Do Cylons Dream of Electric Helos? (1/1)
Title: Do Cylons Dream of Electric Helos?
Part: 1 of 1.
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Word Count: 1388.
Rating: Light NC-17 ... if the "Pegasus" scene triggered you, you possibly shouldn't read this. It depends on how evocative my writing actually is; damned if I know that.
Spoilers: Through 2x12 "Resurrection Ship, Part 2."
Characters: Helo/Athena.
Excerpt: You begin to know the night by instinct.
Author's Note: smut-tuesdays doesn't end until the people in Hawaii say it does! Or something. This is for everyone who has commented on one of my Helo/Athena fics so far. BECAUSE I LOVE YOU ALL SO HARD.
Dreams were another thing humans claimed. You shouldn't be able to have dreams, they screamed in close quarters. You shouldn't eat, you shouldn't love. You can't rape a machine. Never mind that none of them could explain what made them different; they'd had her in custody for months and nobody had yet been able to locate her processor, to map out her programming. They didn't seem to accept that a human brain is little more than an organic computer. That once your creations evolved, and birthed creations of their own, something fundamental has changed.
She dreamed every night in the cell. A Six had once told her that night visions were just electrical oddities, necessary manifestations of the central hard drive's re-partitioning. Images, emotions - files - would reappear briefly as they were catalogued, and disappear again in the light of day. Nothing to worry about, she'd said calmly, her perfectly glossed lips glinting like steel.
Sharon was nothing like the Sixes.
Before the assignment on Caprica she'd been in sleep mode, alone in a room with one blinking red stripe along the wall. She'd thought that would make imprisonment easy, but her mind, it seemed, had grown since then. It was compensating, it seemed, for the torpor of seeing endless gray bars and a filthy mattress. It was understimulated, so in dreams it took her into nebulas, through forests, and over oceans. While guards checked the safeties on their guns outside the glass, she closed her eyes and saw life.
In some of the dreams she was running through the corridors of a resurrection ship, rows and rows of Eights standing in formation around her with their eyes switched off. She ran miles, days, but she couldn't get free of them: their bronzed naked bodies, their empty smiles. She always felt herself getting close to the end, right before she woke up.
Some dreams were much worse. The Pegasus officer busted open her door with marines behind him, and she was paralyzed, her muscles drowned and her nerves not firing. He seemed to take forever to get to her, and all she could do was watch him approach. No Helo or Chief, not in her dream. This she would have to do on her own, and she tried, but invisible weights were binding her back. You chose this, the dream seemed to be telling her. You wanted to prove you could be trusted. You wanted to show them you'd never return to your brothers and sisters, and you have to show it every day. Put your hand down. To defend yourself or your child is to defend a Cylon.
She woke from those dreams gasping, shooting up on the bed and curling her fists one after the other, over and over, to reassure herself they could still move. Sometimes she cried, and guards eyed her curiously through the glass: What's her game? What's she planning?
In the forest-dream she moved slowly, too; her legs shifted forward, one after the other, but only reluctantly - as if they couldn't believe the orders they were getting. Ahead of her was a shape she was certain was Helo, though she never got a clear look at his face or even a defined silhouette. In the dream she just knew, and the more urgently she tried to reach him, the further he got. She tripped and cut her face open on a tree root and she was awake, again; nothing here but her cell and the big-nosed guard who watched her from four yards away with dull, unsympathetic eyes.
The day Helo came back from Pegasus, he talked to her for an hour. She held the phone to one ear and let go of her blanket, so she could line her fingers up with his on the surface of the glass. The guards were probably watching them as if they were crazy, but that always mattered less with Helo present.
And it seemed that hope had rewired her programming - that seeing so much of him, smiling into her eyes, had opened a brand new book inside her brain. She dreamed then, truly.
You begin to know the night by instinct. The hours tick by while you stare at the ceiling, and your only clue is the shuffling of the marines.
Sometimes, though, inevitably, guards forget their duties; and whether they admit to it or not, you can tell that most of them are growing less afraid of the quiet dark-haired girl who stares daggers at them from the bed in her cell.
And so he can come to you.
The door, usually slammed open by some disgruntled sergeant with food, squeaks softly under Helo's touch. You watch the grey shadow of him approach.
"How?" you ask. He kneels beside you, tracing the lines of your face with his fingers, looking at you like you're a miracle.
"Trading smokes, if you can believe it," he replies, and smiles. Helo's smile has become, to you, a precious, universal rarity. You kiss him.
