AN: Written for bsg-kink prompt "Laura/anyone, first time smoking chamalla"

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He laughed when she said "no."

No, she never had.

Yes, she'd been a normal college student, whatever that meant. Yes, Chamalla'd been around when her mother was sick. When she was dying, now that he brought it up. And getting high on the herb that managed some of her mother's misery….

Another reason she loved someone (and kept that love away) in the hidden shadows of her psyche.

Because Richard…

Because.

Richard.

Richard has his security head go fetch some of the semi-illicit weed. She sits with her back to the bamboo weave headboard while the President of the Twelve Colonies rolls a joint like a schoolboy, using the back of a laminated commendation to do so.

After the first few drifty tokes, she finds herself wondering what it would have been like to frak Sean stoned. The thought makes her giggle and Richard looks prideful, like it's an accolade for him. Another deep toke and she slides down the trademarked "for lovers only" sheets and opens her legs to his eager gaze.

He's whispering falsified love-talk (although to him she's sure it sounds sober and real) while he slips her panties off and caresses her thighs. Laura enjoys the green-gold sparks flowing up and down her skin while she ponders the message she's sure the spinning ceiling fan is spelling out to her, if only she could decipher it. Then his mouth is on her, with a quick flick of his eyes up to hers.

I hope you're enjoying this.

Oh, yes, Richard. I am. She's not sure if she says it out loud or not. Then she lets her hips speak for her and all decorum is gone. His status, her position vaporizes with the last of the smoke and she all but ruts against his lips, demanding more than he's used to giving.

Normally, by this point, she'd have done a slick transition to her lips on his dick, left hand braced on his thigh, right hand cupping his balls. Somewhere between three and four minutes, he'd pull her away and the intercourse would begin, like clockwork. The image of him like a clockwork windup figure hits her as hysterical and her belly shakes with laughter as he mutters that this was not what he expected.

She is high but not too high, and crafts a sweet apology, biting back the other laughs she's dying to release. She hasn't come yet but shifts on top of him anyway, sinking down on his decidedly average cock, clenching herself to feel enough friction to start the sparkly shivers again along her spine. He reached for her and she meets his lips willingly, mashing her bra-clad breasts against his undershirt. The kissing is better; she can close her eyes and ignore the thinning spots in his hair and the odd way his eyes squint when he's close to coming.

And then it's over, and her orgasm is pleasantly colored with light and sound and it's sweet and selfish. She revels in it, shoving his fingers out of the way when he tries to help her to another one, getting there herself just fine, her spine feeling crystalline and liquid at the same time as she climbs and breaks.

Later, he whispers he loves her. He wishes he could be with her openly. But his wife…

I love her, she says against his cheek. He stiffens in confusion and she realizes what she's said. For one heady, swirling second she thinks maybe she should ask him if she really said that out loud, then the sober part of her shuts that down.

It's usually far back in her mind, that she is incredibly grateful for Mrs. Adar's existence. She is the protective barrier, the emotional condom that keeps Richard and her from getting too close. She keeps the sly kisses and the tentative touches and the slippery slick skin-slides confined to back rooms and out-of-town hotels.

Tonight, with the weed laying her out on a cottony cloud of unspoken truths, she wants to share her thoughts with him, how happy she is that they can get to one particular point and no closer, thanks to his wife.

Mrs. Adar, First Lady of the Twelve Colonies, is keeping Laura's unlovely love life in a safe, pragmatic balance.

Mrs. Adar is keeping Richard at the distance Laura prefers, and the golden smoke clears just enough for her to feel wistful that this is what she's let love become.

It clears a little more and she's horrified at the words that almost came out of her mouth.

Thank the Gods you're married.

The Chamalla starts to leave her system, although the sweet burning herb taste is still in her mouth, mixing with the taste of Richard. The lush flowing sensations have dwindled to a sticky coolness and he gets up to get a washcloth. His shoulders seem a bit slumped, and she realizes this is not how he expected the evening to go.

He has no idea how worse it could have been. Laura pulls the sheets up over her breasts, half-out of her pushed-up bra, and turns on her side.

If I ever smoke this stuff again, it'll be with someone I can be careless with, someone who'll enjoy my stoned silliness. Maybe even be a little silly themselves.

She's curled on her side facing the wall when Richard comes back in. She hopes he'll think she's asleep.