my weapon of choice is porn!
Title: Arachne into a Spider [1/5]
Prompt: Roslin/Tory, slip
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: through "Lay Down Your Burdens"
A/N: titles from Ovid's Metamorphoses (1717 translation, Pallas=Athena). thanks to iamsab, who assured me it was hot, and mandysbitch, who betaed it FAST and HARD.
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 nicked her with the knife. I concentrated on keeping the blade steady, but her leg was slick with soap and her toes curled in my lap and my hand slipped just a little. A bead of red swelled on her skin, started a bright path down her calf. Before I could think I'd caught the blood on my tongue.
Now, I understand why it tasted golden.
Laura was wearing a knee-length skirt that day, despite the chill. She crossed her legs, uncrossed them, rubbed her palms along her shins and frowned. Since we'd ended up on that godsforsaken mudhole of a planet, I no longer tried to hide the way I stared.
She was worrying the stubble with her fingernails. "The human race is out of razors," I said.
Laura actually blushed. "It's not as if I have anyone to get gussied up for," she said, smirking. She would never have said that when she was President. "I don't know why it's bothering me now."
I knew why. I saw how she watched Maya, how she trailed her fingers absently into her own cleavage, how she squirmed in her chair, and wet her lips, and sighed. Laura is faithful to her secrets first, and she'd never surrender to Maya's wide eyes. But she wanted to.
"I have a knife with me," I said. "A sharp one." And that's how I ended up kneeling on the rug, a bowl of soapy water beside me, shaving Laura Roslin's legs.
I want to rifle through every memory, like files in a database. There was a button on Laura's blouse, between her breasts, and in the course of our late-night strategy sessions on Colonial One she would unfasten it. I used to hold my breath until that moment, when she kicked off her shoes and mussed up her hair and the lamplight drew shadows on her sternum. After our downfall, when she could pretend to be nothing but a schoolteacher, all of her came unbuttoned like the blouse. She beamed at Maya and the baby, and the yearning seeped through her skin and set her alight. I started touching her, then -- her hand, her wrist, her waist, her neck -- to see how far I could go before she stopped me. I want to reread those archival touches, now, for clues.
With her foot on my thigh, I traced the bones of her ankle, stroked my fingertips against the stubble, found the secret smoothness at the back of her knee. When I put my mouth on her, licking the cut to soothe it, she hissed and buried her fist in my hair.
I think she felt it too, the way her blood sang to mine. I looked up, and she was haloed in lust like a seraph. The hunger came to me secondhand, smoldering through Maya's days at school, but I've always been an opportunist.
I swallowed, still tasting soap and iron and the arcane hint of gold. "I'm sorry," I said. She pulled my head back and kissed me, opening to me fiercely in a blaze of tongue and teeth. My hands slid under her skirt and clutched her legs for balance. When I dug in my nails, she moaned into my mouth. I drank the sound like ambrosia and felt certain, for one desperate instant, that she would tell me to stop. But she didn't. She pushed out of the chair, toppled me onto my back, and slotted her hips against mine.
I knew that, at least since she'd promoted me, nobody had shared her bed. This was but one of the ways she laid herself bare to me, as chief advisor, in words and in a thousand subtle gestures. There was nothing subtle, now, in her starving hands. Her fast broke over me like an avalanche, marking my neck and tearing through my clothes to skin. I clung to the curves of her ass and tried not to come on her leg like a teenager.
I knew how to make love to a woman, though, and I wasn't out of practice. In our sham utopia, Laura warranted more than a quick and dirty grope on the floor. I flipped her over, panting, pinned her under me. "I wasn't finished," I said, and sat up to reach for the zipper of her skirt.
She looked at me, all she'd ever have to do, and pinched my nipple through my bra. It flamed down my belly, and I gasped and arched. "You realize," she said, "that I could have you right now if I wanted, just like this, without even getting undressed."
"You don't want to, though, do you?" I said, smiling like we weren't both about to ignite. "You want me to make it last, as if we had an eternity."
She watched me slide the skirt down her legs, her eyes dark. "Is that what you're going to do, Tory, frak me until I forget time?"
"Yes," I said. "Until you forget everything but going to school and coming home to a pretty girl, forever and ever, so say we all." I pulled off my shirt, my bra, and she watched me still. "But first, I'm going to finish shaving your legs."
