Barndoors (1/1)
Title: Barndoors
Part: 1 of 1.
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Word Count: 665.
Rating: R.
Spoilers: Through 1x10 "The Hand of God."
Characters: Helo/Athena.
Excerpt: All the recollections of her time in the fleet seemed crystal-bright before, but now they're dulling next to something as trifling as Helo's scent.
Author's Note: Written for oxoniensis's glorious Porn Battle VII (The Seven Deadly Sins). Prompt: Athena/Helo, palms.
He palms the top of her head to shield her from the rain, and she uses it as an excuse to slide closer to him across the straw. There aren't too many places for a thorough wash on a planet suffering nuclear holocaust, and both of them smell like sweat, but she wouldn't change that even if she could. Most of her life so far has been sterile, lived by proxy in cleanrooms.
In the memories that she can access of Helo, he doesn't have this smell. She doesn't remember being so attracted to his nimbus of mud and burning wood and nutmeg. All the recollections of her time in the fleet seemed crystal-bright before, but now they're dulling next to something as trifling as Helo's scent.
She finds she is learning the importance of experience in being alive.
"You're shivering, Sharon," he murmurs, and tugs her flush against him. It seems stupid not to tilt up the extra three inches and press her mouth against the skin of his neck, to drag her tongue across the stubble underneath his jawbone. He tightens one arm across her back, and the hand at the top of her head drifts to cover her nape. Her temperature is shooting up and yet all she can do is cling to him, wondering how much further this can go.
Her brain is screaming at her to stop and re-evaluate, to develop a long-term plan, to face the statistical reality of two against a billion-strong occupying force; but her brain is also screaming that she is supposed to kill any officer of the Colonial Fleet. It's difficult - frightening - but she can choose not to listen.
She slides both legs around one of his; at this he takes her cheeks between his palms and bends his neck to kiss the breath out of her lungs. They pant together when he releases her, and his thumbs trace shallow parabolas above her jaw.
She places her palms over his hands, and meets his eyes. There's so much familiarity in the blue, and then so much she couldn't decipher even with a map of his optic nerves. She wonders if there's anything written in her own gaze, or if under the close glare of intimacy he can tell that she's a machine.
He smiles. "Like I said," he tells her, "a lovely view."
"Lieutenant Optimism," she mutters, but she's smiling back. She takes his hands, guides them below her waist.
"Don't call me names," he whispers, and his palms settle in the curves at the top of her thighs.
She reaches for his hips, fumbles with a zipper. He tugs his jacket open and wraps it around her, helps her shimmy out of rain-spattered pants and rolls her underneath his body.
"You're warm," she says, closing her eyes. He kisses both eyelids, the tip of her nose.
She digs her arms up and inside the back of his shirt, rubbing the pads of her fingers over his spine. He takes her head again, holding it with one hand as he brings the other between her legs. She arches into him immediately.
"We're going to live," he says, and pushes himself inside her.
"I hope so," she answers softly, but her voice is shaking with his movement. His thumb is playing a rhythm into her sensitive flesh; his warm possession feels like a damn good reason for betraying even her brothers and sisters. His flesh is scraping into hers; their sweat is mingling. Helo is the center of a spinning galaxy that has all her molecules in thrall.
When her body springs momentarily taut against him, when she yells his name into the thunder, he lets go inside of her with a furor that's over almost as soon as it begins. She hadn't noticed him holding back, waiting for her.
He's combing his fingers through her hair, kissing a vague line between her temples. "Sharon," he says.
And they wait out the darkening night.
Part: 1 of 1.
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Word Count: 665.
Rating: R.
Spoilers: Through 1x10 "The Hand of God."
Characters: Helo/Athena.
Excerpt: All the recollections of her time in the fleet seemed crystal-bright before, but now they're dulling next to something as trifling as Helo's scent.
Author's Note: Written for oxoniensis's glorious Porn Battle VII (The Seven Deadly Sins). Prompt: Athena/Helo, palms.
He palms the top of her head to shield her from the rain, and she uses it as an excuse to slide closer to him across the straw. There aren't too many places for a thorough wash on a planet suffering nuclear holocaust, and both of them smell like sweat, but she wouldn't change that even if she could. Most of her life so far has been sterile, lived by proxy in cleanrooms.
In the memories that she can access of Helo, he doesn't have this smell. She doesn't remember being so attracted to his nimbus of mud and burning wood and nutmeg. All the recollections of her time in the fleet seemed crystal-bright before, but now they're dulling next to something as trifling as Helo's scent.
She finds she is learning the importance of experience in being alive.
"You're shivering, Sharon," he murmurs, and tugs her flush against him. It seems stupid not to tilt up the extra three inches and press her mouth against the skin of his neck, to drag her tongue across the stubble underneath his jawbone. He tightens one arm across her back, and the hand at the top of her head drifts to cover her nape. Her temperature is shooting up and yet all she can do is cling to him, wondering how much further this can go.
Her brain is screaming at her to stop and re-evaluate, to develop a long-term plan, to face the statistical reality of two against a billion-strong occupying force; but her brain is also screaming that she is supposed to kill any officer of the Colonial Fleet. It's difficult - frightening - but she can choose not to listen.
She slides both legs around one of his; at this he takes her cheeks between his palms and bends his neck to kiss the breath out of her lungs. They pant together when he releases her, and his thumbs trace shallow parabolas above her jaw.
She places her palms over his hands, and meets his eyes. There's so much familiarity in the blue, and then so much she couldn't decipher even with a map of his optic nerves. She wonders if there's anything written in her own gaze, or if under the close glare of intimacy he can tell that she's a machine.
He smiles. "Like I said," he tells her, "a lovely view."
"Lieutenant Optimism," she mutters, but she's smiling back. She takes his hands, guides them below her waist.
"Don't call me names," he whispers, and his palms settle in the curves at the top of her thighs.
She reaches for his hips, fumbles with a zipper. He tugs his jacket open and wraps it around her, helps her shimmy out of rain-spattered pants and rolls her underneath his body.
"You're warm," she says, closing her eyes. He kisses both eyelids, the tip of her nose.
She digs her arms up and inside the back of his shirt, rubbing the pads of her fingers over his spine. He takes her head again, holding it with one hand as he brings the other between her legs. She arches into him immediately.
"We're going to live," he says, and pushes himself inside her.
"I hope so," she answers softly, but her voice is shaking with his movement. His thumb is playing a rhythm into her sensitive flesh; his warm possession feels like a damn good reason for betraying even her brothers and sisters. His flesh is scraping into hers; their sweat is mingling. Helo is the center of a spinning galaxy that has all her molecules in thrall.
When her body springs momentarily taut against him, when she yells his name into the thunder, he lets go inside of her with a furor that's over almost as soon as it begins. She hadn't noticed him holding back, waiting for her.
He's combing his fingers through her hair, kissing a vague line between her temples. "Sharon," he says.
And they wait out the darkening night.