Dasha (dashakay) wrote in secretprobation,
Dasha
dashakay
secretprobation

Addiction

FANDOM: Battlestar Galactica
SUMMARY: "This survived the exodus from New Caprica," she says, her eyes alight with mischief.
RATING: R
PAIRING: Adama/Roslin
SPOILERS: Late S3, before Crossroads
DISCLAIMER: These characters do not belong to me and no copyright infringement is intended on my part.
WORD COUNT: 772

"I almost forgot to show you what I found the other day," Laura says. She puts on her glasses and walks into the living area, naked.

He watches her through half-mast eyes, enjoying the view. She has a first-rate ass.

She returns to the bed with a battered tin. "This survived the exodus from New Caprica," she says, her eyes alight with mischief. She opens the box and he sees a dozen hand-rolled cigarettes.

"Laura," he chuckles. "Is that what you did down there? Smoke that mountain weed all day?"

Her mouth quirks into a half-smile. "Hardly. I taught children, plotted to overthrow the Cylons, waited in line for rations, huddled in an isolation cell... Not a lot of time for smoking and dreaming."

He wishes he could have been there, could have taken his share of the burden.

She draws a cigarette out of the box. "Shall we? For old time's sake?"

She lights the cigarette and inhales deeply. The air fills with the bittersweet odor of the smoke. She passes it to him and he draws hard, almost chokes on the smoke. He's been so good lately—hardly drinking, never smoking. Laura is his only vice.

"Of course, this is better out in open air," she says in a dreamy voice. "Smoked under the stars on a mild night with an admiral by my side."

He hands her the cigarette. "At least you have the admiral."

His thoughts are flattening, dulling. He likes it. Sometimes he thinks too much.

"Thank the Gods for that," she says, a curl of smoke drifting out of her mouth.

"Although you could stand to wear that red dress," he says, remembering the swirl of color as she danced up on the stage, twirled by half the Fleet. He'd stood off to the side and watched. He didn't dance.

"It was left behind." She shuts her eyes for a moment, as if remembering the red dress and how she glowed in it.

"But you weren't," he says. He kisses her. She tastes like smoke and sex and a long-ago endless night.

Her hand travels down his bare chest, tracing the ugly scar that bisects it. The warmth of her fingers leave a glowing trail. Her eyes have turned pink and her grin is crooked.

She rolls onto her back and stretches, muscles taut. He feels a stirring of lust and is surprised. He's no longer a young man, but Laura is some kind of powerful aphrodisiac, better than any drug Cottle could prescribe. For starters, he's developed a fetish for women in glasses. A naked woman with glasses, all the better.

Her soft hand grasps him at the root and squeezes. "We could pretend we're still outside. On a blanket, watching the sky. Off in the distance, we can hear the band and the laughter of the dancers."

She's slick to his fingers, softer than the best silk. To hear her moan like this is almost reward enough for all they've been through. Laura tips her head back, humming in some sort of private joy.

Time has slowed to a gentle crawl. He takes a nipple in his mouth, adjusting his speed and pressure according to the tenor of her moans. He's hard, he didn't think it was possible to be as hard as a thirteen-year-old glimpsing his first skin magazine, but Laura seems to have crazy prophet sex powers.

"Oh, now," she sighs, her hand guiding his cock in, deep inside where it's warm and slick and delicious. His favorite place. A place that he's only privileged to visit from time to time, when they can't stand another moment of high-minded abstinence and give into the gnawing craving.

On knees and elbows, he drives into her hard. He realizes his eyes are closed, that he's missing it all by retreating into his mind. He needs to be present for this, to watch her astonished eyes, her mouth open.

"Gods, Laura," he hears himself groaning and she starts laughing, seemingly for no reason at all except that they fit together so well, that somehow their bodies were made for each other.

When she comes, her legs wrap around him so tight he worries she might crush and internal organ or two, but who cares? It would be a noble way to die, fully buried inside her, joined with her and...oh. His spine stiffens as he comes, a strange cry coming from his throat.

Collapse. Brain not efficiently firing neurons. Beautiful blankness. Her giggle snaps him out of his daze. "See, aren't you glad I found them?"

"You're something else," he says and kisses her collarbone.

It was a nice smoke, a nice high, but she's his drug of choice and he'll always want more.

Addict.

He's glad there's no treatment for this.

END
Tags: fandom: battlestar galactica, pairing: adama/roslin, year: 2009
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