BSG || Laura/Six, Laura/Tory || Goddesses are Nipping at Our Heels
X-posted to bsg_femslash
Title: Goddesses are Nipping at Our Heels
Author: AsianScaper (frogfrizz)
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica, 2003
Pairing/s & Characters: Laura/Six, Laura/Tory, head!Gaius/Six and Laura/Maya if you squint
Spoilers: Seasons 2 to 3
Rating: NC-17, for all things naughty
Summary: Set during Season 3, Episode 14: The Woman, King. With the new prisoner on Galactica and the Saggitaron health problem, Laura and Tory are haunted by memories of New Caprica.
A/N: Dedicated to ana_khouri, runawaynun, missfoxie and pocketwitch for teaching me the finer points of smut and egging me on. An unbeta'ed work, all mistakes are mine. Thought I'd surprise the lot of you because you probably all know that thesis is killing me slowly. *snogs*
Feedback is appreciated; concrit is love. Smut is what happens when I'm trying to write a frakkin' abstract for my thesis.
Note: Eirene is one of the Greek Hours, namely Peace.
=-=-=-=-=-=
She possesses a province in her mind that she daren’t traverse, deep crevices hidden by a bed of honey-flowers, deep holes that harbor pools of happiness one could possibly drown in; heady with the scent, she picks up her pen and starts writing again.
Solitary in space, as most of them are in spite of the forty thousand or more of them stranded together, she feels banished to a mountain-top of empty ghosts as she mills around the burst of diplomats.
Scribbling in the president’s planner, Tory is reminded of this place. A shadow of the Caprican past and the high romances of the northern continents, symptoms of the breath-taking mountains covered with enough snow to dissuade settlers; there is a book of Eirene’s Garden tucked away in a safe corner.
Laura Roslin’s hand touches Tory’s shoulder, conveying her tiredness as Zarek looks steadily on.
The seditious voices aboard the Astral Queen have brought the Saggitarons to her doorstep; they are grilling Laura Roslin about wheat distribution, their sick ilk on the Galactica, and have left her with little space to defend her self. She looks at them, sympathy forcibly hedged between the crinkles around her eyes but the eyes themselves are blank.
It is not merely that she is tired. The Saggitaron problem aboard the Galactica has been brought to her attention. Reports are pregnant with death, suspicion. With Agathon’s name.
Tory almost always excludes the physical reports signed with Lt. Helo’s careful hand and tells Laura the abridged, painless version instead.
There are no safe corners in the fleet, Tory thinks, and is reminded of her book.
When the day tapers into a low, grateful hum, she falls asleep on a couch with Eirene’s Garden spread protectively over her chest.
*
She wakes and sees that the Colonial One has docked into Galactica. Allowing the grays outside the windows to wash over her, she blinks the sleep from her eyes, traverses the deck and discovers that Laura Roslin has snuck out without anyone knowing.
“Have you seen the President?” she asks Lieutenant Paulin.
“No, Ma’am. She should be asleep right now.”
She is most definitely not.
Tory begins her search at the Galactica’s officers’ deck, expecting to find her at Adama’s cave. She rounds a corner and almost immediately backs into a niche between two wall buttresses.
The drama unfolds before the hatch of someone else’ quarters. Not Adama’s.
There is a figure not unlike the long ladies of the Caprican mountain-folk, sheathed in the glow of frost, lifting a wraith-like hand, as though about to knock on the stone gates of the underworld. Her fist stops mid-way, pauses a moment as she bends her head forward. She is a layman in prayer, calling upon the gods and to memory.
Gods and Memory do not answer; the fist loosens to an outstretched palm, barely touching the metal hatch.
She leaves.
*
Every night for a week, it goes thus.
Sneaking from the comfortable practices of authority, red-haired Eirene takes the long walk; she pauses by the gates of the underworld, prays.
Then before the gates could open, or before her treacherous hands could knock, she leaves.
