BSG FIC :: "Five Minutes" [Laura Roslin, NC17]
Title: Five Minutes
Author: A. Magiluna Stormwriter
Email: stormwriter@shatterstorm.net
Rating: NC17
Character: Laura Roslin
Date Written: 15 May 2010
Word Count: 1806
Written for: Remix…Redux 8: Magic Eight Ball
Recipient: leiascully
Story Remixed: It's Just A Sweet Sweet Fantasy Baby
Summary: All you need is five minutes.
Spoilers: Vaguely for episode 2x08, "Final Cut"
Website: ShatterStorm Productions - Frisked & Conquered
Link to: http://f-n-c.shatterstorm.net/
Archive: ShatterStorm Productions & AO3 only…all others ask for permission & we'll see…
Author's Disclaimer: "Battlestar Galactica," the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Ron Moore, David Eick, SciFi, R&D TV, Sky TV, and USA Cable Entertainment LLC. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliataffiliated with "Battlestar Galactica," SciFi, or any representatives of the actors whose characters are involved.
Author's Notes: I pretty much had my story to remix picked out within a couple days of getting my assignment, but I didn't start writing it until the day before it was due. In a lot of ways, I think it ended up better that way, because my own sense of urgency in getting it written seemed to match Laura's sense of urgency in getting her "alone" time.
The survivor count in the story was literally just a number that I typed out. Then I decided to see if there was an episode that mentioned a survivor count close to the number I picked. Enter the BSG Wiki, which I now adore greatly. Over on the Survivor Count page, I found out that my number was the actual survivor count listed for "Final Cut", which is one of the eps I adore anyway. And then, I got the name of Laura's sister from Laura's bio at the same site. So yeah, seriously adoring BSG Wiki right about now.
Dedication: To my muses, for always giving me something fantastic, even if it's under the wire…
Beta:
merfilly &
shatterpath
"Five Minutes"
By A. Magiluna Stormwriter
"I didn't sign up for this frakking insanity."
The words are scarcely past your lips on the tailwind of a sigh when you feel a pang of regret. None of you signed up for any of this, but you don't hear any of them complaining, do you? Well, yes, you do hear them complaining. Frequently. But that's just part and parcel of the job of being the President of the Twelve Colonies, isn't it? It doesn't go any higher than you, and you've got no one to share your burden with.
The knock at the door startles you out of your fruitless mental meanderings, but you manage to plaster an embarrassingly poor excuse of a smile on your face just before the door opens to reveal Billy's haggard face. When did he start looking so old?
"Sorry to bother you, Madame President, but I wanted to remind you about the Quorum meeting in twenty minutes."
Eyes closing briefly, you nod and wave a vague acknowledgment of his reminder. He makes an almost non-committal reply of his own before the door closes behind him as he goes about his duties again. Deep, slow breaths dominate your thoughts as your head moves to rest in the cradle of your hands, palms pressing into your eyes until the night sky over Caprica City begins to blossom behind your lids. Fatigue and mourning settle more heavily over your soul as the realization that you'll never see that sight again in your lifetime.
As you sit there, mentally counting the seconds until your time is once again no longer your own -- when has it ever been your own time since the end of the world happened? -- a plan begins to formulate in the back of your brain. That dark, recessed corner where your id resides -- what was it that Sandra always called it? The lizard brain? -- begins to put form to the niggling, selfish thought.
Five minutes, it whispers, the wholly sibilant sound surrounding you, caressing you. All we need is five minutes. You'll have plenty of time to regain your composure before Billy comes to get you. You know you'll feel so much better, and no one will be the wiser.
You want to deny it, know you shouldn't be so self-interested. There are forty-seven thousand, eight hundred and fifty-three people who depend on you and your ability to put your own selfish needs aside.
But who else will put you first if you don't, Laura?
You know it will do you no good to deny the fact that your decision is already made for you, whether you like it or not. Eyes furtively sneaking another look at the door again, you slip into the bedroom that is your only sanctuary in this gods-forsaken nightmare that has become your life. At least that damned Biers woman and her camera crew have finally gone back to their ship and left you and your staff alone again.
