After the Dance (1/1)
Title: After the Dance
Part: 1 of 1.
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Word Count: 1394.
Rating: R. You should love the smell of porn in the morning.
Spoilers: Through 3x09 "Unfinished Business," a.k.a. THE BEST 70 MINUTES OF MY LIFE EVER. I'm exaggerating, but only a little bit.
Characters: Helo/Athena. But Sam started it.
Excerpt: "There's something I want to do tonight, Helo," she says. "I've been thinking about it for a while."
Author's Note: I couldn't finish any smut-in-progress for smut-tuesdays, but apparently I CAN write totally different smut for fluff-friday! And it is fluffy. I am getting fluff in under the wire before tomorrow. Me, needing synonyms for the word "smile" in a Helo/Athena story? I thought. WILL WONDERS NEVER CEASE?! Minds are strange, especially mine. I hope you enjoy this.
Helo knows he should be tired after the dance, but he isn't. He's been training for it, after all, albeit subconsciously; ever since Adama announced the date he's been doing an extra twenty reps a day on everything, and lingering a little during his push-ups. What happened tonight, with Felix and Seelix and Lee, wasn't a pounding, and live fights are twice as invigorating as any workout. His skin is heated, his muscles are inches away from tense every second, and his blood beats through him like the rapids of the falls at Delphi.
And Sharon is happier than he's ever seen her.
She placed bets on every fight and cleaned up; Helo personally earned her sixty cubits. She even jumped into his arms in the ring, and ignored every glaring face on the way out. He took her hand and felt like a king.
She's dancing in front of him now, their fingers still entwined, giving him a smile like the world is beginning.
"There's something I want to do tonight, Helo," she says. "I've been thinking about it for a while."
She leans against the wall of the empty bulkhead - the ship is quiet, with everyone collapsing after their bouts - and tugs at his hands. He comes close, covering her in shadow, and her tiny, trusting warmth against him is more than he expected.
"I want to get really, really drunk," she whispers, grinning up into his eyes.
He tips his forehead into hers, grinning back. "I like where you're heading with this," he tells her.
"I know I've been drunk before," she continues - "we've been drunk before - but I just have the memory. I've never been … in the present, doing it."
He snakes his hands up her sides as he listens. She folds her palms over his.
"I got a little bottle of ambrosia from Anders," she says, low. "It's so good he nearly cried when he sold it to me."
Helo laughs, and catches the scent of her sweat, her hair. Sometimes he thinks she smells different, as his wife: sharper, sweeter, better. He can never be sure. He keeps trying to hold on to her scent in his nose to figure it out.
"Let's go get drunk," he hisses.
Sharon slips away before he can kiss her, pulling him ahead. He follows. She's got this look on her face like she just invented the lottery, and he's not arguing with that.
They get home and knock the hatch closed; before the bolt even clicks she's diving under the bed to retrieve her prize. They all wore loose clothes for the dance; Sharon's Aerelon cotton paints the curves of her body like silk. It feels to him like her heart must be pounding too with the energy of the ring, like her muscles have come to life in the glow of her mood. She jumps up and hands him the ambrosia - it is bright purple, a rare brew he didn't think still existed.
Anders could have smuggled it from Caprica, ages ago, could have been saving it for the day Kara finally came around. Helo blinks, expelling that thought.
"We're going to have to drink it from the bottle like cretins," says his wife, smirking, and he doesn't bother to ask her what a cretin is.
"You first," he says.
He settles against the back wall of their rack, his feet halfway to their pillows, and she sits between his legs to take her first gulp. He wraps his arms around her shoulders, slides his hands over hers, and lifts the bottle to his mouth to sip. It goes straight to his stomach, then his head, shooting like lit tylium. This certainly is the good stuff; Sharon spent her winnings well. She's always been smart.
"Drunk yet?" he jokes, and nuzzles her below the ear.
"Not yet," she answers. "You might have to let me take all the rest."
"Oh, right," he says, and nips her neck. "Like that's happening."
She takes her next sip, and he turns her face to the side and tastes it on her lips. They're soft, wet; the sting of alcohol in her saliva goes straight to his crotch. Sharon smiles and shakes her head, knocking their noses together like the tines on a wind chime.
"We have to finish this bottle," she tells him, "before we get distracted."
"Oh, right," he begins again. She punches him, without force, in the chest.
"It'll be worth it," she reminds him. "I'm sexy drunk. Remember?"
"I remember," he says, and grips her snugly around the stomach.
She is indeed a sexy drunk; by the time the bottle is half gone she is giggling, her muscles pliant, lolling her head against his shoulder. He feels it too, fizzing behind his eyes, loosening his limbs, making him warmer where his body meets hers - but he is hardly ever wasted, and the one thing he could always win at with Boomer was drinking her under the table. This Sharon, his wife Sharon, doesn't seem to mind; when she chugs the last half inch she drops the bottle aside and puts her arms around his neck, curling in his lap with one gorgeous exhale.