For a week, Tory follows her, convinced that they have entered a province with deep crevices covered by the rush of fragrant flowers.
During the day, Tory would pass the same hatch and it would open to a family with a child that Tory recognizes for her cherub face, her riot of dark curls, the garbled ‘Mama’ she uttered to two people on New Caprica and now gurgles to a Cylon whore.
Oh, the deep pools of happiness. How it must call to her, and Tory feels the sadness like weather on the peaks of Eirene’s mountains.
*
“Good to see you can make it,” Laura tells her, waving to a steaming mug of coffee that Tory declines. Laura takes it for herself, sleepiness washed down with a sip.
Tory nods towards the Six model. “Eaves-dropping, are we?”
“Always the case in these trying times. The means will always be justified when the fate of humanity is in your hands.”
They watch the exchange, one Cylon to another, and they wonder if they can trust anything that they see today. The enemy imprisoned, at their mercy, Athena with her many uses. Tory feels a little too good about the entire scenario when Athena leaves.
Six reaches out to an invisible person, stretches the empty air with her lips, and her hand begins a slow, enticing trek from her neck to her thigh.
They watch with blatant curiosity.
“What do you think she’s doing now?”
Tory’s reply sounds like air. “I don’t know.”
“Well, she’s talking to something or someone, and I’ve seen her do it before.” Laura cocks her head to the side, the coffee mug dangling in her hand. “Flush the guards out. I want to have her to myself.”
“Yes, Madame President.”
The warm flow of excitement makes the air about them vibrate and Tory feels the insidious moistness between her legs when Six reaches under her dress and begins to moan.
*
There are other means of extracting information from a prisoner and Laura does not hesitate to enter the cell, even as the prisoner is in the throes of an orgasm. Timelessly elegant, her blonde hair sampling the air as she tugs forward, eyes squeezing shut and utters a blasphemous, “Oh God. Do that again.”
Laura bends towards her and smiles when Six opens her eyes; the look is shock mixed with fear, snapped from the best of reveries nobody should have intruded upon. Or the look of when a stranger walks into the private love-making of mates.
Her eyes flicker to Laura’s left and suddenly, Laura is distinctly aware that someone is in the room with them.
*
Gaius seems miffed, pulled from his ministrations so abruptly but his smile returns when Six backs into the bed. Laura takes another step forward, putting a hand on Six’s chest, nearing the soft mound of her breast as though teetering upon the cliff of lust, and speaks.
“Why are you defecting?” Her voice is sand on leather, heat and sensuous liquidity.
Gaius whispers, “The answers she could give, this woman. Quite delectable. Very desirable.”
Six’s eyes widen. “Answers?” she asks him, and then remembers that she should be speaking to Laura Roslin. The President already seems more suspicious than ready to help, Gaius clicks his tongue in disapproval.
Six says more firmly. “Answers.”
“To what?”
“Humanity’s question.”
Quickly, “Whom were you speaking to just then?”
“An imaginary friend.”
“And friends that weren’t so imaginary? What would you do to them?” Laura asks.
The only other human friend Six has is Gaius.
Gaius in Caprica. Gaius in Kobol. Gaius on the Pegasus. Gaius on a basestar. Gaius in her head. There would be very little talking. It would be discarded clothes and frakking on every surface.
Six does not tell Laura this; instead, she grabs the hand on her chest and shoves it over her left breast, taking Laura’s neck and pulling the President’s lips to hers.
They are pliant, soft things and Six tastes the surprise there. Quite unlike the rough, impatient creatures of Baltar’s mouth. Too bad there is only the two of them, tasting each other, because Gaius slips into the shadows and watches.
Six realizes that it will be a slow drawing-out; Laura begins to slip the dress' strap off Six’s shoulder, her other hand rides up Six’s thigh as she sucks on the tongue the Cylon offers. There is fire on Six’s nipples, circular motions that scorch a pattern into her skin. A pattern that scratches all the way to her stomach. She arches towards Laura’s looming body, urges her to go lower, and lower until...
