress. "I really should kill you," Servalan says casually, caressing the barrel of the gun with a tenderness that both frightens and thrills Laura.
"I agree," Laura tells her, reaching up to adjust her glasses. Her heart is pounding, but it's not from fear. "I would have given the same order myself, a few years ago."
"I don't doubt that," Servalan drawls, and every syllable that falls from her lips seems to beat in time with the pulsing of the blood in Laura's clit. She walks toward Laura, smiling slowly, and it occurs to Laura that the curve of her smile contains the end of the world. "I envy you, you know. That airlock. How terribly convenient."
"It had its uses," Laura agrees. Servalan is so close to her now that if Laura inhales too deeply her breasts will brush against the other woman. She takes a deep breath. Servalan's smile widens. "So what are you going to do about me today?"
"Today? You're going to let me do whatever I'd like, I think," Servalan says, and Laura groans with sudden relief when Servalan grabs her suit jacket and pulls the two of them together.
Laura has no desire to disobey. After all these years of giving orders, it is incredibly liberating to take them, to drown the worries of the last few terrible years in the rising tide of lust that sweeps through her as Servalan's lips meet her own. Their bodies slide together, and Laura sighs when the beaded bodice of Servalan's gown presses against her breasts, teasing her nipples even through the layers of fabric that separate them from Servalan's touch.
"So you are taking orders, then," Servalan murmurs, and it is not a question, but Laura answers.
"Yes, Madam President," she says, just enough of her own Presidential authority in her voice to make Servalan laugh before she reaches down and pulls Laura's skirt up, dragging her nails against Laura's thigh as she does. "Oh, gods."
"On the desk," Servalan orders, motioning with the gun, and Laura complies immediately, sliding back onto the smooth surface of the desk, her legs parting automatically in a silent plea that she does not expect Servalan to answer so quickly. The gun is tucked away and Laura's underwear is at her ankles and across the room in one swift motion of Servalan's hand, and Laura shudders with pleasure when Servalan's tongue journeys from her knee to her inner thigh, caressing the lines that her fingernails had made. Before Laura can speak, Servalan's mouth is against her, sucking greedily at Laura's clit until the whole world is reduced to nothing but the silky feel of Servalan's lips and her own gasping breath.
"If this is the death you had in mind for me," Laura breathes, gripping the edge of the desk as Servalan pulls away and the world slowly comes back into focus, "I can't say I would complain."
"Oh, Laura. I haven't killed you," Servalan says, pressing her lips to Laura's forehead. "Yet."
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003) /Blake's 7
Pairing: Laura Roslin/Servalan
Rating: R
NB: possible dubcon
A/N: sabinelagrande, the Hedonism Bot and I apologize for nothing. ;)
Disclaimers: This isn't for profit, just for fun and the thrill of a middle-of-the-night smutfic. Laura Roslin belongs to RDM, David Eick, Sci-Fi, NBC Universal and their various subsidiaries. Servalan belongs to Terry Nation and the BBC. Title from a line in the B7 episode, "Sand."
Laura is sitting by the window when Servalan enters her room, a welcome distraction from the boredom of her afternoon.
In the few months that Laura has been on Earth, she has learned that the Federation President doesn't simply walk into a room. She stalks, but she does it carefully, quietly, with every step a study in graceful malevolence. Servalan often reminds Laura of the Sixes. She has that same perfect combination of power and beauty, and she moves like she has more power in one little finger than the whole of the Colonial and Federation forces combined.
From where she's standing, Laura isn't sure that's not so.
They hadn't been on Earth a week before Servalan had her naked against a wall in her office, moaning, her legs shaking from the sudden shock of orgasm. Laura has always been attracted to power. It drew her to Richard, it drew her to Bill, and now it has drawn her to Servalan. Her time with Servalan has been the most dangerous flirtation she has ever had with power, startling in its intensity and nearly overwhelming in its focus. She's never wanted anyone more.
Across the room, Servalan removes a gun that has been hidden away somewhere in the filmy material of her dress. "I really should kill you," Servalan says casually, caressing the barrel of the gun with a tenderness that both frightens and thrills Laura.
"I agree," Laura tells her, reaching up to adjust her glasses. Her heart is pounding, but it's not from fear. "I would have given the same order myself, a few years ago."
"I don't doubt that," Servalan drawls, and every syllable that falls from her lips seems to beat in time with the pulsing of the blood in Laura's clit. She walks toward Laura, smiling slowly, and it occurs to Laura that the curve of her smile contains the end of the world. "I envy you, you know. That airlock. How terribly convenient."
"It had its uses," Laura agrees. Servalan is so close to her now that if Laura inhales too deeply her breasts will brush against the other woman. She takes a deep breath. Servalan's smile widens. "So what are you going to do about me today?"
"Today? You're going to let me do whatever I'd like, I think," Servalan says, and Laura groans with sudden relief when Servalan grabs her suit jacket and pulls the two of them together.
Laura has no desire to disobey. After all these years of giving orders, it is incredibly liberating to take them, to drown the worries of the last few terrible years in the rising tide of lust that sweeps through her as Servalan's lips meet her own. Their bodies slide together, and Laura sighs when the beaded bodice of Servalan's gown presses against her breasts, teasing her nipples even through the layers of fabric that separate them from Servalan's touch.
"So you are taking orders, then," Servalan murmurs, and it is not a question, but Laura answers.
"Yes, Madam President," she says, just enough of her own Presidential authority in her voice to make Servalan laugh before she reaches down and pulls Laura's skirt up, dragging her nails against Laura's thigh as she does. "Oh, gods."
"On the desk," Servalan orders, motioning with the gun, and Laura complies immediately, sliding back onto the smooth surface of the desk, her legs parting automatically in a silent plea that she does not expect Servalan to answer so quickly. The gun is tucked away and Laura's underwear is at her ankles and across the room in one swift motion of Servalan's hand, and Laura shudders with pleasure when Servalan's tongue journeys from her knee to her inner thigh, caressing the lines that her fingernails had made. Before Laura can speak, Servalan's mouth is against her, sucking greedily at Laura's clit until the whole world is reduced to nothing but the silky feel of Servalan's lips and her own gasping breath.
"If this is the death you had in mind for me," Laura breathes, gripping the edge of the desk as Servalan pulls away and the world slowly comes back into focus, "I can't say I would complain."
"Oh, Laura. I haven't killed you," Servalan says, pressing her lips to Laura's forehead. "Yet."