"That was some dance," she mumbles into his collarbone. Helo can't help smiling, and he kisses the top of her forehead.
"You beat everybody up," she goes on, fuzzily. He laughs, and cuddles her closer.
"You sound tired," he points out.
She lifts her head, and the bright black eyes that stare at him from underneath her ruffled hair are anything but tired.
"I thought you wanted to get distracted," she murmurs with a slow grin, all come-on.
He growls. "I do." He takes her head in his hands and gods, it feels so good to be kissing his wife. Underneath his arms she squirms across his lap, bends her knees, straddles his hips so that she's pressing into him with the beautiful ball of heat between her legs. She tastes like the ambrosia - the tang of it is spread across her tongue - and she opens up to him with ease, with faithfulness, with ardor.
He takes her clothes off carefully, and holds her head when she wavers, once, unsteadily, sitting up on her own. She giggles again, but turns serious and focused to watch him toss his own sweaty dance rags to the floor. He gathers her on top of him and grins, all stretched out with his head against a pillow. She pushes her hips into his, and drops her head to his chest to kiss him again. She's teasing him, he's sure of it, lapping up his skin and hair and drawing lazy orbits around each nipple. She licks her way to his throat and up. His hands traverse the skinny line of her back, the muscle of her shoulders, the lovely weight of her breasts. Her mouth against his is sloppy, a little, but he nibbles her lower lip and does not care. She croons, digging her face into the hollow of his neck, and tugs until he is over her and devouring her open lips with her hands threaded through his hair like urgent messages.
"I like being drunk," she says softly. A sudden smile steals across her face.
"Sweet wife," he responds, and covers her mouth again. He turns slightly to hold her at an angle; she scissors her legs between his and gazes up at him, her face flushed.
Sinking into her is like a miracle. Still. Always. He senses every trembling nerve in her damp flesh, and she clings to him, gasping tingle spots across his sweaty skin. He holds her steady with one hand, and trails the other down her body until she is writhing to lead his fingers to her favorite place. She shuts her eyes when she feels his touch. Soon she is crying out his name. He revels in the sight of her splayed out, succumbing to a paroxysm of pleasure.
He can't keep it together after that, not remotely. At the edge of his consciousness, he registers her mouth sucking at his neck as he loses it all.
"Helo," she whispers, and snuggles up to him on her side. He tucks her under his arm, and keeps his lips to the top of her head until they're both asleep.
Part: 1 of 1.
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Word Count: 1394.
Rating: R. You should love the smell of porn in the morning.
Spoilers: Through 3x09 "Unfinished Business," a.k.a. THE BEST 70 MINUTES OF MY LIFE EVER. I'm exaggerating, but only a little bit.
Characters: Helo/Athena. But Sam started it.
Excerpt: "There's something I want to do tonight, Helo," she says. "I've been thinking about it for a while."
Author's Note: I couldn't finish any smut-in-progress for smut-tuesdays, but apparently I CAN write totally different smut for fluff-friday! And it is fluffy. I am getting fluff in under the wire before tomorrow. Me, needing synonyms for the word "smile" in a Helo/Athena story? I thought. WILL WONDERS NEVER CEASE?! Minds are strange, especially mine. I hope you enjoy this.
Helo knows he should be tired after the dance, but he isn't. He's been training for it, after all, albeit subconsciously; ever since Adama announced the date he's been doing an extra twenty reps a day on everything, and lingering a little during his push-ups. What happened tonight, with Felix and Seelix and Lee, wasn't a pounding, and live fights are twice as invigorating as any workout. His skin is heated, his muscles are inches away from tense every second, and his blood beats through him like the rapids of the falls at Delphi.
And Sharon is happier than he's ever seen her.
She placed bets on every fight and cleaned up; Helo personally earned her sixty cubits. She even jumped into his arms in the ring, and ignored every glaring face on the way out. He took her hand and felt like a king.
She's dancing in front of him now, their fingers still entwined, giving him a smile like the world is beginning.
"There's something I want to do tonight, Helo," she says. "I've been thinking about it for a while."
She leans against the wall of the empty bulkhead - the ship is quiet, with everyone collapsing after their bouts - and tugs at his hands. He comes close, covering her in shadow, and her tiny, trusting warmth against him is more than he expected.
"I want to get really, really drunk," she whispers, grinning up into his eyes.
He tips his forehead into hers, grinning back. "I like where you're heading with this," he tells her.
"I know I've been drunk before," she continues - "we've been drunk before - but I just have the memory. I've never been … in the present, doing it."
He snakes his hands up her sides as he listens. She folds her palms over his.
"I got a little bottle of ambrosia from Anders," she says, low. "It's so good he nearly cried when he sold it to me."
