Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Disclaimer: Moore’s the man with the master plan.
Summary: A brief, smutty treatise on power struggles, control, sexual frustration, and human-Cylon relations.
The worst thing about being sexually frustrated without an outlet is that eventually, thinks Laura, it makes it impossible to focus or think or do anything but exist in sexual frustration.
Much like boredom, but with the added detriment of being trapped in one’s own brain, knowing that somewhere in you is a dirty-talking, grinding against feverish skin, needing-to-come pervert, but she can’t do anything under the circumstances. After a while, you’re bored and frustrated and can’t even figure out a good fantasy to take the edge off.
This is usually when despair and crankiness set in, especially when attempts at sexual fantasy turn into the litany of: “But you’re too old/my boss/a woman/doing my father/dying/the president” and then, there’s always Gaius Baltar.
Laura has thought about Baltar, who would frak anything with a pulse, but he is crazy and annoying, and in short, she’d rather go insane first.
All the sexy in the universe is dead, and she’s not even supposed to notice that, between being the president and gasp, over forty, and dying to boot, but for frak’s sake, that’s stupid.
But here she is. Frustrated. Chewing ice frustrated, and frak, that just reminds her of how she’d get teased for that at Education, back at the school board, back even before that. She’s been single her whole life; this is not the first time Laura has been sexually frustrated, though it is the first time an appropriate temporary partner has been so unlikely.
“You look like you want to attack someone with your bare hands,” someone says behind her. Startled, Laura gasps and jumps, fumbling with her glasses. “Sorry, Madam President.”
“Hello,” says Laura, glowering and biting on her little finger sourly. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you.”
Except she does, of course. Just because Laura has never met the Shelley Godfrey model doesn’t mean that Laura doesn’t know what she looks like. The grainy surveillance photos don’t do her justice; she is pretty. A little too thin, but she’s radiating malice and sex and is smirking at Laura like she’s pulled off a coup.
“It’s not nice to lie,” Shelley says, walking right into Laura’s personal space, so that Laura can stare at her legs. Which go up to her neck.
“What do you want?” Laura asks. “How many of my people have you killed already? And how much of a waste of time is it to kill a dying woman, Miss Godfrey?”
“Nobody’s dead,” Shelley says, looking down at Laura with amusement. A little contempt. “I wanted to talk, and you’re the one to talk to, because everyone listens to you.”
And maybe it’s because Laura is already angry, or maybe it’s just because the sneer on Shelley’s pretty face annoys her, but she makes a rather rude gesture. Lazily, matching the sneer on Shelley’s face with one of her own. There’s nothing like feeling like she’s already dead to bring out the irritable, petulant child in Laura, though she’d never admit it.
“Cute,” Shelley says, grabbing Laura’s wrist and twisting it harshly. “What is it, honey? Is everyone taking advantage of you because you’re the Prophet? Or because you’re so good at what you do that they think it’s easy? What has your panties all in a bunch, Madam President?”
“Kill me and get it over with,” Laura says coldly. “I’m in no mood to play with Cylons. Once my people get past whatever obstacle is in their way, I will have you put out the airlock.”
Shelley doesn’t move. “Nobody ever mentions what a bitch you are,” she says, still holding Laura’s wrist. “I’m not going to kill you. It’s better for the plan that you stay alive.”
“As usual,” Laura says with her eyes cast down, not resisting. “Cylons like to babble and tell half-truths, to spread their poison.”
Shelley laughs and lets go of Laura’s wrist, stepping back two steps. She’s cocked her head and is drawing her hand across her long, long neck. “Talk and talk and talk,” she murmurs, stroking her own throat sensually. “But you’re dancing around the real problem.”
“Am I?” Laura asks, sinking into her chair deeper and meeting Shelley’s eyes. “I am the dying leader of my people, as foretold in the Pythian scrolls. I won’t see Earth. The supplies of this fleet are dwindling, and Cylons walk with us, making it harder. Tell me how I’m avoiding the real problem.”
“You’re not afraid of any of that,” Shelley says, drawing closer, putting a hand on Laura’s face, and maybe Shelley will break her neck. It would be bad for her to die now, with so much unsettled, but simpler than waiting for the unknown soon that will take Laura off anyway. “Thus it’s not a problem.”
