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Author:Rispacooper (also written waaaay back during Season 1)
For: the New Battlestar Galactica
Pairing: Gaeta/Lee
Summary: moredirtybadwrong, for I enjoy it so. Gaeta, back when we fangirls knew he was a pretty gheiboy but the show hadn't admitted it yet.
Spoiler: Set after the events of “Valley of Darkness”
Warning: smut, slight hint of kink
Rating: R-NC-17
AN: Rumor suggests (suggested, at the time anyway) Lt. Gaeta is a Cylon. It does not suggest whether or not he is a self-aware Cylon, or an unknown-even-to-himself terrorist Toaster, alas. None of which matters in the reading of this story, but I find it interesting nonetheless. And why do characters with imaginary people in their head get all the Freaky? Watupwitdat?
As Pooky said, “Somebody screwed somebody after that episode.”
Disclaimer: Not mine, and for adults only.
Hot and perspiring too obviously, Gaeta ducked his head to avoid eye contact with the others lingering by the sinks, letting them think what they pleased as he stepped into the last stall by the wall and slammed the door behind him. His back was pressed to the solid steel before the echo had faded, his fingers burning at his fly, fumbling to slide the tight zipper down.
His gasp was drowned in the rush of running water, the bartered bits of gossip, and slick whispers of wet soap sliding across steel basins, and yet he bit his lip to hold in any further noises that might escape. The slight tang of blood filled his mouth, mingling with the acrid, recycled lavatory air, the stench that no amount of cleanser would ever erase. It would stay with him when he walked out of here in a few minutes, bleach that could never hide the filth underneath no matter how much was used, no matter how rough the touch, and Gaeta closed his eyes to the sight of the toilet before him.
There was nothing as smooth as that soap in the stall with him, but it didn’t matter. He brought his shaking hand to his face and darted out his tongue, tasting the salt of his palm.
Blood. Captain Adama had been covered in blood, already drying in strange symbols across the side of his face, sticky along his jaw and forehead. Skin so pale, beneath the red. Pulse pounding, veins plump and engorged with the proof of life, breathing not quite steady even then.
Again, Gaeta extended his tongue, flat on his already wet palm, licking up between his fingers, tasting the salt gathered in the slight webs of skin, nearly moaning when it wasn’t enough.
The thought alone was enough to have him tearing his hand away, his mouth left empty for the moment as he brought his hand down to his crotch to pull his cock free. Only minutes, not enough time, and still he squeezed, using his thumb to put pressure on the head and shivering as his palm brushed the resulting droplets.
His teeth found their way to his lip again, with the practice of weeks on a battlestar with no leave and no privacy. Just moments in the head, moments like this, running in from a card game or deck duty with his cock already hard and his body trembling with the need for release.
Captain Adama had destroyed the Centurions. Shaking and afraid with someone’s blood splashed across that face, he had saved the ship, and Gaeta felt the force of his heartbeat pushing out thick streams of his blood in an unsteady, pulsing rhythm as he remembered. His body sang with it, humming and alive beneath his skin as it could never be with others and he slid his legs further apart, bracing against the door as he let his fingers close around his shaft, damp and hot and yet insufficient as he stroked himself.
It would not take much, not when only a glimpse of Apollo’s face after the firefight had left his dick swollen and aching, left him visibly shivering with the need to slip away.
Apollo would be in the brig now, or on his way, not chained again unless the Colonel felt the need but still a prisoner, their savior. Not even given time to wipe most of the traces of humanity from his face before he was taken away, and Gaeta felt his grip tighten, a strangled moan turned to a quick cough as he struggled to keep his pace.
He had been angry, his voice quiet and controlled and quivering just enough to show a weakness to Col. Tigh, and Gaeta flinched, squeezing his eyes shut tighter, wishing for black behind his eyes instead of vision of Capt. Adama—of Apollo—so emotional.
“What do you think you’re doing, Lieutenant?”
Gaeta fought the urge to straighten up and stand at attention at the sound of the quiet hiss, the authority so like the Old Man’s that he could feel his chin lifting. His hand stopped, want pounding around his fist as he waited, turning into the heat of the other man’s breath and not attempting to hide his shiver, only vaguely aware of the silence outside of their shared space, the click of the lock behind the other man Then Gaeta could hear the stinging slide of another zipper being lowered and opened his eyes, barely holding in his groan as the heat and strength of Captain Adama’s body surrounded him.
Every inch of skin burst into life and he had not been touched yet. Only another second for that, and Gaeta stilled his hand for an agonizing moment as he pushed his head back into the door, arching his neck as Apollo bent confidently down over him.
No longer caring about those outside, Gaeta gasped at the force of Captain Adama stepping forward to press between his legs, mouth sucking hard at his neck, as one hand went straight to his cock. It was strong, closing over his and forcing his strokes to slow, taking command of him so easily.
He could not seem to move, or think, or question, his brain stalled into malfunction at the thought of speaking, daring to question what felt so frakking good.
But he didn’t fight the need to obey, didn’t need to wait for the order, spreading his legs and licking his lips, panting for air when his gasps seemed to excite the captain. Apollo’s eyes were amused and intent on him, traces of red still marring his cheek, so close Gaeta could have touched them.
He lifted a hand as his body rocked into Captain Adama’s palm, tracing the dried drops of blood with shaking fingers before roughly clutching at the short strands of the captain’s hair, seizing the back of his head and yanking him closer.
He jerked as teeth brushed the swollen, sensitive flesh of his neck, twitching gratefully into Apollo’s hand. His knees were weak, the space between them dark and tight and damp, and Gaeta knew he moaned, shifting restlessly as Apollo stopped his hand and pressed in, pressed against him until he could barely breathe.
“Frak.” Someone whispered feverishly as Apollo pushed, rubbed, his cock bare and leaking as he thrust up. So little time, but Gaeta moaned again and let fingers tear at his clothing, wanting to feel them inside him. Others would come in, would see if he fell to the floor and sucked his captain off, so there were only bruising fingers at his hips, a pelvis crushed to his as he let Apollo grind against him. Hard until it hurt, painful because it was not the salt of Apollo’s blood filling Gaeta’s mouth now.
Trousers were pushed down without any further words, just grunts heavy in his ear as Gaeta was flattened to the wall and lifted from the floor. His arms twisted to find a hold, tearing at the worn, warm leather of the Captain’s jacket as a wet, shaky groan escaped his mouth. It was primitive. Rough and sloppy. And Gaeta wanted more, rubbing without rhythm into Apollo’s hips, throwing back his head at each raw, heated stroke of his cock.
A frak between soldiers. A hot glance left on the Captain a moment too long, and Apollo had scented him, followed him here for this.
It was too much, and Gaeta grunted and sank his teeth into his lip just in time to keep himself from crying out loud enough to bring in the guards doubtless waiting outside. He was jerking, twitching streams onto Captain Adama’s stomach and he didn’t care.
Apollo went still, muscles trembling as he let Gaeta come, the same calm on his face that others always saw when he was in command. But even now Gaeta could see the energy held in check, the strange, sly light in his eyes, the force it was taking for him not to keep thrusting. The want. The need as only a living man could feel.
And then he was sliding down, so easily, onto a bleached but filthy floor, and opening his mouth and shivering at the instant touch to the back of his head.
The End