seriousfic (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
seriousfic) wrote2008-07-14 01:22 am
seriousfic) wrote2008-07-14 01:22 am
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
femslash08 Fic: Battlestar Problematique (BSG)
Title: Battlestar Problematique
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
seriousfic
Recipient:little_murmurs
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Kara/Dee, Kara/Hybrid, Athena/Boomer, Tory/Caprica
Word Count: 3,603
Timeline: Takes place during the season four hiatus. Spoilers for the first half of season four.
Summary: Sometimes when you fulfill your destiny, the future becomes something you cope with.
Earth. What a frakking hole.
Kara hadn’t been expecting much. When you’ve been through hell, it’s safest to assume you’re not going into heaven. But was it too much to ask for a higher circle of hell?
Sam was one of Roslin’s optimists. He was determined to make it work and once that would’ve been a reason she loved him, but now it was just another fact about him, like “he’s my husband” or “he’s a Cylon.”
The water was toxic, so they sucked it up into Galactica’s hold and vomited it out into the star. No, it was the sun now. Their sun. If it was a chariot, was Helios still driving it or was there another god? Twelve for humans, one for Cylons, how many for Terrans? Terrans, those strange and ungainly creatures they were, all of them, metamorphosing into.
The Galactica had been equipped with Cylon engines, which put Kara in the mind of someone whose loved one had been diagnosed with cancer. Galactica had been built to fight Cylons. Now it had a red heartbeat sweeping from side to side.
The walls were antiseptically white, like this was a pleasure cruise instead of a battlestar. At least the old man had put his foot down on Centurions coming on board. Their presence would’ve made things too much like New Caprica.
So, human and Cylon, they jumped out to grab ice asteroids and melt them into the atmosphere in a mostly futile attempt to wash away the rot of spoiled dreams. And Kara went with the Galactica, because it was like her… purpose served, fury spent, life over. But it got her away from Sam and Lee and the disappointment they eked out of the infertile soil. Kara still flew whenever she could, just in case the other Cylons found them. It was an extravagance, but it kept her sane and Admiral Adama loved her enough to let her have it.
And when she couldn’t fly, she did what any self-respecting old soldier would do: She faded away. In Joe’s Bar, always the most overstaffed part of Galactica, with Dee and whatever was left of Felix and even Tigh. Am I still special, Mom?
In Earth orbit – it was such a normal phrase by now that Kara recoiled from it – she celebrated the ice evaporating from heat re-entry by getting plastered and ignoring the looks Dee cast her way when Kara rolled down the straps of her tanktop and let it hang down by the top half of her flight suit. There was not a smidgen of good that could come from that.
So she stole a bottle and wandered the labyrinthine corridors, trying to navigate with the same ease as the Sixes and Eights and Leoben. To belong like they did, but even when the Galactica was human she hadn’t belonged. It was only when the adrenaline flooded her veins that she felt at home, in the cockpit of her Viper or under Sam, Lee, Leoben even.
She wanted to fight, she waned to frak, she wanted a future. Instead she kept walking and kept drinking and wishing something would change.
The winding tunnels began to remind her of a dragon’s throat as the air got warmer, moist and humid like the ship was sweating. She went through a ghostly transparent veil, like the quarantining plastic in Doc Cottle’s lab, and found herself in a swamp. There was a vat in the center, with a young Hybrid floating in it. The rheumy waters spilled over the side with each motion, reflecting the blinking lights of the human-tech read-outs. Kara planted a boot in one of the puddles, looking down at their new navigational system.
“The Chosen One reaches the cliff / turns around and sees inward. Nothing.”
“Tell me about it.” Kara booted a particularly gel-like substance into the pool. “Most of us try not to think of you, ya know that? We just go right on pretending that it’s a computer calculating our jumps, and not… a computer!” That struck her as particularly funny. She chuckled until she took another drink.
“What good to gain the world / if you lose the stars. Fish can swim in oceans of light. End of line.”
Kara walked the edge of the pool, holding her arms out like a tightrope walker. “Me, I think it’s a little kinky having a naked chick at the wheel. You should’ve seen some of the people I sat in Raptors with. This one guy must’ve eaten burritos for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Probably dead now. Can’t even remember his name. And for… this.” She laid down on her back, parallel to the hybrid’s supine form. “Count yourself lucky you’ll never get to lay eyes on Earth. It’s a strong argument for blindness.”
“Coolant leak, sector four, deploy engineers / mend the flesh, heal the bleed. Reality is subjectively objective. End of line.”
“You sound like you could use a drink.” Kara held out her bottle. “Have at it, Blondie.”