There, fingers navigate about her pubic bone, teasing in a roundabout manner on her abdomen, the start of her thighs as though knowing precisely where the destination is. But plays, and tantalizes, and finally squeezes her hip.
A finger rests on her clit, wetting itself with Six’s juices before playing her like a harp.
“Uh.” Six’s hands burn in the rampage of auburn hair; her mouth is moldable clay, and Six finds herself gasping, drowning in a pool of undeniable pleasure.
Before she could fully immerse herself, the hand stops and she whimpers.
“Tell me what I have to know,” Laura murmurs.
“That children want to be like their parents; I want to be human.”
“Quite a revelation for a Cylon to have, don’t you think?” Laura inserts a finger into her, rubbing her swollen nub with her thumb. Six could feel the rumblings of an eruption in her belly.
“Madame President,” she clings to Laura while she inserts another finger, goes in and out, “you’re going to have to learn t-that…” Laura inserts a third and a roiling mass of heavy, riotous clenching waits.
“That what?” Laura bites out, coaxing that increasing mass into a steady, uncontrollable roll.
“That the Cylons aren’t all that different from you.”
“How so?”
“We steal children, and claim them for our own.”
Laura hooks her fingers upward and feels Six’s vaginal walls begin to pulsate. “Frak you, you frakking monster.” She takes a fistful of hair and wrenches, even as Six cries out in the agony of pleasure, pain, and revelation. “Frak you!”
*
Tory remains transfixed at the sight before her, shaking from the aftermath, a hand inside her panties while the other supports her against a wall. Six has surrendered forms of propriety, Laura’s hands are buried under her dress and they both have simply ceased to move. Laura stares deep into the Cylon eyes.
“How illusory could happiness get?” Eirene whispers, taking her from behind as she slips a hand across Tory's stomach. Her fingers are glistening.
“Very,” Tory replies. She reaches for Eirene’s ass, grounds her own against the red-head.
“Another frak?”
Eirene has Laura’s voice. Laura’s hands. Laura’s lips, tongue, and mouth. They are all feasting in Eirene’s garden and Tory offers a resolute, “Yes, please.”
It isn’t long that Laura Roslin steps into the observation room with Tory writhing.
“I won’t ask,” Laura tells her. Tory straightens her clothes and reclaims her hand from her skirt.
“Don’t.” Tory nods to Six’s languid figure. “Don’t and I won’t ask either.”
But Eirene smiles menacingly, twirling Laura’s hair as she passes between them. Her fingers are still wet. “This won’t be the last time both of you will be looking for answers.”
“It would be nice if you shut up,” Tory says under her breath. “Or disappeared for a change.”
*
How fleeting is happiness, Tory asks. She knows when she stealthily follows the President to the hatch of Agathon’s quarters. It is deep into the night and nobody passes.
Laura takes a picture from her pocket, kisses it.
Tory knows the women in the picture; Laura has an exact copy in her desk, the same copy Tory handed her after her return to the presidency. Is the President crying? Perhaps, because Laura wraps a hand tightly around herself.
Eirene leans into Tory’s ear. “I would have wanted something more.”
“You always want something more,” Tory tells her. “And you took what you could on New Caprica: Maya, the child…”
“You can’t protect me forever, Tory. Not from the past, and the mistakes I’ve made.”
“I know.” Tory remembers all of Agathon’s written reports in her desk, the solitary report which saves Laura from at least some of the Saggitaron pestering. The one that speaks of the woman, King.
It is embellished with Agathon’s name.
She decides that it will be on Laura Roslin’s desk first thing in the morning. There will be no shorthand versions.
But they are already drowned in the pools, fallen into the deep crevices, smelling the flowers and the ice. They are trapped and frozen into fossils in the deep fissures of their pasts.
Someday, they will emerge from Eirene’s garden.