Being between Laura Roslin's thighs is as close to Elysium as I've found, in this mortal life. I propped one of her knees on my naked shoulder, soaped up her skin, and ran the blade in slow, careful strokes down to the margin of her underwear. I followed it with my fingers, felt her muscles clench each time I neared the top. She shrugged out of her sweater and unfastened the buttons underneath -- one, two, three, four -- the tantalizing gap plunging lower and lower. She felt slick and cool, like marble. I rested my hand between her breasts, brushing their inner rise, and wiped the knife against the soaked cotton at her crotch. I outlined the folds, imagining their florid contours, teased her with the sharp edge, the point, and looked her in the eye as I licked her flavor off the blade.
She draped her arms above her head, luminous with desire. "Frak, Tory," she said, "now." I'd only done one leg, but I've never refused her anything.
Her tent, like everyone's, was one room, heated with a brazier. It was already growing colder in the evening, and we both had goosebumps. I pulled her upright, turned down the blankets on the cot next to us, and tumbled her into it. She'd shimmied out of the underpants, and my fingers were in her before she could cup my breasts and kiss me. Her moan started down there, at the ridge inside her where I pressed my fingertips. I drew them out again, circling the opening. "Do you still want it slow?" I said.
"Gods," she said, "yes."
The bed was rickety and awkward, but I managed to wedge myself headfirst under the covers. I couldn't see her, so I learned her by touch, running my thumbs along her lips to spread her open. I blew on the marrow within, inhaled her, traced my tongue down one side and up the other, from the hood of her clit to her ass. When she followed me with her hips, hand tangled in my hair, I gave her back my fingers -- three fingers, hooked behind the bone and then all the way out, excruciatingly methodical. I listened to her whimper, little choked sighs on each of my thrusts, and sucked her clit between my lips. She screamed into the pillow as she came.
In the afterglow, she helped me kick off my pants and rubbed her cheek against my bare thigh. Her nose brushed my underpants and I jumped, but she left it there, nestling her face into the salty damp. My fingers were still inside her, soaked to the wrist. "Again," she said, "faster." She melted open; I added a fourth and slid in up to my palm. I frakked her like that, with my whole hand, curling my fingers to say come, come, come, until she pushed my head aside so she could stroke herself. I frakked her harder, then, as if I could punch all the way to her heart, and felt her tighten around me. She took a mouthful of my parts in her teeth and screamed the second orgasm into my cunt.
We lay like that, her breath stuttering against my skin, until she said, "Come here." When I emerged, trying not to kick her as I twisted rightways, she was flushed and sweaty and utterly incandescent. She rolled on top of me lazily, and her hair fell around my face like a nimbus. I had catalogued all her smiles, but this was a new one, predatory and indulgent. I lost myself in it until the jolt of icy metal at my throat. She had the knife in her hand.
My eyes didn't leave hers as she shifted sideways, trailed the point of the blade along my collarbone, down my sternum, around the underside of my breast. It pricked me harder as my chest rose on each quick inhale.
"I can play make-believe with you, Tory," she said, "but don't think I've forgotten for a second who we are." She trapped my nipple between her thumb and the dull edge, and I held my breath. "All I'd have to do is touch you and you'd come, wouldn't you? We both know that's not because I'm a schoolteacher."
I was close to coming without being touched at all; I'm sure she knew that too. She transferred the knife to her other hand, keeping the blade on my shoulder, and whispering her nails down my belly to my hipbone. She kissed the corner of my lips, and I turned my face to chase her.
"Careful," she said, "not until I say." Her fingers followed the elastic between my legs and pulled the crotch aside. When they dipped inside me I liquified.
"Oh," I said, choking on the torrent of pleasure, "please."
She smirked at me, exultant. "Now," she said. Her fingertips thundered up through the wet to thrum my clit, and I couldn't help thrashing as the storm gathered there and broke. The blade sliced me, a bright flare of pain. Laura put her mouth on the cut. She tasted my blood, the truth of me, and I rippled and burst and came like a deluge.
"Damn," she said afterwards, and pressed a corner of the sheet to the nick in my shoulder. "Less hazardous toys next time, perhaps." I lay like that, cushioned against her, until the bleeding stopped, knowing my place in her bed was only borrowed.
When I pushed off the blankets and turned away from her, her hand fluttered onto my back, splayed across my spine. "I should go," I said.
"You're so beautiful," she said, as if I'd restored her sight. She sat up, bare down to the lace edge of the bra she'd never taken off. "Kiss me before you leave."
I did, thinking about her running her hands up her thighs in the morning, one unshaven and one smooth, remembering me. I can pretend this is just another service I tender her, in the inventory of a devil's handmaid. But I knew then I was tied to her, across the warp and weft of the universe. I the thread, her the loom.