The hybrid took hold of the bottle with shocking speed, even though her grip was tentative. The action had brought most of her torso out of the pool and the clear slime dripped off her body, not marred but modified by the wires running out of it, the left nipple that was covered by a thick cord. Kara flicked the cord with her finger, saw the hybrid close her eyes in heated anxiety.
“D’anna says you’re divine. I kinda have a thing about the divine.”
“Optimum result: Fed a flame water / Fed a flame gasoline. The smoke covers everything but the stars. Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”
Kara laughed and let go of the bottle and then choked, coughed, wheezed. It was Earth. Damn planet was trying to kill her. The hybrid drank deeply.
“Chug, chug, chug, chug,” Kara giggled. “You’re not so bad for a toaster. Nice rack. All you Cylon bitches have nice racks. Very good design.”
“And God said be fruitful and multiply / and His children did so. And the lands were fertile for their offspring. Cosmic radiation is in remission. Deny the falsehood / Verify truth.”
“Aren’t you going to offer me a seat?” Kara grinned and kicked off her boots. “I call shotgun.”
“The subjective is objective / the objective is subjective / the objective is directive.”
Kara wondered if her striptease was wasted on the hybrid. There were nuggets who would kill for a glimpse of the martinet’s body, and she gave it freely to a machine. “I’ve always loved flying. Vipers, you know. Always so responsive. Wish the rest of my life could be that easy to sort out. Wish the men were, at least. But you’re not just the pilot. You are the ship, aren’t you?” She pulled off a sock and rowed her foot through the slime. It was cold and intensely warm and she couldn’t tell which was objective and which was subjective. “I’d frak my Viper, if I could. At least that I wouldn’t regret in the morning.”
But that wasn’t true, because Zak she hadn’t regretted. Hadn’t regretted until he was dead, leaving her with a broken family that she’d been drawn into like a bear trap. Being an Adama was walking on broken glass. Zak’s death, Lee’s love, their pain was hidden behind that trust she’d wanted so much back when she was what could laughably be called innocent, at least compared to what she was now. Whatever that was.
But it’d taken a long time, by her standards, to regret the long lazy mornings spent in bed with Zak and the time they’re stripped off each other’s clothes and swam in the cool, inviting waters of old Caprica. It’d been so magical she’d almost believed she was special.
Kara very nearly remembered how his fingers had felt as she herself shucked off her bra. She felt strangely romantic with her ass on the ground and her clothes scattered around her in a rough circle, her toe dipped in the viscous pool.
“You wanna frak me, toaster?” Kara asked, groping her own breast and feeling a sluggish heat spread through her at her own rough touch. “Everyone wants to frak me. Why should you be any different? Just cuz you’re not real?” She scooted closer, dipping her legs into the pool up to the knee and parting her thighs. The heat of the pool, for it was a heat now, a thawing midsummer heat, crept up her blood vessels. It was very cold in space. “Frak me.”
The hybrid stared at her pussy. Kara’s folds were swollen, glistening. There was something new in the Cylon’s eyes, something alive, something human. “Blood does not associate with wounds / it erects the clitoris, reddens the labia. Sex is designed to be temporary, can’t fill you up.”
“I’m good with temporary. I live my life one parsec at a time.” That had sounded much better when she’d seen it plastered on the side of a junk freighter. Kara felt something hard and cold, shockingly so in the warm water, grab her ankle. She was pulled in and suddenly against the hybrid’s body. It was warm, soft, not whipcord-intense like a pilot’s.
Kara explored, but not at the back, where the spine was a metal ridge with cables shunting off it. She gave thought to dunking her head under the surface, eating the hybrid out like it was a person, but no. She’d see the machinery instead of just feeling it, fit all the puzzle pieces together and comprehend it. It was easier to imagine the hybrid – Sasha, Kara thought of her now, because what kind of slut frakked someone without even knowing their name? – as a person instead of a machine. A princess trapped in a metallic prison. And she needed a chosen one to save her.
Kara reached down until she felt something slimy-slick and boiling hot, something that parted in invitation at the slightest touch. She fed her fingers into it and the opening clasped around her fingers, tight like a virgin’s. The hybrid wriggled and shook, a grand mal orgasm in the making.
“Digital penetration of the vagina is the surest means to stimulate the Gräfenberg spot / oh god what is this oh god oh god.”
Kara played hard and fast, not kissing, not biting, just grinning bloodthirsty as she watched the hybrid’s mask shatter. The emotions were grand guignol, running the gauntlet from lustful confusion to lustful anger. She pistoned her fingers like they were a cock, a Viper, the trigger of a gun. The hybrid was flopping around, thrashing, breasts jiggling. Not like the cheap smut-vids that circled through the locker room, a woman running in poised slow-motion, but like they were fucking in zero-G, momentum shooting through their bodies in crazy directions. It made Kara wetter, hornier, and she clamped her thighs down on what might’ve been a thigh if it weren’t so hard and started rasping her cunt on it.