Automatically, your hands reach into the top dresser drawer, digging out your favorite nightgown. Locating it by touch, you shake out the satiny, pale pink material and lay it on your rack before quickly stripping off your suit, which you carefully lay across the chair to avoid further wrinkles. Your bra and panties pool in a small pile of lacy cotton on the floor, forgotten as soon as they're off your body. A sigh of contentment escapes your lips as the silky nightgown slithers down your body to land, whisper-soft, midway along your thighs.
Crawling into bed, you burrow down against the sheets that still feel too rough against your skin. Perhaps that's because it's been more than a year since you last had access to your own decadently sensual luxuries. And not even being the President of the Twelve Colonies should allow you luxuries that the rest of the fleet must go without. Your hands glide down from the tips of your hair, along your collarbones to the fullness of your breasts. Unbidden, the memory of your cancer diagnosis rears its ugly head, and you feel your precious control wavering.
Shaking your head to banish such thoughts away for later, you instead turn your mind to the treasure trove of fantasies you've collected over the years. A heavy sigh of frustration is poised on the tip of your tongue when nothing comes automatically to mind, and you start to get up. And then an image forms in your mind, as if you've been given a gift from the Gods: a deserted, sun-drenched beach next to the water, waves lapping gently along the shore; the sensation of hands ghosting over your skin, leaving gooseflesh in their wake; a hard, toned body pressing against your back in all the best possible ways. You aren't even sure whether that body is male or female, or even someone you know, and you find you simply don't care. All that matters is that your dream lover is worshipping your sun- and wind-kissed skin, your hair fluttering in the cool breeze.
Fantasy firmly in place and playing out in your mind, you focus instead on the faint rasp of your calloused fingertips as they glide up the inside of your thigh, bunching the satiny material up around your hips. You're taking this slowly, deliciously slowly, dangerously slowly, but you want to savor every last second of this stolen five minutes as if it will never end. There will be time enough for reliving it later. Even before your fingertip grazes your clit, the need to stifle your gasp is there, the illicit thrill speeding up your heartbeat already. Sucking in a deep lungful of air, your tongue glides along your dry lips and the briny tang of sea salt explodes against your taste buds. Fingers move steadily, sliding effortlessly to trace down your lips and back up to circle your clit again. The sheer copiousness of your arousal never ceases to amaze you. Eying the dresser drawer, picturing the small wooden box containing your deepest, darkest secret treasures, you long for more time to indulge, but settle for the quicker, easier pleasures achievable in your limited time.
Meticulously manicured nails scrape across your sensitive clit, already-quickened breath hitching in your throat. Inhaling deeply in an attempt to prolong this sweet torture, your other hand moves to stroke and tease your heaving breasts. The heat of your dream lover's tongue bathing your painfully erect nipples wars with the heat of the sun; you can only spare a moment's thought for the sunburn you know will kiss your pale skin, and pray you remembered to pack the aloe in your cooler. Hips twitch and roll to meet each deliberate stroke of your fingers across your clit, and the sensation of sand grinding under your skin is palpable.
A random memory of the last time you'd been to the ocean before your mother succumbed to her cancer tries to worm its way into your fantasy, but you savagely shove that bit of depressing banality back behind its impenetrable door. A vacation, that's what you need, a refuge from the hell your life has become; the mere thought of a vacation has you on the verge of coming far too soon for your own taste. The desire oozing down your spine to coil in a languid fire at the base of your spine deepens your descent into your fantasy. Your phantom lover's hands move over your body again, and your back arches in an attempt to get closer to them, legs sliding open further in anticipation. The movements force your eyes to the nipples straining within their satiny prison.