Helo laughs, and catches the scent of her sweat, her hair. Sometimes he thinks she smells different, as his wife: sharper, sweeter, better. He can never be sure. He keeps trying to hold on to her scent in his nose to figure it out.
"Let's go get drunk," he hisses.
Sharon slips away before he can kiss her, pulling him ahead. He follows. She's got this look on her face like she just invented the lottery, and he's not arguing with that.
They get home and knock the hatch closed; before the bolt even clicks she's diving under the bed to retrieve her prize. They all wore loose clothes for the dance; Sharon's Aerelon cotton paints the curves of her body like silk. It feels to him like her heart must be pounding too with the energy of the ring, like her muscles have come to life in the glow of her mood. She jumps up and hands him the ambrosia - it is bright purple, a rare brew he didn't think still existed.
Anders could have smuggled it from Caprica, ages ago, could have been saving it for the day Kara finally came around. Helo blinks, expelling that thought.
"We're going to have to drink it from the bottle like cretins," says his wife, smirking, and he doesn't bother to ask her what a cretin is.
"You first," he says.
He settles against the back wall of their rack, his feet halfway to their pillows, and she sits between his legs to take her first gulp. He wraps his arms around her shoulders, slides his hands over hers, and lifts the bottle to his mouth to sip. It goes straight to his stomach, then his head, shooting like lit tylium. This certainly is the good stuff; Sharon spent her winnings well. She's always been smart.
"Drunk yet?" he jokes, and nuzzles her below the ear.
"Not yet," she answers. "You might have to let me take all the rest."
"Oh, right," he says, and nips her neck. "Like that's happening."
She takes her next sip, and he turns her face to the side and tastes it on her lips. They're soft, wet; the sting of alcohol in her saliva goes straight to his crotch. Sharon smiles and shakes her head, knocking their noses together like the tines on a wind chime.
"We have to finish this bottle," she tells him, "before we get distracted."
"Oh, right," he begins again. She punches him, without force, in the chest.
"It'll be worth it," she reminds him. "I'm sexy drunk. Remember?"
"I remember," he says, and grips her snugly around the stomach.
She is indeed a sexy drunk; by the time the bottle is half gone she is giggling, her muscles pliant, lolling her head against his shoulder. He feels it too, fizzing behind his eyes, loosening his limbs, making him warmer where his body meets hers - but he is hardly ever wasted, and the one thing he could always win at with Boomer was drinking her under the table. This Sharon, his wife Sharon, doesn't seem to mind; when she chugs the last half inch she drops the bottle aside and puts her arms around his neck, curling in his lap with one gorgeous exhale.
"That was some dance," she mumbles into his collarbone. Helo can't help smiling, and he kisses the top of her forehead.
"You beat everybody up," she goes on, fuzzily. He laughs, and cuddles her closer.
"You sound tired," he points out.
She lifts her head, and the bright black eyes that stare at him from underneath her ruffled hair are anything but tired.
"I thought you wanted to get distracted," she murmurs with a slow grin, all come-on.
He growls. "I do." He takes her head in his hands and gods, it feels so good to be kissing his wife. Underneath his arms she squirms across his lap, bends her knees, straddles his hips so that she's pressing into him with the beautiful ball of heat between her legs. She tastes like the ambrosia - the tang of it is spread across her tongue - and she opens up to him with ease, with faithfulness, with ardor.
He takes her clothes off carefully, and holds her head when she wavers, once, unsteadily, sitting up on her own. She giggles again, but turns serious and focused to watch him toss his own sweaty dance rags to the floor. He gathers her on top of him and grins, all stretched out with his head against a pillow. She pushes her hips into his, and drops her head to his chest to kiss him again. She's teasing him, he's sure of it, lapping up his skin and hair and drawing lazy orbits around each nipple. She licks her way to his throat and up. His hands traverse the skinny line of her back, the muscle of her shoulders, the lovely weight of her breasts. Her mouth against his is sloppy, a little, but he nibbles her lower lip and does not care. She croons, digging her face into the hollow of his neck, and tugs until he is over her and devouring her open lips with her hands threaded through his hair like urgent messages.
"I like being drunk," she says softly. A sudden smile steals across her face.
"Sweet wife," he responds, and covers her mouth again. He turns slightly to hold her at an angle; she scissors her legs between his and gazes up at him, her face flushed.
Sinking into her is like a miracle. Still. Always. He senses every trembling nerve in her damp flesh, and she clings to him, gasping tingle spots across his sweaty skin. He holds her steady with one hand, and trails the other down her body until she is writhing to lead his fingers to her favorite place. She shuts her eyes when she feels his touch. Soon she is crying out his name. He revels in the sight of her splayed out, succumbing to a paroxysm of pleasure.
He can't keep it together after that, not remotely. At the edge of his consciousness, he registers her mouth sucking at his neck as he loses it all.
"Helo," she whispers, and snuggles up to him on her side. He tucks her under his arm, and keeps his lips to the top of her head until they're both asleep.