Someday, someday.
*
~Fin~
Title: Goddesses are Nipping at Our Heels
Author: AsianScaper (frogfrizz)
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica, 2003
Pairing/s & Characters: Laura/Six, Laura/Tory, head!Gaius/Six and Laura/Maya if you squint
Spoilers: Seasons 2 to 3
Rating: NC-17, for all things naughty
Summary: Set during Season 3, Episode 14: The Woman, King. With the new prisoner on Galactica and the Saggitaron health problem, Laura and Tory are haunted by memories of New Caprica.
A/N: Dedicated to ana_khouri, runawaynun, missfoxie and pocketwitch for teaching me the finer points of smut and egging me on. An unbeta'ed work, all mistakes are mine. Thought I'd surprise the lot of you because you probably all know that thesis is killing me slowly. *snogs*
Feedback is appreciated; concrit is love. Smut is what happens when I'm trying to write a frakkin' abstract for my thesis.
Note: Eirene is one of the Greek Hours, namely Peace.
=-=-=-=-=-=
She possesses a province in her mind that she daren’t traverse, deep crevices hidden by a bed of honey-flowers, deep holes that harbor pools of happiness one could possibly drown in; heady with the scent, she picks up her pen and starts writing again.
Solitary in space, as most of them are in spite of the forty thousand or more of them stranded together, she feels banished to a mountain-top of empty ghosts as she mills around the burst of diplomats.
Scribbling in the president’s planner, Tory is reminded of this place. A shadow of the Caprican past and the high romances of the northern continents, symptoms of the breath-taking mountains covered with enough snow to dissuade settlers; there is a book of Eirene’s Garden tucked away in a safe corner.
Laura Roslin’s hand touches Tory’s shoulder, conveying her tiredness as Zarek looks steadily on.
The seditious voices aboard the Astral Queen have brought the Saggitarons to her doorstep; they are grilling Laura Roslin about wheat distribution, their sick ilk on the Galactica, and have left her with little space to defend her self. She looks at them, sympathy forcibly hedged between the crinkles around her eyes but the eyes themselves are blank.
It is not merely that she is tired. The Saggitaron problem aboard the Galactica has been brought to her attention. Reports are pregnant with death, suspicion. With Agathon’s name.
Tory almost always excludes the physical reports signed with Lt. Helo’s careful hand and tells Laura the abridged, painless version instead.
There are no safe corners in the fleet, Tory thinks, and is reminded of her book.
When the day tapers into a low, grateful hum, she falls asleep on a couch with Eirene’s Garden spread protectively over her chest.
*
She wakes and sees that the Colonial One has docked into Galactica. Allowing the grays outside the windows to wash over her, she blinks the sleep from her eyes, traverses the deck and discovers that Laura Roslin has snuck out without anyone knowing.
“Have you seen the President?” she asks Lieutenant Paulin.
“No, Ma’am. She should be asleep right now.”
She is most definitely not.
Tory begins her search at the Galactica’s officers’ deck, expecting to find her at Adama’s cave. She rounds a corner and almost immediately backs into a niche between two wall buttresses.
The drama unfolds before the hatch of someone else’ quarters. Not Adama’s.
There is a figure not unlike the long ladies of the Caprican mountain-folk, sheathed in the glow of frost, lifting a wraith-like hand, as though about to knock on the stone gates of the underworld. Her fist stops mid-way, pauses a moment as she bends her head forward. She is a layman in prayer, calling upon the gods and to memory.
Gods and Memory do not answer; the fist loosens to an outstretched palm, barely touching the metal hatch.
She leaves.
*
Every night for a week, it goes thus.
Sneaking from the comfortable practices of authority, red-haired Eirene takes the long walk; she pauses by the gates of the underworld, prays.
Then before the gates could open, or before her treacherous hands could knock, she leaves.
For a week, Tory follows her, convinced that they have entered a province with deep crevices covered by the rush of fragrant flowers.
