Ficlet
This ficlet was posted at the bsg_pornbattle originally but I have to repost it here because it didn't fit the rules. It's for the prompt "Hot Dog/Roslin, bet, rash" and I should warn that this... hasn't been written to please fans of Roslin. ~ 300 words, teen, crack.
I Betcha You Can't
Brendan suppressed the urge to shake his head while zipping his trousers. He couldn’t believe he’d just done this. He really, truly couldn’t believe it. And Gods. It had been good, too.
“Well, Lieutenant,” President Roslin said. “That was certainly...” She paused. “...unexpected.”
“You don’t have to tell me, ma’am,” Brendan said. He couldn’t decide whether to squirm in discomfort because she was the President and she could be his mother, so this was really awkward in a way, or trying not to laugh because he couldn’t believe this had worked. Gods but Galactica had corrupted him fast, looked like. He paused, feeling awkward after all. “Uhm. You don’t have to worry though. About your reputation and all. I won’t tell anybody,” he assured her, feeling just a little guilty.
Roslin smiled that smile that Brendan personally found a bit creepy- hot like hell but creepy, the one when she smiled except she didn’t. “I’d very much appreciate that, Lieutenant... Hot Dog.”
“Yes ma’am.” Brendan knew to know his cue. He dared shoot her another glance and smile then got the hell out.
No need to tell anybody anything, he thought, feeling slightly ashamed of himself, fumbling with his belt on his way to Colonial One’s Raptor bay. Racetrack was already waiting for him in the Raptor, as was everybody else on the Galactica, gleefully wanting to hear that he’d lost the bet, of course. But he hadn’t. He actually hadn’t.
You’d never dare give the President your rash, my ass, he thought, shaking his head for real this time. If his mother would have known what military life really was like, she’d never have allowed him to attend flight school back in the day. The dares that Galactica’s pilots came up with when drunk were just weird.
I Betcha You Can't
Brendan suppressed the urge to shake his head while zipping his trousers. He couldn’t believe he’d just done this. He really, truly couldn’t believe it. And Gods. It had been good, too.
“Well, Lieutenant,” President Roslin said. “That was certainly...” She paused. “...unexpected.”
“You don’t have to tell me, ma’am,” Brendan said. He couldn’t decide whether to squirm in discomfort because she was the President and she could be his mother, so this was really awkward in a way, or trying not to laugh because he couldn’t believe this had worked. Gods but Galactica had corrupted him fast, looked like. He paused, feeling awkward after all. “Uhm. You don’t have to worry though. About your reputation and all. I won’t tell anybody,” he assured her, feeling just a little guilty.
Roslin smiled that smile that Brendan personally found a bit creepy- hot like hell but creepy, the one when she smiled except she didn’t. “I’d very much appreciate that, Lieutenant... Hot Dog.”
“Yes ma’am.” Brendan knew to know his cue. He dared shoot her another glance and smile then got the hell out.
No need to tell anybody anything, he thought, feeling slightly ashamed of himself, fumbling with his belt on his way to Colonial One’s Raptor bay. Racetrack was already waiting for him in the Raptor, as was everybody else on the Galactica, gleefully wanting to hear that he’d lost the bet, of course. But he hadn’t. He actually hadn’t.
You’d never dare give the President your rash, my ass, he thought, shaking his head for real this time. If his mother would have known what military life really was like, she’d never have allowed him to attend flight school back in the day. The dares that Galactica’s pilots came up with when drunk were just weird.