FIC: Pressed (BSG, Cain/Tory, NC-17)
Jul. 15th, 2006 12:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tellitslantPressed
by Kathryne,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tellitslant
Fandom: BSG
Pairing: Helena Cain/Tory Foster
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Um, obliquely for Resurrection Ship
Disclaimer: Ron Moore's, not mine
Notes: Written foraeonian in the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
getyourtoaster Cain round.
Summary:
Tory still isn't sure why she's aboard the Battlestar Pegasus. Everyone else that Admiral Cain... rescued... from Tory's old ship, the Acheron, is doing some sort of necessary work. One is a welder. One is a munitions expert. Two or three are pilots.
Tory… is a pollster. Was a pollster. Lately she has been a human messageboard, following Admiral Cain around, taking notes, delivering to-do lists to other officers. Nothing that couldn't have been done by any of the other civilians left on the Acheron.
Not that she minds, really. Being on the Pegasus, doing something, is a damn sight better than floating in the Acheron, hoping the FTL drive will last through the next jump and the next. And while Admiral Cain is as harsh and unforgiving of her underlings as she is of herself, the job puts very few real demands on Tory.
In truth, Tory's rather enjoying herself. She's learning more about the internal workings of a Battlestar - both mechanical and personal - than she can readily take in, and finding it unexpectedly fascinating to boot.
And then there is Helena Cain.
Tory smirks slightly as she strolls through the corridors to the admiral's quarters, arms full of requisition chits requiring Cain's signature. She's not quite sure what it is about Cain's rough demeanor that is so intriguing - but then, Tory Foster has always been easily seduced by power, and those who have it.
She stops in front of Cain's door, patting her hair into place, unfastening the buttons of her suit jacket so that it swings about her hips and emphasizes the soft camisole she is wearing underneath it. Only then does she knock and enter.
Cain is, for a change, not holding forth from behind her desk. Instead, she is sitting on the couch, jacket off, duty roster in hand and pen between her teeth and military bearing almost, almost relaxed.
"More?" she asks, and Tory shrugs, strolling into the room to place her pile of paper next to the other neat stacks. Cain sighs a bit, then nods her head at the couch next to her. "You may as well sit," she tells Tory. "I'll need you to return a few of these to the CIC." She sounds… weary, Tory thinks. It's the first time Cain has seemed to let the human appear behind the admiral, and Tory sits rather closer to Cain than she might normally dare.
She has tried all the usual strategies: crossing and uncrossing her legs slowly, stretching, running her hands through her hair or biting on her bottom lip. Cain has responded to none of them. Tonight, though, Tory thinks, Cain's guard is down. Not all the way - never all the way, with her – but maybe just enough.
With a sigh and a wiggle, Tory begins to pull off her jacket. It is a casual, nonchalant disrobing, slow and leisurely and in no way remarkable. But the way the collar slips down, revealing the arch of Tory's neck, the gentle rounding of her upper arms, the slim column of her waist – the simple act of bodily discovery serves to capture Cain's gaze. Papers rattle in her hands, ignored if not forgotten, and Tory's lips curve in a satisfied smile, half hidden.
She folds her jacket tidily, long fingers neatening corners and smoothing creases before she turns and meets Cain's eyes levelly. For a long moment, they are motionless; then Cain tilts her head, letting her hair fall over her cheek and across her mouth. It softens her face radically, and when Tory leans forward and plucks the paperwork from her hands, Cain does not resist.
When Cain finally touches her, Tory feels a quiver run through her entire body. Cain feels it too, hands curved warmly around Tory's waist, and her eyes glitter as she leans forward. She runs her hands up Tory's sides, pushing the camisole up over Tory's head. Her hands are large, and her thumbs rub over Tory's nipples, and Tory groans and arches her back.
Cain's hands are callused in ways Tory hadn't expected of a desk-bound admiral, and their rasp against her skin is slow and maddening and has her writhing against the couch before Cain ever reaches below the waistband of her skirt. Cain makes a noise deep in the back of her throat – almost a growl – when she slides her hands under Tory's underwear and finds her hot and slick. The sound and the pressure against her clit send a spike of wanting through Tory, and her hips buck into Cain's hand.
