Crest

Jun. 16th, 2008 08:33 am

Fandom: BSG (2003)

Title:

Characters: Leoben, Kara's knife

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Smut

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Summary: Kara's voice is sharp, viciously teasing, "Playing with razors, are we?"

Kink: (24) Knife play

Author's Note: What? Of course you can have knifeplay with only one person. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Also, takes place after the first four episodes of season three. (And he totally picked the knife up before any big explosions. Really. *shifty look*)

hr

As far as blades go, this one is nothing special. Leoben turns it over in his fingers carefully, tracing a nail along the sharpened edge. He thinks, watching the light trace patterns across the metal, that it most likely started out as a kitchen knife.

Someone gave it a sharper edge, someone spent hours honing it from an instrument to butter toast into an instrument to bring death. He admires the tenacity and stubborn determination of whoever it was that put the time to turn something so innocuous into something so deadly. Humans are inventive that way.

At first, Leoben had thought that it was Kara that gave the blade its edge. But the knife is not one that he had stocked their home with, so it must have come from some outside source. Its origins don't concern him. The path it took to get into Kara's hands is dead history. It had merely been tossed about in the current, taken inevitably towards its proper place.

That place had been Kara's hand, pressed up against his side when she had slid the blade into his flesh, and twisted.

Leoben trails his finger out to the tip of the blade, and blinks when it bites into his flesh. A drop of blood wells up through his damaged skin, and Leoben watches it swell, until it can no longer support itself, and slides in a crimson trail down his finger.

The blood curves around his knuckles, sliding around to his palm, pooling in the center of his hand. Leoben balls up his fingers, and when he straightens them they are, all of them, stained red with his blood. He looks at the knife. There is only a tiny sheen of blood on the metal, a small drop gathering heavy on the tip.

Leoben cocks his head to the side, raising the blade to his lips, licking his blood off. The metal tastes only of salt, and when Leoben pulls it back the blade is clean. He twists it back and forth between his fingers, wondering what the handle felt like warmed by Kara's skin, if her palm had been sweaty, if she had gripped so hard that her hand hurt.

Someday, he will ask her.

For now, he cannot. He wipes his bloody hand on his leg, only succeeding in smearing blood over more of his skin. He imagines that it is Kara's hand wrapped around the blade, instead of his own, and presses the edge below his ribs, where she had driven it in. Sense memory recalls the pain, the bite of it deep inside him, the painful twist of agony, the drag of the blade against his floating rib before it had caught.

In his head, it is tangled together with the press of Kara's mouth against his, her lips soft and warm. The memory of the pain draws up the memory of her smell, the flower scented soap he had provided her, sweet from the cookies that she and the child had made. His eyes slip closed, and behind them he can see her, wild and bright, so confused by what the universes demands of her, unwilling to accept the help that he offers her time and time again.

Leoben feels his body stir, a flood of heat and warmth that is almost startling. He drags the flat of the knife across his skin, tingling in its wake, feeling his stomach go tight, his throat dry. If he keeps his eyes closed, he can just feel the press of Kara's warm body against his own, and his head drops forward, his jaw tightening against the sounds that threaten to escape his throat.

When he moves the knife, his hand feels unsteady, and he makes himself take a deep breath. The blade seems to have almost its own destination in mind, tracing a crooked trail up his chest. The brush of metal against his throat makes him shiver, dragging the tip of the knife up and down the lines of his tendons.

The blade rasps against his stubble, a feather soft touch that nevertheless nicks him when he breathes too deep. Leoben feels the blood roll down his throat, warm and wet, and swallows. There's a shiver down his spine, his thighs opening wider. He aches and wants, though he cannot have what he craves. He is adaptive.

When Leoben opens his eyes, Kara is straddling him, wearing bloody tanks, her hair hanging in her face, her mouth crooked, her teeth bright. Her hands are braced on either side of his shoulders against the bulkhead, and he can almost feel her warmth.

Kara's voice is sharp, viciously teasing, "Playing with razors, are we?"

Leoben squeezes his eyes shut again, and when he opens them she is gone. He leans his head back against the bulkhead, allowing his hand to drop, resting the knife against his thigh. He can still smell her, can taste her mouth, the one moment that he had it.

Leoben's hand moves automatically, tracing the blade up the inside of his thigh, his breathing sharp and rapid. The blade is warm, skin temperature, and he wonders if it would feel different cold, if it would remind him less of blood.

He doesn't care to find out.

The press of the knife against his stomach makes him pull it in. His muscles jump, skin twitching, just enough to press too hard against the blade. More blood slicks down his skin, and in the back of his head he can hear Kara's laughter, sharp and mocking.

There's a brush of warmth against his throat, a tease of impossible breath, and Leoben's hand slides down. The blade catches awkwardly at the coarse hair around his groin, nicking his skin again, slow, heavy drops of blood curling down to the seam of thigh and hip.

Leoben almost jerks his hand away, but there is a brief pressure around his wrist, the warmth of callused fingers, strong and sure. Leoben finds himself tracing the edge of the blade up the line of his erection, shivering at the feel of it.

Leoben is holding his body so tense that it hurts, breath catching when his cock jerks from the stimulation. Each movement of the blade, no matter how small, makes his stomach flip, the muscles in his thighs tensing and releasing.

The flat of the blade is warm against the head of his cock, the tip so sharp when he slides it down. It leaves behind tingles of pressure, pleasure, pain, all of it mixing together. He's breathing fast and shallow, forcing his eyes to stay open, because he fears doing this without vision.

Each move of his wrist is slow, measured. He drags the tip of the knife through a bead of pre-come, shivering at the slick feel of the blade over his aching cock. There's another squeeze of pressure around his wrist, a laughing voice in his ear, "Better be careful."

Leoben groans, because that's Kara's voice again, played from memory, but so close that it makes him ache. He shivers, allowing his wrist to move faster, dancing into recklessness, unable to stop himself.

When Kara, or the memory of Kara, yanks on his wrist, Leoben is not surprised. She jars his hand, the blade jerking without his control, and the cut of it into his skin makes him cry out. The cut is tiny, barely there, but it stings and hurts, and Leoben can feel blood sliding down the side of his cock.

He jerks in pain, releasing the knife automatically, and there is a press of softness and warmth against his injury. For a half second Leoben can feel Kara's hair, soft against the tops of his thighs, and a brush of her breath against his skin.

It is enough. Leoben feels himself come, messy across his stomach and thighs. He shudders, opening eyes he hadn't realized he closed, to find himself alone, the knife sticking point-down into the floor by his foot. It is still vibrating from the impact.

::back to index::


Valid XHTML 1.0 Transitional