Author:
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Pairing: Cally/Racetrack.
Rating: R.
Setting: Post-"The Farm."
Words: 294.
Request: Cally/Racetrack, rage.
Summary: For Fouth of July Femslash Porn Battle, Racetrack visits Cally in her cell.
Every day, Racetrack visits Cally in her cell. Cally's locked up for discharging a firearm without permission aboard the Galactica. A bullet right into Boomer's belly.
They talk about everything, but Boomer and the Chief. Racetrack knows that Cally loves him; everyone loves the Chief. They chatter about the vipers, which ones are broken and which ones are running. They rarely talk about the Cylons. Racetrack brings her Triad cards, and they listen to President Roslin's broadcasts.
"Think she's going to win public respect?" Cally asks. "Not everyone's that religious."
"She's a visionary." Racetrack is quiet about her hand in the president's escape. "We need a leader with the frakking Cylons on our tail. I don't know if the Old Man's enough. Got civilians to consider."
Cally shakes her head and shows her hand. She's won this round.
Racetrack earns the trust of the guard, and he lets her watch over Cally. She knows that Adama would shove him in his own brig if he knew. Can't trust anyone if Adama can't trust his own son.
Her and Cally start holding hands through the bars. Cally hasn't had any affection in a while, and Racetrack lives the same lonely life. Just her and her bunk. Racetrack takes a risk and touches Cally's breasts. She grins when Cally moans.
The bars dig into Racetrack's hips. They are as close as they can with the metal still separating them. Racetrack's pushing open Cally's pants, feeling just how frakking wet she is. "More," Cally whimpers.
Racetrack knows they only have five minutes before the guard comes back. She's working Cally fast. Waiting to see the pleasure move over her face, feel her shake against the bars. Racetrack knows she'll walk from the brig straight to her bunk.