ficlet: "Twitch, Shiver, Switch" Laura Roslin/Abby Scuito
Yes this is the one that got too long for a comment. *facepalm*
Title: "Twitch, Shiver, Switch"
Fandoms: NCIS x Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Pairing: Laura Roslin/Abby Scuito
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM
Notes: For the fifth porn battle. Abridged version (100% less plot) is here. And, er, first fic in either fandom. Don't judge.
Spoilers: Hahahahaha no. (Please do not spoil me past S1 of either show?)
Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine, no profit is made.
Summary: It's a cure-all (then, switch).
Wordcount: ~900
Twitch, Shiver, Switch
"So what's the verdict?"
"One sick chick." Abby's nose wrinkles. "I wouldn't want to break the news."
"Huh." Gibbs smiles. "That's too bad."
"Do I get to know who it is, or this this more a blind date?"
"Laura Roslin."
Abby holds an eyebrow up till her forehead starts to hurt.
"What's wrong, Abby?"
"Laura as in President Roslin?"
"I thought you voted for her."
"Which doesn't mean I'd less rather tell her she's dying. Anyhow, it's not what killed her bodyguard, so I don't see how it's our --"
"You want to tell Kate you think the President's well-being's not our business?"
"Geez, okay. I'm on bedside duty."
Roslin takes the news without flinching, and Abby's tempted to wave a hand in front of her face, but you don't do that to the President of the Colonies if you want to remain a naval investigator. She does ask, "Anything I can do?" in a tone that's too suggestive; Roslin raises an eyebrow and smirks and snorts delicately.
"Can you cure me?"
"No, sorry. I can maybe help with the pain, though." She smiles.
"Legally?"
"Totally."
"What do you have in mind?"
"Well... I was thinking. There's this club, and --"
Ohshit, she didn't just suggest that President Roslin -- it's bad enough to hint to Gibbs --
"There's the slight problem of anonymity," Roslin reminds her. "I'm sure even the most discreet manager couldn't keep silent about my presence in her bondage club."
"Yeah."
"Any other suggestions?"
Ohshit. "Well, I don't object to a little - um - playing."
"Pity. I don't play."
"Okay, well - I can be serious if that's what you're into. What are you into?"
"Can you find me some supplies?"
"Yeah."
"Ma'am."
"Yes ma'am. I can find you what you need."
Okay, she's never going to hear the end of it once Tony sees her expense report but whatever; hearing President Roslin suggest that she buy handcuffs and the stiffest switch she can find got her wet; actually buying handcuffs and paddles and nip clamps - not like she doesn't own these things, but buying them fresh is part of the game - she almost dissolves into orgasm in the store except the one rule everyone has the same is don't come.
So she's already weak-kneed when Roslin orders her to strip, and her skin is tender under the tats that Roslin touches with medical precision before issuing light handslaps to her shoulders and hips, checking her cunt to see if she's ready (like there's any doubt).
"You're a soft touch."
"Yeah, I get that a lot." Roslin's hands are harder than any woman's should be, her fingers stiff for shallow fucking, her fingernails too long. Abby grinds her stubbly mons against her hand, knows that clit-friction is hopeless but can't help trying.
"Ready?"
She leans forward, rests her chest against the cot, lets her legs settle into an almost-comfortable kneel and waits for the switch to fall.
It does, but not with the intensity that Abby expected. The patterns are irregular, nothing she can depend on, no demanding rythyms to buck into or terrible wounds to nurture, just light pain upon light pain, lingering like fading lightning. The switch falls across spiderwebbing and cuts through skin, curls around her side and almost reaches her breasts with the beginnings of torment, but it's nothing she can't endure, nothing that makes her beg.
"Turn over."
It's better when she's in the open, cunt exposed to Roslin's glare, breasts vulnerable to the switch's fall. She can move more easily, twist so that the blows fall against the skin that itches worst for them, so that she's rocking back and forth into her own arousal, but now she can see the tight control in Roslin's face, the slight tremble of her fingers around the switch, the eyes that carefully disguise any arousal but can't hide the fear her diagnosis ignited.
"This isn't working."
If Roslin were Abby's Mistress, she'd know what Abby needed, a second before Abby herself, touch or deprivation, Roslin's cunt in her mouth or grinding into her skin, but Roslin isn't. She lets the switch fall useless to the cot. When the wounds settle, Abby's skin is stinging. And she knows.
"Okay, get down."
"Miss Scuito!"
"Yeah, I know, whatever. Stop tripping and get down."
There's not the embarrassment she expects at lifting the President's skirt, just arousal that's deeper than any of her surface scars. Bare skin and cotton, and under the cotton more skin; she drags panties down and reaches, same as Roslin, for the wetness that means it's okay. She doesn't ask.
She knows how to do this, flicks the switch gently so its tip just bruises hips and legs, then harder in stripes, regular but without the imperative to count. She doesn't know what she's listening for till she hears, almost sobbing, but deeper, like a moan. She reaches down again, lets her lips touch blood and maybe licks a little, because cancer's not contagious, but power is, and Roslin's blood courses with power, even when she's flipped over and crying because Abby whipped and fucked her. And Abby's fucking her all right, two fingers and a thumb and her other hand slapping lightly at Roslin's clit, because she knows Roslin, now, knows that she'll come as easily as Abby does from pain.