The sensations are getting stronger, the tremors in your womb beginning their telltale pattern that will lead toward your orgasm. If asked later, there will be doubts as to whether you can actually feel the sun burning your delicate skin, the sheen of sweat drying under the gently relentless heat of it. Breathing becomes more and more difficult as determined fingers continue to torment your clit until blackness begins to blur at the edges of your vision. The vaguely rational part of your brain that is still working and keeping track of the time becomes more insistent, right alongside the ever-increasing waves of desire crashing against the sandy shores of your resolve. Without thought, your thumb presses in regular pulses against your throbbing clit, while two fingers sink deep into your clenching cunt. Grunting, your body shifts in concert with your thrusting, seeking fingers until you find that spot. The fist pressed against your mouth is the only thing that contains the loud moan as your fingers and thumb work in concert to bring your orgasm crashing over you like the proverbial tsunami until you're drowning in sensation, unsure if you're facing up or down in the water.
When you finally return to your body on its bed of rough sheets, your lungs are burning with the need for oxygen, and your jaw aches from clamping down on your fingers to keep from screaming. In fact, you're quite surprised that your teeth didn't break the skin of your knuckle. Another moment passes as your jaw works to relieve the tension, and you gingerly remove your fingers from the still-spasming heat of your cunt. You sigh involuntarily at the aftershocks and stare at the slick hand that for just a few short moments seemed not to be your own.
All too soon, the reality of your situation overwhelms you. Glancing at the clock, you realize that an extra few moments have passed while you've lazed in the lassitude of satiation. Wobbling, you get to your feet and move on unsteady legs to run a soapy cloth between your legs and over your hands. A second cloth is then pressed to your face, neck, and chest, an attempt to help your skin lose that telltale "freshly frakked" glow. Slow, deep breaths do wonders to calm you enough to slip your clothes back on with hands that only tremble slightly. The nightgown goes back into its place in the drawer, your hand lingering briefly over that little box next to it.
No time for that now. Perhaps later, once the Quorum is vaguely, temporarily satisfied with whatever appeasements you can offer them. Perhaps later, when you're allowed to lock your bedroom door, close off the damned office for the night, and just be.
By the time Billy knocks on the door again, you are impeccably groomed and calmer than you were before all of this started. Following your trusted assistant toward the meeting with the Quorum, you can't help the faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips, confident that no one is the wiser for what you've done.
But you could swear your skin is alive with the sunburn of fantasy fire.
Author: A. Magiluna Stormwriter
Email: stormwriter@shatterstorm.net
Rating: NC17
Character: Laura Roslin
Date Written: 15 May 2010
Word Count: 1806
Written for: Remix…Redux 8: Magic Eight Ball
Recipient: leiascully
Story Remixed: It's Just A Sweet Sweet Fantasy Baby
Summary: All you need is five minutes.
Spoilers: Vaguely for episode 2x08, "Final Cut"
Website: ShatterStorm Productions - Frisked & Conquered
Link to: http://f-n-c.shatterstorm.net/
Archive: ShatterStorm Productions & AO3 only…all others ask for permission & we'll see…
Author's Disclaimer: "Battlestar Galactica," the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Ron Moore, David Eick, SciFi, R&D TV, Sky TV, and USA Cable Entertainment LLC. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliataffiliated with "Battlestar Galactica," SciFi, or any representatives of the actors whose characters are involved.
Author's Notes: I pretty much had my story to remix picked out within a couple days of getting my assignment, but I didn't start writing it until the day before it was due. In a lot of ways, I think it ended up better that way, because my own sense of urgency in getting it written seemed to match Laura's sense of urgency in getting her "alone" time.
The survivor count in the story was literally just a number that I typed out. Then I decided to see if there was an episode that mentioned a survivor count close to the number I picked. Enter the BSG Wiki, which I now adore greatly. Over on the Survivor Count page, I found out that my number was the actual survivor count listed for "Final Cut", which is one of the eps I adore anyway. And then, I got the name of Laura's sister from Laura's bio at the same site. So yeah, seriously adoring BSG Wiki right about now.
Dedication: To my muses, for always giving me something fantastic, even if it's under the wire…
Beta:
merfilly &
shatterpath
"Five Minutes"
By A. Magiluna Stormwriter
"I didn't sign up for this frakking insanity."