His tongue is hot and familiar against yours. Sliding into his arms on the floor, you shove the bed back by accident and there's a moment of panic when it grates. Nobody charges in and it's a good thing, too, because you're certain you'll let no earthly force rip you from him now.
"I've thought of this so many times, Sharon," he tells you softly, running his fingers through your hair. "I hate knowing that you're in here alone."
You grab his face, kiss him again. "I hate it too," you say. "But you're here right now."
"Someday," he says. "Someday soon."
He picks you up and lays you down; with the reassuring shape of him above you, you almost forget how much you hate this frakking bed. You grab the center of his shirt in your fist, pull him against you.
You haven't felt him on top of you since Kobol, and the weight of him now is warm relief.
You kiss him, and he kisses you, until you are dizzy. His arms gather you close; your body is trembling at the excitement of this relatively new activity - or from his nearness, you can't decide which. Your hands at the back of his head spur him on, and his hands, under your clothes and against your bare spine, are lifting you into his embrace. He's solid and burning between your legs, and you have the bizarre thought that you could wash your body clean by letting him lose himself inside of it. You couldn't remember the nightmares if you tried; all of those images are splintering away when you put your hand on him and slither out of sweatpants.
He starts to say your name, but you stop his lips with your hand. "Please," you murmur, gazing up into his eyes, and he kisses you hard, one hand cupping the back of your head.
His fingers find you where you want him and you have to fight not to cry out. He doesn't let you suffer for long. You hear the slick of your folds in the air, a gasp, a zipper; then Helo's back, fitting easily against you. He leans to kiss you, to nibble you, and he tastes as vague and sweet as the pit of a date. He drives home; you suck in a desperate wash of oxygen. His thrusts are smooth, filling; the rhythm of his breathing runs ragged with yours.
When you clench around him, cling to his shoulders, you feel his presence coloring your world. You bite your lip to keep from screaming his name. He sucks at your collarbone, doing the same. You arch back, and the world goes white.
Afterwards, you always want to stay. You always want to kiss him again, to spend hours stroking his hair and drawing your palms across his chest. But this is the part when you slip away - just as you've rested your head in the crook of his arm, just as he's begun to gently rub your belly. You always have to go.
Sharon's dreams always ended the same way. She turned over underneath the starchy sheets, and cradled her head in her arms. She stared at the darkness of the wall, at the silhouette of the guard outside, at her own thumb. She waited to fall asleep again.
Part: 1 of 1.
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Word Count: 1388.
Rating: Light NC-17 ... if the "Pegasus" scene triggered you, you possibly shouldn't read this. It depends on how evocative my writing actually is; damned if I know that.
Spoilers: Through 2x12 "Resurrection Ship, Part 2."
Characters: Helo/Athena.
Excerpt: You begin to know the night by instinct.
Author's Note: smut-tuesdays doesn't end until the people in Hawaii say it does! Or something. This is for everyone who has commented on one of my Helo/Athena fics so far. BECAUSE I LOVE YOU ALL SO HARD.
Dreams were another thing humans claimed. You shouldn't be able to have dreams, they screamed in close quarters. You shouldn't eat, you shouldn't love. You can't rape a machine. Never mind that none of them could explain what made them different; they'd had her in custody for months and nobody had yet been able to locate her processor, to map out her programming. They didn't seem to accept that a human brain is little more than an organic computer. That once your creations evolved, and birthed creations of their own, something fundamental has changed.
She dreamed every night in the cell. A Six had once told her that night visions were just electrical oddities, necessary manifestations of the central hard drive's re-partitioning. Images, emotions - files - would reappear briefly as they were catalogued, and disappear again in the light of day. Nothing to worry about, she'd said calmly, her perfectly glossed lips glinting like steel.
Sharon was nothing like the Sixes.
Before the assignment on Caprica she'd been in sleep mode, alone in a room with one blinking red stripe along the wall. She'd thought that would make imprisonment easy, but her mind, it seemed, had grown since then. It was compensating, it seemed, for the torpor of seeing endless gray bars and a filthy mattress. It was understimulated, so in dreams it took her into nebulas, through forests, and over oceans. While guards checked the safeties on their guns outside the glass, she closed her eyes and saw life.
In some of the dreams she was running through the corridors of a resurrection ship, rows and rows of Eights standing in formation around her with their eyes switched off. She ran miles, days, but she couldn't get free of them: their bronzed naked bodies, their empty smiles. She always felt herself getting close to the end, right before she woke up.
