Title: All Alive
Author: Trialia
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Rating: M
Word Count: 638
Beta: Asto (theastolat)
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Laura Roslin, some heavily implied Roslin/Adama
Challenge: BSG_pornbattle #2, Laura Roslin & Laura/Bill, "33 minutes"
Spoilers: '33'
Summary: Sleep is elusive and breaks painfully rare, on the run at these tiny intervals.
x
The makeshift bed is hardly worthy of the name, but she's so tired she doesn't really care, for now.
Laura never had a gift for sleeping anywhere and everywhere, has always taken a while to get to sleep. She's had to fight that tendency in the last few days. None of them have had time and space to take a break for more than a few minutes - and never overnight - so when she's been cajoled into taking a "chair break" by the other people working with her, she's had to try anything that would work to make her fall asleep as fast as possible, to get as much sleep as she can.
Anything. Despite the lack of privacy.
Is this how it's always going to be from now on? Living on the run, cramped in a tin can with hundreds of strangers and never a space to breathe? She hopes not.
Snatched moments, setting Captain Apollo to take over her directing role while she grabs a few minutes to nap...
She's finally alone in the tiny cabin she's been sharing with her brand new cabinet at night - ship's blankets that double as pillows, draped over first-class seating with two or three people to every row. She almost feels ashamed to be letting go of her newfound responsibility, even for such a brief time, to do something so human as sleep, and something yet more vulnerable than that.
She doesn't hesitate for long in spite of all her reservations, removing her skirt, jacket and blouse and folding them quickly into a heap by her head. She drags the rough blanket over herself, lying on her stomach and sliding one hand down inside her black cotton panties. No time for her usual languid routine, no space to tease her nipples to hardened sensitivity. The nervous rush of the past few days has been enough to rouse her to desire despite the circumstances.
She doesn't want Richard - even if he'd survived, she would no longer want him. Instead she can hear voices, see faces of more than one of the men that she's met in the last few days, those who are alive, as she touches herself, curling her fingers to press hard against her pubic bone as the palm of her hand brushes against things further up.
(She's seen precious few women since being on Colonial One; they all seem to be keeping away from her.)
Adama has a gravel-and-velvet voice, all business... What would it be like if he were talking to her in another way?
It's not going to happen - he's maddening - but she wants, still, wants to hurl herself at him and knock him back against the wall, tear open that uniform jacket and blaze a trail down his chest with her nails, suck and bite on his skin until she leaves marks he'll never get rid of. An angry frak, fast and rough and oh so fulfilling. She increases the pressure with her hand, using her knees for leverage against the seats to let her thrust her hips down onto two of her fingers, thumb rubbing urgently around the hood of her clit. She can feel him now, thick and solid inside her and beneath her as she rides him hard.
She can picture it now, what he'd look like in the throes of orgasm, scarred face crumpled in agony and ecstasy, raw voice crying out in inarticulate sound.
She comes hard, panting as quietly as she can, masking the sound with a cough as she pulls her hand out of her panties, shuddering a little as skin brushes oversensitive skin.
She wipes her fingers on her underwear and sighs, relaxing under the woollen blanket to fall asleep, now that she can.
Billy will wake her when it's time to rejoin the fray.