Prompt: Roslin/Tory, files
Spoilers: through "Collaborators"
A/N: titles from Ovid's Metamorphoses (1717 translation, Pallas=Athena). thanks to iamsab and thassalia for beta testing, de-purpling, and overall smut-writing validation + inspiration. and, as always, to mandysbitch, who was there just when I needed her.
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 ]
Laura was making it impossible to concentrate. Even though I stared dutifully at the files, I could see her arm moving at the edge of my vision, its trajectory swallowed by the edge of the desk, the tails of her blouse, the waistband of her pants. I rubbed the rough paper with the pads of my fingers, which tingled. The chair creaked as she shifted, sinking down and spreading her legs wider. I could hear her breath, the hiss of a gasp when she adjusted her angle, the sigh that ended on a mewling hum. With my eyes closed, I could picture the precise operation of her hand, two fingertips pressed to her clit and rolling in slow circles. With my eyes open, I had a view of the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the flush blooming up her neck, the bottomless green of her eyes as she studied the shadow between my breasts.
She looked up and caught me watching. Her tongue flickered, wetting her lips. "Keep working," she said.
The records were laid out on the desk between us: notes scribbled on the backs of children's homework, stolen patrol schedules cross-referenced with surveillance dossiers, grainy photographs and Cylon invoices. We'd hunted collaborators together, on New Caprica, with information instead of with bombs. Now she was the President again, with no help from me, and she'd issued a general pardon. Officially, our precious files no longer existed.
Unofficially, we were verifying, digitizing, and encrypting the data before we destroyed the originals. The scattered scraps of paper, steeped in the desperation of evenings spent compiling evidence and frakking on her narrow cot, exuded sense memories of mud and sweat and candlelight. Laura kept opening the drawer where she'd stashed the picture of Maya, pretending she needed a new pen or a paper clip.
She hadn't touched me since the exodus. I didn't know if she'd ever want to touch me again. But it had knitted itself into me like an addiction, the impulse to buoy her when her shoulders tensed under the weight of annihilation and heartbreak. I'd undone a button on my shirt and leaned over the desk, plying her with a more pleasant vista. She'd gotten snared in my cleavage like the fly in the fable, enthralled by the miasma of habit, and slipped her hand down her pants.
It should have given me pause, perhaps, the vividness with which I could read her. Even peeking at her while she stroked herself, I could taste the stew of colliding wants that boiled over into sex. For an instant, I shared her recollection of the past: the glimpse of my bra as I bent to reach for a document, air still smelling toxic after a bombing, the charge of knowing I was there for the taking and the terrible seductiveness of forgetting. This diversion was more palatable than the game of life and death with its pieces arrayed between us.
She caught me watching, as per the rules. "This is a vitally important task, Tory," she said. "I'd hate to think you're so easily distracted." She stood up, unzipped pants hanging low on her waist, and walked around behind me. I followed her with my eyes, and she changed course to fit her body to mine, trapping me against the desk and pinning my hands on the files. Hips to hips, my cunt thrummed in time with hers. "Keep working," she said, "and don't turn around."
I heard the rasp of a chair on the floor when she sat down, the whisper of her jacket sliding off her shoulders, the ah of pleasure as she caressed her collarbone, her belly, her nipple.
"Who are we up to?" she said, the words thick with desire.
With my knees bent, I could catch my clit on the lip of the desk. Transfixed by the thought of Laura unravelling herself, I was too hot to see, certainly too hot to decipher the looping script in front of me. But I could call to mind every note we'd written with photographic accuracy. It should have given me pause, too, that my memory was as infallible as a computer's.
"Toni Graphia," I recited, eyes closed. "Flagged because she repeatedly returned from a supposed maintenance shift with unsoiled clothes." I jumped when Laura touched the backs of my knees, pushing up my skirt until it was bunched obscenely at my waist.
"Currently?" I could feel the huff of her breath as she spoke, her mouth inches from the curve of my ass. I forced myself to arch toward the fleet manifest instead of toward her.
"Quartered on the Calliope," I said, barely. "Recycling detail."
"Go ahead," she said, "enter it." Her nails grazed up my thighs to the line of black lace disappearing between them.
Of all the ways she punished me for reminding her what she'd lost, it was this torture I craved most. I unclenched a fist and punched at the keys, managing to type, "gRaoia, Tni - Callliopw. Risk: mOdrrate."