During the day, Tory would pass the same hatch and it would open to a family with a child that Tory recognizes for her cherub face, her riot of dark curls, the garbled ‘Mama’ she uttered to two people on New Caprica and now gurgles to a Cylon whore.
Oh, the deep pools of happiness. How it must call to her, and Tory feels the sadness like weather on the peaks of Eirene’s mountains.
*
“Good to see you can make it,” Laura tells her, waving to a steaming mug of coffee that Tory declines. Laura takes it for herself, sleepiness washed down with a sip.
Tory nods towards the Six model. “Eaves-dropping, are we?”
“Always the case in these trying times. The means will always be justified when the fate of humanity is in your hands.”
They watch the exchange, one Cylon to another, and they wonder if they can trust anything that they see today. The enemy imprisoned, at their mercy, Athena with her many uses. Tory feels a little too good about the entire scenario when Athena leaves.
Six reaches out to an invisible person, stretches the empty air with her lips, and her hand begins a slow, enticing trek from her neck to her thigh.
They watch with blatant curiosity.
“What do you think she’s doing now?”
Tory’s reply sounds like air. “I don’t know.”
“Well, she’s talking to something or someone, and I’ve seen her do it before.” Laura cocks her head to the side, the coffee mug dangling in her hand. “Flush the guards out. I want to have her to myself.”
“Yes, Madame President.”
The warm flow of excitement makes the air about them vibrate and Tory feels the insidious moistness between her legs when Six reaches under her dress and begins to moan.
*
There are other means of extracting information from a prisoner and Laura does not hesitate to enter the cell, even as the prisoner is in the throes of an orgasm. Timelessly elegant, her blonde hair sampling the air as she tugs forward, eyes squeezing shut and utters a blasphemous, “Oh God. Do that again.”
Laura bends towards her and smiles when Six opens her eyes; the look is shock mixed with fear, snapped from the best of reveries nobody should have intruded upon. Or the look of when a stranger walks into the private love-making of mates.
Her eyes flicker to Laura’s left and suddenly, Laura is distinctly aware that someone is in the room with them.
*
Gaius seems miffed, pulled from his ministrations so abruptly but his smile returns when Six backs into the bed. Laura takes another step forward, putting a hand on Six’s chest, nearing the soft mound of her breast as though teetering upon the cliff of lust, and speaks.
“Why are you defecting?” Her voice is sand on leather, heat and sensuous liquidity.
Gaius whispers, “The answers she could give, this woman. Quite delectable. Very desirable.”
Six’s eyes widen. “Answers?” she asks him, and then remembers that she should be speaking to Laura Roslin. The President already seems more suspicious than ready to help, Gaius clicks his tongue in disapproval.
Six says more firmly. “Answers.”
“To what?”
“Humanity’s question.”
Quickly, “Whom were you speaking to just then?”
“An imaginary friend.”
“And friends that weren’t so imaginary? What would you do to them?” Laura asks.
The only other human friend Six has is Gaius.
Gaius in Caprica. Gaius in Kobol. Gaius on the Pegasus. Gaius on a basestar. Gaius in her head. There would be very little talking. It would be discarded clothes and frakking on every surface.
Six does not tell Laura this; instead, she grabs the hand on her chest and shoves it over her left breast, taking Laura’s neck and pulling the President’s lips to hers.
They are pliant, soft things and Six tastes the surprise there. Quite unlike the rough, impatient creatures of Baltar’s mouth. Too bad there is only the two of them, tasting each other, because Gaius slips into the shadows and watches.
Six realizes that it will be a slow drawing-out; Laura begins to slip the dress' strap off Six’s shoulder, her other hand rides up Six’s thigh as she sucks on the tongue the Cylon offers. There is fire on Six’s nipples, circular motions that scorch a pattern into her skin. A pattern that scratches all the way to her stomach. She arches towards Laura’s looming body, urges her to go lower, and lower until...