“Clitoral glans move under the hood as inner lips darken / so good, so good, more, please.”
“I’ll fuck you to death!” Kara laughed. “Do you resurrect if someone fucks you to death?”
Her insane laughter broke off as something tickled her clit, something rubbery licked her pussy, something slender invaded her ass. Like ants, the feeling moved up to her breasts. It was an impossible sensation, impossible to categorize as anything other than erotic, and Kara felt ineffable smugness from the hybrid that she was getting fucked instead of doing the something. That was only right, though. She always had been Galactica’s bitch.
Kara clawed at the hybrid as she came. She left thin welts, one deep cut that seeped brackish blood into the water.
“Muscular contractions in the uterus, vagina, anus, pelvis / Nnnggg I'm so close, so fucking close! JUMP!!!”
Kara blacked out, had a brief glimpse of the hybrid standing in a meadow, human and naked, long blonde hair covering her like a shower-spray, and smiling, then she was underwater. The hybrid’s hands bore her to the surface, limp and boneless. Slowly, Kara took the hand that had been inside the hybrid out of the water. It smelled strongly of the ship, that tangy corridor-hangar-engine smell she’d only noticed before by its absence. She licked it out from under her fingernails, swallowed greedily.
When Kara climbed out of the pool, there were guards waiting for her. Having nothing else to wear, she threw a smile on. They threw some towels over her and led her, not down the familiar route to the brig, but to Dualla’s office. The XO wasn’t in, so Kara helped herself to some clothes. They were too tight on her, bursting at the cleavage and hips. She wished she’d brought her drink with her.
There was nothing to do in the cramped space and so Kara ended up staring out the window. The stars looked just the same as they’d always looked. They didn’t care if their admirer stood on Earth.
Dualla came in, clipboard raised like a shield between them. “You gave my battlestar an orgasm. Words fail me.”
“S’not your battlestar,” Kara said. The liquor was really kicking in by now.
“I suppose it has your name on it? Battlestar Thrace? Had your way with all the men in the fleet, so you’re starting in on the ships?”
“They don’t hog the covers like Lee did.”
Dualla blinked. “I’m not doing this with you. I’m not fighting over my ex-husband. You’re going to the brig and you’re going to learn the rules apply to you too.” She pinched her sinuses.
“It’s okay. I blame myself for Earth too.” Kara threw herself down on the couch. “I’m gonna pass out here in a little while. You still wanna send me to the brig, do it in the morning.”
“You frakked the ship.”
“And I just might do it again.” Kara rolled to the floor and started dry-humping it. “Oh yeah, take it all, bitch.”
“I have paperwork to fill out. You want to fuck the ship, give it some foreplay first. Quiet foreplay.”
Kara grudgingly surmounted the couch, curling up on herself on top of its cushions. “I’m sorry I frakked your husband.”
Dualla didn’t look up from the reports she was signing. “I liked you better when you were a happy drunk.”
“I kinda wanna frak you too, just to put an exclamation point on the whole thing. And cuz you’re pretty.”
“What whole thing?” Dee gave Kara a brief glance as she shuffled her papers. “Don’t tell me there’s a master plan behind your drunken rampage.”
“Oh yeah, I’m punishing Fate for the shitty job it’s done.”
Dualla put down the papers. Despite the flippant tone of the words, Kara’s voice was so hurt and dull that Dee knew what she said wasn’t coming from a bottle.
“I’m supposed to be the hero, not having nightmares that are part sex dream. The Cylons aren’t supposed to be our neighbors, Earth isn’t supposed to be a shithole, and you… you’re supposed to be with Billy.”
Dualla pounded her desk with a closed fist. “Frak you, little girl, for taking until now to realize that life isn’t always what it should be.” She threw a blanket on Kara. “Go to frakking sleep.”
“I’m really hot for you right now.”
***
“I’ve seen babies born. They’re greedy. Messy. Animals. Humans never quite outgrow this. They remain entitled all their lives. This is because their child-rearing is a corruption of the natural way, the Cylon way,” Tory preached. She preached a lot those days, loving the attention lavished upon her by the Centurions, the mirrored faces of the Cylons, the occasional human bypasser who pretended disgust but inwardly knew the truth of her words. The truth of the natural order of things.
They followed her, as they always did, as they always would, through the first building the Cylons had built on Earth: The day-care center.
Tyrol looked at her with suspicion as they passed by his daughter’s playpen. Tory smiled at him anyway. In time, he’d accept his destiny. They all would.