Prompt: Roslin/Tory, slip
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: through "Lay Down Your Burdens"
A/N: titles from Ovid's Metamorphoses (1717 translation, Pallas=Athena). thanks to iamsab, who assured me it was hot, and mandysbitch, who betaed it FAST and HARD.
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 nicked her with the knife. I concentrated on keeping the blade steady, but her leg was slick with soap and her toes curled in my lap and my hand slipped just a little. A bead of red swelled on her skin, started a bright path down her calf. Before I could think I'd caught the blood on my tongue.
Now, I understand why it tasted golden.
Laura was wearing a knee-length skirt that day, despite the chill. She crossed her legs, uncrossed them, rubbed her palms along her shins and frowned. Since we'd ended up on that godsforsaken mudhole of a planet, I no longer tried to hide the way I stared.
She was worrying the stubble with her fingernails. "The human race is out of razors," I said.
Laura actually blushed. "It's not as if I have anyone to get gussied up for," she said, smirking. She would never have said that when she was President. "I don't know why it's bothering me now."
I knew why. I saw how she watched Maya, how she trailed her fingers absently into her own cleavage, how she squirmed in her chair, and wet her lips, and sighed. Laura is faithful to her secrets first, and she'd never surrender to Maya's wide eyes. But she wanted to.
"I have a knife with me," I said. "A sharp one." And that's how I ended up kneeling on the rug, a bowl of soapy water beside me, shaving Laura Roslin's legs.
I want to rifle through every memory, like files in a database. There was a button on Laura's blouse, between her breasts, and in the course of our late-night strategy sessions on Colonial One she would unfasten it. I used to hold my breath until that moment, when she kicked off her shoes and mussed up her hair and the lamplight drew shadows on her sternum. After our downfall, when she could pretend to be nothing but a schoolteacher, all of her came unbuttoned like the blouse. She beamed at Maya and the baby, and the yearning seeped through her skin and set her alight. I started touching her, then -- her hand, her wrist, her waist, her neck -- to see how far I could go before she stopped me. I want to reread those archival touches, now, for clues.
With her foot on my thigh, I traced the bones of her ankle, stroked my fingertips against the stubble, found the secret smoothness at the back of her knee. When I put my mouth on her, licking the cut to soothe it, she hissed and buried her fist in my hair.
I think she felt it too, the way her blood sang to mine. I looked up, and she was haloed in lust like a seraph. The hunger came to me secondhand, smoldering through Maya's days at school, but I've always been an opportunist.
I swallowed, still tasting soap and iron and the arcane hint of gold. "I'm sorry," I said. She pulled my head back and kissed me, opening to me fiercely in a blaze of tongue and teeth. My hands slid under her skirt and clutched her legs for balance. When I dug in my nails, she moaned into my mouth. I drank the sound like ambrosia and felt certain, for one desperate instant, that she would tell me to stop. But she didn't. She pushed out of the chair, toppled me onto my back, and slotted her hips against mine.
I knew that, at least since she'd promoted me, nobody had shared her bed. This was but one of the ways she laid herself bare to me, as chief advisor, in words and in a thousand subtle gestures. There was nothing subtle, now, in her starving hands. Her fast broke over me like an avalanche, marking my neck and tearing through my clothes to skin. I clung to the curves of her ass and tried not to come on her leg like a teenager.
I knew how to make love to a woman, though, and I wasn't out of practice. In our sham utopia, Laura warranted more than a quick and dirty grope on the floor. I flipped her over, panting, pinned her under me. "I wasn't finished," I said, and sat up to reach for the zipper of her skirt.
She looked at me, all she'd ever have to do, and pinched my nipple through my bra. It flamed down my belly, and I gasped and arched. "You realize," she said, "that I could have you right now if I wanted, just like this, without even getting undressed."
"You don't want to, though, do you?" I said, smiling like we weren't both about to ignite. "You want me to make it last, as if we had an eternity."
She watched me slide the skirt down her legs, her eyes dark. "Is that what you're going to do, Tory, frak me until I forget time?"
"Yes," I said. "Until you forget everything but going to school and coming home to a pretty girl, forever and ever, so say we all." I pulled off my shirt, my bra, and she watched me still. "But first, I'm going to finish shaving your legs."