The words are scarcely past your lips on the tailwind of a sigh when you feel a pang of regret. None of you signed up for any of this, but you don't hear any of them complaining, do you? Well, yes, you do hear them complaining. Frequently. But that's just part and parcel of the job of being the President of the Twelve Colonies, isn't it? It doesn't go any higher than you, and you've got no one to share your burden with.
The knock at the door startles you out of your fruitless mental meanderings, but you manage to plaster an embarrassingly poor excuse of a smile on your face just before the door opens to reveal Billy's haggard face. When did he start looking so old?
"Sorry to bother you, Madame President, but I wanted to remind you about the Quorum meeting in twenty minutes."
Eyes closing briefly, you nod and wave a vague acknowledgment of his reminder. He makes an almost non-committal reply of his own before the door closes behind him as he goes about his duties again. Deep, slow breaths dominate your thoughts as your head moves to rest in the cradle of your hands, palms pressing into your eyes until the night sky over Caprica City begins to blossom behind your lids. Fatigue and mourning settle more heavily over your soul as the realization that you'll never see that sight again in your lifetime.
As you sit there, mentally counting the seconds until your time is once again no longer your own -- when has it ever been your own time since the end of the world happened? -- a plan begins to formulate in the back of your brain. That dark, recessed corner where your id resides -- what was it that Sandra always called it? The lizard brain? -- begins to put form to the niggling, selfish thought.
Five minutes, it whispers, the wholly sibilant sound surrounding you, caressing you. All we need is five minutes. You'll have plenty of time to regain your composure before Billy comes to get you. You know you'll feel so much better, and no one will be the wiser.
You want to deny it, know you shouldn't be so self-interested. There are forty-seven thousand, eight hundred and fifty-three people who depend on you and your ability to put your own selfish needs aside.
But who else will put you first if you don't, Laura?
You know it will do you no good to deny the fact that your decision is already made for you, whether you like it or not. Eyes furtively sneaking another look at the door again, you slip into the bedroom that is your only sanctuary in this gods-forsaken nightmare that has become your life. At least that damned Biers woman and her camera crew have finally gone back to their ship and left you and your staff alone again.
Automatically, your hands reach into the top dresser drawer, digging out your favorite nightgown. Locating it by touch, you shake out the satiny, pale pink material and lay it on your rack before quickly stripping off your suit, which you carefully lay across the chair to avoid further wrinkles. Your bra and panties pool in a small pile of lacy cotton on the floor, forgotten as soon as they're off your body. A sigh of contentment escapes your lips as the silky nightgown slithers down your body to land, whisper-soft, midway along your thighs.
Crawling into bed, you burrow down against the sheets that still feel too rough against your skin. Perhaps that's because it's been more than a year since you last had access to your own decadently sensual luxuries. And not even being the President of the Twelve Colonies should allow you luxuries that the rest of the fleet must go without. Your hands glide down from the tips of your hair, along your collarbones to the fullness of your breasts. Unbidden, the memory of your cancer diagnosis rears its ugly head, and you feel your precious control wavering.
Shaking your head to banish such thoughts away for later, you instead turn your mind to the treasure trove of fantasies you've collected over the years. A heavy sigh of frustration is poised on the tip of your tongue when nothing comes automatically to mind, and you start to get up. And then an image forms in your mind, as if you've been given a gift from the Gods: a deserted, sun-drenched beach next to the water, waves lapping gently along the shore; the sensation of hands ghosting over your skin, leaving gooseflesh in their wake; a hard, toned body pressing against your back in all the best possible ways. You aren't even sure whether that body is male or female, or even someone you know, and you find you simply don't care. All that matters is that your dream lover is worshipping your sun- and wind-kissed skin, your hair fluttering in the cool breeze.
