This is crossposted there and at bsg2003fics, so sorry if this appears on your friendslist multiple times.
Second of all, I am weak. I wrote fic. *whimper*
Title: The Ragged Edge
Author: Little Red
Fandom: New Battlestar Galactica
Category: Roslin / Adama.
Spoilers: Nothing beyond basic series knowledge.
Summary: This is who she is now.
President Laura Roslin doesn't think about sex for thirty days.
Her hours are taken up with lives and deaths, shortages and desperation and a relentless barrage of decisions. Her responsibility is summed up in the dry-eraseable numbers on the white board behind her. Her body craves nothing but uninterrupted sleep.
On the thirty-first day, she is fucked against a cold, military bulkhead by the only man who might need this escape as much as she does.
She doesn't call him "Commander," and, though a flash of memory provides her with his given name on his first deep thrust inside her, she doesn't call him "William," either. She struggles, for a moment, to forget who he is entirely, who she is, to put aside all traces of the business meeting she came here for and lose herself in the feel of human skin against hers.
Adama might not be able to bear her weight on his own, she thinks, so she keeps one foot on the floor and plants the other on the chair behind him, opening herself as wide as the skirt still bunched around her hips will let her. They're less than three meters from his bunk -- the only bed she's seen in a month of sleeping in a chair -- but she thinks they would both fall asleep instantly if they tried this lying down.
Laura doesn't know what makes today different than any other time they have been exhausted and overworked and alone in this room. He called her "Madam President" and touched her shoulder to guide her into her quarters and this happened, seemingly without any further conscious thought from either of them.
The sharp stubble around his mouth burns as he kisses her neck, and she whines out the only word she has wanted to say since this started.
"Harder," she begs. For thirty seconds, five minutes, as long as this lasts, she needs to be owned, be commanded by a power higher than her, even if it is only a biologically determined heirarchy of man penetrating woman.
Adama grunts once and complies, shoving her harder against the wall and seizing her mouth with his before she can say anything more. They are both too tired for conversation. Laura tugs her skirt up further with one hand and readjusts her stance, and she moans when that lets him in deeper, like he's rending her all the way through to her spine.
It doesn't feel good -- is too rough and awkward for her usual tastes -- but it feels something.
Something hits just right and she clings to him harder, digging her fingers into the coarse fabric of his uniform jacket. She tightens all her muscles against the rush of sensation pulling at her, squeezes her eyes closed even as her partner gasps helplessly in her ear.
"Laura," he gets out on an uneven breath, like it's important that he say her name once before this is over, "I'm going to-"
And with that warning, he drives her once more into the wall and comes on a rush of sound that's more helpless and human than either of them have any right to be. His legs are shaky and hers are starting to hurt, so she's grateful when he slips out of her and they both sink down to the floor.
She doesn't come, and she wonders if she will ever be able to be that out of control again, even for a minute.
They're both equally at fault for this, both reached for each other at the same time and didn't let go, but he's the one who asks first. "Are you okay?"
Laura realizes how comforting his gravelly voice is, even if it usually brings her bad news. Her head sinks back against the wall but she keeps eye contact, and something about his semen still inside her and his hand on her outstretched calf makes her feel like they're inside a bubble removed from time and space.
She answers honestly. "I don't think I can do 'okay.'" She holds her breath for long seconds, like she's waiting for the world to come apart under her again.
It doesn't, and the way Adama looks at her doesn't change with her admission of frailty, either. "But this is a little better," he offers with something that isn't quite a smile. He says it the same straightforward way he tells her what supplies they have in store -- it's a statement of fact. No more, no less.
She takes a deep breath and agrees. "It's better."
He offers her a handkerchief and cleans himself up with another one before zipping his pants up and adjusting his jacket. She begins to straighten her clothes as well, but he lays a hand on her shoulder again.
"You should sleep in my bed for an hour," he tells her.
"I should go back to my ship," Laura corrects. "If we're... done here." They haven't actually discussed the mounting tensions on the less comfortable civilian ships, but their half hour is up.
"I have to be back on the bridge. Someone should use the bed."
She eyes the rumpled bunk again. It's possible that nothing has ever looked more inviting. She doesn't have time budgeted in her day for sleep but can accept the logic that the President should be well-rested. She doesn't know when she will next have this kind of opportunity.
It doesn't matter what people will think if they hear of her sleeping in his quarters. When anyone has the time and energy to speculate or complain about an inappropriate relationship between their leaders, it will be a blessed day.
Adama checks himself in the mirror and leaves. For a moment Laura's gaze drifts across his bookshelves and personal effects, but taking the time to study them now is a luxury she cannot afford.
She slides into his bed without straightening the sheets. It occurs to her that she would once have been more concerned about the consequences of an encounter like this. She never used to be one to have sex lightly, but she is no longer living in a universe governed by the old rules. Worry over anything that isn't life or death is an extravagance.
This isn't going to kill her.
President Laura Roslin falls asleep before she can change her mind.
Author's Note: Tammy beta'd and totally saved this fic. I worship her muchly for this. I got tired of stealing all my fic titles from Star Trek, so this one is from Babylon 5.
After I wrote the fic, I realized that the awesome awesome Conjure One song that pellmelody sent me for *another* 'ship works really nicely here. And then I found this icon. If you haven't heard the song yet, you should: Sleep.