There, fingers navigate about her pubic bone, teasing in a roundabout manner on her abdomen, the start of her thighs as though knowing precisely where the destination is. But plays, and tantalizes, and finally squeezes her hip.
A finger rests on her clit, wetting itself with Six’s juices before playing her like a harp.
“Uh.” Six’s hands burn in the rampage of auburn hair; her mouth is moldable clay, and Six finds herself gasping, drowning in a pool of undeniable pleasure.
Before she could fully immerse herself, the hand stops and she whimpers.
“Tell me what I have to know,” Laura murmurs.
“That children want to be like their parents; I want to be human.”
“Quite a revelation for a Cylon to have, don’t you think?” Laura inserts a finger into her, rubbing her swollen nub with her thumb. Six could feel the rumblings of an eruption in her belly.
“Madame President,” she clings to Laura while she inserts another finger, goes in and out, “you’re going to have to learn t-that…” Laura inserts a third and a roiling mass of heavy, riotous clenching waits.
“That what?” Laura bites out, coaxing that increasing mass into a steady, uncontrollable roll.
“That the Cylons aren’t all that different from you.”
“How so?”
“We steal children, and claim them for our own.”
Laura hooks her fingers upward and feels Six’s vaginal walls begin to pulsate. “Frak you, you frakking monster.” She takes a fistful of hair and wrenches, even as Six cries out in the agony of pleasure, pain, and revelation. “Frak you!”
*
Tory remains transfixed at the sight before her, shaking from the aftermath, a hand inside her panties while the other supports her against a wall. Six has surrendered forms of propriety, Laura’s hands are buried under her dress and they both have simply ceased to move. Laura stares deep into the Cylon eyes.
“How illusory could happiness get?” Eirene whispers, taking her from behind as she slips a hand across Tory's stomach. Her fingers are glistening.
“Very,” Tory replies. She reaches for Eirene’s ass, grounds her own against the red-head.
“Another frak?”
Eirene has Laura’s voice. Laura’s hands. Laura’s lips, tongue, and mouth. They are all feasting in Eirene’s garden and Tory offers a resolute, “Yes, please.”
It isn’t long that Laura Roslin steps into the observation room with Tory writhing.
“I won’t ask,” Laura tells her. Tory straightens her clothes and reclaims her hand from her skirt.
“Don’t.” Tory nods to Six’s languid figure. “Don’t and I won’t ask either.”
But Eirene smiles menacingly, twirling Laura’s hair as she passes between them. Her fingers are still wet. “This won’t be the last time both of you will be looking for answers.”
“It would be nice if you shut up,” Tory says under her breath. “Or disappeared for a change.”
*
How fleeting is happiness, Tory asks. She knows when she stealthily follows the President to the hatch of Agathon’s quarters. It is deep into the night and nobody passes.
Laura takes a picture from her pocket, kisses it.
Tory knows the women in the picture; Laura has an exact copy in her desk, the same copy Tory handed her after her return to the presidency. Is the President crying? Perhaps, because Laura wraps a hand tightly around herself.
Eirene leans into Tory’s ear. “I would have wanted something more.”
“You always want something more,” Tory tells her. “And you took what you could on New Caprica: Maya, the child…”
“You can’t protect me forever, Tory. Not from the past, and the mistakes I’ve made.”
“I know.” Tory remembers all of Agathon’s written reports in her desk, the solitary report which saves Laura from at least some of the Saggitaron pestering. The one that speaks of the woman, King.
It is embellished with Agathon’s name.
She decides that it will be on Laura Roslin’s desk first thing in the morning. There will be no shorthand versions.
But they are already drowned in the pools, fallen into the deep crevices, smelling the flowers and the ice. They are trapped and frozen into fossils in the deep fissures of their pasts.
Someday, they will emerge from Eirene’s garden.
Someday, someday.
*
~Fin~