Title: "Twitch, Shiver, Switch"
Fandoms: NCIS x Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Pairing: Laura Roslin/Abby Scuito
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM
Notes: For the fifth porn battle. Abridged version (100% less plot) is here. And, er, first fic in either fandom. Don't judge.
Spoilers: Hahahahaha no. (Please do not spoil me past S1 of either show?)
Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine, no profit is made.
Summary: It's a cure-all (then, switch).
Wordcount: ~900
Twitch, Shiver, Switch
"So what's the verdict?"
"One sick chick." Abby's nose wrinkles. "I wouldn't want to break the news."
"Huh." Gibbs smiles. "That's too bad."
"Do I get to know who it is, or this this more a blind date?"
"Laura Roslin."
Abby holds an eyebrow up till her forehead starts to hurt.
"What's wrong, Abby?"
"Laura as in President Roslin?"
"I thought you voted for her."
"Which doesn't mean I'd less rather tell her she's dying. Anyhow, it's not what killed her bodyguard, so I don't see how it's our --"
"You want to tell Kate you think the President's well-being's not our business?"
"Geez, okay. I'm on bedside duty."
Roslin takes the news without flinching, and Abby's tempted to wave a hand in front of her face, but you don't do that to the President of the Colonies if you want to remain a naval investigator. She does ask, "Anything I can do?" in a tone that's too suggestive; Roslin raises an eyebrow and smirks and snorts delicately.
"Can you cure me?"
"No, sorry. I can maybe help with the pain, though." She smiles.
"Legally?"
"Totally."
"What do you have in mind?"
"Well... I was thinking. There's this club, and --"
Ohshit, she didn't just suggest that President Roslin -- it's bad enough to hint to Gibbs --
"There's the slight problem of anonymity," Roslin reminds her. "I'm sure even the most discreet manager couldn't keep silent about my presence in her bondage club."
"Yeah."
"Any other suggestions?"
Ohshit. "Well, I don't object to a little - um - playing."
"Pity. I don't play."
"Okay, well - I can be serious if that's what you're into. What are you into?"
"Can you find me some supplies?"
"Yeah."
"Ma'am."
"Yes ma'am. I can find you what you need."
Okay, she's never going to hear the end of it once Tony sees her expense report but whatever; hearing President Roslin suggest that she buy handcuffs and the stiffest switch she can find got her wet; actually buying handcuffs and paddles and nip clamps - not like she doesn't own these things, but buying them fresh is part of the game - she almost dissolves into orgasm in the store except the one rule everyone has the same is don't come.
So she's already weak-kneed when Roslin orders her to strip, and her skin is tender under the tats that Roslin touches with medical precision before issuing light handslaps to her shoulders and hips, checking her cunt to see if she's ready (like there's any doubt).
"You're a soft touch."
"Yeah, I get that a lot." Roslin's hands are harder than any woman's should be, her fingers stiff for shallow fucking, her fingernails too long. Abby grinds her stubbly mons against her hand, knows that clit-friction is hopeless but can't help trying.
"Ready?"
She leans forward, rests her chest against the cot, lets her legs settle into an almost-comfortable kneel and waits for the switch to fall.
It does, but not with the intensity that Abby expected. The patterns are irregular, nothing she can depend on, no demanding rythyms to buck into or terrible wounds to nurture, just light pain upon light pain, lingering like fading lightning. The switch falls across spiderwebbing and cuts through skin, curls around her side and almost reaches her breasts with the beginnings of torment, but it's nothing she can't endure, nothing that makes her beg.
"Turn over."
It's better when she's in the open, cunt exposed to Roslin's glare, breasts vulnerable to the switch's fall. She can move more easily, twist so that the blows fall against the skin that itches worst for them, so that she's rocking back and forth into her own arousal, but now she can see the tight control in Roslin's face, the slight tremble of her fingers around the switch, the eyes that carefully disguise any arousal but can't hide the fear her diagnosis ignited.
"This isn't working."
If Roslin were Abby's Mistress, she'd know what Abby needed, a second before Abby herself, touch or deprivation, Roslin's cunt in her mouth or grinding into her skin, but Roslin isn't. She lets the switch fall useless to the cot. When the wounds settle, Abby's skin is stinging. And she knows.
"Okay, get down."
"Miss Scuito!"
"Yeah, I know, whatever. Stop tripping and get down."
There's not the embarrassment she expects at lifting the President's skirt, just arousal that's deeper than any of her surface scars. Bare skin and cotton, and under the cotton more skin; she drags panties down and reaches, same as Roslin, for the wetness that means it's okay. She doesn't ask.
She knows how to do this, flicks the switch gently so its tip just bruises hips and legs, then harder in stripes, regular but without the imperative to count. She doesn't know what she's listening for till she hears, almost sobbing, but deeper, like a moan. She reaches down again, lets her lips touch blood and maybe licks a little, because cancer's not contagious, but power is, and Roslin's blood courses with power, even when she's flipped over and crying because Abby whipped and fucked her. And Abby's fucking her all right, two fingers and a thumb and her other hand slapping lightly at Roslin's clit, because she knows Roslin, now, knows that she'll come as easily as Abby does from pain.