Being between Laura Roslin's thighs is as close to Elysium as I've found, in this mortal life. I propped one of her knees on my naked shoulder, soaped up her skin, and ran the blade in slow, careful strokes down to the margin of her underwear. I followed it with my fingers, felt her muscles clench each time I neared the top. She shrugged out of her sweater and unfastened the buttons underneath -- one, two, three, four -- the tantalizing gap plunging lower and lower. She felt slick and cool, like marble. I rested my hand between her breasts, brushing their inner rise, and wiped the knife against the soaked cotton at her crotch. I outlined the folds, imagining their florid contours, teased her with the sharp edge, the point, and looked her in the eye as I licked her flavor off the blade.
She draped her arms above her head, luminous with desire. "Frak, Tory," she said, "now." I'd only done one leg, but I've never refused her anything.
Her tent, like everyone's, was one room, heated with a brazier. It was already growing colder in the evening, and we both had goosebumps. I pulled her upright, turned down the blankets on the cot next to us, and tumbled her into it. She'd shimmied out of the underpants, and my fingers were in her before she could cup my breasts and kiss me. Her moan started down there, at the ridge inside her where I pressed my fingertips. I drew them out again, circling the opening. "Do you still want it slow?" I said.
"Gods," she said, "yes."
The bed was rickety and awkward, but I managed to wedge myself headfirst under the covers. I couldn't see her, so I learned her by touch, running my thumbs along her lips to spread her open. I blew on the marrow within, inhaled her, traced my tongue down one side and up the other, from the hood of her clit to her ass. When she followed me with her hips, hand tangled in my hair, I gave her back my fingers -- three fingers, hooked behind the bone and then all the way out, excruciatingly methodical. I listened to her whimper, little choked sighs on each of my thrusts, and sucked her clit between my lips. She screamed into the pillow as she came.
In the afterglow, she helped me kick off my pants and rubbed her cheek against my bare thigh. Her nose brushed my underpants and I jumped, but she left it there, nestling her face into the salty damp. My fingers were still inside her, soaked to the wrist. "Again," she said, "faster." She melted open; I added a fourth and slid in up to my palm. I frakked her like that, with my whole hand, curling my fingers to say come, come, come, until she pushed my head aside so she could stroke herself. I frakked her harder, then, as if I could punch all the way to her heart, and felt her tighten around me. She took a mouthful of my parts in her teeth and screamed the second orgasm into my cunt.
We lay like that, her breath stuttering against my skin, until she said, "Come here." When I emerged, trying not to kick her as I twisted rightways, she was flushed and sweaty and utterly incandescent. She rolled on top of me lazily, and her hair fell around my face like a nimbus. I had catalogued all her smiles, but this was a new one, predatory and indulgent. I lost myself in it until the jolt of icy metal at my throat. She had the knife in her hand.
My eyes didn't leave hers as she shifted sideways, trailed the point of the blade along my collarbone, down my sternum, around the underside of my breast. It pricked me harder as my chest rose on each quick inhale.
"I can play make-believe with you, Tory," she said, "but don't think I've forgotten for a second who we are." She trapped my nipple between her thumb and the dull edge, and I held my breath. "All I'd have to do is touch you and you'd come, wouldn't you? We both know that's not because I'm a schoolteacher."
I was close to coming without being touched at all; I'm sure she knew that too. She transferred the knife to her other hand, keeping the blade on my shoulder, and whispering her nails down my belly to my hipbone. She kissed the corner of my lips, and I turned my face to chase her.
"Careful," she said, "not until I say." Her fingers followed the elastic between my legs and pulled the crotch aside. When they dipped inside me I liquified.
"Oh," I said, choking on the torrent of pleasure, "please."
She smirked at me, exultant. "Now," she said. Her fingertips thundered up through the wet to thrum my clit, and I couldn't help thrashing as the storm gathered there and broke. The blade sliced me, a bright flare of pain. Laura put her mouth on the cut. She tasted my blood, the truth of me, and I rippled and burst and came like a deluge.
"Damn," she said afterwards, and pressed a corner of the sheet to the nick in my shoulder. "Less hazardous toys next time, perhaps." I lay like that, cushioned against her, until the bleeding stopped, knowing my place in her bed was only borrowed.
When I pushed off the blankets and turned away from her, her hand fluttered onto my back, splayed across my spine. "I should go," I said.
"You're so beautiful," she said, as if I'd restored her sight. She sat up, bare down to the lace edge of the bra she'd never taken off. "Kiss me before you leave."
I did, thinking about her running her hands up her thighs in the morning, one unshaven and one smooth, remembering me. I can pretend this is just another service I tender her, in the inventory of a devil's handmaid. But I knew then I was tied to her, across the warp and weft of the universe. I the thread, her the loom.