Some dreams were much worse. The Pegasus officer busted open her door with marines behind him, and she was paralyzed, her muscles drowned and her nerves not firing. He seemed to take forever to get to her, and all she could do was watch him approach. No Helo or Chief, not in her dream. This she would have to do on her own, and she tried, but invisible weights were binding her back. You chose this, the dream seemed to be telling her. You wanted to prove you could be trusted. You wanted to show them you'd never return to your brothers and sisters, and you have to show it every day. Put your hand down. To defend yourself or your child is to defend a Cylon.
She woke from those dreams gasping, shooting up on the bed and curling her fists one after the other, over and over, to reassure herself they could still move. Sometimes she cried, and guards eyed her curiously through the glass: What's her game? What's she planning?
In the forest-dream she moved slowly, too; her legs shifted forward, one after the other, but only reluctantly - as if they couldn't believe the orders they were getting. Ahead of her was a shape she was certain was Helo, though she never got a clear look at his face or even a defined silhouette. In the dream she just knew, and the more urgently she tried to reach him, the further he got. She tripped and cut her face open on a tree root and she was awake, again; nothing here but her cell and the big-nosed guard who watched her from four yards away with dull, unsympathetic eyes.
The day Helo came back from Pegasus, he talked to her for an hour. She held the phone to one ear and let go of her blanket, so she could line her fingers up with his on the surface of the glass. The guards were probably watching them as if they were crazy, but that always mattered less with Helo present.
And it seemed that hope had rewired her programming - that seeing so much of him, smiling into her eyes, had opened a brand new book inside her brain. She dreamed then, truly.
You begin to know the night by instinct. The hours tick by while you stare at the ceiling, and your only clue is the shuffling of the marines.
Sometimes, though, inevitably, guards forget their duties; and whether they admit to it or not, you can tell that most of them are growing less afraid of the quiet dark-haired girl who stares daggers at them from the bed in her cell.
And so he can come to you.
The door, usually slammed open by some disgruntled sergeant with food, squeaks softly under Helo's touch. You watch the grey shadow of him approach.
"How?" you ask. He kneels beside you, tracing the lines of your face with his fingers, looking at you like you're a miracle.
"Trading smokes, if you can believe it," he replies, and smiles. Helo's smile has become, to you, a precious, universal rarity. You kiss him.
His tongue is hot and familiar against yours. Sliding into his arms on the floor, you shove the bed back by accident and there's a moment of panic when it grates. Nobody charges in and it's a good thing, too, because you're certain you'll let no earthly force rip you from him now.
"I've thought of this so many times, Sharon," he tells you softly, running his fingers through your hair. "I hate knowing that you're in here alone."
You grab his face, kiss him again. "I hate it too," you say. "But you're here right now."
"Someday," he says. "Someday soon."
He picks you up and lays you down; with the reassuring shape of him above you, you almost forget how much you hate this frakking bed. You grab the center of his shirt in your fist, pull him against you.
You haven't felt him on top of you since Kobol, and the weight of him now is warm relief.
You kiss him, and he kisses you, until you are dizzy. His arms gather you close; your body is trembling at the excitement of this relatively new activity - or from his nearness, you can't decide which. Your hands at the back of his head spur him on, and his hands, under your clothes and against your bare spine, are lifting you into his embrace. He's solid and burning between your legs, and you have the bizarre thought that you could wash your body clean by letting him lose himself inside of it. You couldn't remember the nightmares if you tried; all of those images are splintering away when you put your hand on him and slither out of sweatpants.
He starts to say your name, but you stop his lips with your hand. "Please," you murmur, gazing up into his eyes, and he kisses you hard, one hand cupping the back of your head.
His fingers find you where you want him and you have to fight not to cry out. He doesn't let you suffer for long. You hear the slick of your folds in the air, a gasp, a zipper; then Helo's back, fitting easily against you. He leans to kiss you, to nibble you, and he tastes as vague and sweet as the pit of a date. He drives home; you suck in a desperate wash of oxygen. His thrusts are smooth, filling; the rhythm of his breathing runs ragged with yours.
When you clench around him, cling to his shoulders, you feel his presence coloring your world. You bite your lip to keep from screaming his name. He sucks at your collarbone, doing the same. You arch back, and the world goes white.
Afterwards, you always want to stay. You always want to kiss him again, to spend hours stroking his hair and drawing your palms across his chest. But this is the part when you slip away - just as you've rested your head in the crook of his arm, just as he's begun to gently rub your belly. You always have to go.
Sharon's dreams always ended the same way. She turned over underneath the starchy sheets, and cradled her head in her arms. She stared at the darkness of the wall, at the silhouette of the guard outside, at her own thumb. She waited to fall asleep again.