"Gods, Admiral," she gasps, and blushes – it doesn't seem right to use Cain's first name, even here, even if she has shed her insignia and could, in dog tags and tank tops, be any officer of any rank. Cain bites her lip as she eases Tory onto her back; papers rattle behind her, but she shoves them out of the way, intent on sliding Tory's underwear down her legs as slowly as possible.
Finally Tory can spread her legs wider, and does. "Yes," Cain whispers, and bends her head. Her callused fingers are just as rough and just as slow sliding into Tory as they were on her nipples, but Cain's mouth is wet and her tongue is talented and fingers and tongue move in just the right way, and Cain's other hand slips under Tory to curl around her ass and slide into the cleft between her cheeks. Her fingers are wet from her mouth or Tory's own body and they tease, maddeningly, tantalizing but never promising.
Tory is moaning by now, her hips twisting against Cain's mouth and her hands scrabbling at the fabric of the couch. She's not sure what she's saying, "yes" and "frak" and "more" and Cain slides in a third finger and curls them up and Tory comes, her body shuddering with the intensity.
Cain pulls back, watching. Her fingers are glistening with Tory's juices and she touches them briefly to her lips, and then she trails them down, over her breasts and across her flat stomach. She undoes her pants and shoves them off, and Tory whimpers and quivers again as she watches Cain slip two fingers into herself.
If Cain was slow with Tory, she is fast and rough with herself, thumb rubbing, rubbing, rubbing in time with her thrusts. Her eyes have fluttered closed, but they fly open in surprise when she feels Tory's hand on her wrist.
"Don't stop," Tory whispers, and Cain starts moving again, watching Tory in wary arousal. Tory runs her hand down behind Cain's, feeling the movement, cupping it in her palm for a moment before sliding a finger in alongside Cain's. Cain hisses and almost stills, but Tory has her rhythm now and her mouth meets Cain's in a bruising kiss as she fraks Cain with her own fingers.
When she comes, Cain bites Tory's lip hard enough to draw blood and then licks it away in languid kisses that taste like copper.
Later, hastily redressed and hurrying to the CIC, Tory will smile and feel the tug of the tender spot. Later still, on another battlestar, she will tongue the sore place, unable to put it completely out of her mind; she will remember the taste of copper and the silence of power.
by Kathryne,
tellitslantFandom: BSG
Pairing: Helena Cain/Tory Foster
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Um, obliquely for Resurrection Ship
Disclaimer: Ron Moore's, not mine
Notes: Written for
aeonian in the getyourtoaster Cain round.Summary:
Tory still isn't sure why she's aboard the Battlestar Pegasus. Everyone else that Admiral Cain... rescued... from Tory's old ship, the Acheron, is doing some sort of necessary work. One is a welder. One is a munitions expert. Two or three are pilots.
Tory… is a pollster. Was a pollster. Lately she has been a human messageboard, following Admiral Cain around, taking notes, delivering to-do lists to other officers. Nothing that couldn't have been done by any of the other civilians left on the Acheron.
Not that she minds, really. Being on the Pegasus, doing something, is a damn sight better than floating in the Acheron, hoping the FTL drive will last through the next jump and the next. And while Admiral Cain is as harsh and unforgiving of her underlings as she is of herself, the job puts very few real demands on Tory.
In truth, Tory's rather enjoying herself. She's learning more about the internal workings of a Battlestar - both mechanical and personal - than she can readily take in, and finding it unexpectedly fascinating to boot.
And then there is Helena Cain.
Tory smirks slightly as she strolls through the corridors to the admiral's quarters, arms full of requisition chits requiring Cain's signature. She's not quite sure what it is about Cain's rough demeanor that is so intriguing - but then, Tory Foster has always been easily seduced by power, and those who have it.
She stops in front of Cain's door, patting her hair into place, unfastening the buttons of her suit jacket so that it swings about her hips and emphasizes the soft camisole she is wearing underneath it. Only then does she knock and enter.
Cain is, for a change, not holding forth from behind her desk. Instead, she is sitting on the couch, jacket off, duty roster in hand and pen between her teeth and military bearing almost, almost relaxed.