Fantasy firmly in place and playing out in your mind, you focus instead on the faint rasp of your calloused fingertips as they glide up the inside of your thigh, bunching the satiny material up around your hips. You're taking this slowly, deliciously slowly, dangerously slowly, but you want to savor every last second of this stolen five minutes as if it will never end. There will be time enough for reliving it later. Even before your fingertip grazes your clit, the need to stifle your gasp is there, the illicit thrill speeding up your heartbeat already. Sucking in a deep lungful of air, your tongue glides along your dry lips and the briny tang of sea salt explodes against your taste buds. Fingers move steadily, sliding effortlessly to trace down your lips and back up to circle your clit again. The sheer copiousness of your arousal never ceases to amaze you. Eying the dresser drawer, picturing the small wooden box containing your deepest, darkest secret treasures, you long for more time to indulge, but settle for the quicker, easier pleasures achievable in your limited time.
Meticulously manicured nails scrape across your sensitive clit, already-quickened breath hitching in your throat. Inhaling deeply in an attempt to prolong this sweet torture, your other hand moves to stroke and tease your heaving breasts. The heat of your dream lover's tongue bathing your painfully erect nipples wars with the heat of the sun; you can only spare a moment's thought for the sunburn you know will kiss your pale skin, and pray you remembered to pack the aloe in your cooler. Hips twitch and roll to meet each deliberate stroke of your fingers across your clit, and the sensation of sand grinding under your skin is palpable.
A random memory of the last time you'd been to the ocean before your mother succumbed to her cancer tries to worm its way into your fantasy, but you savagely shove that bit of depressing banality back behind its impenetrable door. A vacation, that's what you need, a refuge from the hell your life has become; the mere thought of a vacation has you on the verge of coming far too soon for your own taste. The desire oozing down your spine to coil in a languid fire at the base of your spine deepens your descent into your fantasy. Your phantom lover's hands move over your body again, and your back arches in an attempt to get closer to them, legs sliding open further in anticipation. The movements force your eyes to the nipples straining within their satiny prison.
The sensations are getting stronger, the tremors in your womb beginning their telltale pattern that will lead toward your orgasm. If asked later, there will be doubts as to whether you can actually feel the sun burning your delicate skin, the sheen of sweat drying under the gently relentless heat of it. Breathing becomes more and more difficult as determined fingers continue to torment your clit until blackness begins to blur at the edges of your vision. The vaguely rational part of your brain that is still working and keeping track of the time becomes more insistent, right alongside the ever-increasing waves of desire crashing against the sandy shores of your resolve. Without thought, your thumb presses in regular pulses against your throbbing clit, while two fingers sink deep into your clenching cunt. Grunting, your body shifts in concert with your thrusting, seeking fingers until you find that spot. The fist pressed against your mouth is the only thing that contains the loud moan as your fingers and thumb work in concert to bring your orgasm crashing over you like the proverbial tsunami until you're drowning in sensation, unsure if you're facing up or down in the water.
When you finally return to your body on its bed of rough sheets, your lungs are burning with the need for oxygen, and your jaw aches from clamping down on your fingers to keep from screaming. In fact, you're quite surprised that your teeth didn't break the skin of your knuckle. Another moment passes as your jaw works to relieve the tension, and you gingerly remove your fingers from the still-spasming heat of your cunt. You sigh involuntarily at the aftershocks and stare at the slick hand that for just a few short moments seemed not to be your own.
All too soon, the reality of your situation overwhelms you. Glancing at the clock, you realize that an extra few moments have passed while you've lazed in the lassitude of satiation. Wobbling, you get to your feet and move on unsteady legs to run a soapy cloth between your legs and over your hands. A second cloth is then pressed to your face, neck, and chest, an attempt to help your skin lose that telltale "freshly frakked" glow. Slow, deep breaths do wonders to calm you enough to slip your clothes back on with hands that only tremble slightly. The nightgown goes back into its place in the drawer, your hand lingering briefly over that little box next to it.
No time for that now. Perhaps later, once the Quorum is vaguely, temporarily satisfied with whatever appeasements you can offer them. Perhaps later, when you're allowed to lock your bedroom door, close off the damned office for the night, and just be.
By the time Billy knocks on the door again, you are impeccably groomed and calmer than you were before all of this started. Following your trusted assistant toward the meeting with the Quorum, you can't help the faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips, confident that no one is the wiser for what you've done.
But you could swear your skin is alive with the sunburn of fantasy fire.