The Cylon’s hand is warm on her skin, and Laura breathes out despite herself, the sound shockingly needy and strangely inspiring. This model is well-known as a sexual provocateur, and it’s almost like killing two birds with one stone.
“Tell me,” Laura repeats, licking her lips.
“You already know,” Shelley says, leaning forward. Her other hand is on Laura’s shoulder, and she smells good. Like lemon verbena and skin. It’s almost easy to pretend this is a good idea, that it makes sense.
Maybe it does. Especially because this…this thing thinks it’s got the upper hand. Laura sighs again and lets her head fall against Shelley’s hand. Relaxes herself, each muscle untensing as she smiles.
“You’re not serious,” murmurs Shelley, twisting her fingers into Laura’s hair. “What game are we playing?”
Laura’s thumb moves in a circle on her other hand (which is resting in her lap comfortably), rubbing an oval that sends tremors up her spine while Shelley tugs Laura’s head up to gaze at her, pupils dilated and lips dry.
“Do you think we’re playing?” Laura asks hoarsely. “Or are you afraid of what you plan to do to me, Miss Godfrey?”
Shelley takes her thumb and runs it down Laura’s windpipe, leaving it at the hollow between her collarbones. She moans softly, and lets her eyelids flutter down.
“I think you’re an expert at this,” says Shelley, pulling Laura’s blouse from her skirt. “But I’m not easily fooled.”
Everyone’s a fracking genius when they’re up against her, Laura thinks, smirking at Shelley. And the lazy, seduced feeling is spreading across her chest, down to her stomach, warm and thrilling.
“I’m not doing anything,” Laura points out, breathing hard. Shelley’s tongue flickers out and wets her lips, shuddering. “Then again, you came here to tell me something and I don’t hear a word.”
“I can show you,” Shelley says, her hand caressing Laura’s skin gently. “I think you want that.”
“I won’t say no,” Laura answers, wrapping her hand around Shelley’s wrist and tugging it downward, to her breast.
Shelley swallows and leans in, kissing Laura slowly, parting her lips with her tongue and licking her way inside, and Laura feels the vibration of Shelley’s slight whimper.
Throws her head back when Shelley’s lips wrap around her earlobe and suck on it, feeling the heat shoot down her whole body.
“It can be so good for you, you know,” Shelley whispers, her breath tickling Laura’s ear as her fingers run on the outside curve of Laura’s waist, hovering over her like a malevolent angel. “I can see how tired you are, and if you submit, I can make the pain go away.”
“Show me,” Laura says, her hand resting on Shelley’s arm. “Tell me what I have to do.”
She nuzzles against Laura’s neck, drawing her to her feet in a graceful gesture. Then Shelley pulls Laura into her arms, and for a split-second of pure terror, Laura is certain that her life ends now, kissed into submission before her neck is snapped.
“Turn around,” Shelley whispers, loosening her grip on Laura. Laura does, curious and aroused by the tack the Cylon’s taking. “I’m going to take you hard and make you feel it, Laura. You are going to scream for me.”
The idleness of the boast is almost intolerable, but the way Shelley’s tongue licks its way down the back of Laura’s neck makes Laura’s knees shake. Possibly it’s the casual use of her name, so rare these days, but Laura is going to see this through.
Shelley walks them forward, toward Laura’s desk, her hands alternately stroking and scratching at Laura’s stomach, breasts, as her mouth devours Laura’s neck and shoulder through her blouse.
“Bend over,” Shelley orders, pulling Laura’s arms back. “Very, very slowly.”
Laura twists her head to look at Shelley, who is wearing a smirk. She leans forward. Slowly, arching her back and thrusting her chest forward as she does.
“Good girl,” Shelley praises, letting Laura’s arms go so Laura can grip the desk. “Legs apart. Further. Very good girl.”
There is nothing Laura can say that is going to be more effective than silence, especially when the next thing Laura feels is Shelley reaching under her skirt up to the tops of her stockings.
Lets her yank each one down to her ankles and helps Shelley take them off. For good measure, Laura removes her own underwear, handing them to Shelley with a raised eyebrow.
“I didn’t tell you to move.”