"More?" she asks, and Tory shrugs, strolling into the room to place her pile of paper next to the other neat stacks. Cain sighs a bit, then nods her head at the couch next to her. "You may as well sit," she tells Tory. "I'll need you to return a few of these to the CIC." She sounds… weary, Tory thinks. It's the first time Cain has seemed to let the human appear behind the admiral, and Tory sits rather closer to Cain than she might normally dare.
She has tried all the usual strategies: crossing and uncrossing her legs slowly, stretching, running her hands through her hair or biting on her bottom lip. Cain has responded to none of them. Tonight, though, Tory thinks, Cain's guard is down. Not all the way - never all the way, with her – but maybe just enough.
With a sigh and a wiggle, Tory begins to pull off her jacket. It is a casual, nonchalant disrobing, slow and leisurely and in no way remarkable. But the way the collar slips down, revealing the arch of Tory's neck, the gentle rounding of her upper arms, the slim column of her waist – the simple act of bodily discovery serves to capture Cain's gaze. Papers rattle in her hands, ignored if not forgotten, and Tory's lips curve in a satisfied smile, half hidden.
She folds her jacket tidily, long fingers neatening corners and smoothing creases before she turns and meets Cain's eyes levelly. For a long moment, they are motionless; then Cain tilts her head, letting her hair fall over her cheek and across her mouth. It softens her face radically, and when Tory leans forward and plucks the paperwork from her hands, Cain does not resist.
When Cain finally touches her, Tory feels a quiver run through her entire body. Cain feels it too, hands curved warmly around Tory's waist, and her eyes glitter as she leans forward. She runs her hands up Tory's sides, pushing the camisole up over Tory's head. Her hands are large, and her thumbs rub over Tory's nipples, and Tory groans and arches her back.
Cain's hands are callused in ways Tory hadn't expected of a desk-bound admiral, and their rasp against her skin is slow and maddening and has her writhing against the couch before Cain ever reaches below the waistband of her skirt. Cain makes a noise deep in the back of her throat – almost a growl – when she slides her hands under Tory's underwear and finds her hot and slick. The sound and the pressure against her clit send a spike of wanting through Tory, and her hips buck into Cain's hand.
"Gods, Admiral," she gasps, and blushes – it doesn't seem right to use Cain's first name, even here, even if she has shed her insignia and could, in dog tags and tank tops, be any officer of any rank. Cain bites her lip as she eases Tory onto her back; papers rattle behind her, but she shoves them out of the way, intent on sliding Tory's underwear down her legs as slowly as possible.
Finally Tory can spread her legs wider, and does. "Yes," Cain whispers, and bends her head. Her callused fingers are just as rough and just as slow sliding into Tory as they were on her nipples, but Cain's mouth is wet and her tongue is talented and fingers and tongue move in just the right way, and Cain's other hand slips under Tory to curl around her ass and slide into the cleft between her cheeks. Her fingers are wet from her mouth or Tory's own body and they tease, maddeningly, tantalizing but never promising.
Tory is moaning by now, her hips twisting against Cain's mouth and her hands scrabbling at the fabric of the couch. She's not sure what she's saying, "yes" and "frak" and "more" and Cain slides in a third finger and curls them up and Tory comes, her body shuddering with the intensity.
Cain pulls back, watching. Her fingers are glistening with Tory's juices and she touches them briefly to her lips, and then she trails them down, over her breasts and across her flat stomach. She undoes her pants and shoves them off, and Tory whimpers and quivers again as she watches Cain slip two fingers into herself.
If Cain was slow with Tory, she is fast and rough with herself, thumb rubbing, rubbing, rubbing in time with her thrusts. Her eyes have fluttered closed, but they fly open in surprise when she feels Tory's hand on her wrist.
"Don't stop," Tory whispers, and Cain starts moving again, watching Tory in wary arousal. Tory runs her hand down behind Cain's, feeling the movement, cupping it in her palm for a moment before sliding a finger in alongside Cain's. Cain hisses and almost stills, but Tory has her rhythm now and her mouth meets Cain's in a bruising kiss as she fraks Cain with her own fingers.
When she comes, Cain bites Tory's lip hard enough to draw blood and then licks it away in languid kisses that taste like copper.
Later, hastily redressed and hurrying to the CIC, Tory will smile and feel the tug of the tender spot. Later still, on another battlestar, she will tongue the sore place, unable to put it completely out of her mind; she will remember the taste of copper and the silence of power.