Caprica was painting baseships on the wall of the nursery. Sam was with her, a bit ashamed of the simple joy he feels at working with his hands, building a crib with hammer and nails. With Caprica’s approval, Tory flicked some paint onto his back.
Caprica was showing a tiny baby bump, no more than the swell of a gentle breeze across the sea, perfectly suiting her tall Cylon frame. Like she was born for this. Destined for it.
Tory kissed her warmly on the lips. “This is the future of our races: Perfection. The humans are the flock, who have been led astray by false gods. And we are the shepherds who must herd them to the one true God. And it is as one people that we will find Him.”
Sam scoffed.
“Do not reject your responsibility, Samuel,” Caprica chided.
“We don’t know what we’re doing anymore than you do.”
“You would if you accepted your place,” Tory said, running a forgiving hand along his bicep. “God speaks to us. We just need to listen.”
Sam stood. “I’ll listen someplace else. Cap, call me when the sermon’s over.”
Tory’s eyes burned as bright and eternal as stars, following his exit. “In time, even the denier will take his place. For I was as him, once. But now I see by the light of truth.” She ran a hand up Caprica’s pleasant curves to caress along the gentle parting of her lips. “We Cylons are the future. And Caprica is the mother of its perfection.” She laid her head down on the Six’s breast. “Come pay homage.” She circled Caprica’s pregnancy like she was buffing the finish of a Cylon Raider. “Feel the future kick.”
***
“Can you believe that shit?” Boomer asked, clicking her tongue.
Athena made a rhyming tongue-click. It was just small-talk, the kind she could’ve made with any pilot, but this went deeper. Beyond friendship, beyond family, beyond even love. She was with her model.
The other Eight was just different enough to give her humanistic conversation. She had Boomer’s memories, went by that name. Some of the Eights shunned her for choosing to take that life, but Athena was overjoyed at having this continuity. It was like having a big sister. They tinkered with a Heavy Raider, decorating themselves with grease, Boomer reintroducing Athena to the organic parts.
“It won’t last,” Athena said. “Baltar’s losing credibility with the humans, so I don’t imagine his opposite number will last much longer either.”
“Tory’s popular with the Sixes and Leobens. She tells them what they want to hear. D’anne sees through her, though. Her people are waiting for the fifth.”
“Like it matters.” Athena rolled out from under the Heavy Raider. Being a Cylon mechanic was more like being a Cylon veterinarian. She didn’t have the touch for it. But what she could do was look out at the sunset, the blood-red sunset, and experience it like a human. “This is all that matters now. Our home. Not prophecies and fundamental differences…”
Boomer hugged her from behind, her hands snaking around to grope Athena’s breasts playfully. “Don’t be so deep. We have great breasts.”
Athena turned and kissed her, letting herself be guided out of the raider’s eyeshot and into the Eight’s dining room. They got a few friendly stares, a few friendly smiles, as Athena hurried her to one of the less crowded bedrooms and began stripping her.
The biggest differences between them was the clothes: Boomer wore a tunic and skirt, both gunmetal-gray, and the kind of simplistic clothes the Cylons favored. Athena still dressed in her uniform. She thought Boomer took a certain glee in stripping that away, of once again reducing them to consistent flesh. She was right.
It wasn’t quite a group marriage and it wasn’t quite an experiment. Helo accepted that the others were part of her heritage, and though he always knew when it wasn’t his Eight that came home, babysitting Hera and playing house, he didn’t naysay. Not even when she slipped under the covers and slept next to him. They were always gone by morning, like Zeus’s nymphs.
He understood that the Eights were a part of Athena, a sexual, familial, loving rivalry. He understood that Athena needed time to be alone together, part of a larger self, flesh against flesh in all the thousand subtle variations of musculature and tan and hairstyle.
Boomer had long hair, the longest of any Eight, cascading down past her shoulder blades. Athena loved to play with it, like she was again the girl she never had been, playing with dolls. She looped it around her fore-and-middle fingers and knew the emotion Helo felt when he combed his fingers through her hair and understood love better by understanding how she was loved.
“Do you think it will get any better, or is this as good as it’ll get?” Boomer asked. The sister metaphor fell apart, because this was more like a scared child asking assurance from her mother, the mother-maiden-crone turning inward to the facet that had traveled through the forest of the mythical humans.
“Once, I thought we’d never find Earth. Then Hera took her first step. Life is change. A river. As long as we keep swimming, it can carry us somewhere better.”
Boomer smiled and kissed her other half. “Can I have that memory?”
“Of course.”
Author:
seriousficRecipient:
little_murmursFandom: Battlestar Galactica
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Kara/Dee, Kara/Hybrid, Athena/Boomer, Tory/Caprica
Word Count: 3,603
Timeline: Takes place during the season four hiatus. Spoilers for the first half of season four.