Laura glanced at the terminal and chuckled savagely, chewed into my muscle hard enough to bruise. My yelp thinned into a moan when her fingers stabbed home, crooked against my opening through the wet spot on the cloth.
"Can't you work under pressure, Tory?" she said. She charted the folds by feel, tapped my clit over my panties. Then she pulled them down, tangling them around my ankles so I stumbled before I could plant my feet apart. She split my cunt with her thumbs and held me there, exposed, as if she could decode the whorls inside.
I squirmed. "No," I said. "No, I can't work. I can't think. I can't breathe any more unless you frak me."
Her lips detoured along my labia and I had to lean on my arms to stay upright. "Tear them up as you finish them," she said, and folded herself onto the floor between my legs. I reached for the pile of catalogued papers, scrunching the top one as she knelt with her back against the desk and ducked under my hips. She wrapped her hands around my ass to guide me to her mouth, still spreading me to the empty air with her fingertips, and mercifully, she devoured me. I shredded a page reflexively while she razed me with her tongue, another while she purred into my cunt, another while she licked in circles, fast and slick and supple. She teased my opening with her nail, trapped my clit between her thumb and teeth, and I came catacylsmically.
I rallied enough to say, "I can't stand," before my useless legs crumpled me onto her lap. She kissed me then, adamantly, snarling her fingers in my hair. I tipped backward, caught by the chair, and she straddled me, rocked against my thighs, buried me in her breasts. I bit into the ripe swell, made her gasp and twist so I would suck her nipple through her bra.
It was different than it was on New Caprica, where the canvas walls enfolded us in a sanctuary, however make-believe. Here her abandon reverberated through me, ringing off the bright lights and the square room and the drone of Colonial One's engines. Here it was as if we were fighting to outrun the ship.
"Lords of Kobol," I said, trying to wiggle my hand down the front of her pants. I could twang her clit, but the angle was awkward, and I growled and hauled her upright. Files slid across the desk as she careened onto it, kicking off one shoe and one pant leg and pulling me in with her bare calf. We said, "oh," together when I entered her, three fingers lancing her open. She leaned back and sent papers raining onto the floor.
I frakked her recklessly, shifting her leg to my shoulder and milking her clit with my other hand. She frakked back with her hips, shimmied toward me until I had to thrust harder to keep her on the desk, panted and moaned and didn't take her eyes off me.
I licked her knee, tasting sweat, and pressed my fingertips to the pulse stuttering inside. Her cunt felt ravenous. "Do you want my fist?" I said.
"Gods, Tory," she said. "Yes."
I looked at her, sprawled across the desk on her elbows, hair wild and blouse half undone, gasping with my hand buried in her. "Ask nicely," I said.
She whimpered unabashedly, reached out and yanked me down by my collar. "Please," she said, breath hot at my ear, "frak me until I can't see."
I tucked my thumb into her and pushed. She fell flat on the desk, scrabbled for the edge and gripped it, white-knuckled. When my fingers folded over at her cervix, we went still, reduced to the flexing of my fist and her minute and breathless shudders. When I moved, every point I plotted on her flesh rippled through our bodies like a warning. When she came, she quaked into wreckage, arching up in a silent implosion that leveled us completely.
She lay there motionless, an arm thrown over her face. "I'm going to push you out," she said. With my hand free, I felt unmoored. I turned back after wiping myself on my discarded undies, and she was pulling up her pants, our orderly records strewn around her feet.
"Tory," she said. I'd never heard her this tremulous. I crouched to gather the papers, fingers shaking as I reorganized them into stacks. "We can't do this any more."
She knelt next to me, touched my cheek. I looked at her and saw a universe of want, too vast to disguise as a game or a distraction or a substitute. It was terrifying, and I didn't know whether the terror was hers or mine.
She pulled her hand back like I'd shocked it. Picking up a photo, she stood and placed it in the clear space we'd made on the desk, surrounded by the catastrophe of upset piles.
"I'm going to bed," she said. "You know the protocols. Finish this by tomorrow."
Her chair was confettied with the pages I'd ripped up. "The documents?" I said.
"Destroy them," she said. "I don't want to see them again." She tapped the keyboard, cold and mechanical. "Goodnight." She didn't meet my eyes as she walked out.
I didn't need to reassemble the files; I remembered every one. As precisely as I remembered every touch between us -- my own secret database, binding me to her as surely as the sins we weave.