“Didn’t tell me not to.”
“I liked you where you were,” Shelley says, taking Laura’s arms again and pushing her down against the desk. “I can stop, if that’s what you want.”
“Don’t try to play me,” Laura warns. “We are not playing a game here. I will do what you want, but don’t you dare try to play me.”
Pressing a savage kiss against Laura’s mouth, Shelley releases Laura. “Legs. Apart,” she growls. “Madam President.”
“Do your worst,” Laura says, complying with the order and letting her eyes shut.
Shelley hikes Laura’s skirt all the way up, apparently not in the mood to take it off. Oh no, if she can’t destroy humanity or spread lies, she will at least take her revenge on Laura’s only skirt.
It doesn’t matter. Shelley is on her knees behind Laura and Laura can’t see her, just feel her tongue running up the back of her thigh. Laura is making high keening noises, palms flat on the desk as her fingernails scratch at the plastic.
Shelley digs her fingernails into Laura’s hip, biting at the inside of her thigh. Moaning with the rush of pleasure this gives her, Laura’s hips rock forward sharply.
“Now, gods, now,” Laura gasps. Her head is swimming; this feels better than anything she’s imagined in years, because Shelley is not holding back, nipping and sucking closer and closer to being inside of her. “Please.”
Shelley laughs before she drags her tongue over Laura, and Laura cries out throatily, swollen and wanting and arching her back like a cat. Shelley catches Laura’s hips between her hands mercilessly, pulling the material of her skirt taut.
Laura’s thighs are shaking and straining as Shelley licks away wetly. “That feels so good, oh gods, don’t stop,” Laura says, the pleasant ache between her legs feeling sweeter and hotter every second.
Drawing a fingernail down the side of Laura’s thigh, Shelley chuckles against Laura’s wet skin and the electric pulse it sends up her spinal column ends in a whine of pleading desire.
“Oh, frak me, gods, like that,” Laura hears herself whispering. “Faster.”
It’s far too good to be the supplicant in this business, pushing and arching and moaning while the Cylon takes her, hard and smug, taking her hand away from Laura’s hip and sliding three fingers inside of her, turning and thrusting.
The sweat is trickling down Laura’s back, and the air stinks of sex and something metallic, but she’s gone, gasping and pushing against Shelley’s fingers, Shelley’s mouth, absolutely lost and feverish.
Laura comes hard, unable to even make words, screaming out an assent that matches the paroxysms of lust and release that are shaking her apart. If she dies right now, she might not mind. Even if it means they find her body just like this, bent over her own desk, skirt hiked up and thighs still wet.
Instead she pulls her skirt down and turns around, sitting on the desk she’s just been fracked senseless on. Shelley is on her knees, gazing at Laura with a pleased expression and glittering eyes.
“Someone liked that,” she says, biting down on her lip.
They’re all the same at this age, confident and leggy and sure they are the best sex since the big bang. This one — this Shelley — has skill, but the smugness bespeaks a deep insecurity. Easy to exploit.
“Yes, that was lovely,” Laura says cheerfully, rearranging her blouse and folding her arms. “Are you going to give me your message, or did the Cylons just send you to distract me?”
Shelley blinks. “You let a Cylon female frak you, Madam President,” she says.
“I’m your prisoner,” Laura says. “And it was lovely; I certainly won’t underestimate the Cylon ability to please me sexually. But you came for a purpose, and I do have work to do.”
The blonde leaps to her feet, her face as flushed as Laura, clearly embarrassed. “Don’t you dare treat me like…I didn’t come here to please you!” she snaps.
“But you did — quite thoroughly,” Laura says, smoothing out a wrinkle on her skirt. “You made sure that I screamed for you, sweetheart, and I’m very grateful. So if we could, well, get to business, this embarrassing mistake of yours can go away.”
Laura allows herself a small, tight smile as Shelley squirms and frowns, clearly trying to regain her composure.
They like control too much, the Cylons, the feeling of being in power, watching people tremble before them. And Laura understands this, but she knows something else — control is not the be-all, end-all of power. The tighter you hold on to it, the more it gets away.
So she waits, knowing that whatever the Cylon has to say, Laura has found out something much more valuable today, and at a price well worth paying.