Summary: Sometimes when you fulfill your destiny, the future becomes something you cope with.
Earth. What a frakking hole.
Kara hadn’t been expecting much. When you’ve been through hell, it’s safest to assume you’re not going into heaven. But was it too much to ask for a higher circle of hell?
Sam was one of Roslin’s optimists. He was determined to make it work and once that would’ve been a reason she loved him, but now it was just another fact about him, like “he’s my husband” or “he’s a Cylon.”
The water was toxic, so they sucked it up into Galactica’s hold and vomited it out into the star. No, it was the sun now. Their sun. If it was a chariot, was Helios still driving it or was there another god? Twelve for humans, one for Cylons, how many for Terrans? Terrans, those strange and ungainly creatures they were, all of them, metamorphosing into.
The Galactica had been equipped with Cylon engines, which put Kara in the mind of someone whose loved one had been diagnosed with cancer. Galactica had been built to fight Cylons. Now it had a red heartbeat sweeping from side to side.
The walls were antiseptically white, like this was a pleasure cruise instead of a battlestar. At least the old man had put his foot down on Centurions coming on board. Their presence would’ve made things too much like New Caprica.
So, human and Cylon, they jumped out to grab ice asteroids and melt them into the atmosphere in a mostly futile attempt to wash away the rot of spoiled dreams. And Kara went with the Galactica, because it was like her… purpose served, fury spent, life over. But it got her away from Sam and Lee and the disappointment they eked out of the infertile soil. Kara still flew whenever she could, just in case the other Cylons found them. It was an extravagance, but it kept her sane and Admiral Adama loved her enough to let her have it.
And when she couldn’t fly, she did what any self-respecting old soldier would do: She faded away. In Joe’s Bar, always the most overstaffed part of Galactica, with Dee and whatever was left of Felix and even Tigh. Am I still special, Mom?
In Earth orbit – it was such a normal phrase by now that Kara recoiled from it – she celebrated the ice evaporating from heat re-entry by getting plastered and ignoring the looks Dee cast her way when Kara rolled down the straps of her tanktop and let it hang down by the top half of her flight suit. There was not a smidgen of good that could come from that.
So she stole a bottle and wandered the labyrinthine corridors, trying to navigate with the same ease as the Sixes and Eights and Leoben. To belong like they did, but even when the Galactica was human she hadn’t belonged. It was only when the adrenaline flooded her veins that she felt at home, in the cockpit of her Viper or under Sam, Lee, Leoben even.
She wanted to fight, she waned to frak, she wanted a future. Instead she kept walking and kept drinking and wishing something would change.
The winding tunnels began to remind her of a dragon’s throat as the air got warmer, moist and humid like the ship was sweating. She went through a ghostly transparent veil, like the quarantining plastic in Doc Cottle’s lab, and found herself in a swamp. There was a vat in the center, with a young Hybrid floating in it. The rheumy waters spilled over the side with each motion, reflecting the blinking lights of the human-tech read-outs. Kara planted a boot in one of the puddles, looking down at their new navigational system.
“The Chosen One reaches the cliff / turns around and sees inward. Nothing.”
“Tell me about it.” Kara booted a particularly gel-like substance into the pool. “Most of us try not to think of you, ya know that? We just go right on pretending that it’s a computer calculating our jumps, and not… a computer!” That struck her as particularly funny. She chuckled until she took another drink.
“What good to gain the world / if you lose the stars. Fish can swim in oceans of light. End of line.”
Kara walked the edge of the pool, holding her arms out like a tightrope walker. “Me, I think it’s a little kinky having a naked chick at the wheel. You should’ve seen some of the people I sat in Raptors with. This one guy must’ve eaten burritos for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Probably dead now. Can’t even remember his name. And for… this.” She laid down on her back, parallel to the hybrid’s supine form. “Count yourself lucky you’ll never get to lay eyes on Earth. It’s a strong argument for blindness.”
“Coolant leak, sector four, deploy engineers / mend the flesh, heal the bleed. Reality is subjectively objective. End of line.”
“You sound like you could use a drink.” Kara held out her bottle. “Have at it, Blondie.”
The hybrid took hold of the bottle with shocking speed, even though her grip was tentative. The action had brought most of her torso out of the pool and the clear slime dripped off her body, not marred but modified by the wires running out of it, the left nipple that was covered by a thick cord. Kara flicked the cord with her finger, saw the hybrid close her eyes in heated anxiety.
“D’anna says you’re divine. I kinda have a thing about the divine.”
“Optimum result: Fed a flame water / Fed a flame gasoline. The smoke covers everything but the stars. Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”
Kara laughed and let go of the bottle and then choked, coughed, wheezed. It was Earth. Damn planet was trying to kill her. The hybrid drank deeply.
“Chug, chug, chug, chug,” Kara giggled. “You’re not so bad for a toaster. Nice rack. All you Cylon bitches have nice racks. Very good design.”
“And God said be fruitful and multiply / and His children did so. And the lands were fertile for their offspring. Cosmic radiation is in remission. Deny the falsehood / Verify truth.”
“Aren’t you going to offer me a seat?” Kara grinned and kicked off her boots. “I call shotgun.”
“The subjective is objective / the objective is subjective / the objective is directive.”
Kara wondered if her striptease was wasted on the hybrid. There were nuggets who would kill for a glimpse of the martinet’s body, and she gave it freely to a machine. “I’ve always loved flying. Vipers, you know. Always so responsive. Wish the rest of my life could be that easy to sort out. Wish the men were, at least. But you’re not just the pilot. You are the ship, aren’t you?” She pulled off a sock and rowed her foot through the slime. It was cold and intensely warm and she couldn’t tell which was objective and which was subjective. “I’d frak my Viper, if I could. At least that I wouldn’t regret in the morning.”
But that wasn’t true, because Zak she hadn’t regretted. Hadn’t regretted until he was dead, leaving her with a broken family that she’d been drawn into like a bear trap. Being an Adama was walking on broken glass. Zak’s death, Lee’s love, their pain was hidden behind that trust she’d wanted so much back when she was what could laughably be called innocent, at least compared to what she was now. Whatever that was.
But it’d taken a long time, by her standards, to regret the long lazy mornings spent in bed with Zak and the time they’re stripped off each other’s clothes and swam in the cool, inviting waters of old Caprica. It’d been so magical she’d almost believed she was special.
Kara very nearly remembered how his fingers had felt as she herself shucked off her bra. She felt strangely romantic with her ass on the ground and her clothes scattered around her in a rough circle, her toe dipped in the viscous pool.
“You wanna frak me, toaster?” Kara asked, groping her own breast and feeling a sluggish heat spread through her at her own rough touch. “Everyone wants to frak me. Why should you be any different? Just cuz you’re not real?” She scooted closer, dipping her legs into the pool up to the knee and parting her thighs. The heat of the pool, for it was a heat now, a thawing midsummer heat, crept up her blood vessels. It was very cold in space. “Frak me.”
The hybrid stared at her pussy. Kara’s folds were swollen, glistening. There was something new in the Cylon’s eyes, something alive, something human. “Blood does not associate with wounds / it erects the clitoris, reddens the labia. Sex is designed to be temporary, can’t fill you up.”
“I’m good with temporary. I live my life one parsec at a time.” That had sounded much better when she’d seen it plastered on the side of a junk freighter. Kara felt something hard and cold, shockingly so in the warm water, grab her ankle. She was pulled in and suddenly against the hybrid’s body. It was warm, soft, not whipcord-intense like a pilot’s.
Kara explored, but not at the back, where the spine was a metal ridge with cables shunting off it. She gave thought to dunking her head under the surface, eating the hybrid out like it was a person, but no. She’d see the machinery instead of just feeling it, fit all the puzzle pieces together and comprehend it. It was easier to imagine the hybrid – Sasha, Kara thought of her now, because what kind of slut frakked someone without even knowing their name? – as a person instead of a machine. A princess trapped in a metallic prison. And she needed a chosen one to save her.
Kara reached down until she felt something slimy-slick and boiling hot, something that parted in invitation at the slightest touch. She fed her fingers into it and the opening clasped around her fingers, tight like a virgin’s. The hybrid wriggled and shook, a grand mal orgasm in the making.
“Digital penetration of the vagina is the surest means to stimulate the Gräfenberg spot / oh god what is this oh god oh god.”
Kara played hard and fast, not kissing, not biting, just grinning bloodthirsty as she watched the hybrid’s mask shatter. The emotions were grand guignol, running the gauntlet from lustful confusion to lustful anger. She pistoned her fingers like they were a cock, a Viper, the trigger of a gun. The hybrid was flopping around, thrashing, breasts jiggling. Not like the cheap smut-vids that circled through the locker room, a woman running in poised slow-motion, but like they were fucking in zero-G, momentum shooting through their bodies in crazy directions. It made Kara wetter, hornier, and she clamped her thighs down on what might’ve been a thigh if it weren’t so hard and started rasping her cunt on it.
“Clitoral glans move under the hood as inner lips darken / so good, so good, more, please.”
“I’ll fuck you to death!” Kara laughed. “Do you resurrect if someone fucks you to death?”
Her insane laughter broke off as something tickled her clit, something rubbery licked her pussy, something slender invaded her ass. Like ants, the feeling moved up to her breasts. It was an impossible sensation, impossible to categorize as anything other than erotic, and Kara felt ineffable smugness from the hybrid that she was getting fucked instead of doing the something. That was only right, though. She always had been Galactica’s bitch.
Kara clawed at the hybrid as she came. She left thin welts, one deep cut that seeped brackish blood into the water.
“Muscular contractions in the uterus, vagina, anus, pelvis / Nnnggg I'm so close, so fucking close! JUMP!!!”
Kara blacked out, had a brief glimpse of the hybrid standing in a meadow, human and naked, long blonde hair covering her like a shower-spray, and smiling, then she was underwater. The hybrid’s hands bore her to the surface, limp and boneless. Slowly, Kara took the hand that had been inside the hybrid out of the water. It smelled strongly of the ship, that tangy corridor-hangar-engine smell she’d only noticed before by its absence. She licked it out from under her fingernails, swallowed greedily.
When Kara climbed out of the pool, there were guards waiting for her. Having nothing else to wear, she threw a smile on. They threw some towels over her and led her, not down the familiar route to the brig, but to Dualla’s office. The XO wasn’t in, so Kara helped herself to some clothes. They were too tight on her, bursting at the cleavage and hips. She wished she’d brought her drink with her.
There was nothing to do in the cramped space and so Kara ended up staring out the window. The stars looked just the same as they’d always looked. They didn’t care if their admirer stood on Earth.
Dualla came in, clipboard raised like a shield between them. “You gave my battlestar an orgasm. Words fail me.”
“S’not your battlestar,” Kara said. The liquor was really kicking in by now.
“I suppose it has your name on it? Battlestar Thrace? Had your way with all the men in the fleet, so you’re starting in on the ships?”
“They don’t hog the covers like Lee did.”
Dualla blinked. “I’m not doing this with you. I’m not fighting over my ex-husband. You’re going to the brig and you’re going to learn the rules apply to you too.” She pinched her sinuses.
“It’s okay. I blame myself for Earth too.” Kara threw herself down on the couch. “I’m gonna pass out here in a little while. You still wanna send me to the brig, do it in the morning.”
“You frakked the ship.”
“And I just might do it again.” Kara rolled to the floor and started dry-humping it. “Oh yeah, take it all, bitch.”
“I have paperwork to fill out. You want to fuck the ship, give it some foreplay first. Quiet foreplay.”
Kara grudgingly surmounted the couch, curling up on herself on top of its cushions. “I’m sorry I frakked your husband.”
Dualla didn’t look up from the reports she was signing. “I liked you better when you were a happy drunk.”
“I kinda wanna frak you too, just to put an exclamation point on the whole thing. And cuz you’re pretty.”
“What whole thing?” Dee gave Kara a brief glance as she shuffled her papers. “Don’t tell me there’s a master plan behind your drunken rampage.”
“Oh yeah, I’m punishing Fate for the shitty job it’s done.”
Dualla put down the papers. Despite the flippant tone of the words, Kara’s voice was so hurt and dull that Dee knew what she said wasn’t coming from a bottle.
“I’m supposed to be the hero, not having nightmares that are part sex dream. The Cylons aren’t supposed to be our neighbors, Earth isn’t supposed to be a shithole, and you… you’re supposed to be with Billy.”
Dualla pounded her desk with a closed fist. “Frak you, little girl, for taking until now to realize that life isn’t always what it should be.” She threw a blanket on Kara. “Go to frakking sleep.”
“I’m really hot for you right now.”
***
“I’ve seen babies born. They’re greedy. Messy. Animals. Humans never quite outgrow this. They remain entitled all their lives. This is because their child-rearing is a corruption of the natural way, the Cylon way,” Tory preached. She preached a lot those days, loving the attention lavished upon her by the Centurions, the mirrored faces of the Cylons, the occasional human bypasser who pretended disgust but inwardly knew the truth of her words. The truth of the natural order of things.
They followed her, as they always did, as they always would, through the first building the Cylons had built on Earth: The day-care center.
Tyrol looked at her with suspicion as they passed by his daughter’s playpen. Tory smiled at him anyway. In time, he’d accept his destiny. They all would.
Caprica was painting baseships on the wall of the nursery. Sam was with her, a bit ashamed of the simple joy he feels at working with his hands, building a crib with hammer and nails. With Caprica’s approval, Tory flicked some paint onto his back.
Caprica was showing a tiny baby bump, no more than the swell of a gentle breeze across the sea, perfectly suiting her tall Cylon frame. Like she was born for this. Destined for it.
Tory kissed her warmly on the lips. “This is the future of our races: Perfection. The humans are the flock, who have been led astray by false gods. And we are the shepherds who must herd them to the one true God. And it is as one people that we will find Him.”
Sam scoffed.
“Do not reject your responsibility, Samuel,” Caprica chided.
“We don’t know what we’re doing anymore than you do.”
“You would if you accepted your place,” Tory said, running a forgiving hand along his bicep. “God speaks to us. We just need to listen.”
Sam stood. “I’ll listen someplace else. Cap, call me when the sermon’s over.”
Tory’s eyes burned as bright and eternal as stars, following his exit. “In time, even the denier will take his place. For I was as him, once. But now I see by the light of truth.” She ran a hand up Caprica’s pleasant curves to caress along the gentle parting of her lips. “We Cylons are the future. And Caprica is the mother of its perfection.” She laid her head down on the Six’s breast. “Come pay homage.” She circled Caprica’s pregnancy like she was buffing the finish of a Cylon Raider. “Feel the future kick.”
***
“Can you believe that shit?” Boomer asked, clicking her tongue.
Athena made a rhyming tongue-click. It was just small-talk, the kind she could’ve made with any pilot, but this went deeper. Beyond friendship, beyond family, beyond even love. She was with her model.
The other Eight was just different enough to give her humanistic conversation. She had Boomer’s memories, went by that name. Some of the Eights shunned her for choosing to take that life, but Athena was overjoyed at having this continuity. It was like having a big sister. They tinkered with a Heavy Raider, decorating themselves with grease, Boomer reintroducing Athena to the organic parts.
“It won’t last,” Athena said. “Baltar’s losing credibility with the humans, so I don’t imagine his opposite number will last much longer either.”
“Tory’s popular with the Sixes and Leobens. She tells them what they want to hear. D’anne sees through her, though. Her people are waiting for the fifth.”
“Like it matters.” Athena rolled out from under the Heavy Raider. Being a Cylon mechanic was more like being a Cylon veterinarian. She didn’t have the touch for it. But what she could do was look out at the sunset, the blood-red sunset, and experience it like a human. “This is all that matters now. Our home. Not prophecies and fundamental differences…”
Boomer hugged her from behind, her hands snaking around to grope Athena’s breasts playfully. “Don’t be so deep. We have great breasts.”
Athena turned and kissed her, letting herself be guided out of the raider’s eyeshot and into the Eight’s dining room. They got a few friendly stares, a few friendly smiles, as Athena hurried her to one of the less crowded bedrooms and began stripping her.
The biggest differences between them was the clothes: Boomer wore a tunic and skirt, both gunmetal-gray, and the kind of simplistic clothes the Cylons favored. Athena still dressed in her uniform. She thought Boomer took a certain glee in stripping that away, of once again reducing them to consistent flesh. She was right.
It wasn’t quite a group marriage and it wasn’t quite an experiment. Helo accepted that the others were part of her heritage, and though he always knew when it wasn’t his Eight that came home, babysitting Hera and playing house, he didn’t naysay. Not even when she slipped under the covers and slept next to him. They were always gone by morning, like Zeus’s nymphs.
He understood that the Eights were a part of Athena, a sexual, familial, loving rivalry. He understood that Athena needed time to be alone together, part of a larger self, flesh against flesh in all the thousand subtle variations of musculature and tan and hairstyle.
Boomer had long hair, the longest of any Eight, cascading down past her shoulder blades. Athena loved to play with it, like she was again the girl she never had been, playing with dolls. She looped it around her fore-and-middle fingers and knew the emotion Helo felt when he combed his fingers through her hair and understood love better by understanding how she was loved.
“Do you think it will get any better, or is this as good as it’ll get?” Boomer asked. The sister metaphor fell apart, because this was more like a scared child asking assurance from her mother, the mother-maiden-crone turning inward to the facet that had traveled through the forest of the mythical humans.
“Once, I thought we’d never find Earth. Then Hera took her first step. Life is change. A river. As long as we keep swimming, it can carry us somewhere better.”
Boomer smiled and kissed her other half. “Can I have that memory?”
“Of course.”
no subject
no subject
no subject
Yeah, that was the hardest part. Most of the prompts were easy if you could jump around in time, but putting them in a cohesive about-to-be-Jossed-AU... challenging. Glad you liked it.
no subject
no subject
no subject
srsly :D made of win.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Hey, how do you think I thought getting it as a prompt? "There's no way I can write this... MUST WRITE IT!"
no subject
no subject
Once you frak Gaius Baltar, you can only go up.
And hey, at least the ship won't think it's Jesus in the morning.
no subject
I'm surprised by the after all positive end of the story.
no subject
I'm glad you found the development plausible, as I was sorta going for a "nearly-canon" futurefic that happened to include lotsa femslash ;).
no subject
no subject